The Final Hour

  Don’t bank too much on influence over Henri, after the wedding-bells have rung, she thought. No one will ever have much influence over my darling brother. But you’ll never learn.

  When Christopher arrived at Robin’s Nest, he saw that Henri had just completed a considerable breakfast before the fire in the living-room. Henri had never cared much for food, except as sustenance. But Christopher noticed that this had been quite a breakfast. He was further diverted when Henri offered him an excellent cigar, and took one, himself. A servant carried the wreckage of plates and covered silver dishes away. Henri’s broad pale face was really amiable, and relaxed. When he smiled at his brother-in-law, the smile actually reached his eyes for the first time in Christopher’s memory.

  ‘There was nothing in the will that prevents me from divorcing Annette,’ said Henri, calmly. ‘We had a talk in New York. She won’t even return here. She is going directly to Reno. Her maid is packing her trunks now.’

  Christopher was surprised. It was not like Henri to speak out like this, without preliminary remarks that had nothing to do with the case. He was even more amused when Henri said, with the most genial frankness: ‘I hope that pipsqueak has left Placid Heights?’

  Christopher meditated. Should he hint that perhaps some agreement had been reached between Celeste and Godfrey? But his own inner excitement and exultation were too much, even for him.

  ‘He has,’ he said. ‘Yesterday. I wasn’t taken into anyone’s confidence, but I think Celeste had something to do with it.’

  Henri smiled again, with satisfaction. When he looked at his smoking cigar, it was without distaste. He actually appeared quite warm and human, even faintly boyish. Christopher eyed him cynically.

  ‘He wasn’t a bad chap,’ said Henri. ‘I’ve made some arrangements of my own, directly with his friend, Milch. After thorough investigation, of course. They ought to produce something good down there. I understand Godfrey has considerable talent. I’m interested in Milch’s plans.’

  So, he doesn’t bear me any malice, thought Christopher. And was amazed at his own sense of relief.

  And then he was again surprised, for Henri appeared genuinely reflective and grave. ‘At that dinner,’ said Henri, regarding his cigar intently, ‘I thought he appeared quite at an advantage. I thought, at first, that he was something of an idealist-like Peter. Then I saw that he was a realist. There was something bold about him, too, and no nonsense.’ He smiled a little. ‘In spite of his general colouring, I thought he resembled the Old Man a lot,’ and he glanced up at the portrait of Ernest Barbour above him. He did not look away for several moments, and became even graver. ‘Yes, there was considerable resemblance. I could see that eventually I might like him. Later, I intend to see a lot of him, here and there. I suspect than on occasion he might be a liar, and a rascal, and unscrupulous. But when has all that been a vice with us?’

  Christopher laughed, without comment. But he watched Henri narrowly.

  ‘But he had other things, too,’ Henri went on, reflectively. ‘He had given a leg, not because he was an idealist, but because he wanted to kill something he thought was detestable. To him, if was a fair exchange. I like men who pay the price, and no heroics, afterwards. Yes, I like him. I talked to Milch, myself, last week.’

  So, thought Christopher, that is what precipitated matters, and was back of Milch’s hurry call to Godfrey. He smiled inwardly. Henri, then, had squirmed, indeed. How much did he offer Milch to get Godfrey out of here? he asked himself. Of course, it wasn’t handled as crudely as that. It was all business, naturally. Christopher was delighted.

  ‘Did you inform Milch what sort of pictures you’d prefer?’ he asked.

  Henri smiled, and again his smile reached his eyes. ‘I never interfere with another man’s, business, especially if I know nothing about it. But, on a tentative offer of unlimited backing, I had a few suggestions.’

  He added: ‘And, by the way, I don’t think we’ll be bothered any longer by our little friend with the candid eyes: August

  Jaeckle. The investigation has been completed. Two investigations, in fact. The most important showed that he received over fifty thousand dollars during the past six months direct from Berlin. The other, that he has what the French call a petite amie in Pittsburg. Of course, Mrs Jaeckle doesn’t know about it, but a small hint to August persuaded him he’d better stop his propaganda.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Christopher. ‘And—other matters?’ Henri leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m going to call a meeting for Tuesday, right here. All the boys. Ours—and Antoine’s. And, by the way, Antoine will receive a copy of Armand’s will this morning—by special messenger.’ He looked into the distance, gently musing. ‘I’m not naturally a curious man. But I’d like to be there when he receives it.’

