He had sighed with nameless relief when Antoine, some years before, had declared that he was not in the least interested in the Bouchards or their precious rascality or their net of subsidiaries. He was a poet, he had declared, with a smile that laughed at himself as much as others. (“God! Are we going to have another François in the family?’ asked Christopher, remembering the tragic father of Henri, who had killed himself in the face of a raucous world.) So Antoine, after a brilliant career at Harvard, had studied in England, France and Germany, had travelled almost constantly, had spent well but discreetly, and seemed to have decided that the career of the accomplished and polished dilettante suited him admirably. He had published a thin volume of exceptionally ribald but intellectual poems, which had been hailed delightedly all over the world. He was a connoisseur of the various arts, but only with lightness, for his own amusement, and his taste was impeccable. At one time he gave it out candidly that he was considering the stage, at another time he was interested in futuristic painting, at still another time, in miniatures. His knowledge of music was superb, and he was a fine pianist. Even his vices were distinguished by a native elegance and refinement, his ladies as highly bred and accomplished as himself. He was still not married, though he was in his thirties.
This flower of the Bouchard family was very popular, even among his own people, which was no mean compliment to his graces of temperament and personality. The ladies of the family competed for his presence at their tables, for no party could be dull with Antoine Bouchard. They, the ladies, were all more or less a little in love with him, and even his male relatives would brighten with anticipation at his appearance. He was a ne’er-do-well, they would say, a fool probably, but he was decorative, and added distinction to the family.
Then, five years ago, this graceful, this accomplished, this vivacious and witty young man, had calmly announced that he intended to identify himself with the family fortunes. ‘Don’t hurry,’ he said with a smile, and extending his hands in that remembered gesture of Jules’. ‘I’m not impatient. I’ll recline placidly at home while you boys compete for my services. When you have something solid to offer me, bring it on a silver platter. The highest bidder gets the incomparable services of Antoine Bouchard, guaranteed to add colour and liveliness to the dullest office.’
They had not taken him seriously, at first. But Christopher had apparently done so. Within a week, he had written to Antoine, offering him the position of secretary in his own company, Duval-Bonnet, the aeroplane manufacturers in Florida. The position carried a most excellent salary. But Antoine had quickly refused. ‘I can’t endure the climate,’ he had said, in an amiable note to his uncle. Then, still assuring each other that they were fools to pay the slightest attention to the brilliant and useless Antoine, they all made him offers. Francis, Jean, Alexander, Emile, even Nicholas, came forward discreetly, with suggestions. Hugo, the Senator from Pennsylvania, suggested politics. Antoine affected to investigate each friendly proposition, but finally regretfully declined. ‘He’s not really interested,’ said Francis. ‘What could you expect?’ Then Georges, the publisher in New York, made the young man an offer, which all were certain he would accept, considering his poems, and his familiarity with the publishing business. To their surprise, this was also refused.
‘He’s full of nonsense,’ was the family verdict. ‘He likes to play with ideas.’
But there was one who was not at all sure of this, and this one was Henri Bouchard, his brother-in-law, and cousin. And Henri, alone, made no offer. It was Henri who listened, and watched, with a tight inner smile, and silence.
For it had been Henri, in his vengeance, his greed and relentlessness, who had stripped Armand, father of Antoine, of his power, who, out of obscurity and impotence, had suddenly seized the throne of the Bouchards. Antoine had been very young at the time, a schoolboy, and therefore indifferent and unaware of the glacier that had moved in exorably over the family, a glacier rising from a hidden source, gathering force and terror in silence, irresistible in its strength and remorselessness. Antoine had grown to manhood, he had gone all about the world, pursuing his pleasure, smiling, full of savoir faire, graceful and indifferent, spending his own enormous fortune, showing interest in nothing. Then, all at once, languidly smiling, shrugging, spreading his hands, he had announced his casual interest in the affairs of the Bouchards.
