“Are we?” Peter’s voice was without irony, but Francis’ lips twitched.
“Well, of course you wouldn’t know,” said Estelle. “You’ve been away a long time. Where on earth have you been, anyway?”
Peter coughed before answering. Francis noticed that the cough was hacking, and more or less frequent. “I’ve been in Russia, for one thing,” Peter replied.
“In Russia!” Estelle burst out laughing. “Among the Bolsheviks! Now, don’t shock us by telling us you like the Communist system!”
Peter answered quietly: “No, I don’t. It is built on the premise that human nature can change, radically. It doesn’t compromise with it. That’s wrong. You must allow for it, always; if you don’t, any system, no matter how utopian, must fail. Democracies allow for it, that is why they tolerate capitalism and private property and individual initiative. We don’t need bolshevism at all. We just need more democracy, and then more democracy, and justice and peace and mercy. Then capitalism can’t do us very much harm.”
He added: “In fact, capitalism can do us a lot of good. But not,” and he coughed again, “the sort of men that control it today.”
Estelle was puzzled. But Francis fixed his eyes keenly on his brother’s face.
“I don’t think that capitalism can be improved,” said Estelle. “It is adequate, in America at least. You have only to look at our universal prosperity and the high standard of living among even the least competent or productive. Our ‘permanent prosperity,’ as Mr. Coolidge calls it, is the best vindication of our particular brand of capitalism.”
“‘Permanent prosperity,’” mused Peter. “Do you think it is permanent? I don’t. I think it is over. I think that within the next three or four years it will end. Catastrophically. Don’t you, Francis?”
Francis raised his eyebrows. “I? I’m not a prophet, Peter. But I think in a way you are quite right. You must have been visiting Wall Street.”
Peter smiled. He said: “But my opinions are not particularly interesting or unique. Before I went to Russia, I visited Germany. I like Germany and the Germans, because I like freshness, and industry, and intelligence, and cleanness. But the Germans are too obedient. They love authority. And the obedience and the love of authority of the German people are two dangers which the rest of the world is criminally overlooking, these days.”
He added, looking at Francis: “Have you heard much, over here, of a man called Adolf Hitler, and his ‘beer putsch’?”
“A little, yes. Some crackpot Austrian, isn’t he? But he’s in jail! We haven’t heard about him for some time.”
Peter said, quietly and grimly: “You will. And perhaps you’ll thank him, Francis. You ought to! He’ll kick up the biggest stink in Europe you’ve ever smelt.” Suddenly his eye sharpened on his brother, and his voice was louder: “But maybe you know all this, already?”
Francis laughed. “No, I’m not omniscient.” He asked, quickly: “Well, where did you go after wearing armor in Germany, and swimming through moats?”
“I went to England. I—I had rather a bad case of bronchitis. I stayed a whole winter in the south. It’s funny; people don’t know that the south of England is like Florida: white beaches and palm trees. I like England, too. The English are what the Germans will eventually be, when they are civilized. But I hope they’ll leave English duplicity and greediness out of it. There’s a rotten gang in power in England, just now. They’re plotting against the German republic, because they are afraid of Russian radicalism. And they’ll destroy it, unless God intervenes, or somebody, and then they’ll let loose a pack of madmen on Europe again. One member of the House of Lords told me seriously that democracy was a fungus disease that will eat up the fine old oaks of privilege and class and private exploitation in England and all the rest of the world, unless it is eradicated, and some sort of oppressive feudalism and State-ism rapidly revived. He owns a newspaper, the damned old parasite! His policy is rooted in hatred for the people, and the most enormous greed I’ve ever seen. He believes in State worship, and sacrifice and discipline, and something he calls ‘sturdiness’ and respect for authority, all of which, he says, are sadly lacking in the modern English workingman’s character. I’d like to see him and the rest of his country-estate pirates and traitors strung up at the gates of London! Maybe I’ll have the pleasure one of these days!”
“You,” said Francis, “ought to write a book.” He winked mockingly at his wife.
Peter saw the wink, and he colored. But he answered quietly: “That’s just what I intend to do. But I haven’t enough material, yet.”