  Christopher did not speak at once. Then he said, oddly: ‘I’ve always considered myself an intuitive person. I don’t know what’s behind it, but I’ve seen a change in our sprightly dancer lately. A kind of thoughtfulness. Somehow, I’m not so sure the will is going to be an overwhelming shock to him.’ Henri frowned, sourly. ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

  He went on: ‘There was something else I wanted to tell you. Bishop Halliday won’t be broadcasting again. For the duration. We discovered, quite accidentally, of course, that he has a nice block of stock in Marshal Goering’s little iron works, in Germany. Someone explained to him that the United States Government might do a little impertinent investigating if the facts were presented to it.’

  And then, abruptly, he stood up, his back to the fire. He said, with sudden quietness: ‘Now York is afraid. Washington is afraid. It’s Japan.’

  ‘Japan,’ repeated Christopher, without emphasis.

  ‘The Japanese Mission is in consultation with the State Department just now. A satisfactory agreement is expected. By the optimistic. But not by others with whom I talked.’ ‘You think the attack will come from Japan?’

  ‘I have no doubt of it. When, I can’t say. I don’t know. But Hitler has given his command to the Japanese Government, and they have no choice. The command came through two weeks ago. I don’t think the Mission knows it. Yet’

  ‘It may blow over.’

  Henri shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I don’t think so.’

  He said: ‘Everything is ready. That is why I’m calling a meeting for Tuesday. Among other tilings, I’m going to talk about Japan.’

  He stood before the fire, immovable, rocklike. ‘I’ve just discovered, too, that in spite of my orders, a large cargo of platinum, grain, oil and machinery left the Argentine two days ago. For Franco, of course! But destined for Germany. I informed the British Government. It will never reach Spain.’

  He continued: ‘Whoever is responsible for that isn’t going to like the result.’ Without a change in tone, he said: ‘Hugo will be here on Tuesday. I expect him to be in a state of shock.’

  Christopher leaned back in his chair, and said, pleasantly: ‘I seem to smell a lot of heavy blackmail in the air. I hope you are keeping a supply of restoratives on hand for the boys.’

  Henri smiled briefly, but said nothing. However, he looked at Christopher with long attentiveness.

  He then sat down and outlined curtly what his plans were, and what he intended to do. Christopher listened closely. At the end, Henri said: ‘I’m leaving for South America in about eight weeks, with a certain Commission.’

  A servant came to the door and said that Mr Bouchard was wanted for a long-distance call from Washington. ‘Today?’ said Henri, frowning. He excused himself and went to his private, soundproof booth on the second floor.

  Christopher felt very content. His thoughts afforded him pleasure. Occasionally, as he sat before the fire, waiting, he smiled. He smoked constantly. Eventually, however, he became aware that Henri had been gone a long time. For some reason, this caused him disquiet. He stood up and began to pace up and down the room, silently. Sometimes he paused to look out at the winter landscape. There was no sound in the house. E
verything was still and shining.

  He turned from the window to see Henri standing in the archway, and he was very white. ‘Pearl Harbour has just been attacked,’ he said, and his voice was quiet and controlled.

  LXXII

  Celeste was out in the new bright fall of snow with little Land. She watched him stagger about, shrieking, gathering up handfuls of the shining stuff in his mittened hands, and throwing it up in the air so that it sparkled like a small cloud of diamonds. She put him on his sled, and pulled him about, and they both shouted with laughter in the clear air when he deliberately fell off. Celeste’s furs were powdered with white. The wind stung some colour into her pale tired face. She caught the little boy in her arms and kissed him passionately. He struggled for a moment, then became preternaturally grave, staring at her cheeks, which were suddenly touched here and there by a quicksilver drop. Thoughtfully, he pushed one away with his mitten.

  ‘Mama cry,’ he said. ‘Tummy-ache?’

  ‘Tummy-ache, darling,’ she agreed. ‘A very bad tummy-ache. But not in the usual place. We’re at war, honey. And you don’t know what that is yet, thank God!’

