The Final Hour

  For the first time, Agnes felt some mournful sadness for the Bouchards. Some sympathy for their plight as members of humanity. Some affection even for the worst of them. She scrutinized her lavish table with more anxiety and sternness than usual.

  But she knew also that terrible things would not end when the war ended. Evil had been too deeply ploughed into the living earth of the whole world. Cruelties and abominations had become too much of a habit to countless millions of men. Mania and madness had invaded too many brains, had scarred and crippled too many souls. What had begun in only one decade would continue for many decades, perhaps for centuries. One could not say, when war ended: ‘It is over, and done. Let us forget. It happened yesterday. There is tomorrow before us.’

  It would not be over, would not be done. It could not be forgotten. It would happen today, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, so long as man recorded his history. The evil had been ploughed too deep. Blood had flowed too abundantly for the earth to absorb it quickly. Hatred had known too strong a blossoming for its seeds to die. This most horrible thing would be contemporary when the peace-tables had gathered dust, and the diplomats who had signed the peace had long been dissolved in the earth. It would remain, likdV pestilential and stricken mountain, among the events of men, time out of mind.

  Celeste had put her child to bed, and had just turned out the light, when she was summoned to the telephone. It was a call from New York.

  ‘Hello!’ said a lively, masculine voice. ‘Celeste, this is Godfrey.’

  ‘Godfrey?’ repeated Celeste, her mind frantically searching.

  ‘Godfrey Barbour. Remember me? In Paris, and Cannes, and half a dozen other places?’

  ‘Why, certainly, Godfrey!’ exclaimed Celeste, somewhat dazed. ‘Where on earth are you? I thought you were in London, last? What are you doing here?’

  The young man chuckled. He had a very agreeable voice, faintly British. ‘Complications! Complications!’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you later.’ His tone changed. ‘Dreadfully sorry about Peter, Celeste. Didn’t hear about it until yesterday, in New York. What am I doing here? Why, my child, I’m living, at the present time, with a friend, Alfred Milch, the movie-man. Ever heard of him? We’re old friends. He used to run over from England to produce pictures in Paris and Germany, but no go since Hitler. Nice Hebraic chap. We’re discussing my going to Hollywood, where he is to produce three thrillers, and he’s trying to induce me to go along. My “art” might get some appreciation there.’

  Celeste was still dazed, but also amused and excited. Godfrey Barbour, she was enlightened by the gentleman himself, had arrived in New York less than a week ago, by Clipper. Yes, he said, he could be persuaded, with not too much effort, to come to Windsor this very night, by plane, and join the family festivities tomorrow. ‘You’re the only one of the family I’ve ever met, really,’ he said. ‘Are they really as frightful as they say?’

  ‘Not really,’ laughed Celeste. She was becoming delighted, remembering Godfrey. ‘I’ll call Agnes immediately, after we’ve done. Agnes? She is my brother Emile’s wife. You’ll be quite dizzy making out the relationships. I’ll have a car waiting at the airport for you. You’ll stay with me, of course. I’ve the most enormous house. And, now she hesitated a little, ‘I also have a baby. Over a year old. Fifteen months, in fact.’

  She felt refreshed and anticipatory when she had concluded her conversation. She sat near the telephone, smiling to herself. How was Godfrey related to the family? She tried to disentangle the relationships. Godfrey was the grandson of Godfrey Sessions Barbour, oldest son of Ernest Barbour. He, too, could claim the legendary Ernest as his great-grandfather, as could Henri. Henri’s grandmother had been Gertrude Barbour, sister of Godfrey. This Godfrey, in his hatred for his father, Ernest, had assumed his mother’s maiden name. Sessions, but upon the birth of his son, Aristide, he had reverted to his real name. It was this son, Aristide (whose mother had been Renée Bouchard), who was the father of the present Godfrey, a young man about Celeste’s own age. Godfrey’s mother had been an English girl. Both of his parents were now dead.