So it was that Henri watched, grimly amused, tight of lip. So it was that he was not in the least surprised when Armand, diffident and confused, had accompanied his son to Henri’s office and had announced that Antoine had finally decided that he might like to enter the ‘business.’ ‘He thought over all their propositions,’ said Armand, with vague apology. Nothing appeals to the boy. Then—then I suggested you, Henri. He said he’s open to coercion.’
They had sat at Henri’s desk, father and son, facing the formidable man with the pale eyes and brutal heavy lips. Henri sat at Armand’s old desk, before the vast expanse of mahogany, his square hand with the broad colourless nails grasping a pen. And Armand sat on the other side of this desk, the very desk where he had formerly made all the plans for Bouchard & Sons, almost a suppliant now, an impotent and sick old man, completely undone by this younger and more terrible reincarnation of Ernest Barbour.
And then Henri had slowly turned his eyes upon Antoine, sitting so gracefully, and with such a dark sparkling smile, beside his father, utterly at ease, full of elegance and composure, apparently only amused, apparently only casually and amiably interested in his father’s supplication. He met Henri’s eyes blandly, his own gleaming and full of light mirth, a cigarette in a long gold holder hanging from his thin dark fingers.
So! thought Henri, moving the pen about in his hands, very slowly, very precisely.
Antoine’s smile widened. It was a very attractive smile, which ladies found irresistible, so charming and amiable it was.
‘Nothing exhausting, you understand, Henri,’ he said, and he had Jules’ mellifluous voice, full of musical undertones that threatened to break into laughter. ‘Nothing too confining. I’ve got bonds and stock in Bouchard, and the subsidiaries, and God knows what else. Very confusin’.’
Henri’s mouth had compressed itself, until it was a pale slash in his pale face.
‘Do you know anything at all about Bouchard?’ he had asked, his heavy and ponderous voice in granite contrast to Antoine’s. ‘After all, you’ve been a kind of playboy, haven’t you? What assurance have I that this isn’t just a new and temporary interest that will peter out in a few weeks? This isn’t a circus, you know; it isn’t a carnival, with a carousel and a band, and dancers. I’ve got to know a little more.’
At his tone, sardonic, contemptuous and patronizing, Armand was suddenly aroused from his sick sloth, his comatose inertia. He had raised his ponderous bulk in the chair where other suppliants had sat during his own tenure. For a moment or two there was a wild and enraged clamouring in him, a confusion, a fury. That was his chair, in which this frightful interloper now sat! It was his son, to whom this interloper addressed such condescending and taunting words! His son, who ought now to be sitting there, the power of the Bouchards! His son who had been so appallingly robbed of his birthright!
His fat face turned purple. The little jetty eyes glittered. A long trembling passed over his body, over his belly, like a visible ripple. He stammered, in a choked voice: ‘Henri, I’m sure that Antoine—realizes. He—he isn’t a fool.’ He paused. His blood rushed to his head. He cried out: ‘This is my son! My son!’
His words expressed all his outrage, his sudden comprehension, his complete hatred and despair.
Henri turned his massive head and looked at him with
Ernest Barbour’s formidable face. He said nothing; he only stared expressionlessly. Armand had felt the impact of that look, like a murderous blow from a stony fist.
Then Antoine had laughed lightly. He had glanced at his father with humorous surprise. The old boy, then, must have some affection for him, u
nder the instinctive fear and hatred and aversion. Armand caught that glance. His father had looked at him with just that mirthful surprise on his deathbed, when his son had incoherently, but with painful sincerity, protested that he did not want to Jules to die. Armand was completely undone. He felt an enormous urge to weep. All the years, the foolish, fruitful, impotent, ruined years! he thought, confusedly. And now, he was back again where he had been, face to face with Jules, with Ernest Barbour, and he was tired and sick to death.
‘Look here,’ said Antoine, ‘don’t let’s be sentimental. This is Henri’s concern, Father. He has a right to ask questions. If he doesn’t want me—and God knows there hasn’t been much in my life to make anyone want me—that is his business.’
