The Eagles Gather

  She was remembering how Peter had quoted Voltaire to the effect that if there was no God it would be necessary to create one for the benefit of one’s servants, and thus for the profit of the masters. But, Peter had said, if there was no God it was vitally necessary to create one for the benefit of all the world, and the creating could not begin soon enough. A desperate need existed, not for religion, but for religiousness. Religiousness was the way to life; irreligion was the way to death, to wars, to ruin, to the end of the world. Religion which existed apart from men was impotent and sterile. It depended upon churches and priests and ritual, and was without vitality. In times of stress, it had only a dead formula. No formal God was needed at all; in fact, formal gods were the images of hatred. But men most solemnly, in these days, needed a belief in goodness and gentleness and faith and justice. It dared not be an intellectual belief, comprehended by the few. It must be emotional, and the people must share in it. Each man must deliberately will himself to believe, understanding that ‘enlightenment’ was less valuable than mercy. He must believe in a God who did not need an altar, but only the hearts of the people, no priests, but the souls of men. The brotherhood of man and the fatherhood of God must not be a ritual, dealt out in wafers like Holy Communion, but a fact, a symbol clothed in living reality. Otherwise, there was no hope for the world.

  All at once the girl’s mind was filled with searing despair. Her face grew drawn with her mental suffering; her lips parted in a sigh of profound pain. She moistened them. A terrible yearning for Peter took possession of her. She gasped in this airless atmosphere of formality and adulation of dead things. The thought of Peter Bouchard was like a door opening in gloom and hopelessness. She suddenly smiled. She sighed again, a sigh of relaxation.

  Edith, watching her, was touched. But uneasiness made her scowl.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  They met in old Andre’s office, Armand, Jean and Nicholas Bouchard. Jean was chuckling: “Well, at any rate, he listened. I said: ‘Peter, Sessions is only a subsidiary of Bouchard. We do what we’re told. The Bank obeys Bouchard, too. So do all the other subsidiaries. What information you need you’ll have to get from Bouchard and Sons, and Kinsolvings.’”

  Armand moved restlessly: “This is all too subtle for me, I’m afraid. I don’t like subtleties. You suddenly find yourself in a maze of them, like being shut up in a clothes-closet full of women’s filmy stuff, and you don’t know which is which, after a while.”

  Jean spread out his hands and dimpled. “It’s really very simple. Peter becomes convinced that the villain in the maze is Bouchard and Sons. He writes it in his book; he talks to Miss Peter Pan about it. A great deal about it. She is horrified, silly little thing. He convinces her that Henri is really a most powerful member of the Company, and will probably actively join it. Presto! It helps get her off Henri, helps convince her that Bouchard and Sons, and, in fact, all of us, are nasty little schoolboys and she shouldn’t really have anything to do with us. You see, Armand, with simple minds you must use simple formulae—”

  “Phoo! I think this is a schoolkid’s plot. It’s foolish and complicated, and doesn’t get anywhere. You’ve forgotten, too, that she’s bombarded with propaganda at home, which will undo your fifth-form little plottings very completely.”

  “Well,” said Jean, shrugging, “that’s only one aspect of our ‘plot.’ What have you done, for instance? Gossamer minds need gossamer plots, a fact you seem to forget.”

  Armand frowned. He did not like his sister to be referred to as a gossamer mind. Any pricklings of conscience, however, had gone. With vast relief he had finally come to the honest conclusion that Celeste would be miserable if she married Henri Bouchard. He could operate with equanimity, now, because of this conclusion.

  “I’ve done a lot, I think. I’ve given dinner parties and other affairs, and invited both Celeste and Peter. I’ve talked to Peter at length, and frankly, as a brother who is worried about his young sister. I’ve convinced him that Celeste will be unhappy; I’ve told him I’ve begun to think she is in love with a mysterious someone else. I’ve asked him: who? Has he come to any conclusion, himself? Oh Hell, this is all so childish!” and he moved angrily in his chair. “Why can’t we think up man-sized plots?”

  “Because we’re up against two Babes in the Wood,” replied Jean. “Man-sized plots would be like clubbing them. Besides, what man-sized plots? Our only hope is to prevent this marriage. You can’t do it with murder or kidnapping. Well, what else?”