  The Bouchards had shown no interest whatsoever in the dead Aristide, or his son, Godfrey. In truth, they had not at all forgotten that Ernest Barbour had been the father of the great American composer, Godfrey Sessions. But Godfrey’s son, Aristide, had aroused no curiosity or family interest in them. Some of the older Bouchards had remembered him as a dull fat little man, ‘black and greasy,’ as Armand had expressed it, resembling the spare blond Godfrey not in the slightest. His appearance, and his temperament, came from the early Bouchards. (He was a grandson of the original Armand Bouchard.) They had heard a rumour that he had lived a great deal of his time in England, and there had married that obscure English girl, whom no one had ever met. Young Godfrey had been born in England, but had lived the greater part of his life in Paris.

  Upon his death, it was discovered that Ernest Barbour had provided generously for his son, the first Godfrey, but in a cautious manner. Not trusting the artistic nature, he had created a French trust fund for Godfrey. Eugene Bouchard, great friend and brother-in-law of Ernest (he had married Dorcas, Ernest’s sister), had been the father of Renée, Godfrey’s wife, and he, too, upon Ernest’s promptings, had established a French trust fund for his daughter. These funds had, for many years, provided a very comfortable subsistence for the first Godfrey and his wife, but through the subsequent decades changing conditions had reduced the income considerably. Upon the death of the first Godfrey’s mother, May Sessions Barbour, wife of Ernest, it was discovered that she had left her favourite son over seven hundred thousand dollars. Godfrey, displaying a shrewdness quite inconsistent with his general character, had founded a British trust fund for his son, Aristide, out of his legacy, a trust fund of respectable proportions. He used the balance to augment his own shrinking income.

  The first Godfrey had been the composer of four excellent symphonies, but one only was now played with any degree of regularity. He had also composed innumerable sonatas, concertos and serenades. Only a few of these were well known. His son, Aristide, upon the death of Godfrey (whom he had adored in his dull, taciturn way), had attempted to revive his father’s compositions in every European capital. He had financed several orchestras. As a result, his income, already shrinking through vicissitudes of the years, was almost completely devoured. Upon his death, it was found that he had been able to leave his son, young Godfrey, less than twenty thousand dollars.

  Young Godfrey, in somewhat the manner of Antoine Bouchard, had been a dilettante. He had shown an easy aptitude for the piano, he had an excellent baritone voice, could paint quite well, and had written two thin volumes of poetry. But none of his talents was remarkable. Having a great deal of intelligence and shrewdness, he early saw that he must earn his living. He had invested half his legacy in a French moving-picture concern, which he later had to take over, himself. He was able to obtain the services of third-rate French actresses, only, and their male counterparts, but as he wrote the scripts himself, and showed much genius in directing and producing, he had just begun to acquire considerable fame as a producer of small but fine pictures, when war broke out.

  Peter and Celeste had come across him quite accidentally. When they had first gone to live at Cannes, they had attended a party given by a neighbour, a handsome elderly woman who was a retired and famous actress. At that time, Peter had responded wonderfully to the clear warm air of Cannes, and often accepted invitations before his illness again became enervating. There were many guests there, and Peter and Celeste had moved smilingly from one group to another, when they had been accosted by a very pleasant and personable young man.

  ‘I say,’ he had said, with a smile, ‘I think we are relatives. Are you connected with the famous, or the infamous, Bouchards, of America, the big gunmen?’

  Peter laughed. He had liked Godfrey at first sight. He admitted that he was indeed one of the ‘big gunmen.’ Godfrey had then gone on to explain th
e relationship. He had the most witty way of talking, and free expressive gestures inherited from his French grandmother, and he was so affable, so gay, so gently clever, that both Peter and Celeste had been charmed. They saw there was no malice in him, but only brilliant humour, and that his jokes were on himself, and never on others. He talked volubly, but so fascinatingly, that the hearer was never impatient. It was evident that he had an enormous zest in life, and that he found almost everything amusing, delightful and full of interest. One could not imagine him ever being bored, or cruel, or sullen or vengeful. He was, at that time, living with the actress’ granddaughter. Both the old and the young woman adored him. He and his mistress were permanent guests at the villa.

