VIII
Listening to the conversation of two men of affairs, Lanny got an insight into the realities of French politics. Denis was a “Nationalist,” which meant that he thought it was the business of the French government to look after the interests of France, and especially of French businessmen, the persons who would give employment to French workers if they were to get any. That was exactly the idea of Robbie’s Republican party as to the United States, so these two understood each other perfectly; when Denis denounced the present French Premier, it might have been Robbie expressing his opinion of a certain scholar in politics who had departed from the White House five months previously.
The Premier of France was a man named Aristide Briand, and he was what the French call “a son of the people.” His father had been an innkeeper in that Loire country where Lanny and Marie had spent their honeymoon—perhaps they had stayed in that very inn. Like most French politicians, Briand had begun as an extreme Socialist, but when he got power he smashed a strike of the railwaymen by the device of ordering them all on military duty. However, that wasn’t enough to cause Denis de Bruyne to trust him, for he was called a “man of peace,” which meant, in effect, that he was one more Frenchman succumbing to the blandishments of David Lloyd George, that master of the arts of political seduction.
Denis explained the situation. Britain had her vast overseas empire and her world trade; she would soon grow rich again, and that was what she was thinking about. But France lay with her most productive provinces in ruins, her people unemployed, and her hereditary enemy refusing to give up her arms, saying, in effect: “Come and get them!” Refusing to meet the reparations bill, deliberately destroying her financial system in order to ruin her rival, and repeating that offer which drove French businessmen frantic—to pay in goods, while French workers stayed idle and French businessmen got no profits!
Time after time, France would be invited to conferences, where the “Welsh wizard” would turn loose his oratorical blandishments; he would take the side of the Germans and persuade the French to give up this and give up that; to let history’s greatest robber get away unscathed, with most of his loot safely stowed away in his fastnesses. “Honteux!” exclaimed Denis de Bruyne, and pounded his fist on the arm of his chair as he called the roll of these conferences of dishonor—San Remo, Hythe, Spa, Brussels, Paris, London. “Il faut en finir!” cried the “Nationalist.”
While Robbie was there, early in August, another conference was called in Paris; an emergency one, as they were all coming to be. Imagine, if you could, the rosy little cherub with the lion’s mane ensconced with all his staff in the Hotel Crillon, wining and dining the innkeeper’s son, treating him as a social equal—and persuading him that the only way to settle the question of Upper Silesia was to refer it to the League of Nations! Playing upon those sentiments politely called “humanitarian,” though to Denis de Bruyne they were the cheapest and most disgusting of a demagogue’s stocks in trade. Talking about German “rights” to territory which every historian knew had been seized by the Prussian Frederick and which now was absolutely vital to Poland—and to France, if she was to have an ally on the eastern front to hold the ruthless Prussians in check. But of course England didn’t want France to be strong on the Continent; she was setting Germany up as a rival—the “balance of power” policy!
Lanny listened to all this and kept his thoughts to himself. He had not told his host that he had a close friend from Upper Silesia, and how different these matters appeared from that friend’s point of view. Lanny had come to the reluctant conclusion that his father’s political beliefs were conditioned by his business interests, and he now decided that this French gentleman was in the same case. But Lanny wasn’t there to educate him; all that Lanny cared about was a remark which his father reported—a remark which Denis had made a propos de bottes, as the French say, meaning à propos of nothing in particular:
“You know, M. Budd, the arrangement is excellent for all parties. When a woman is not satisfied she is liable to wander off, and I’d hate to have the mother of my children fall into the clutches of some adventurer.”
To which Robbie replied with cordiality: “It seems to me, too, the arrangement is an excellent one for all parties, and I hope it may continue.”
IX
Robbie Budd was in Paris because of another oil venture he was going in for; yes, in spite of the hard times, or rather because of them. Somebody else was in trouble, while Robbie, far-sighted fellow, had cash in several banks—and not those which had been closed! Robbie didn’t tell much about it. Was he afraid that a youngster very much in love might talk too freely to a French lady? Or was it just that he had come to the realization that his son didn’t like the smell of oil?
What he did tell about was Johannes Robin. It beat the Dutch the way that fellow was coining money! He had moved to Berlin, to be nearer his sources of information, and had just taken a trip to London to meet his associate. Six months ago he had dragged Robbie into selling the German mark short; he wasn’t taking any commission, it was pure friendship, or gratitude—“and I suppose pride to be associated with us,” added the father. “He wants you to play duets with Hansi!”
“He surely doesn’t have to pay us for that,” replied Lanny.
“Well, I agreed to go in with him, and every now and then I get a cablegram telling me that I have another deposit in a New York bank. We have a code, and he’ll say: ‘Methuselah seventieth birthday November’—that means that the mark will be seventy to the dollar in three months. You see, he predicted a long time ago that some day one dollar would buy as many marks as the years of Methuselah! Have you been watching the quotations?”
“I look now and then, because I know you’re betting on it.”
“It seems that Robin really has the inside dope. The mark was four to the dollar before the war, and today it’s quoted at sixty-three. He insists it can’t come back.”