  Armand chewed his lip gloomily. “I realize the marriage has got to be stopped. I know this Henri is avaricious. I’ve already been as bald as I could: I can’t ram Annette down his throat. He knows what he’d get by marrying the child; I’ve stopped just short of openly offering her to him. I’ve mentioned to him a dozen times or more that Celeste looks ill and unhappy, and is he sure she cares enough about him to marry him? After all, I’m her brother, I said Hell,” he added, with gloomy disgust. “I hate this muzziness of dealing with girls. It’s undignified. Everything we have depends on a little girl, and it’s maddening to have to admit it—”

  “Seeds scattered in the air,” said Jean, assuming a sententious expression, “sometimes light on fertile ground. You can’t move with a piston; you’ve got to scatter flowers. The point is: have we made any progress?”

  “We’ve made two young people miserable, at any rate,” said Armand bitterly.

  Jean winked surreptitiously at Nicholas, who grimaced crudely.

  “That’s what we want, isn’t it?” asked Jean of Armand. “Better be a little miserable now than completely wretched later. I’m sure even you subscribe to this philosophy.”

  “But it’s undignified—”

  Jean gave a small screech. “But, Christ, do you have to have dignity to keep yourself from getting your throat cut? Or maybe you think you can persuade those brothers of yours that they’ll only be lowering themselves if they attack you, and it’s really beneath them?”

  Armand was silent; but a dull stubborn look settled on his big face.

  Jean raised his eyebrows helplessly at Andre, who began to chuckle.

  “This isn’t a comedy of the boudoir, Armand,” he said. “Nor a sorority skit. It’s business. We can’t always deal in high finance. Sometimes a great deal more depends on little mean things than on heroic negotiations.

  “Things do get out, you know. For instance, it’s been whispered to me in New York that Henri has applied to Jay Regan for the loan of twenty million dollars—”

  “What!” cried the three other men simultaneously.

  “Yes, a fact. I haven’t been able to find out if he got it, or will get it. I wouldn’t have heard of it, however, if there isn’t a very good possibility that he will get it, if he has not already. Is he putting up his Bouchard bonds for it? No, it is said. He isn’t. Why not? We don’t know. We do know that he’s turned practically everything else he owns into cash, and that most of the cash went to your nice little brother, Christopher. And we do know that Henri Bouchard is no fool; if he gives money, it is because he expects much more. What does he expect? We haven’t found out. But I have an idea that it won’t be so good for you.”

  Jean grinned faintly; Nicholas grunted a curse. But Armand’s color turned from ruddy to a gray tint.

  Andre selected a cigar with infinite care, and lit it. His rotund and bloated body sank back in the black leather chair. He smoked meditatively for a minute, and then said:

  “What is Christopher doing with all that money, Henri’s and Emile’s, and even Francis’? We don’t know. But we do know all the transactions stink. There’s no doubt they know we know all this, and they know we daren’t ask. You’re in a bad place, Armand. We know only one thing: that a marriage between little Celeste and Henri will clinch the whole matter. How? I—don’t—just—know. But whatever it is, a termination of the engagement won’t do Christopher any good. And we’ve got to terminate it.”

  “We don’t even know they’re plott
ing anything,” insisted Armand stubbornly. “Everything you say may be true; I’m not disputing it. They may all be speculating together.”

  Andre regarded the ceiling reflectively. “I remember something my mother used to say about her brother, Uncle Ernest. She said that though he appeared audacious, and apparently took many chances, in reality he was not audacious, and his chances were never long shots. I remember him very well; my mother detested him. Anyway, his great-grandson is very much like him; I got quite a shock when I saw him, after he came back. And I have a good idea that Henri is not being audacious or taking any chances. He is not speculating. I don’t like it. Well, it’s your affair.”

  Jean looked at his father-in-law alertly. “Do you think he’s doing the lone wolf? Do you think he’s grinding a private ax?”