  He had talked to Celeste and Peter almost exclusively that night, while his pretty little mistress scowled in a corner. He confessed his impecunious condition, but with such gaiety that he made it seem one of the most delightful conditions in the world, and one to be envied. But when Peter had inevitably spoken of Hitler and Naziism, the young man’s face had changed, had become strangely dark, strong and brooding. Moreover, he had appeared oddly distressed. Later, Peter learned that the elderly and wealthy actress was one of Hitler’s great admirers, and that she and her friends were serving him as a sort of aristocratic espionage service among the decadent and depraved members of the Salons Internationals. When Peter learned that, he was no longer surprised at the sudden disappearance of Godfrey some six weeks before. He heard that Godfrey had gone to England, and had vanished there, leaving his mistress and her grandmother bewildered and desolate. They had not seen him again.

  As Celeste recalled all these things, she remembered Godfrey very clearly. Before his disappearance, he had often come to their own villa, and Peter had enjoyed his company with simple pleasure. As if he stood before her now, Celeste could see Godfrey’s slight and active figure, full of wiry strength and vivid health. She remembered his extraordinary flaxen hair, so pale that it was almost white, and his very dark brown eyes that were always glinting and mirthful. His complexion, too, was dark, and so threw his hair into startling contrast. He was indeed all contradiction. He had the Barbour short broad nose, strong and harsh in contour, with wide nostrils, and the square Barbour chin with its deep dimple. But his mouth, though firm and sharp of outline, was also kind, and very often, gentle. Five years had not blurred Celeste’s memory of him. She saw him in her mind’s eye, with all his features undimmed.

  She called Agnes, and explained the situation. Agnes was quite diverted, and pleased. ‘A real Barbour!’ she said. ‘We’ve forgotten, it seems, that the Great Paterfamilias was a Barbour. Any resemblance to the rest of the family?’

  Celeste hesitated. ‘Well, no. He is both dark and light. And very witty, and very charming. Peter and I were very fond of him.’

  ‘And he is to stay with you, my dear?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Celeste. ‘I’m becoming an elderly widow now. Do you think there might be scandal?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Agnes, wryly.

  She asked, a little later: ‘Is he rich? His grandfather was Godfrey Barbour, old Ernest’s son. There ought to be money there.’

  Celeste replied, with considerable dryness: ‘If his fortunes haven’t improved during the past five years, and I have a feeling they haven’t, then he is practically penniless. He did say something about going to Hollywood with a producer friend of his. Godfrey is interested in moving pictures, you know.’

  ‘O my God,’ said Agnes. ‘So, he’s that sort, eh?’

  For some reason, Celeste was annoyed. But she knew that anything she might say in Godfrey’s defence would only further distort the picture of him.

  She awaited his arrival with pleasure and excitement. Godfrey had been her friend. She suddenly realized how bankrupt in friendship she was, that she must await the coming of a single human creature with such anticipation.

  CHAPTER LXV

  A light fine snow had begun to fall in the evening, so that the dark earth sparkled as if sprinkled with sequins. It was cold and sharp and fresh, and for the first time in many years Celeste felt suddenly festive. The fixed and burning pain in her heart seemed less unbearable tonight. She dressed herself carefully in a gown of black and white, and then, hesitating and smiling, she tucked a white flower in her hair. The face she confronted in the mirror might be stern and pale, with a red mouth whose outlines might be sharply cut and stiff, but it was also a beautiful face.

  When she heard the sound of the returning car, she ran quickly downstairs, and was waiting in the hall at the foot of the stairs when Godfrey Barbour entered. She saw the door open, and out from the dark the snow swirled in, a scattered and disintegrating cloud of whiteness, and she heard the voice of the chauffeur, speaking encouragingly: ‘There now, easy, sir, another step here. Right it is.’

