‘The French are good cooks,’ said Rosenkrantz with a faint sneer.
‘And Paris is farther from German aeroplanes than Antwerp,’ Alphendéry put in with rebuke.
Rosenkrantz smiled to himself, spat out a cherry stone, wiped his fingers elegantly, and looking round for the waiter, clapped his hands.
‘Coffee?’ asked Alphendéry. ‘Un café noir.’
‘Demitasse,’ corrected Rosenkrantz in his old-fashioned phraseology. He put his serviette on his knees and looked at Alphendéry who was replete, rounded, and smiling in his happy digestion. ‘Mr. Jules Bertillon is a charming man. A little—faunish, shall we say? It occurs to me that he has no ideology at all. It is impossible, of course, but one would say—almost irresponsible.’
Alphendéry smiled. ‘He likes to give that impression.’
Rosenkrantz half closed his eyes. ‘Brandy? Waiter, two fines maison. It’s easy to caricature oneself: to play the part of oneself, I mean. Many people do the same. It’s a double role. They are at liberty to be themselves, they sense a masquerade. This may be one of those cases.’
‘He has a vivid financial imagination: that I can testify to.’
‘Has he financial intelligence though? Instincts, I should say, but not much real financial Weltanschauung. My impression. I don’t want to underrate him. That would be quite an error. It is well to know men’s distinguishing characteristics before you begin to work with them: then there are no surprises, you can determine your plan of campaign beforehand.’
‘Bertillon has one distinguishing characteristic, his make-up is solid, his bank is liquid. It’s a whim, of course, in these days, but he is like that. His own system. He is not so light as he appears.’
‘If I didn’t think that, I wouldn’t do business,’ Rosenkrantz lifted his clean cuffs to light a cigar: through the smoke his gleaming teeth smiled at Alphendéry. ‘Herr Alphendéry, as between brothers-in-the-credo, you can tell me your real impression, your own private summing-up of the situation. It will go no farther.’
Alphendéry’s beautiful, resonant voice was sharp when he said, ‘My private impression is that Bertillon is a financial genius who is bound to live and die rich.’
Rosenkrantz said in an undertone, ‘I hope so.’ Alphendéry could see him studying him through the smoke, with some doubt. Alphendéry, used to racial confrontations, due to his frontier birth, knew what was in his mind, viz., ‘This is a Gentile-loving Jew … he’s a hard nut to crack. Or is he holding out on me for some private bargain?’ He knew that in Rosenkrantz’s view of the world there were no motives in men but those of personal gain. And yet Rosenkrantz was an exceedingly well-educated, relatively humane, and widely experienced man. He said, ‘You think Mr. Bertillon will work with us? It costs him nothing and adds a department to his bank. We could organize the same in his other branches, especially in the Low Countries … We have our own correspondents. Only we can’t afford to pay for cable service, quotations—a serious handicap …’
Generously Alphendéry offered, ‘But why can’t you get it from us? We get it automatically and we really have no use for commodity quotations, except as a check-up. Our boys wouldn’t mind a bit telephoning them through to you, either here or in the Netherlands … You’re strangers here and you will need your path smoothed till you get the hang of the city … We don’t mind at all giving you the service. I can help you personally: I know my Paris as few men do.’ Alphendéry, who had been out of tune all the evening, warmed up in the spirit of his generosity and beamed at Rosenkrantz.
Rosenkrantz feared in him the ‘rationality of the Frenchman,’ which he regarded as a slick, apish, mental trick for avoiding the profound problems of the universe. He dropped something of his Geheimrat manner and they discussed diverse manners of co-operation between the little office in the Rue Boissy-d’Anglas (Rosenkrantz’s office) and the Banque Bertillon in the Rue Pillet-Will. Alphendéry recommended him to Maître Lemaître, in his opinion the leading lawyer of Paris. In leaving, they bowed to each other with German courtesy, Rosenkrantz with courtly elegance, Alphendéry with something more of roundness, jollity, and affection.