Francis smiled unpleasantly. “You didn’t come back home to complete your material, by any chance, did you?”
Peter merely smiled. He coughed again. Francis was interested in the cough. “Where did you pick that up?”
“Gas. In the war. Remember, there was a war?”
“Yes, I vaguely remember. But I thought Cousin Jules arranged all that. I heard he managed to have you kept in the rear lines, out of danger.”
“He was under that impression, yes. But I knew what the family would be up to, and I arranged it, myself, that I should be in the trenches. That’s where I picked up the gas, and the cough. That was a pretty bad brand of gas you boys put out, and the stench brought back memories of my happy childhood. Oh, yes, it was Bouchard gas; fragments of the shells were stamped ‘Made in Windsor, Pa.’”
Estelle was suddenly grave. “You mean, Peter, your lungs —were hurt—with our gas?”
Peter shrugged. “Any other gas would have smelt as bad, and would have done as much damage, I suppose. But don’t let that worry you, Estelle. Other soldiers got just as much of it as I did. In fact, lots of us died.”
Estelle bit her lip. She knew, of course, of the ramifications of the armaments industry, but only in an impersonal way. Now, it was brought home. “It seems a bit—sardonic—doesn’t it? that a Bouchard should be injured by gas-shells sold to the enemy by Bouchards.”
“Life,” said Francis, “is often sardonic. But what are you doing for that cough, Peter? Not neglecting it, I hope?”
“What could be done has been done. One lung is gone, entirely. But I’ll manage. Others have, you know. I’ve just got to be a little careful. I was in veterans’ hospitals for a time; I learned a lot there! Under my assumed name, of course.”
Estelle loved her husband, and she felt a warm regard for Peter, who was not only his brother, but resembled him closely. Moreover, she was full of pity. She had sufficient intuition to be moved. Peter, she decided, needed someone to take care of him. She concluded that the look of sadness about his mouth and eyes was due to chronic ill-health. For some reason, she felt relief.
The next night she gave a huge family dinner in honor of Peter, to which every Bouchard now in the city was invited.
CHAPTER XXIX
The Bouchards were surprised, but not very much interested, at the news of Peter’s return. He had never been prominent in family gatherings or business. Though he was possessed of an enormous fortune in his own right, their attitude towards him was that of wealthy relatives towards a poor relation. Moreover, it was the regretful opinion of the family that Honore’s youngest son was a fool. “Not very bright,” Nicholas said. He had never shown any initiative, any interest in business or invention, or any appreciable activity in sports or other legitimate or illegitimate pleasures. “Absolutely abnormal,” said Alexander Bouchard, recalling one of Peter’s amused remarks about piety. “A blue-eyed idealist,” said Jean, “and entirely disoriented.”
Had he shown signs of profligacy, they would have forgiven a young man’s high spirits. Had he been “a gay young Bouchard,” figuring prominently in the Broadway newspapers, they might have smiled indulgently. But he had never been profligate or gay.
No one in the family had ever loved him but his father. To the end of his life, Peter never forgot Honore, nor got over his death. He could hardly bear to think of his father; the memory was a pang as viol
ent eight years after his death as it had been the first day. Old Ann Richmond, his mother, had despised him early for his lack of snobbishness and something she called “pride.” His brothers, had actively disliked him, and had laughed at him uproariously all during his life at home. He had not wasted much love on them, himself; he, at times, had liked Francis, whose temperament was rather congenial and charming, if not excessively brilliant. He had always more or less disliked Hugo, whom he thought false, lying and hypocritical. But his active hatred was for little Jean. This hatred was based on his conviction that Jean was monstrously cruel, dangerous, evil and completely treacherous. He never saw the wit that glittered and tantalized and entertained. He never saw the famed good-temper and affability and real charm. He was always too passionately fascinated by the real man, and too horrified. The mere sight of that dimpled smile revolted him, and struck him into a sick silence. To his youthful eyes, his brothers had been painted in colors too intense for reality. He never saw that a few, if only a few, of Francis’ assumptions of kindness and interest were genuine, or that Hugo was occasionally moved to give substantial assistance to the unfortunate, or that even Jean had tact and consideration, and sometimes generosity, and could be stirred to do an authentic favor even for those he disliked.