  Celeste’s hand reached out fumblingly and clutched the banister, as she stood there, waiting, a straight and slender figure, all lovely outlines in its black, white-touched gown. But her new colour had suddenly gone, and there was a strange, dreadful beating in her breast. For she heard uncertain and hesitant steps, a hard tapping, and then Godfrey’s well-remembered and gay voice: ‘Can’t get used to these damned things!’

  Now the cloud of snow-particles were sucked back into the night, and Godfrey was entering, the supporting chauffeur compassionately at his side. Celeste stared. Her hand lifted and pressed itself fiercely against her heart. For the young man she saw now was in the uniform of a Royal Air Force captain, and he swung himself forward awkwardly on crutches. His right leg had been amputated above the knee.

  But none of the gaiety, none of the life and the zest and the bright humour had gone from that dark face, now so emaciated and parched with suffering. The dark brown eyes sparkled upon Celeste; the jaunty cap was perched at a debonair and precarious angle on the extraordinary flaxen hair. Weaving dangerously on his crutches, he lifted his hand and saluted Celeste and laughed with pleasure at seeing her. He totally ignored the chauffeur, who had literally caught him in his strong arms, and was holding him balanced while he completed the salute.

  ‘Celeste!’ cried the young man, joyously. ‘It’s the old girl, herself!’

  But Celeste’s vision had dimmed, so that she saw nothing but swirling rainbows. She flung out her arms. She ran to Godfrey, and put those arms tightly about him, hugging him in a kind of frantic despair and sorrow. She pressed her head against his shoulder, and then kissed his cheek, sobbing over and over beneath her breath.

  ‘Hey, what is this?’ said the young man, at last, gently taking her chin in his hand and searching her face. ‘Is this a proper greeting, I ask you? Why the tears, my pet? Here, let me look at you.’

  But Celeste clung to him, weeping. ‘O Godfrey, how terrible, how terrible! You never told me!’

  And Godfrey said: ‘What’s wrong, dear?’ His kind brown eyes, ordinarily so merry, were now full of subtle pity and concern. ‘You’ve changed, Celeste.’

  She was outraged that he thought of her. She held one of his arms with both hands. She shuddered at the sight of the crutches. ‘Come into the room!’ she cried. ‘Where you can sit down, and rest’

  But he gently resisted. Now he no longer smiled, though his expression was still kind. ‘Celeste, my love, I’m not a cripple, really. I can get about on these damn things first-rate. It’s a matter of learning new balance. And in a few months I’ll have a fine wooden leg, and only a little limp. You’ll never know the difference. And now, be a good girl and watch me manipulate with my customary dexterity.’

  She dropped her hands. She watched him swing away from her awkwardly, swaying. She saw his fine strong back twisting his uniform into pathetic ridges, and the painful tilting of his shoulders. The back of his flaxen head looked so valiant, so undaunted and determined, tipping backwards as he thrust his body forward with the crutches. His neck reddened, and so did his ears, with the unusual effort, and strain. Celeste suddenly closed her eyes on a spasm of pity and grief.
She followed him. She did not assist him, though she ached to do so. She sat down quietly, watching him as he fumbled and swayed and manoæuvred himself into a chair. Then, with a sigh and a little laugh, he placed his crutches carefully side by side against a near-by table, and turned his attention upon Celeste. His face was damp and glistening, his smile a little fixed.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘tell me everything.’ He helped himself to a cigarette from the table, and lit it. She saw that his hands were trembling.

  She said, in a low voice: ‘Godfrey. Why?’

  The light he held flared up, and she saw his face a moment, stark and dangerous and full of cold hatred. Then that expression had gone, and he appeared thoughtfully indifferent. ‘Why? It just happens, sweet, that I hate Germans. Not just Nazis; not Hitlerites; not Junkers, or soldiers or duelling students. Just Germans. The lovely, kind little German burghers gouging each other in the shops and the offices and the small businesses; the sweet German mädchen who is treacherous, mean and greedy; the handsome youth with the fresh cheeks who is not even a barbarian, but just a cowardly murderer; the German man in the street, the German woman at the markets, the German farmer and the German hausfrau. I hate them all, Celeste. I want to see them die.’