"Billet?" a voice asked harshly.
Williams became immediately alert; before him suddenly emerged, from one of the compartments, a mustachioed giant of a French ticket inspector.
"Ah," began Williams, "I'm in third. But," he went on quickly, "I've a friend up first."
"Allez," shouted the inspector.
"Look." The tailor's assistant reached into his pocket; he took out a coin. "Here." He offered it.
The ticket inspector took one look at the small coin. "Allez" he repeated loudly.
Williams went at the first push.
§
"Why," asked Ellen, "did the guard call you 'Mr. Warren'?"
George looked up from his paper, then down at Ellen. Her eyes were open; she had apparently been thinking.
"What?" George replied.
"At Victoria," said Ellen.
"Did he?" asked George. .
"An' you've a portmanteau with the same name."
George bought time and looked up at the object referred to. Ellen had certainly been observing.
"It's a business name," stated George calmly.
"Oh," said Ellen. She closed her eyes—curiosity satisfied and suspicion dispelled. He was "her" Mr. Wilson; his business meant money, and that she understood. The train began to sway more as its speed increased.
§
Mr. Williams was nothing if not tenacious. At the end of the corridor in which he had had his only (he hoped) confrontation with the ticket inspector, he had waited until the man was in the last compartment. This was all a new system—access doors between carriages, corridors and inspectors on trains—so perhaps Williams was the first of many.
He whisked by the compartment and was gone, up the corridor, before the ticket inspector even turned around. First class began at the next carriage of the long train, and Mr. Arthur Byron Williams was determined to pay his respects to Mr. Frederick Albert Warren.
§
The prospect of the most romantic capital in Europe seemed to provide Ellen with relief from the nausea she had developed as a result of shipboard overindulgence, the angry
Channel and an increasing sway in the coaches as the long train gathered momentum on the rails. For a moment at least, Ellen became the woman George admired. She moved close to him and murmured, "We ain't been together quite like this before. It's nice."
She had her mind on one thing as the cure-all. George was not imperceptive.
"Do you still feel sick?'' he asked delicately.
"It don't matter," replied Ellen, lips moist, eyes glittering.
"Then what say you . . ." said George softly, "if—he pulled down the blinds on the corridor side of the compartment—"we make ourselves at home?" he finished.
Taking Ellen in his arms, he bent toward her.
"Oh, George," giggled Ellen delightedly.
George's lips were a hairsbreadth from Ellen's when the loud knock (of what was in fact a silver-topped ebony cane) on glass resounded in the compartment.
"Damn," exclaimed George. "Who is it?" he asked loudly after a pause.
"Williams," came a voice above the noise of wheels on rail and rattling carriages of the speeding train. "Williams, sir—of the cane, sir!"
Ellen was wonderful (George had discovered) when confronted with an emergency or the unexpected. "George," she said, suddenly weak, "I feel sick."
"Well..." began George to Ellen.
"Wait a moment!" he shouted to the unknown Williams outside.
"Oh, George," said Ellen, believing George was requesting her to wait, "I can't!"
In one movement Ellen had swirled to her feet, reached for the door and opened it.
"Pardon, I'm sure," said the startled Williams, momentarily blocking access to the corridor. He stepped back, and Ellen staggered out to make her way toward the communal toilet, somewhere on board.
"Well?" asked George ominously, now on his feet.
"I was looking," said Williams, his eyes fixed on George, "for a gentleman of my acquaintance." He paused, looking around the compartment behind George, then up at the number. "In Calais they said he had booked—ah, yes—numero deux." Williams found the correct digit; then, "Are you perchance sharing the compartment with another gentleman?" he asked.
"No, I am not," said George emphatically, unaware that Williams' gaze had also found the portmanteau.
"Then 'ow, sir," said Williams accusingly, " 'ave you another gentleman's portmanteau above your 'ead?"
There was as yet no answer George could think of. He said nothing.
"George," Ellen interrupted, shouting from the end of the corridor, "I can't"—she was obviously crying—"open the door," she finished in a sob.
"If I may be so bold, sir," Williams began imperiously, suspicions fully aroused, "George... what, sir?"
At that precise moment, for George, at least, the world seemed to stop. As if at a slower pace than normal, Williams, the man in front of George, disappeared sideways exactly as the regular roar of wheels on rails changed rhythm to a crescendo; then it was as if all were silent. George began to pivot, slowly and uncontrollably; the sliding door came across the entrance to the compartment at a strange angle as all the glass cracked, splintered, then shattered everywhere.
George remembered being pressed almost upside down against the floor of the carriage by some tremendous unseen force as all the luggage fell toward him from the rack above the seats. Instinctively his arms went up to protect himself—and only then did he realize what was happening. The train had left the track and was in the process of becoming a holocaust.
Paris
GEORGE Bidwell regained consciousness in almost total darkness. All about him he heard babbling Frenchmen as the more active passengers aboard the Calais-Paris Express clambered from the wreckage.
