The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  He entered and encountered huge rooms; then he made his way from one lackey to another until finally he stood in the English department. The Manager arrived filled with concern at the information George had conveyed to an underling. George had produced his ticket and explained that here was a survivor of the wrecked train. The Manager frowned a moment at George's request, then disappeared for five minutes. He reappeared with a smile and the corroborating passenger list in his hand. George was ushered down a corridor into one large room, a second, then to a mahogany door, which was opened for him, and the Manager, having insisted George sit, left him alone, closing the door quietly. The taste of the furnishings was impeccable, if a little old-fashioned. The room represented only one thing—that which can afford taste: money.

  A door opened beside the large fireplace and a slight, sallow man in his mid-forties entered; he wore an out-of-date stovepipe hat and a shabby-looking gray-brown suit. George stood up hesitantly, then sat again as the new arrival came and perched on the desk in front of his visitor. Both men took off their hats.

  "M'sieur," said the arrival, "you are a lucky man." "And you," said George, now certain, "are Baron Rothschild."

  "I am..." began Rothschild,"... sorry," he finished.

  "Cuts," said George with a rueful grin, "a leg wound, crack on the head and nerves." He paused to make the point: "You have lost a train."

  "You shall have my physician," Rothschild began; "he is the best. There shall be no charge."

  "I have already paid a doctor, sir," said George firmly, playing the injured party to the hilt, "for bandages—and to be told that I was in a train crash. If that is the extent of your Paris medicine men's experience, I would rather save you the expense."

  Rothschild smiled slightly with his eyes only.

  "My own physician," he said, "insists that I see him once a week to confirm that I continue in perfect health."

  George smiled now, careful not to lose his advantage; they were getting along famously—for the moment.

  "Consultation..." Rothschild continued, "... is the practice . . ." He hesitated a fraction, but got it right. ". . . Mr. Warren . . ." George nodded as befitted his alias. ". . . but conciliation is the norm—wouldn't you say?"

  George nodded again, then spoke up.

  "Your obvious concern for my distress is ample compensation, sir. I shall say no more of the matter, be assured."

  "Mr. Warren," Rothschild cut in smoothly, his English perfect, "as I am, so are you, I am told, a businessman. If there is one thing I am able to do to assist you—please. You have only to . . ." Rothschild obviously awaited George's grateful interruption and immediate request. It did not come as he had thought, and when George spoke it was, again, firmly. "I am.." he began, "... indeed in business, but at the present time I am unable to practice."

  "Of course," said Rothschild, "but—"

  "Thus, I believe," George went on, "that the best course is to return and await my regained health."

  "To England?" asked Rothschild.

  "Indeed so," George replied.

  "I hope, sir," said Rothschild with now a full smile, "... by train?"

  The two men laughed. George was almost there. He nodded again—as Frederick Albert Warren, of course.

  "Oh," said this Mr. Warren, "I am carrying rather a lot of French money and am unable to return without a bill on London, for its amount—for safety reasons—I'm sure you'll understand." George paused; then, "I wonder if you would be so kind...?"

  "What is the sum?" asked Rothschild brusquely. This was business.

  "The equivalent of six thousand pounds sterling," said George—he hoped not too fast.

  "Then you wish six bills for immediate payment?" asked the Baron.

  "I may have to make my return slowly," said George. "Can they be ninety-day payments?" he asked.

  "It is not normal for us to make out time bills," said the Baron Rothschild firmly.

  "Nor, sir," said George, equally firm, "is it normal for me to be in such a—helpless—state."

  The two men were eye to eye for a moment—George sprawled in the chair, bandaged and an obvious victim of fate; the Baron perched atop the desk, swinging a leg loosely, master of all he surveyed.

  "Then," he said, "I shall make an exception."

  George swallowed.

  "Six bills of ninety days." Rothschild said it as though the deal were done. It was not. "One," said George.

  "I am sorry?" Rothschild was genuinely surprised.