Jules and Ernest! Armand passed his plump and shaking hand over his eyes, rubbed his nose with trembling frenzy. He looked at them, facing each other, and the past was one with the present. He wanted to get up, to run away into darkness and forgetfulness. What a most terrible family this was! What murderers, thieves and liars, what brigands and monsters! He saw it all now. He could not endure it.
‘I’m a sick man. I don’t know anything,’ he muttered aloud.
They had ignored him then. He had sat there, collapsed in his chair, his hands gripping the arms, his filmed eyes staring blindly before him. He knew nothing of what transpired; he only heard the echoes of Henri’s calm voice, the light easy tones of Antoine’s. Later, Antoine told him that Henri had made him an offer. He was to enter Bouchard & Sons as a sort of chief clerk, a secretary, in order to acquaint himself with the affairs of the Company. Henri had promised him an assistant secretaryship if he proved himself serious.
Three years later, Antoine was Secretary of Bouchard & Sons.
From the very beginning, the Bouchards were astounded and incredulous. ‘It won’t last,’ they said. ‘He’ll be off again soon.’ But it lasted, and Antoine was not off again. Moreover, to their amazement, he proved exceptionally brilliant, audacious and perceptive. Henri expressed his approval of his new Secretary. Slowly, during the years, an apparently great confidence grew up between them. Antoine never presumed; he gave way before all Henri’s decisions. He suggested, but never insisted. Under that graceful and elegant exterior was a mind of flashing steel, as opposed to the iron club of Henri’s mind. ‘The Neanderthal man and the dancing swordsman,’ said Christopher, watching intently through the years. ‘The man in bearskin, and the man with the embroidered cloak.’
The Bouchards, very discreetly, tried to inveigle Antoine into a discussion of his inexorable relative. But Antoine was all loyalty, all admiring enthusiasm, all deference. What he thought, they did not know. But Henri knew. He was not audacious or too imaginative by nature. He was the man of force, and knew that men of force are the most powerful. But he understood what went on under Antoine’s narrow dark skull with the sleek hair like a wet seal’s. He knew that he had, in his office, the most ruthless enemy he had ever known. At times, he was highly and grimly amused, an amusement tinged with brutal disdain. He knew who was the stronger. In the meantime, it diverted him.
Between the two men was a subtle understanding, an admiration for each other. They did not ‘have to write books’ to make themselves clear to each other. Insofar as it was possible for him to do so, Henri made a confidant of Antoine. He can wait, he would say to himself, of his wife’s brother. He knew that during his own lifetime Antoine would dare nothing catastrophic or startling; at least, he believed he knew that the young man was completely aware of the hopelessness of any such action. But after his own death, what? Antoine was much younger than himself. Antoine would probably marry, and there would be sons. As for himself, he had no children, would never have them by Annette. The sense of dynasty was very powerful in Henri Bouchard. He lusted for sons, who would maintain his power when he was in the grave. His virility was like a great and tumultuous river restrained by a dam. He understood that Antoine never forgot that it was he who ought to be occupying Armand’s throne. He understood that in Antoine burned an unremitting vengefulness and lust, and a determination. They were enemies. But they were also admiring friends. They hated each other. But they also had a deep if traitorous affection.
Antoine was a frequent visitor at Robin’s Nest. Henri enjoyed his company vastly. Antoine never failed to entertain him. He even found himself becoming subtle in Antoine’s presence, and they had secret jokes together. It surprised him that Antoine had a peculiar tenderness for his sister, Annette, a curious protectiveness, and that the Jesuitical face would insensibly soften at the sight of her. This was all the more strange because Annette, though apparently fond of her brother, exhibited a faint uneasiness in his presence, a chronic alarm.
Henri even looked about for a proper wife for Antoine. One of the family, if possible. Jean’s little daughter, Dolores, perhaps, an apparently inoffensive young girl with an angelic fair face, and a cloud of fair hair. Just the sort to appeal to the dark and devious Antoine. He often had Annette invite Dolores.
It pleased little Annette that Henri invariably expressed pleasure when he knew that Antoine was to be a guest at dinner. His heavy equanimity would lighten considerably, and that stony quality of his would become almost jocular.