Rosenkrantz immediately telephoned to Guildenstern. ‘Alphendéry, the alter ego of Bertillon, is partially with us. He began hostile but he is coming over. It’s a Jew, after all. I don’t think we need worry on that score. Now, what I figure is this: either Bertillon is really rich, in which case we can get in through Alphendéry, eventually, or, being broke, they won’t go down for six months or a year, because, naturally, they won’t plunge: they’ll arrange things carefully, and we will inherit a good proportion of their clients, by that time. And if it’s longer, we can, by that time, dig in to the other branches and have claims on them: we can be there before the receivers. We’ll get a contract out of them for six months or a year, say, and we can word it—Bertillon has the reputation of being rash and ill-advised. His lawyer is Pierre Olympe, an absolute fool who married money. An ex-airman. No, I didn’t get a lawyer. Alphendéry, who is quite a talker, one of these soft liberals, recommended a lawyer, but naturally I don’t want one he’s too friendly with. Besides he seems to be some jurist of international repute: we don’t want that. We want a man with business nous. A Jew, of course … Bertillon’s a harlequin, and Alphendéry’s a socialist; the three other brothers—pure zeros, of course … There’s a very smart fellow, Maître Lallant, was in trouble, but he knows everybody, taps all the pipe lines: he’s the one, evidently. Alphendéry kept on insisting that Bertillon is rich. Selling line? Like most liberals, he’s blunted: do you think the Goy has pulled the wool over his eyes? Tomorrow morning in the Select at eight? Good night. My respects to your gracious lady.’
Alphendéry walking up and down his room, twisting a big handkerchief bought for the purpose, for two francs fifty, was laughing to himself and saying, half aloud, ‘The Jew has been polished on the … Jew has been polished on the cobbles of … anvils … long before the Saxons learned to cook the … ha … the roots they dug.’ (He didn’t know whether to be pleased for the Jews or angry for the Germans.) ‘Ha! The French put their Weltanschauung into their wine. That’s good! Rosenkrantz is a man after my own heart … cultivated, Germans very cultivated people—no doubt, no doubt … In a way.’ He walked up and down two or three times, waving his handkerchief into more knots and horns, his lips moving, smiling to himself: his expression became stern, the invisible auditor, the air, heard, ‘Judaism: I’m tired of their Judaism. A lever to bigger and better business. Degrading. Degrading … is making money such a passion that? … Degrading. Good day! We’re all Christians together: let’s put a piece of orange peel under Smith’s boot. Yes, good day, brother in the covenant, I want you to steal your boss’s account books: he’s an infidel. No, you won’t? Then—no sense of honor, no honor … no sense of, no sense of … It’s my own fault if I … money—their class … we serve two: their social system to keep up which we need money and work for it. Degrading. Our own fault. Break our backs to pay tribute … for our dream and hope. We all do it. All those who are not ambitious do it. Get ambitious for them, for them—we do it! We do it! Not ambitious.’
In the morning the concierge stopped him and showed him a letter that had just come by hand. He opened it and read, with stupefaction:
Dear Mr. Alphendéry,
I confirm our conversation, in the restaurant Ruc last night. You remarked that Mr. Bertillon was wealthy and the bank liquid, and that both could be relied upon. You agreed that Mr. Bertillon was anxious to enter into business with us. You offered further, that it would cost us nothing and that it added a department to his commission business in commodity contracts and that if you get offers of such contracts you turn them over to us as a matter of course, you having no organization to deal with them and it not paying you to set up a department of your own. You admit that our collaboration would be of great use to you in gaining accounts and, for example, stock-exchange
business in London. You say you will ask people in centers abroad to send commodity contracts to us and you will put us in touch with important persons you happen to come into touch with. You agree that we should have a quotation room and on your suggestion, are to ring up your bank and get free service from them on quotations that interest us. You further agreed to help us in all matters pertaining to our business, and offered to recommend us to a lawyer. I think we are in agreement on these points. Pray do not trouble to acknowledge this. We take silence for consent. Greetings!
Franz Rosenkrantz and Franz Guildenstern.
The concierge hurried from her lodge to see why Mr. Alphendéry was laughing his head off in the mute white entrance hall. ‘Ah, Mme. Mercier, ah, ah. What a joke! Read it … never in all my born days … read it.’