  She set him down again, and again he waddled off on his strong legs. He found a black twig, forked and glittering with ice. He put it tentatively into his mouth. Celeste protested. He regarded her with his light-grey eyes, which had become expressionless. ‘Don’t!’ cried Celeste, with passion. The child, startled, dropped the twig, and frowned at her. ‘Don’t look at me like that!’ cried Celeste, with even more passion. Then, at his genuine bewilderment, she ran to him, knelt in the snow, and hugged him, kissing his warm neck. ‘Don’t mind me, darling,’ she whispered, incoherently. ‘But please don’t look at me like that, ever! I can’t stand it.’

  She let him go once more, and he went off. She still knelt in the snow watching him with sad urgency. She did not hear the purring of a car as it turned up the long driveway from the valley. But the child heard and saw. He shrieked with delight. ‘Papa!’ he called.

  He ran down the driveway. He fell once or twice, picking himself up with a howl, and then continuing. Dazed and numb, Celeste slowly got to her feet. It was Henri’s black car standing there before the house, and it was Henri, in his rough grey coat and grey hat, who was serenely stepping out of it.

  Celeste turned cold and still. She could not move, or even think.

  Henri ignored her, standing on the snowy rise, silhouetted in her furs against the burning blue sky. He saw the child, and began to laugh, strongly. He struck his gloved hands together with a loud sound. He bent down, extending his arms. Little Land increased his staggering speed. He flung himself into Henri’s arms. Henri lifted him and kissed him heartily, and the child hugged him with ecstasy. ‘Well, well, old fellow!’ cried Henri. ‘You’re damn wet, you know. Take that paw out of my face.’

  The scene splintered into a thousand dazzling and dizzy fragments before Celeste. Her breath was smothered in her throat. She began to gasp, loudly, with dry and tearing sobs. But she still could not move, for all the bursting pain in her heart, and the whirling of her head.

  As in some incredible and too bright dream she saw Henri climbing up towards her, still carrying the rosy and happy little boy. Henri kept fighting off the wet mittens that wanted to pat his face. He was laughing as Celeste had never heard him laugh before. Now he looked up at her, and his eyes were actually dancing. ‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Can’t you keep this brat dry?’

  But Celeste heard Land’s voice, shrieking over and over: ‘Papa! Papa!’ She heard it numbly, stunned.

  Henri stood before her now, the boy on his shoulder. ‘Edith and I had a hard time getting him to say that clearly,’ he remarked, in a confidential and warm tone. ‘He could only say it last week. Damn!’ he added, thrusting aside the mitten which again caressed him. ‘Look here, stop pawing me or down you go.’

  ‘Candy,’ demanded Land, bending down to thrust his round rosy face into Henri’s. And then, as an afterthought, he kissed his father wetly, and with enthusiasm.

  The snow about her was no more white and motionless than Celeste. Her dark-blue eyes were fixed and glazed with shock. Henri ignored this.

  ‘I hope,’ he said, casually, looking fully at her, ‘that his nurses are reliable. We’ll be leaving him in about eight weeks, and we won’t be back for at least two months. Can you trust them?’

  ‘Trust them?’ she whispered, dully.

  Henri put the child down. Land promptly hugged his legs, almost upsetting him. Henri disengaged himself, and Celeste saw his harsh laughing profile under the brim of his hat. He managed to pull a cluster of little lollypops out of his pocket and pushed them into the baby’s eager hands. ‘Go off somewhere and eat them quietly,’ he said.

  Celeste murmured, faintly: ‘He mustn’t. It’s almost his dinner time.’

  ‘Never mind dinner time,’ said Henri, airily. ‘You don’t know anything about boys. They can stuff themselves every half hour.’ He paused and smiled at her. ‘It’ll be summer, in South America, when we get there.’

  She did not speak. Her lips began to shake. And now he took her by the arms, firmly, and looked down at her. She looked up at him, dumbly, her eyes slowly filling.

  ‘Hello, Celeste,’ he said, softly.

  She could not make a sound. He pulled her to him, and kissed her lips, over and over. They were cold and stiff as ice. Then, very slowly, they warmed and softened. She uttered a choking cry, and clung to him. She began to weep, and he held her to him gently, and let her have her way.