He was the first on the cool terrace this evening to greet Armand and Antoine. Annette and Celeste and Peter and Christopher and Edith had not yet come down. However, Christopher soon made his appearance, and the four men had an extra drink while they waited. Henri, who had inherited his great-grandfather’s’ aversion to alcohol, would drink only a small glass of sherry, with no enjoyment, while Christopher and Antoine drank whiskey-and-soda. Armand, watching them greedily, drank his fruit juice, and shook his head at the whiskey.
Between Christopher and Antoine, was a deep and fundamental hatred, though they understood each other perfectly. Christopher was gloomily, as always, fascinated at the astounding resemblance between Antoine and his own father, Jules. Sometimes he stared at him for long minutes together, hearing again the voice that had been stilled since Armistice Day, seeing in every gesture, every turn of the sleek small head, every smile, every lift of the ‘devilish’ eyebrows, the ghost of one he had hated and feared. When they talked together, it was like the light dancing of rapiers.
‘How’s Pete?’ asked Antoine, with his dark and glittering smile. ‘I haven’t seen him for weeks. Any improvement?’
‘Considerable,’ said Henri. ‘He’s getting restive.’
‘Still intransigent?’
Henri shrugged, glancing calmly at Christopher.
‘Our white knight in silver armour is sharpening up his pike,’ said Christopher. ‘There are the sounds of trumpets. The tournament is about to begin.’
‘And Celeste?’ said Antoine. ‘Is she tying the blue ribbon on his arm again, as usual?’
‘What do you expect?’ remarked Christopher, guardedly. He might ridicule his sister himself, but it annoyed him when another did so. He had loved her with profound passion; he had been her guardian after their father’s death. Sometimes it appeared odd to him that Antoine should make poisonous thrusts at Celeste, he who was so like his grandfather, Jules, the father of Celeste, whose one adoration had been his daughter.
‘There’s been a change in Celeste these last years,’ said Antoine, lighting one of his interminable cigarettes, with his gold monogram upon it. ‘I was only about sixteen when she married Pete, but I remember her quite clearly. There was a kind of “virtue” about her, an innocence. If I wanted to be florid, I’d say that it was a sort of “purity.” More of the mind than anything else. That’s all gone. She’s a hard piece now. She’s a Bouchard at last. Now, I’m not insulting my little auntie. In a way, I’m complimenting her. But something’s gone out of her, which is probably all to the good.’
‘I’d say she was bitter,’ said Armand, fumbling in his vest pocket for his dietary list, and screwing up his fat and congested face in a momentary apprehension that he had forgotten it. His face relaxed; t
he list was there. ‘Embittered. That’s the word for it. She was always such a soft little piece.’
Christopher turned the stem of his cocktail glass in his delicate fingers. He said nothing. Henri was all blandness.
‘Perhaps she’s just grown up. She was almost a child when she married Peter. What did you expect? After all, she’s over thirty. Not even very young.’
‘What a hell of a life she’s had!’ said Antoine, with pitiless humour, and a light laugh, as if the thought gave him a perverse pleasure. ‘It was to be expected, from all I’ve heard. Why didn’t someone stop her from marrying him? What was the matter with you, Henri? You were engaged to her. Why did you let her go so easily? You aren’t the type.’
Henri only smiled. He accepted one of Antoine’s cigarettes, though he had no real taste for tobacco. But he had found that smoking, the acceptance of another’s courtesy, sometimes bridged an awkward moment. He allowed his Secretary to light it for him. For one instant, as the lighter flamed on his granite face, the eyes of the two men met, Antoine’s subtly and cruelly amused, Henri’s as expressionless as polished and colourless stone.
So, thought Antoine. He hasn’t forgotten. The sphinx isn’t so invulnerable after all.
‘Why bring up such a tactless subject?’ asked Christopher. He allowed the butler to fill his glass again. ‘We’ve more interestings things to talk about, I’m sure.’
The Final Hour Page 13