“I suppose there’s nothing the Germans can do but go on printing money.”
“What they are doing,” said Robbie, “is reducing the public debt; an easy ‘out’ for a Socialist government.”
“I had a letter from the boys,” remarked Lanny. “They are happy about being in Berlin, it’s such a wonderful city, and Hansi will have great teachers at the Conservatory.”
“If things work out the way that doggone Jew says, he’s going to own half the town before he’s through.”
“I’m afraid the Germans won’t like him for it,” remarked Lanny, dubiously. “They call such people Schieber.”
“Well, if properties are for sale, he surely has a right to buy them. And of course if things get too hot, he can move back to Holland.”
X
Lanny told about his visit to Geneva and what he had learned there. Robbie said he had no quarrel with the League as an attempt of Europe to solve its own problems; he didn’t think it would last long, because, as soon as some major issue arose, the nations would fight it out; they would never surrender their right to do that. Robbie’s concern was to keep the United States out of it; and on this point he was in a mood of extreme vexation, because the new President, upon whom he had based such high hopes, had already capitulated to the meddlers and the pacifists—he had just issued a call for an international conference for limitation of navies to meet in Washington on next Armistice Day.
To the head salesman of Budd’s, who had put up campaign funds so generously, that was indeed a betrayal. Robbie Budd was too tactful a man to say to anybody, even his son: “This will knock out my chance for profits for many years.” No, what he said was: “This will knock out America’s chance to get an adequate armament industry. Britain and France will diddle us, they will fix up an agreement to leave us weak and where we need to be strong; we will keep our part of the bargain, and then when it is too late find out that they have been wriggling out of their part.”
“What do you suppose put Harding up to that?” asked the son.
“The pr
oposal came from London. It’s popular because so many people are sick of war, and insisting that something be tried. You hear it in the most unexpected places. The Reverend Saddleback preached what was almost a pacifist sermon. I didn’t hear it, but that’s what everybody said.”
“That must have given Grandfather quite a jolt!”
“We have lived through so many earthquakes that we don’t notice jolts any more. You can’t imagine how things are at home. That nightmare in Russia has driven our agitators crazy; in New York you hear them shouting on every other street corner.”
“And in Newcastle?”
“We don’t let them get that far; but they’re working underground, hundreds of them, Father says. Some day we may have a strike to deal with, but hardly while jobs are so scarce.”
Lanny didn’t say how he himself had been consorting with such enemies of the public welfare. He wondered: Had Johannes Robin noted his sons’ interest in Red ideas, and perhaps mentioned to Robbie how the boys had met Beauty’s Red brother? Apparently he hadn’t, and Lanny didn’t bring up the subject, for he knew exactly what his father would say, and when you have heard one line of discourse a certain number of times, you lose interest in hearing it again—especially when it has to do with your not doing something that you might want to do!
XI
Dropping the ticklish topic of politics, Lanny asked the news about that large and eccentric family at home. Old ones on the way out and new ones on the way in—but not so rapidly as in old days. Robbie’s oldest brother, Lawford, continuing to be a “sorehead” and to quarrel with Robbie whenever possible. Grandfather Samuel showing his age, but still set in determination to run the business and the family. Esther, Lanny’s stepmother, helping to raise funds for the needy, whom she no longer had to seek in Europe—there was an abundance of them right in Newcastle. Robbie gave her a large allowance to be spent on the former employees of Budd Gunmakers and their families. “You know,” he explained, “people say that when you give a hand-out to a tramp he makes a sign on your gate to let the other tramps know that you’re an easy mark. It’s about the same with your ex-employees, I find—they write to their relatives and the whole gang comes hitch-hiking into town!”
Lanny asked about the children. The two boys were well, and were going to be sturdy fellows. Bess, now thirteen, was a dynamo of energy, and had commissioned her father to scold Lanny because he didn’t write often enough. “I ought to send her a present,” said the half-brother, and Robbie replied: “Send something to all of them.”
It was hard to think what to give to persons whose every want was so carefully met. Lanny asked: “Do you think they might like a painting?” He would have offered one of Marcel’s, but he knew that Esther would find it embarrassing to explain the stepfather of her stepson—it sounded queer, and suggestive of a double impropriety. “I’ll look in the shops and see if I can find something French that will be different from what they are used to.”
“Nothing sexy,” warned Robbie.
“Oh, of course not. I mean something gay; something with a little esprit.”
XII
When he took his father into Paris to consult with oil tycoons, Lanny went for a stroll on the Boulevard Montparnasse. You would have thought that every other person in France aspired to be a painter; not merely were there innumerable art dealers, but little shops like grocers’ and cobblers’ would have paintings in the windows. Lanny’s eyes were quick, and he didn’t mind walking, so he must have seen a thousand paintings that morning before he found what he wanted, some very lively little wash drawings of Parisian street scenes, full of character.
Having lived in France most of his life, he knew how to buy things. He knew that there was one price if you were French, a higher one if you were Spanish, a still higher one if you were German, and a triple or quadruple one if you bore the faintest sign of Americanism. It was a game, and the proper way to play it was to price other things first and say that all the prices were too high. You took only a casual glance at the thing you really wanted, and you asked its price indifferently, and then started out, remarking with a laugh that half that would be about right; as a rule your suggestion would be accepted before you got to the door.