She took it with great eyes, devoured it, handed it back with a stubborn expression; then she said in the wifely manner of concierges who like their clients, ‘Mr. Alphendéry, I know nothing about banking, naturally, but listen to my advice: like the Corsicans, they sound fierce and they have nothing; they have stage manners and they seek a vendetta. I know, Mr. Alphendéry. I regret to say I have a Corsican brother-in-law.’
Alphendéry sobered, folded the letter. ‘My word, you may be right, Mme. Mercier. Many thanks.’
Jules and William put their heads together over this exhibit. Alphendéry was laughing again. ‘I don’t think they’re dangerous: such pompous prigs can’t be dangerous.’
‘And they can’t bring us any money,’ said Jules nastily. He detested pedantry.
‘Listen,’ pleaded Alphendéry, pleading foolishly, because it was his nature, for the man who had enlisted him, ‘That’s just German. It doesn’t mean anything. We can laugh at them and still do business with them. What harm can they do us? None. These letters will make them a laughingstock if they were ever mad enough to bring them out in court. And did we ever receive them? …’
‘I don’t know,’ wheezed William, ‘these artists strike me as being like the government; they may be lacking in substance, but they’ve got the classic style. The judge can understand that. Let’s go gently with them … But they’re oversmart. They’re making passes at Alphendéry because he’s Jewish. Let them do all their business with Alphendéry. When they come, Jules, don’t forget, leave it all to Michel. He’s not called Bertillon.’
At that moment Etienne Mirabaud, the doorkeeper, came up with their card. Jules said, ‘Our birds are downstairs! … Etienne, bring these gentlemen up to my office. Let me see them first, Michel. I want to see what tricks they’ll try on the Gentile. Go down by the back door and have a coffee, and then come in with your hat in your hand. I want to have some fun.’
‘I could do with a coffee.’
‘You’ve just had one.’
‘What difference does that make? … Twenty minutes—is that right?’
‘Yes. Hurry!’
Alphendéry, on his way out, peeping through the almost closed door of the interior staircase, saw them arrive—small, assured, dignified, stalwart, like government envoys, preceded by the porter. Rosenkrantz, who spoke the better French, began by imposing himself. Bertillon’s language went by fits and starts, in an idiom of his own, broken and allusive, but with these he was different.
Knowing that they secretly feared ‘the Goy’ to the same extent that they slighted him in private conversation, Bertillon had on his suavest manners, the manners of an old family of merchant princes. Alphendéry laughed to himself all the way downstairs. He sat in a café down the street, feeling luxurious, read the papers, and finally came in through the front door, got his hat out of the cupboard, and went to Bertillon’s closed door. The voices had fallen to a steady hum, impossible to hear anything through the oak door. He knocked.
‘Come in!’
Bertillon sat in the center of his large desk, upright, delicate, smooth, his capacious and beautiful hand spread out on the empty blotter. A gold pencil had fallen out of reach. A small piece of paper containing two or three items lay in front of him. Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern sat in two armchairs brought forward. Guildenstern leaned forward. He belonged to an old family of wheat merchants from Poland: wheat was in his blood. He was more energetic, not quite so plump, grayer, older than his partner, less polished, and his French had holes in it. Rosenkrantz leaned back, quite the captain, quite the messroom hero. He had just been interrupted and looked round with distinguished rebuke at the intruder. He changed to compliment when he saw Alphendéry.
Alphendéry shook hands warmly, explained to Bertillon that he was late because he had to call in at the Banque de l’Union Parisienne: they interchanged a scarcely perceptible nod. He said to Bertillon, ‘I just saw two dentists downstairs as I came up: it looks as if the commodity business is picking up.’
‘So?’ said Guildenstern.
‘Two dentists: there won’t be a grain of wheat obtainable by tomorrow,’ said Bertillon carelessly. The two Germans were mystified and ill at ease. Bertillon explained to them that an American dentist had cornered the cotton market.
‘How is it possible?’ asked Guildenstern.