  “I’ve thought of that,” replied Andre. “I don’t know. For instance, I do know that he visited the offices of the most unscrupulous patent lawyer in Washington, and that he paid fifty thousand dollars for an almost worthless airplane patent whose only good points were two or three outlandish gadgets that were just plain scenery, according to my informants. Why did he do this? If you remember your dinner party last week, Jean, you will recall that I asked him if he had been to Washington lately, and he answered calmly that he hadn’t. Christopher and Emile looked interested, and repeated the question, and he lied to them as calmly as he did to me. Why? He’s operating with them, and he’s operating alone. He knows he can’t hide, so he calmly lies, and dares others to prove him a liar. What is the answer?”

  “It stinks,” said Nicholas. “What are you going to do? Sit on your backside? While you’re robbed?”

  Armand flushed. “It’s fantastic! He’s hardly more than a boy. And Emile knows on which side his bread is buttered—”

  “Maybe Chris shows him he can have jam, too,” smiled Jean.

  “And there’s Francis,” Nicholas informed him. “Have you forgotten? Francis doesn’t buy gold bricks. He’s stopped just short of big enough transactions with Christopher to make the market uneasy.”

  “I still have 8,000,000 shares of Bouchard,” said Armand grimly. “Let them exchange. I’ve got it, over 51 per cent. They can’t blow me off.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Andre, regarding him thoughtfully. “How? I don’t know. But the boys are up to no good; you’re ‘no good.’ Please yourself.”

  When Armand returned to his own office, he was startled to discover Henri Bouchard waiting easily for him.

  It was a Saturday afternoon, and Christopher and Emile had already gone. His second glance at the young man convinced Armand that he had calculated on this, and had only just arrived. Armand was suddenly excited; his voice was very cordial as he greeted Henri.

  “Well, so you’ve decided to come around and see what makes your bonds good, eh?” he asked. “Too bad the plants are almost empty. But there are a few workmen around. A shift goes on at four; we’re working overtime, you know.”

  “It’s three. I’ll wait.” Henri smiled at him with ease. He stared at Armand with his light unmoving eyes. “How’s little Annette?”

  Armand’s cordial expression faded into darkness. “Not so well. She’s home now, you know. You didn’t know. Come to dinner tomorrow, she’ll be glad to see you and your sister.”

  To Armand’s surprise, for he had hardly expected it, Henri replied: “Thanks. I can’t answer for Edith, though. But we can let you know about that.”

  They went out into the great echoing plants, which were filled with a penetrating acrid odor and barred sunlight. Henri listened attentively to everything that Armand said. His questions were intelligent and shrewd. After a while, Armand kept his hand familiarly on the other’s arm. He even laughed reluctantly. His excitement kept growing.

  “You’ll be going to Crissons for the summer, I suppose?” he asked.

  “For a time. On and off.”

  “Why not come with us, on your off time?” asked Armand good-naturedly. “Jay Regan thinks his yacht is better than mine; but he’s mistaken.”

  “I might. Thanks.”

  They continued their explorations. Henri said: “Even Kionk and Skeda aren’t better equipped, or bigger. This makes me proud.”

  “Good.” Armand was pleased. He hesitated, then on an impulse, he said: “I’ve asked you before, and I ask you now: Why don’t you come down and learn all about it? I’ll fit you in, somewhere.”

  His surprise was great when Henri said: “That’s just what I was going to suggest, myself. How about Monday? I’m getting sick of this prancing around over the country while everybody else is working.”

  The words were naïve, but not the large pale face and eyes.

  Armand’s heart was thumping almost painfully when they returned to the office. His hand shook as he opened the door. “Sit down. Will you have a drink? No? It’s nearly four. Are you sure you want to wait to see what goes on?”

  “Yes. I’ll wait.

  Their eyes met, Henri’s opaque, Armand’s furtive but searching.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  Armand found Annette’s sunporch full of young girls when he reached home. They filled the warm air with twitterings and chirpings and squeals, and he carefully waited until they were gone before he entered. Only Celeste had remained.