Once Peter had been afflicted with youthful intolerance and narrowness. Now he had grown more understanding and reasonable. He was even prepared to find some small good in his brothers. He was conscious of some pleasure at seeing Francis again. Much of his temperament was like that of his grandmother’s brother, Martin Barbour, but he was more penetrating than Martin, more patient, though equally passionate, and much more tolerant, much less narrow. For his mother, he had had complete indifference. He had become understanding to the point, during the past few years, where he had often sent her cards from various points in his travels.
The surprise which the Bouchards experienced at his return was due mostly to the fact that they had forgotten his existence. However, they were not particularly interested. With the exception of Christopher. He remembered that Peter was very rich. He might be persuaded to invest in Duval-Bonnet, or, better, sell his Bouchard stock. So Christopher, whom Peter had long ago called The Robot, was prepared to be agreeable and very friendly.
Little Annette did not attend the dinner, for she was still at her sanitarium. Henri did not attend, for he was in New York. Nor did Adelaide go. She was too depressed and despondent for family gatherings. The Bouchards, she decided, were bad enough individually; collectively, they were too much.
Most of them had forgotten how Peter looked. But his family resemblance to Francis impressed them vaguely in his favor; they were prepared, after the first glance, to be affectionate. He was tall, perhaps somewhat too slender, and his coloring was fair and pleasant. He had clear eyes, a little too tired and haggard, a firm patient mouth, good features, excellent manners, and an air of grave courtesy which the women found especially attractive. His voice was remarkably like Francis’, but somewhat less dry and brittle. Moreover, he seemed pleased to be among his kin, and had not as yet, halfway through dinner, made any of the outlandish remarks for which he was immortally famous. His hacking cough was hardly noticed. “You need building up,” said Alexander, with patronizing affection, and with a downward and complacent glance at his own corpulence. He really believed that he found thinness in others objectionable and unhealthy.
Peter was embarrassed because he had almost forgotten some members of the clan. He did not remember Nicholas at all. The children he remembered had grown to young manhood and womanhood. Several of the younger children, too, had not been born when he had enlisted.
Edith came with old Thomas Van Eyck. Old Thomas shook hands with Peter. His vague gentle eyes fixed themselves on the young man with a peculiarly searching expression. He murmured: “You look like your grandmother, I think. I saw her, when I was a child. A beautiful woman—” He moved aside when others came up to greet Peter. But he seemed reluctant to leave. He kept hovering in Peter’s vicinity as one who is chilled is wistfully drawn to a fire. He whispered to his stepdaughter: “Now, there is a young man I’d like to see you marry, my dear.” Edith, darkly amused, looked at Peter closely. She decided she liked him. However, she was restless. Christopher and Celeste had not yet arrived. She became aware that Peter was standing beside her. “My God,” he murmured, “are there any more Bouchards?”
She could not help laughing; her dark eyes flashed at him humorously. “Well, they’re great breeders, my stepfather always said. No, I don’t think there are so many more coming. A couple of branches live in Philadelphia. Let me see: just what relation are they to you?” She touched her forehead with one thin hard finger with an exaggerated air of concentration. “I give up! I don’t know. And then, there is Georges, in New York.”
“Yes, I know Georges. I stayed with him for nearly a week. He’s going to publish my book—when I get it written.”
“Do you write?” she asked, interested.
“Some say yes, some say no,” he answered with a smile.
But Edith had lost interest in him. Christopher and Celeste were entering the drawing room. The occupants of the room faded to faceless shadows for Edith. She did not move, did not even smile, but a flash of light irradiated her face. Her eyes met Christopher’s, and now she moved slightly as though a passionate current had gone all through her body.
“What a pretty girl!” said Peter. “Could that be little Celeste?”
“Yes,” murmured Edith. “She is going to marry my brother in the fall.”