  She was conscious only that the huge and monstrous pain in her breast had left her, that something was melting and warming all through her flesh. She heard his voice, sometimes close, sometimes as from a distance, and it was grave now, and steady.

  ‘You haven’t heard the news, Celeste? We’re at war. Japan has attacked us. War, Celeste. And I’ve work to do. I want you with me. In seven weeks, we can be married. Annette has already left for Reno.’

  But she only cared that his arms were about her, strong and steadfast, and that her pain was gone.

  Little Land had seated himself on his sled. He had pulled the cellophane from all the lollypops, and, in ecstasy, he was tasting them all, in careful order.

  CHAPTER LXXIII

  There they were, sitting in a great circle before him in the wide warm drawing-room at Robin’s. Nest A thick December snow was falling, ominous and silent, a fitting background for the atmosphere of this room, also ominous and silent, minatory and watchful, full of gigantic suspicion and enmity A large fire burned on the enormous hearth, filling the duskiness of this inner air with lances and flares of rosy, restless light. It was still afternoon, but the skies outside were all long grey folds, swelling with storm and sullen anger, and a strong wind beat against the windows with a groaning sound. Smoke curled languidly from cigar and cigarette. At every elbow was a table on which stood tall crystal glasses filled with amber liquid. Here and there the firelight picked out a polished black shoe, the glint of eyeglasses, the glare of a bald head, the glimmer of a seal ring, the sudden deadly and inimical flash of the eye of a foe.

  Henri stood beneath the portrait of Ernest Barbour. Had he been another man, those gathered there would have suspected him of theatricalism, of striving for a melodramatic effect. But even his enemies could not suspect this. Some of them, with a ridiculously superstitious uneasiness, felt that two identical faces looked down at them, and that these faces curiously contributed power to each other. It was two men, then, that they confronted, waiting, two implacable and dangerous cold men, with pale basilisk eyes and wide heavy mouths formed of grey stone.

  Henri looked at the circle of faces about him—his Family. Here was the power of the Bouchards, part of the power of America. And he thought: There is not one among them that I can trust. Dogs, weasels, snakes and wolves! A huge contempt rose up in him, a wild but icy surge of strength such as might imbue a man who secretly knew he could blast them at his will. He felt no regret
that he could not trust them. He was only loathingly exhilarated that he had power over them, that he could destroy them, that, in the end, they must obey him. He moved his broad heavy shoulders under his coat; he felt the flexing of his muscles. They did not know what he thought, but they saw the sudden arctic blaze of his colourless eye, the sudden flare of the nostrils in his short broad nose. Even though he stood at ease, his hands in his pockets, they felt all that he was, and all felt a prickle of foreboding like a cold wind over their flesh.

  He had called them, and they had come. Not one had dared not to come. He had waited until they had comfortably settled themselves with cigars and cigarettes and whiskey. He looked at one especially: Antoine, white as plaster, with eyes that were like hot holes in his face—Antoine, who had been so undone by his father’s will. He had received a copy of that will the day before; it had been sent him, without comment, by Henri’s lawyers. For a moment, as he stood there, Henri glanced a few times with secret curiosity at his brother-in-law, and with secret dour amusement. Give the devil his due: the volatile and gracefully avaricious Antoine betrayed no signs of discomposure or fury. He did not even appear to be stricken. Henri had expected much more than this white fixed calm, this elegant and silent composure. Henri allowed himself a moment or two of curious speculation and faint surprise. He was also annoyed. He liked to think that he understood all men completely, that he could foretell their reactions. It was irritating that Antoine could sit there, so silent, so unmoved, that his hand did not shake, and that his attitude was one of courteous attention and interest. Antoine might have felt the world shake beneath his polished shoes; he might have seen the walls of his private city collapse with a great thunder. But he surveyed the ruin with calm, and with a kind of civilized grandeur of detachment, a Petronius-like cynicism and a faint shrug. Even, perhaps, with acrid amusement.

  Henri thought, with hatred and rising bitterness: He is a gentleman, that damned dancer and posturer. And with sudden clarity, he thought: I’ve hated him before, but I hate him more now. I’ve never pretended to be a gentleman. This is no world for courtiers, for élégants, for the civilized man. It is still a world of dinosaurs and tyrannosaurians.