  “Well, well,” said Armand jovially, kissing his little daughter. She lay on a chaise-longue of gold silk. Her fine hair was tied up with a blue ribbon. Her slight body was so thin and emaciated that she looked hardly more than a child. Her small bloodless face gave him a sick pang. But her large beautiful light-blue eyes smiled up at him lovingly. The warm wind blew her blue silk wrapper tightly about her arms and throat. In repose, her expression was sad, almost grave, but full of gentleness. Today, she informed her father in an effort to lighten his somber anxiety, she had walked down the first terrace, and had not felt the least tired. Tomorrow, she would go down another. Wouldn’t that be splendid?

  Armand smiled. He sat beside her and took her hands, and rubbed them gently in his palms. They were cool, the fragile bones close to the surface. He regarded Celeste with a perfunctory fraternal smile. “Well, how are things with you, Celeste?”

  She smiled in return, but did not answer. She might have been his daughter, sitting there, so young and quiet, her hands folded in her lap. Her expression was aloof, almost stern. She had averted her head slightly; the modelling of her high cheekbones and the curve of her chin were like freshly carved ivory, smooth and well-defined. Armand studied her sharply. The girl was much thinner, and her manner was abstracted and depressed. All at once, very abruptly, she stood up and announced she must go at once. Henri was coming to dinner.

  Armand talked brightly with Annette after Celeste’s departure. And then he said, feeling his way cautiously: “Darling, is it my imagination, or does Celeste look paler and quieter than usual? As if she were unhappy about something?”

  Annette did not display surprise. In fact, she sighed. “Yes, I’ve noticed it. I—I asked her. She said something about the excitement, and her trousseau—.” Suddenly the child’s eye filled with tears; she averted her head and bit her lip hard. Armand said nothing. He gazed at her mournfully.

  After a while he spoke very slowly and carefully:

  “My dear, please listen to me. It is very serious.” She glanced up at him, the tears still thick and smothering in her eyes. He wet his lips, tried to find the right words.

  “You see, Annette, I think I know what is wrong with Celeste. We both love her, don’t we? We don’t want her to be unhappy. But she is. We both feel it. And I may be wrong, but I believe I know. I believe that she isn’t happy to be engaged to Henri, that she is discovering she made a mistake.”

  Such a light of uncertain joy flared into the girl’s thin white face that Armand could hardly bear it. She sat up, she was trembling. The wind lifted the soft pale tendrils of her hair, blew them about her cheeks. Her mouth parted, shook. She fixed her eyes upon her father with an imploring and pa
ssionate look of questioning.

  He hesitated. “I’m not absolutely positive, dear, but I think I have guessed rightly. Besides, others are talking, too. You see, I think it’s Peter—”

  She tried to speak; her lips, suddenly blooming, parted. But she could do nothing but smile, the tears on her cheeks, the passionate look deepening in her eyes.

  Armand sighed. A few words, and life had rushed, swelling, into this frail body. He wondered, full of fear, if he were making a mistake.

  “We—we mustn’t be too hasty, of course, Annette. But, if it is true, then we must find some way to help her.”

  She could speak now, and in a cry: “Yes, yes! We must help her.” Her eyes darkened with intensity, and some of the color left her lips. “But, Daddy, if it isn’t true—if it isn’t true —then, Celeste’s happiness is more important than anything else—”

  “Yes, naturally, dear. But perhaps you can find out. Perhaps she is keeping to this engagement because of some sense of honor. That would be wrong for herself, and very wrong for Henri. He deserves someone who cares about him, don’t you think so?”

  He was surprised and frightened when he saw the rest of the life-giving color leave her face. Now, in its pallor, her large eyes were grave and piercing, almost stern.

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said quietly, “that is quite true. It—it would be terrible for Celeste and Henri. But I can’t find out for you, even though it is so important to you, because Celeste is your sister, and so terribly important for me. I can’t ask her; I can’t even suggest or hint. Because, you see, just because it is so terribly important for me. I, least of anyone, can interfere. I can only wait.”

  In spite of his bitter disappointment he could not be angered when he met those large and steadfast eyes. All the furtive integrity in him, constantly badgered and insulted and defamed, rose to meet hers in a bursting flame of relief and release. His voice was unsteady: “Yes, dear, I see quite well. You can’t ask. But I wish there was something we could do.”