  "It has always seemed to me," began Mr. F. A. Warren, hesitantly, "unreasonable to create so much work for so little money. If "—George emphasized the word—"it is in your power, sir, one bill, if you please."

  Rothschild now scrutinized his visitor. He had offered assistance and knew he was in no position (being the head) to refuse this request now made of his company. George knew it too. He had phrased the last sentence so that at the very least, should he fail, Rothschild would lose face. The Baron was a proud man.

  "I see," said the head of the Maison Rothschild—remembering, as he reviewed George's condition, that he was also president of the Chemin de Fer du Nord.

  Mr. F. A. Warren now took out of his voluminous side pockets three bundles of money.

  "Fifty thousand francs each," said George, and placed the money on the desk beside Rothschild.

  "I have no doubt," said the Baron, and pressed the newly installed electric buzzer beside him.

  Barely a second passed before a servant entered and crossed to his master.

  "Where are the blank bills?" asked the Baron.

  Silently the servant opened a side drawer in the large desk at the rear, took out, and placed beside the Baron, a blue bill of exchange. He then took up the three bundles, unbidden but knowing the process required, and went out of the room quietly.

  "It is ..." began Rothschild slowly, taking up a pen, "... within my power—Mr. Warren—and an exception shall be added to—as is your wish." Here the Baron fixed George with a look that told him it would not happen again. Having written the six and three noughts, he put in the date, then signed his name, Alphonse de Rothschild.

  "Here," he said, and offered the bill to his visitor.

  "Thank you," said George, controlling the urge to grab the bill and run. He had the blue paper in his hand and was about to pocket it when the Baron spoke.

  "Wait," he said, and took back the bill. George was stunned. He wondered how fast he could get out, if indeed that was possible.

  "It will first have to be countersigned by the Cabinet Minister of Treasury," continued the Baron.

  "Oh, then, if..." George interrupted; even this close to his goal he was willing to quit in sight of trouble.

  "We have no stamp..." Rothschild went on, "... of sufficient denomination—for the tax." He paused, seeing Mr. Warren's sudden consternation, then by way of explanation concluded, "Internal revenue, you know."

  "I apologize for causing so much . . ." George did not finish.

  "On the contrary—it is I who must take responsibility for causing so much . . ."He paused, mimicking George's faltering voice. ". . . to you." Rothschild watched George closely. "Don't worry," he said; "the Cabinet Minister ... is my cousin."

  George stood up, now stiff with cramp and tension.

  "I shall send it this afternoon to — ?" Rothschild paused, indicating the bill.

  "The Grand Hotel," replied George.

  The Baron had again pressed the buzzer, and a servant appeared at the open door behind Mr. F. A. Warren.

  "Baron," asked George, "do you believe in fate?"

  "No," answered Rothschild. "I depend on abilities, but I believe in—perhaps the word is—luck." "It is," said George.

  "And that a man can only be given." The Baron looked at his visitor and thought of the train crash. The visitor looked at the Baron and thought of the bill of exchange.

  George extended a bandaged hand to offer his thanks and by way of illustrating respect. The Baron ignored it. He
took George by the shoulders and bent to the tradition he had assumed.

  George left Maison Rothschild, and the Baron sat down, more properly, at his desk. One had solved a problem, the other eased his conscience. Had they been asked, both would have agreed, visitor and Baron, that George was privileged: he had received, on each cheek, a kiss.

  Explanations

  BACK at the Grand Hotel, George was lying on the chaise longue in the lounge of his suite, almost asleep, when a light knock on the door to the corridor reversed the falling process. Head propped on a pillow, chin resting on his chest, when he opened his eyes what George saw was the blue bill, still in his hand. Again the knock sounded, louder this time.

  "George" came a woman's voice. "George," it repeated in a demanding tone. Ellen was obviously irritated. George turned slightly, reluctant to awaken fully, and looked toward the bedroom, where the voice came again, strident now, from the adjoining bathroom.