Christopher and Celeste came up. “Well, prodigal, the fatted calf was cooked to your taste, wasn’t it?” asked Christopher, smiling. He extended his cool fleshless hand and Peter took it. Peter had had much experience with men during the past years; he knew Christopher completely the moment their hands came into contact. Robots, he thought, are hard to kill. They have no heart you can strike.
He turned from Christopher to Celeste, and eyed her whimsically. “You were just a brat in braids when I saw you last, Celeste. But now I can see you are a nice girl.”
“I’m very nice,” said Celeste, her face dimpling and shining with shy gaiety. “They say I’m the nicest in the family.”
“I have no doubt,” replied Peter. He held her hand. It was warm and soft and pulsating. He thought: What beautiful eyes! All at once, he saw nothing but her eyes; behind their deep blueness there was a steadfast radiance, a clear pellucid strength. He could not remember seeing this radiance, and this strength, in any other woman’s eyes, and it fascinated and strangely moved him. He tightened his fingers on her hand as though it were something precious, and everything and everybody in the room disappeared from his awareness.
Edith was talking with forced lightness to Christopher. Her plain face was lit with beauty. He was smiling slightly; his hand was on her arm, and it was no longer cold, but warm and intimate. She was saying almost in a whisper, above the laughter and conversation in the crowded room: “I haven’t seen you for a week. Are you afraid of me? Perhaps you’ve got just cause. You see, I’m going to marry you one of these days.”
“Good!” replied Christopher, laughing. “Let me know when it takes place, won’t you?” His fingers pressed into her flesh, and a faint color seeped into his dry skin.
“I don’t know that I shall,” she said, with an attempt at archness in spite of her rapidly beating heart. “If I told you, you might run away.”
He did not answer. But his pressing fingers seemed to sink almost to the bone. The pain was bruising, but Edith did not feel it. She stood, smiling into his face, her eyelids tremulous.
At last he released her arm. She sighed. She was conscious, now, of the pain. It seemed to pervade her whole body. She turned to look for Celeste. The girl was standing beside Peter. Neither of them was speaking. But Celeste’s face was white and still. She was trying to smile. Over that smile her eyes were remote, and brilliantly blue.
Dinner was announced. Edith
walked with Christopher. Behind them came Celeste and Peter. Peter had bent his head and he was speaking to Celeste in a very low voice, and she kept nodding automatically.
Edith sat next to Christopher, but Peter and Celeste were opposite each other. At first Peter was disappointed; now he was reconciled. He could look directly at the girl, and the look was as intimate as a touch. The woman at his left was Agnes, Emile’s wife. She had only seen Peter once or twice during her married life, and was prepared, by Emile’s amusing stories, to detest the young man. But she was surprised to find that she did not detest him. She thought that he looked far superior to any of his relatives, and that there was something about him not to be found in the others. Perhaps it was a simple integrity, which was also without illusion, and a gentleness of manner which was greater than mere courtesy. Someone in the family, she puzzled, had his same steadfast look, his same purity of facial modeling and refined strength. It was certainly not Emile, nor his brothers! And then her searching eye touched Celeste’s face, and she thought: It is the same expression.
Celeste, she decided, must miss Henri and find this dinner very dull, for she seemed pale and tired. She did not listen to anything that was said around the great table. But when Peter spoke, her head lifted and turned involuntarily towards him, and her eyes would take on a curious intensity of expression, as though she were filled with wonder and bemusement.
Christopher had told her a good deal about Peter before they had arrived at the dinner. He made a very funny story of Peter’s enlistment. Celeste had begun by smiling; Christopher did not notice that when he had finished the very funny story of Peter’s sentimentality and general imbecility Celeste was no longer smiling. “However,” Christopher had said, “we must be pleasant to him. He’s one of the family, after all.”
Everyone knew that Peter was given to outlandish and foolish opinions and some hoped he would edify his relatives by more of them; others hoped that he had acquired “stability” and “common sense.” The latter school, of which Alexander was a member, seemed to be satisfied. Peter’s remarks were general and tactful; he appeared pleased to be home. Alexander, with satisfaction, decided that Peter had become “normal.”