Lanny offered a hundred francs for four of those drawings, with the right to make his choice. He picked out a jolly little Pierrot for Bess, and two street urchins for the boys, and for his stepmother a sturdy market-woman standing by her little handcart full of fruit, with her arms akimbo and an expression that told you how she would storm at you if you attempted to pinch one of her precious pears to see if it was ripe. The drawings were the work of an unknown artist, and when you made a purchase like that you were taking a chance in a lottery; the chance that your great-grandchildren might discover them in some dust-covered trunk, and recognize a famous signature, and sell them to a collector for several thousand dollars apiece.
To the Budd family the drawings would be a friendly reminder of one who had been a dangerous and disturbing guest, but was romantic while he dwelt overseas. Robbie promised to have them framed, and not to forget which one was for which. Then he made the suggestion that Lanny should take another walk, this time along the Rue de la Paix, and look into the windows of the jewelry shops and find a present for his amie. But Lanny thought it over and said no, he didn’t think Marie would desire that; he was making her happy day by day, and that was enough.
Robbie thought it over in turn, and said: “Maybe you are right. If you start making presents you can’t be sure where it will stop.” The cautious man of business added: “Better not tell Beauty that I’m making so much money. Hard times are good for her!”
BOOK THREE
The Staircase of History
11
Woe to the Conquered
I
For a long time to come Lanny’s life was destined to be governed by the calendar of a French boarding-school for boys. When the school closed, he would come to Seine-et-Oise, and when it opened again he was free to go to the Midi, or to any other parts of the world which appealed to him and his amie. In September the lovers returned to Bienvenu, and Lanny set to work upon a task which he had discussed with his father, the erection of another villa on the estate. The Riviera was becoming crowded, and in the “season” it was difficult to find anything to rent. Lanny hoped to invite Rick and Nina the coming winter, and, anyhow, it seemed sensible to have a guest-house. Robbie, who believed in buildings, was pleased to invest some of the money he was getting from Johannes Robin. He advised putting the house in one corner of the estate, so that it could be sold separately if ever they wanted to.
Lanny talked things over with his mother and engaged a contractor. Of course he wrote to Rick about it, and told him that the family’s feelings would be hurt if he and Nina didn’t make their plans to come for a housewarming during the winter.
In the midst of these operations who should show up but their old friend, the former Baroness de la Tourette, who had shed her title by means of an American divorce, and was now plain Sophie Timmons of Cincinnati, Ohio—and if you didn’t like it you could lump it, said the daughter of a hardware manufacturer. Sophie was done both with the aristocracy and with men, she declared; she would be willing for the Bolshies to wipe out all the former, while the scientists rendered the latter superfluous by means of artificial parthenogenesis. Beauty had never heard that jawbreaker, but when Sophie explained the idea she approved it heartily. Men were mostly unreliable, and when you had two of them about the house all the time they were intolerable. Having said this, Beauty began running over in her mind all the eligible men she knew, to decide which was the best for Sophie Timmons.
Of course the retired baroness had heard about the queer extramarital arrangements of this family, and was “dying with curiosity.” Lanny had been her pet as a boy, and she had known Marie in society; it seemed to her the oddest prank that Cupid had ever played—and that was saying a lot. She had never met the fourth member of the family, and found
herself a little in awe of a serious blue-eyed artillery officer, who, for all Sophie could ever know, might have fired the shell which killed her own ami, poor Eddie Patterson, driving an ambulance on the Marne front in the last days of the war.
Sophie settled down in her villa with a maid and a couple of servants, saying that she needed to recuperate from living with her family in Ohio. She liked to play bridge, so in the evenings she would drive to Bienvenu, picking up old M. Rochambeau and his niece; they would play for small stakes, because the elderly ex-diplomat couldn’t afford to lose much. If this pair were not available, they would phone for Jerry Pendleton and press Marie into service. It was all right for Lanny to prefer to read, but it was considered “sniffy” if a woman took such a pose.
Lanny’s ex-tutor was on call for any goings-on—a picnic, a sail, a swim. He had held a position in a tourist office during the winter, and Lanny now arranged for him to oversee the building job, as a pretext for helping him out. Jerry had two babies at home, and his little French wife was busy with these; if she had social aspirations, they could be satisfied by inviting her to a lawn party or something of a not too intimate nature. Women were a drug on the market in post-war France, but desirable men were scarce, and especially in this obscure village of Juan-les-Pins in the “off season.”
II
In November Lanny had his twenty-second birthday, and his mother decided to give him a party. For two years and a half she had been hiding as it were in a cave on account of Kurt; now, under the guise of a celebration for Lanny, she was going to present his “music-teacher” to the world. It would be a tennis party and an al fresco supper, with music and dancing in the evening. Kurt Meissner would play, and he would be introduced under his own name. The few friends who had met him as M. Dalcroze would be told that that was his middle name, which he used for professional purposes.
Between Two Worlds Page 22
