Lanny knew all this because Denis had described it to him in past years. This “cher Maître” knew nothing of the law except such devices, and his ignorance of all cultural subjects was so great that he had to make a joke of it. Maître Torrès had asked him which of two painters he preferred, and he had answered that he had no time to attend vaudeville. He laughed uproariously over this. A coarse, hard countryman, who knew the ways of this world, and had no friend but his own pocketbook, he had admired, first the Fascists, then the Nazis, because they were fellows of that sort, and he wanted such to take charge of France and make it over in their own image. Since the French voting public—heirs and victims of a revolutionary tradition—wouldn’t do it themselves, let Hitler and Mussolini and Franco step in and do it for them.
“Put me in charge,” said Pierre Laval, “and I’ll stay in. Believe me, mon vieux, the job won’t have to be done a second time!”
XIV
Lanny returned to the Crillon and wrote a report concerning the program for a collaborationist France. He mailed it to the Embassy, and breathed a silent prayer that the American diplomatic pouches were not being tampered with en route. If any government knew their contents, the Nazi-Fascist agents would soon share the secret, and it would be all up with Lanny’s career, and perhaps with Lanny.
Two weeks and two days after the start of the Blitzkrieg, Lanny heard over the radio that Calais had been taken, and heard the Germans claim that they had a million French and British troops pinned against the Channel coast. In the evening he went to Baron Schneider’s home, and met some of the bewildered industrialists who were still trying to figure how to save their properties. What a tragic blunder that they had failed to appease Hitler, by giving him colonies, and perhaps even Alsace-Lorraine!
One or two who still had the idea of fighting wanted to know how many planes were coming from America, and Lanny had the sad duty of telling them that there weren’t many to come. Fighter planes couldn’t be flown across, but had to be crated and stowed in ships, which took both time and space. They were being sent now to Casablanca, and French mechanics, unfamiliar with the plane, were slow with the work of assembly. The men of great affairs shook their heads sadly and wished they had taken the advice of the Budds, père et fils, a year or two years ago. The sirens sounded while they were talking, and they turned pale; they were not fighting men, but dealt with one another on the basis of engraved or signed pieces of paper, and on any other basis they could not imagine how to live.
When Lanny returned to his hotel, quite late, he found a note from Madame de Portes, asking him to call her. She was a difficult person to see, for she spent most of her time sitting on the desk of the Premier of France, giving orders to admirals and generals and Cabinet members, and threatening them if they did not obey. Her Paul had been ill and was only partly recuperated; he spent his time in an inner room, receiving one person after another, and trying to get up the courage to, counter some of the decisions his amie had made. Their disagreements were public, and were surely not good for the morale of Marianne.
Lanny called the apartment and she was not there. He called the Quai d’Orsay, where the Premier had his office, and then he heard her voice. She asked if he could come to her apartment at a half hour after midnight; there was to be an important conference—très, très, she said, and they might need his help. He replied that he would be at her service.
It was a brisk walk across the Place de la Concorde. Lanny remembered this as it had been after World War I, with rows of captured German cannon of many sizes. He crossed the great bridge where, six years ago, he had watched a Fascist mob trying to get to the Palais Bourbon, where the Chamber of Deputies was in session. Some people had been shot, and “Dala,” then in his first premiership, had got the blame; it had broken his nerve, and he had never been the same man since.
Now it was little Paul’s turn, and his nerve, too, was failing; the blood had gone out of his face, and he looked ghastly. A strange face it was, with eyebrows not curved but bent in a sharp angle, and a wide mouth like a clown’s mask; his enemies called him “the Mickey Mouse of France.” He did not know which way to turn, or whom to trust; he could not appoint any real belliciste to any position of importance, because Hélène would fly into hysterics and make it impossible for him to sleep.
Madame had not arrived, so Lanny sat in the overdecorated drawing-room with silk-upholstered furniture. Presently the door bell rang, and he heard a familiar quavering voice, and realized who was the important person he was to meet. He arose and went to the door, and saw two military aides taking the elaborate bandbox hat, with three rows of golden oak leaves around it; also the heavy overcoat which the caller wore even at the end of May. They led him into the room—poor old gentleman of eighty-four, it was at least three hours after his bedtime, but he was toddling about trying to save his beloved native land. The front of his gray uniform bore many decorations, and he had enjoyed about every honor a French soldier could win—Generalissimo, Inspector-General of the Armies, Chef de la Defense du Territoire, Inspector-General of Aviation, Vice-President of the Supreme War Council, Minister of War, Permanent Member of the Inner War Council, and, since the last ten days, Vice-Premier of France.
Lanny rose respectfully, and stood until the venerable caller had been seated; then he approached, and, taking no chances with senility, said: “You may remember me, Monsieur le Maréchal; I am Lanny Budd, who had the honor of calling upon you recently in Madrid. I am the son of Robert Budd, of Budd-Erling Aircraft.”
“Ah, oui, oui!” replied the quavering voice. “I remember you very well. You were sent to me by—by—”
“Denis de Bruyne,” put in Lanny, without delay.