‘Oh, in America they pay dentists as much as the President.’
Rosenkrantz was irritated, thinking they were being smoked.
Guildenstern said, ‘I think we may say then that the business is done, Mr. Bertillon. We will get our lawyers to draw up a temporary form of agreement, a trial form, should I say, and we will submit it to you this afternoon, or tomorrow morning: as you wish.’
‘Tomorrow morning or afternoon,’ substituted Rosenkrantz.
Bertillon appeared to be about to rise. ‘Very well, gentlemen: tomorrow or the next day, when you wish. Mr. Alphendéry will go through it with you. If he wants any change, arrange it between you. I will leave it to him. He has full power to act for me, for us.’
He looked straight at Alphendéry. No one said anything. Then Rosenkrantz said, in his best voice, with a slight touch of the saber there, the saber cut more visible on his cheek, ‘Then we are to deal with Mr. Alphendéry, not yourself: with him as your agent? But you will sign it?’
‘No, Alphendéry will sign it if I am not here. What he signs is all right! He knows more about it than I do: his grandfather was in wheat, for example.’
They were taken aback. Unexpectedly Bertillon’s laughter rang out. He stood looking at the three of them with benevolence. One could see the slight movements of the two Germans tending towards each other. They were clearly perplexed. A moment later, their resolution taken wordlessly, Guildenstern said, with respect but curtly, ‘We regret very much that we cannot continue these negotiations with yourself but we will, of course, arrive promptly with the draft agreement and discuss it with Mr. Alphendéry.’
‘Mr. Alphendéry will sign anything that is to be signed,’ said Bertillon unpleasantly.
‘Understood.’ They hesitated.
Alphendéry appeared to be raining smiles on the room. He landed in the forefront of their dubieties. ‘I got your little note this morning. Thanks for the memorandum, without prejudice, naturally. You have the Germanic method. We are more free and easy here. After all, even a contract is no good if a man is determined to do you, is it?’
They looked uncomfortable. Jules had risen and come round the table.
‘We always confirm our business conversations: we eliminate error,’ said Guildenstern clumsily.
‘It’s human to err,’ said Jules laughing.
‘Then, I don’t see why you don’t carry a dictaphone,’ Alphendéry suggested.
They both started, doubtful whether this was an insult or not. But no, Alphendéry was laughing in the most amiable way. Rosenkrantz shot a glance round the office. He said stealthily, ‘So! Is that your method? That is quite American in efficiency.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Jules, ‘not always. I should have my vaults full of records, instead o
f gold … Will you excuse me? I have an appointment for lunch with Mr. Emile Moreau.’ This was the name of an important personage in the Banque de Paris et des Pays-Bas. The eyes of the Germans glittered. They were ceremonious and Jules escaped. At the door he smiled at Alphendéry, ‘Sit in my seat, Michel.’
The two produced a memorandum which they had already shown Jules but which he had not read. It covered the note sent to Michel, but asked for estimates of cost, noting the manner of confirming to clients, etc. It was by far the most efficient document that had been seen in Bertillon Frères for a long time. Michel saw the slip of paper which Bertillon had left in his place. It said:
1. Hold-up merchants, but business getters.
2. Alphendéry must sign anything: 6-9 months: no more.
3. Kaimaster-Blés, S.A. Agence—Bertillon Frères.
4. No guarantees. We cable, confirm. Half-commission?
The conversation he had with them was, of course, confirmed that afternoon by registered letter. Everyone began to take it as a joke. Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern put off drawing up the agreement and the signature, now, for a day or two, hoping that they could get Jules Bertillon’s signature and waiting for credit reports on the Banque Bertillon and on Alphendéry. The reports they got were, as usual, diverse.
* * *
Scene Twenty-three: Credit
The Banque du Littoral du Nord wrote:
The Banque Bertillon Frères has with us a satisfactory deposit account. We have had relations with Mr. Jules Bertillon and his brother, William, for a number of years and as far as these have gone, they have been satisfactory. The bank, being a private one, does not publish a balance sheet.
The Northern Counties Bank of London wrote:
House of All Nations Page 21