  "Open the door," she shouted. George could see the bathroom door ajar and could hear the bath taps running, so he reasoned Ellen would still be dressed. George closed his eyes. The knock came again, twice, loud. The taps were turned off; George heard a rustling of robes. He relaxed again and began once more to enjoy the lazy afternoon. The final knock coincided with Ellen's rushing out of the bathroom into the bedroom and then her striding across the lounge to see George seemingly still asleep.

  She muttered to herself all the way to the corridor entrance and opened the door of their suite.

  "Yes?" she asked (demanding the errand of the obviously intruding servant). "Oh!" she finished, recognizing that the man's purpose was obviously to enter and that he was most certainly not a servant. She was new to George's friends and had so far met only a few.

  "I am sorry, madame," the man began; "I was looking for my brother. I am Mr. Warren," he finished loudly.

  "Who?" asked Ellen, perplexed. A lady followed the man into the room—elegant, beautiful and quite obviously, as Ellen could not fail to notice, class.

  She clasped the robe about her, remembered her hastily piled hair and blushed.

  "This," said the man, referring to the lady, "is the Countess..." he did not finish.

  "Mr. Warren" came a voice quickly, and George stood up in one movement, crossed from the chaise longue and shook his brother Austin's hand.

  "Why, Mr. Warren, sir," retorted Austin (with a wink), "I heard you were—' *

  George interrupted Austin with the one word "lucky." It finished the sentence. George was frowning, but Austin grinned happily.

  "George," he said turning to his lady, ". . . this is Elizabeth. The Germans kicked her out of Wiesbaden." She smiled. "She's to be my wife," he finished.

  Austin had maintained his liaison with the Countess Elizabeth in a series of letters to her, all addressed to Wiesbaden, from Frederick Warren, London, Poste Restante. Eventually they had agreed to meet—opportunely, as local pressure for her to relinquish her involvement in the Casino, now that her erstwhile husband, Francois Blanc, had gone to better things, was making it difficult to manage a concern that in principle was hers, but in practice presented only her associates with what little profit remained after many of her husband's loans and interest thereon were covered. In short, she was a beauty but no businesswoman.

  It was suggested by the group that they run the Casino and pay her a guaranteed sum; thus she would be free of responsibility. They had also tactlessly pointed out that such an action would relieve them of the burden scandal continued to present (this they cited as reason for the dwindling throngs since Blanc's death) and provide the wherewithal for a new life and possible husband for the still-young woman.

  Elizabeth had again met "the boy from Brooklyn" in Wiesbaden—Fred-er-ick, as she called him, spelling out the word as she spoke—and remembered the period they had enjoyed together, putting time and distance between them and their fateful introduction. She associated the American with her freedom from a constricting life; the analogy became, in her mind, one of prince and damsel. Several days later the couple—as they enjoyed the countryside, wrapped beneath blankets in an open coach—despite the weather, or because of it, began to feel more than affection for each other.

  They fell in love. And as that particular sensation is normally brought about by two people both developing the same needs at the same time, with complementary requirements, they were ideally suited. Elizabeth became a part of Austin's dream of the future, and he (handsome, charming and above all amusing, not to say successful in his slightly mysterious business) was a welcome compromise in the unstable world of Elizabeth's self-reliance. Austin became the object of his woman's affection, and as women do, Elizabeth set about turning this into a deep, passionate and possessive love. When Frederick confessed to his deception and revealed his true identity, she had only laughed and loved him the more.

  One week after their arrival in Paris, only the day before they presented themselves (two floors below their own rooms) at George's door in the Grand Hotel—complying with the message George had left for their return from Versailles—they had become engaged. As Bismarck's empire had been declared, so had Austin's commitment of love to Elizabeth: in the Hall of Mirrors. It was all very romantic.

  Elizabeth smiled at George, the brother of her future husband, intrigued by what she had heard and not at all sure yet how he should be addressed. Her own humble beginnings and constant machinations within her previous formal marriage, together with an increasing love for her madcap American, made the woman a willing conspirator. So she did what assumed breeding had taught her and said nothing.