“Ah, vraiment, I remember you well. Your father should send us more aircraft, Monsieur Budd; they would be useful at this moment.”
“I am sure that my father is doing everything in his power, Monsieur le Maréchal.”
There was nothing wrong with Lanny’s memory, and he had in mind the positive assurance which the elderly officer had given him in Madrid that the part which airplanes would play in this war had been greatly exaggerated. Furthermore, this eminent authority had declared that he would ask for nothing better than to see the Germans come out from their so-called Siegfried Line and attack the Maginot. “I should pray to be in command of the French armies at that time, Monsieur Budd!” Now word had just come that the King of the Belgians was on the point of surrendering his army and his country; and Lanny ventured the guess that this had something to do with his being called to renew his dealings with the venerable Henri Philippe Benoni Omer Joseph Pétain.
XV
Madame la Comtesse arrived, apologizing volubly for keeping the hero of Verdun waiting, even for a minute. After her hand had been kissed, her first action was to light a cigarette. A servant placed a tabouret by her chair, with an ashtray upon it; and thereafter during the conference she was not once without a lighted cigarette in her fingers. She was almost beside herself with nervousness, and would jump up and pace the room, gesticulating in the excited French manner. Now and then she would move to the tabouret and dump off a load of ash, without for an instant ceasing her rattle of conversation.
Lanny had guessed correctly; the calamity in Belgium made a decision necessary in France. To him the King’s action seemed a cowardly betrayal, and Hélène revealed that her Paul was going to say that over the radio in the morning. She herself exclaimed: “What else could the poor man do?”—and so Lanny could be sure there had been another battle between them, and might be one all this night, or rather, early this morning.
“Our situation has become desperate. We may have bombs falling on this building before daylight!” Such were the words of the Premier’s guiding spirit. “You know as well as I do, Monsieur le Maréchal, that Hitler does not wish to destroy Paris, and that only our insensate folly can cause it to happen.”
“You are entirely right, madame,” replied the idol of France. His hands trembled
as he gestured, and his pointed white mustache revealed that his lips were trembling also. Lanny had taken a chair close to him, and could look into his bright blue eyes. “I have received every possible assurance of friendship from Baron von Stohrer in Madrid, and only this morning I received a message from him through Señor Beigbeider.” The former of these was the Nazi ambassador to Spain, and the latter was the Spanish ambassador to France, for all practical purposes a Nazi agent in Paris. Franco had been a pupil of the French Marshal in the École Militaire of France, and both of them were Catholics, both Royalists, both believers in a Fascist alliance and in a Europe populated by devout, industrious, and obedient peasants.
The Marshal went on to repeat the ideas with which his mind had been stuffed during several months in Madrid. The Führer wanted what you might call a polite war, and a purely technical victory over France. He had no real quarrel with the country, only those vile Leftist elements whom the Marshal hated as much as did the Führer. Eh bien, alors, why should not friends combine against their true enemies? Let the French make an honorable retreat and then a nominal capitulation, and the New Order could be made safe for all Europe. The old gentleman talked Nazi talk, and Cagoulard talk, both of them comparatively new; later on, he was talking an older kind, which he had learned when he was a toddling child instead of a toddling dotard. That was Catholic talk; said he: “Liberty is immorality.” And presently: “France is being punished for her loss of faith.” Then, to this raging political woman: “Calm yourself, madame, and remember that what happens in this world is of minor concern to us or to anyone; our destiny lies in eternity, and what is important is the salvation of our own souls and our country’s.”
XVI
To speak of the Premier’s mistress and the Vice-Premier of France might sound like a cruel pun, but it was one which had been created by history and the language makers. This pair assuredly had no humor concerning themselves, or the effort they were making to keep their native land in its ancient patterns. Better to turn it over to its hereditary foe, who would discipline it well, than permit it to fall into the hands of atheistic, libertarian, and collectivist revolutionaries. Semper eadem, always the same, was the motto of their Holy Mother Church, and within the last century her Popes have solemnly repudiated all that charter of liberties upon which the democratic world is being built—freedom of speech, press and worship.
What this reactionary pair wanted of Lanny Budd was that he should return to the powerful friend who had sent him here, and say: “France is done for, France must save herself by quitting the war; but she does not wish to humiliate her great ally by leaving her alone; indeed, it would not help France to withdraw alone, for she would only become a launching platform for an attack upon Britain. The wise course is for the two countries standing together to make the best terms they can, which Hitler has promised us will be lenient.”
Said Marshal Pétain: “I have been assured by several authorities that the Führer is prepared to guarantee without qualification the integrity of Britain and the British Empire.”
“He has told me that himself,” agreed Lanny.
“Then you will do this for us?” inquired the Comtesse, eagerly.
“I will go, madame, and will do my best; but do not ask me to promise to succeed. You must bear in mind that Winston Churchill is now Prime Minister and he is an extremely arrogant man. I have had opportunities to talk with him and I know.”
“He is a dreadful man, an unscrupulous man!” exclaimed Hélène. “He must be put out of office before the world can have peace.”