For some, their hour had come, and they had gone on to better things—or worse. For others, the pain of injury or the sight of an open wound allowed their fear, now relieved somewhat by sheer survival, full vent. Screams, shouts and sustained wailing added to the chaos of overturned carriages; smashed compartments; smoke; steam; flames and sparks, rushing into the sky to become wind-borne red and yellow stars—they died before reaching the low, fast-moving night clouds. As a bonus to the survivors and village locals, struggling to help as they clambered onto the overturned carriages, fate threw in an extra: it began to rain heavily.
George took the hand reaching in to him from a man shouting in the French Channel dialect and thankfully scrambled out onto the shattered carriage side. Standing on the words CHEMIN DE FER DU NORD, George shook himself, to discover all was working: apart from a crack on the head and bruises everywhere, he appeared to be fine. At that moment the rain made its mark on George, for his feet slipped on the wet surface and he found himself falling between two large wheels onto the track.
George hit the gravel and sleepers of the track hard. This brought him to his senses fast; he cursed loudly and realized, for the first time, that Ellen was not with him. He got to his feet and began to run along the track, estimating where she would have been before the crash. Praying, he leaped between the twin axles of the front wheels of the carriage and clambered back onto the carriage side. He straddled the outer door, which was beneath his feet.
To the right and left of him, people scrambled through windows and open doors as if the train were on a time fuse to explode. Shouts for help came from all around. George wiped the wet hair out of his eyes and crouched, again trying to open the carriage door. It was stiff and heavy, but once the catch was released George was able to lever against the frame so that it opened to vertical, then slammed back against the carriage, obscuring the ler digit painted boldly on the door beneath its window.
George jumped down into the corridor and found himself again straddling a door—the toilet. He closed his eyes and prayed just the once, feeling the rain pouring in over the exposed interior. George again leaned in and attempted to pull open the much lighter door. Releasing the handle, he realized it w
as locked, so he kicked the door hard. It crashed open inward, just missing his beloved, who lay spread-eagled across the toilet seat. She was a sight. Dignity is not the first requisite for a survivor of any tragedy. Ellen's legs had never been more attractive to George; her dress was ripped, her ample bosom exposed to the rain, which poured in. George jumped into the small compartment, standing on the washbowl fixed to the wall.
"Ellen," he said gratefully as her eyes opened. "Oh, George," said Ellen, "I was sick."
§
A gray morning arrived in the town of Marquise. On the platform of the station, on stretchers or beneath shrouds, were the victims of the night crash. Doctors from the district hospital and local practices ministered to all in need. Others, who had had the luck to escape without injury, were crowded into the canteen, bar, restaurant (if it could be so called), waiting rooms and offices. George's nerves were now showing the effects of the crash, and coffee he had been given was slopping out of a cup which he held two-handed.
Ellen ate heartily from a plate before them on the table containing sandwiches and confections. Officials had arrived to oversee the event, quash as much bad publicity as was possible and ensure the well-being of their stranded passengers.
In America, as George recalled, despite its being the "glorious and free" place he knew and loved, the killing or mangling of a few persons, more or less, was of no particular interest to anyone beyond the friends of the victims—least of all to the railway magnate or his subordinates. But in France at this time, an accident that resulted in injury even to a single passenger was a very serious matter. The officials always hastened to take full responsibility. For even minor incidents a strict juidicial inquiry was convened, presided over by a high official of the state, and compensation was awarded proportionate to suffering and generous to a fault.
As a first-class passenger, George was high on the list for personal apology and offers of aid as the official concerned approached the table where Mr. Warren and his accompanying passenger were sitting.
"M'sieur," he began, "all your luggage is saved. It is most—unfortunate . . . most . . ." The official gestured helplessly and shook his head as the French best know how. George merely looked at him and said nothing.
"Sir," the official continued, "we of the Chemin de Fer du Nord extend to you our official apologies and are instructed by the president himself to ask you to demand of us anything that—"
"M'sieur," said George slowly, "we are at this moment grateful to be here as we are; there are some poor souls who are not." George had spent several hours dragging out the dead and injured, together with an army of helpers come from the surrounding countryside.
In the hot, gas-fired room, crowded amongst others from first class; wet; covered by a blanket; shaking with fatigue and nervous reaction; watching his disheveled sweetheart eating happily, mindless of her narrow escape, George was not in the mood to discuss blame or accept official sympathy; he just wanted to be dry and asleep.
"Of course, m'sieur," said the official quickly, "I understand—but it was the wish of our president that we of the Chemin de Fer du Nord—"
"Who?" interrupted George.
"The Chemin de Fer du Nord."
"No," said George, "your president."
"Le Baron," said the official.
George tried to remember; in his befuddled state it was-difficult, but somewhere deep down he had the knowledge from some financial paper, read perhaps months back, that one of the many companies belonging to...
"Le Baron Rothschild insists that if there is anything . . ." The official stopped as George fixed him with a look, then smiled—in a most charming way, the official remembered.
"There is . . ." said George, ". . . perhaps . . ." he continued, suddenly wide awake and fully alert, "... one small service..."
"You have only to ask," assured the official.
"Your offices," said George: "are they in Paris?"
"Of course," the official replied, almost indignant. He heard George mumble something, but caught only the word "coincidence." He did not quite understand, but spoke all the same.