  "I'm Ellen," came a voice. George's lady curtsied, so Austin kissed her extended hand.

  "Pleased, I'm sure," Ellen said, rising and looking the man directly in the eyes. She turned to the Countess, but Elizabeth was too fast for her.

  "Are you running a bath?" she asked, looking Ellen up and down.

  "Half in, half out, you might say," replied Ellen—in turn looking at the Countess, from peeping shoes to pinned chapeau.

  "Perhaps it is inconvenient..." began Austin.

  "No," said Ellen decisively, and turned to her man with a sharp look. "George will look after you." She then went into the bedroom, closed the door and, presumably, proceeded to have an excellent bath.

  As George bent to kiss the hand of the Countess—a lady he had already heard much about—Austin caught his brother's eye and winked.

  "George, I've a surprise for you."

  "Another?" asked George genially.

  Austin turned, looked into the corridor, coughed and made a sign. A man appeared, his head wrapped in bandages under a precariously placed hat.

  "The man with the cane!" exclaimed George, dumbfounded. It was Williams.

  "It seems," said Austin, "that you've met."

  "Do not speak, Mr. Williams," said George. "After the last time, I feel that if you do, this hotel might come down about our ears."

  "I am sorry for the misunderstanding, Mr. Warren, sir," began Williams. "Er . . ." He paused, uncertain, then found Austin's familiar face and went on, "Mr. Warren, sir, your brother, has explained it all."

  "He has?" said George, doubtful. He had not quite put all the pieces together, and for a moment (delicate as it was) the situation was beginning to take on the semblance of a French farce.

  "Very determined is our Mr. Williams," said Austin —"brother George," he finished for the benefit of the tailor's assistant. "I found him playing detective below in the foyer—incognito . . ." Austin winked. "... in four feet of bandages." He referred to the bandages around Williams' wrist and one on his ankle besides those around his head. Williams grinned amiably.

  "I wonder, Mr. Williams, if you would be so kind . . . ?" said Austin.

  "Come, Mr. Williams," said Elizabeth quickly. She smiled at George and ushered the young tailor's assistant away down the corridor. Austin closed the door.

  ' 'Who the devil... ?" began George seriously.

  "A very bad coincidence
—corrected," Austin said. George stepped back and sat down heavily on the chaise longue.

  "Are you hurt?" Austin asked.

  "I survived,'' George replied.

  Austin saw the blue paper beside his brother and pointed. George took it up and held it out with a smile. He said only the one word: "Rothschilds'."

  Austin read the amount and saw that the paper was a time bill. Both realized its value to their scheme; Austin whistled.

  "Mac's idea," said George.

  "Impossible." Austin was transfixed.

  "Exactly," said George. Then Mr. Williams flung open the door. For a moment the scene was a tableau. An audience would have roared with delicious, nervous laughter. In fact, Williams was obviously too far away to see the object of interest. All he knew was that his Mr. F.A. had a brother, and it would be pleasant, should the gentlemen so wish, to share a jar or two before his late departure.

  "Pardon, I'm sure," began Williams, "but knowin' that you—Mr. F.A."—referring to Austin—" 'as rooms at the same 'otel as your brother 'ere, sir—Mr. Warren, sir," he said—referring to George—"I was wonderin' like, it bein' near the evenin' hour like, whether you—I mean you both, sirs"—he smiled with studied charm—"would be doin' me the honor of havin' a drink with me down in the bar?" He paused.

  Austin and George exchanged a look, as noises from the bathroom told all in the suite's lounge that Ellen was quite happy by herself.

  "I appreciate you lettin' me leave my luggage for the few hours, Mr. Warren, sir... but—"

  Austin interrupted, for George's benefit. "Mr. Williams has apparently been delayed on his journey and was unable to remain at his own hotel this morning, so I . . ." Austin finished with a helpless gesture.

  "You were looking for me?" questioned George. Williams blushed.

  "And you found me," replied Austin in Williams' defense. "There is only one Grand Hotel." He emphasized the word and winked at his brother.