“I doubt very much, madame, if Lord Wickthorpe has any power to put him out of office, unless it were by killing him. All that I can do is to take your message and explain the circumstances as I have found them in France. Of course, as the military situation worsens, the advisability of your course will become more clear. If the armies in Flanders should be forced to surrender, then I doubt if Churchill would have the power to resist, even if he wished to.”
“What you say is true,” admitted the woman. “But it is also true that the longer we wait, the more severe the terms will grow, and the greater the reparations we shall have to pay. If we had had enough political sense we should have made terms before this dreadful fighting started.”
“Quite so, madame; but political sense is, alas, not always to be had upon demand. I will plead your cause in London to the best of my ability, and if I have any effect, Monsieur Reynaud will learn of it through the regular diplomatic channels. In order that there may be no misunderstanding, please tell me explicitly, am I to say that this course is one which the Premier himself desires and recommends?”
Lanny expected to see the woman show signs of hesitation at this point; but she was an old intriguer, and had anticipated the question. “You are to say that this is the course to which Monsieur Reynaud is being forced by the tragic events of the hour. It will quite probably be his decision by the time you arrive in England. Strictly between us, it is my intention to bring him to that point of view.”
“I understand, madame; and France is fortunate in having someone in her service who is capable of looking ahead and making decisions. Have you any way in mind for me to reach London?”
“I have arranged for a military plane to fly you there, leaving Le Bourget at eight this morning.”
This wasn’t so agreeable to Lanny, because it was getting him established as an official person; but he didn’t see quite how to get out of it. “Madame,” he said, “I am not a coward, but I assume that you want your messenger to arrive. The German planes are active now, I have been told.”
“Your pilot will have orders to fly west, and to approach England by way of Cherbourg. That, I am assured, will be quite safe.”
“Thank you, madame.” He kissed the tobacco-stained hand—for the last time, though he did not know it. He was tickled on both cheeks by the aged Marshal’s white mustachios—something which was more than the proprieties required, and was meant as a paternal demonstration, in honor of a faithful son who was going into danger. He took it as an honor, and said: “Merci, mon cher Maréchal.” He, too, enlisting!
XVII
He went back to his hotel and wrote a report on the hopes and plans of the French Fascists. He put it into the mail, and then slept for a while, until the hotel desk awakened him. He was up, and bathed and dressed, radioed and breakfasted—if one can put it that way—by a little after seven, when Madame’s own car came to take him to the airfield. The driver was a young man from the South, Madame’s own estate, and Lanny sat by him on purpose and encouraged him to talk—which is seldom difficult with the people of the Midi. He expressed his opinion of the Fridolins, and didn’t seem to love them, or to be particularly anxious to surrender France to them. He wanted his passenger’s idea of the prospects, and Lanny had to evade, saying that nobody knew anything except what came over the air, and you had to choose your station carefully.
This enquiring American had for some time been convinced that now and then, under circumstances as yet beyond guessing, it happened that the human mind was able to pierce the veil of the future and get a glimpse of events which were on the way. But he possessed no trace of that strange faculty himself, and he rode in this car and listened to this dark-skinned Marseillais, and had no slightest intimation of the fact that exactly one month from this date the man was destined to crash the car into a tree and kill Madame de Portes and seriously injure her lover. This was after the French government had fled to Bordeaux, and after Laval had succeeded in ousting “the Mickey Mouse of France.” She was taking her Paul to that estate which she loved, but was not destined to see. Hélène Rebuffel, daughter of a wealthy contractor, had had ambitions, and had risen as high as it was possible for a woman to rise in the France of her day, where women did not vote or hold office, but intrigued in the salons and the lits. Her death was considered a cruel stroke by her friends; but perhaps fate was wiser than any of these, and was sparing her sights and experiences which might h
ave been beyond her power to endure.
30
Those in Peril on the Sea
I
From Paris to Cherbourg and from there to Southampton and into the interior of England is a journey which would have taken Lanny’s forefathers at least a week; but now, by the eagle’s route, he made it in less than an hour. They put a flying suit on him, and a parachute, and gave him an oxygen mask to be used in case of need. Speed was safety, and the pilot poured it on; they climbed and climbed, and there was a crackling in Lanny’s ears. He looked down upon the tiny checkerboard fields of France, most of them bright green at this season; he looked at the Channel, gray, with faint irregular lines like haircloth. Then it was England, with stretches of open downs, and woodlands, and fields with the pattern of a crazy quilt.
The roar of the engine drowned out all other sounds. Lanny could have talked with the pilot by putting on a headset; but he observed the young officer scanning the sky, above, below, and at all points of the compass, stopping only now and then for a glance at his instrument panel. Lanny decided that this was a worthy work, not to be interrupted. He wondered, what would this handsome lieutenant of aviation be thinking about carrying a civilian passenger while his country’s armies were in rout? Lanny knew from young Denis what the French soldiers in the field were thinking about this fighter plane not being over their heads, and the idea confirmed him in the decision to keep still.
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