"It is not by accident, m'sieur, that all roads in France lead to Paris." He beamed at George, happy now that the man had responded to conversation.
George nodded to the official, who bowed and went on to the next group.
Oh, but m'sieur, George thought, it is most certainly by accident. He looked out through the long windows, partially misted with condensation, and saw the gray sky, now considerably lighter. He had never really believed in fate before—superstitions he left to Mac; yet—well—he called it luck, and that he always hoped for. George smiled wryly to himself. "Give a little—take a little," he said softly. The rain had stopped.
§
Some hours later, an express arrived specially to pick up passengers from the accident and take them to Paris. George and Ellen checked into the Grand Hotel; had a hot bath, which they shared; and went to bed, where they both slept for twenty hours, until the morning of the following day.
§
Bismarck's unification of Germany had presented a problem to France. Napoleon III knew that his country would be eclipsed as the leading power of the Continent if, at its heart, were such a dominant threat as Prussia's confederation. War was inevitable.
Bismarck engineered a quarrel with France over the Spanish succession. Napoleon's fears of German ambition proved well founded. Prussian victory in the war of 1870 was achieved despite the French superiority of manpower and equipment.
Over confidence and inefficiency amongst the French undermined their chances in the eventual conflict. By the beginning of September 1870, the Germans had routed one big French army at Gravelotte, shut it up in Metz, the famous fortress capital of Lorraine, and captured another, led by the Emperor Napoleon III himself, at Sedan.
The French were beaten. Paris was surrounded and besieged. The city suffered badly. Privations were added to by the abortive uprising of what was known as the Commune, a socialist extreme element, which destroyed large sections of the capital.
Surrender was agreed on January 28, 1871. The German Empire was proclaimed with the crowning of William of Prussia in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. The peace, which concluded an ignominious collapse of military France, the terms of surrender for Paris and the future role of French power, was made in Frankfurt by representatives from both sides. Negotiation was tough, and a man who had much to say in the final presentation of the document was one whose background—born in Frankfurt, prospering in Paris—made him the perfect go-between. His name: Baron Alphonse de Rothschild.
As George Bidwell was to find out, Le Baron Rothschild did not shake hands often. The hand that had shaken Bismarck's was seldom used and then, with few exceptions, solely when the gesture had real meaning; the only concession he made to French adoption was with intimate relations: they received, on each cheek, a kiss.
Rothschild
DURING the sixteenth century, houses of the Jewish Quarter in Frankfurt were not numbered; instead, each door was distinguished by a sign or shield of a particular color. The "red shield" the family gave first—as is recorded, to Isaak Elchanan—the name Rothschild.
In 1755, Meyer Amschel came into a small inheritance when he lost his parents. A young Jew in the midst of Christian neighbors, he developed the vigor, industry and resilience at first to compete with, then to supersede his rivals. At the age of ten, several years before his father's death, he had been employed by his father, converting gold and silver coins into the appropriate amount of copper—the so-called common coin.
Germany was in a chaotic condition, divided into small principalities, cities and jurisdictions. Each had its own currency system; thus the business of money-changing obviously offered magnificent opportunities for profit. Each potential traveler was compelled to call on the services of an exchange merchant before undertaking even the smallest journey. Business prospered.
Meyer Amschel's interest in coins developed. He
became an expert numismatist. He entered the firm of Oppenheim in Hanover and met General von Estorff, also a keen coin collector. Through this man, Meyer was introduced to Prince Wilhelm of Hesse, of the small state of Hanau. The Crown Prince was already an interested numismatist, and in a short while Meyer Amschel became the official Crown Agent of Hesse-Hanau. The business relationship that grew encompassed many aspects of finance and control.
Amschel married and in time created a large family—five sons and five daughters. Come of age, the eldest sons proved a blessing: instead of recruiting strangers into the expanding business, Meyer Amschel utilized the skills of his offspring, thus retaining the various secrets and subtle experience he had to offer exclusively within the family. By the end of the century they were worth a fortune.
The family business expanded throughout Europe. Nathan, Amschel's third son, became an outstanding figure in English finance. Anselm continued in Frankfurt, whilst his brothers Solomon, Carl and Jacob, known as James, created great reputations in Vienna, Naples and Paris. All five sons were made barons by Francis I of Austria.
Vast financial favors—loans organized by these influential men—bought them power and influence. Eventually the family name became synonymous with wealth—Rothschild.
§
Having spent the first day, which consisted mostly of afternoon wandering with Ellen in Paris near the He St.-Louis, where they drank wine in the sunlight, seated outside a brasserie; Notre Dame, where they prayed, and along the Rue de Rivoli, where they had their photograph taken (which became Ellen's most cherished possession), George alone, on the second day, walked, still a little unsteady, into the Rue Lafite to the palatial Maison Rothschild. The various offices opened onto a courtyard; the architecture suggested the residence of a head of state or nobleman, rather than a financial trading center.
As George mounted the steps with difficulty, bandaged in excess of requirement and leaning more heavily on his cane than was necessary, he reflected upon the vast amounts of money owed to this building, together with the more immediate compounding interest payments accruing, and shook his head in wonder.
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