In our opinion Bertillon Frères is a speculative institution run chiefly to cover the operations of its head, Mr. Jules Bertillon. We do not feel that it is run on sound banking lines: they do not give credits, discount commercial paper, or make advances against securities. But whether its policies conform to those of the general habits of French banks we, of course, cannot say.
The Scheldt en Doggerbank opined:
This bank, a private bank with unrevealed funds and sources of income, profits, and associations, is said to dispose of large capital almost entirely derived from speculation. These speculations are said to have proved extremely profitable. It does not perform ordinary banking operations beyond foreign exchange. It does not seek credit, and does not solicit savings accounts. We are unable to give an opinion of its worth.
‘In sum,’ said Guildenstern, ‘excluding the compliments from the business rival, it is satisfactorily mysterious. Do you smell money or not? Franz, you say you spoke to some of the customers’ men. You didn’t tell them we were going to do business?’
‘No,’ said Rosenkrantz, ‘I dangled an account before their eyes. I saw their chief clients’ man, one who is attached to the direction, Aristide Raccamond. Here’s his card.’ On the table it lay, sharp, startling, Rosenkrantz went on, ‘A big flaccid pale-green watermelon, one of these overfat Mediterraneans with a nose from Carthage, shoe-black melancholy eyes, the melancholia of obesity. An energetic fellow though, steaming with sweat and ambition, envious. He cherishes the bank like an orphan child: seems to be quite intimate with its position and pretends that Alphendéry is not the shadow behind. It may be anti-Semitism, that. He would like to be in Alphendéry’s shoes. In this Raccamond I smelt a mixed aroma of simmering injustice, self-interest coming to the boil, and possible blackmail, with plenty of lickspittle … all pickled. This Raccamond has run about the Bourse for long years. He tells me the bank has always had all sorts of unfavorable rumors about it …’
Aristide S. Raccamond
(with the military medal, the academic palms, and the sign of the knight of the Legion of Honor)
Attaché à la Direction 39 Rue Pillet-Will
Bertillon FrèresParis IXe.
Guildenstern sat immobile in his chair, ‘What’s that? For twenty years? The Rothschilds spread a rumor too, that they’re on the downgrade … perhaps to avoid jealousy from the big banks? Who knows? Who knows?’
‘I told him I was going into business here and might do my banking through Bertillon Frères. His mouth was watering. Shell him out and then kick him out. A no-good type.’
‘You only saw this Raccamond?’
‘No. I was in the board room this afternoon. I sold a hundred shares of Atchison. That’s business …’
‘That’s money,’ shrugged Guildenstern.
‘No. The clients’ men are after me now, ready to be affable, and the manager, Jacques Manray, took a liking to me. I’ll buy them back tomorrow.’
‘Well,’ said Guildenstern, ‘I, for my part, saw Paul Treviranus, he used to be in Louis-Dreyfus, now he’s—he says Alphendéry has two million francs, Bertillon told him so, one day at lunch when he was somewhat shicker. Bertillon, William, has about ten, and Jules has about three hundred million francs. He’s positive about it! Ha? I tagged it on to our New York cable this morning. Response: Bertillon has been a bear in several markets since 1929 and is rich in many millions. Alphendéry’s fame has spread to Berlin, Amsterdam, New York, and is thought to be the éminence grise, running big accounts for other houses, for which Bertillon’s is a blind. Epstein of Mulloney and Moonsteyn, London, on the telephone, says that Alphendéry has all the power, the man behind the throne, but it is because he is a great juggler and smart as a snake charmer, for he has no money and actually the only money the Bertillons have is clients’ money, but some of the big names have accounts in the bank. I don’t pay much attention to Epstein—he says what he thinks you want to hear. Loewenstein says “without prejudice” he doesn’t believe they have a sou beyond what their clients are fools enough to leave them. “Isn’t it true,” I asked, “that at times in late years a relative of the Vernes and a relative of the Schneiders”—I didn’t give the names, just probing, you know—“had accounts with them?” He was troubled: “Yes, yes, I don’t know.” That’s a clue. Who does he really work for? Evidently an enemy of theirs. Now find out the rivalry there and you have a clue to the real power behind Bertillon. I don’t believe for a moment he’s sitting up there by himself, a lone hawk. There’s no such thing nowadays.’
‘I say, yes,’ said Rosenkrantz. ‘I wonder what his real game is.’
‘Let’s think about our own,’ recommended Guildenstern.
* * *
‘
Scene Twenty-four: Against Michel
I don’t see, Jules, why with your assets and your relations in society, you don’t go into real banking. You act like a man who has read the first page of a book on banking and then threw away the book.’
‘I never read a book on banking,’ flung out Jules, carelessly, his eyes on the opposite walls, his fingers drumming on the desk. William’s silvery coin dropping came from behind. The twins sat and faced their youngest brother, in the two great armchairs, occasionally putting in a trivial word, apparently preconcerted.
‘I did once open a book on banking … I read the first page, and threw away the book,’ amended Jules in a conceited tone. ‘It cost twenty francs. To vote in the General Assembly of the Banque de France, you’ve got to have about two hundred shares … two hundred shares at, say, seventeen thousand francs is—’
‘Is 3,400,000 francs,’ said Alphendéry: ‘you figured the 3,400,000 francers wouldn’t tell you the game for only twenty francs. Correct. Now, Jules, you’ve got a lot of bonds on deposit, haven’t you, even from shareholders of the Banque de France? A good many of them are abroad, I know, but a good many of them are here and you do nothing with them. You give a certificate of deposit but you get nothing out of it. Why don’t you and Jean de Guipatin and a few of the other silvertails form an omnium of your own?—I’m sure the Comtesse would help you—a lot of people have confidence in you and you’ve started in the right end, not like Oustric and that meteoric sort that pooh out. Get the shares together, get a say in the general assemblies. Everyone does it. With your affiliations you can build up an important private bank in no time. Why don’t you try it?’
‘I don’t want to play along with them: I want to sell the whole works short from now to kingdom come. I’m not building any great private bank. What for? I wouldn’t put my sons into banking. I don’t hang on till I get wrinkled, fat, and raucous. I don’t want to marry my sons into the Union Artistique and the Jockey Club. Say, one of these days, those Reds are going to get some sense and start a gunpowder plot at the Jockey Club and the kidneys of the omnium engineers will be found sticking to the Eifiel Tower. I thought you thought a revolution was coming? I’m not one of the Comtesse’s crowd who think the revolution is coming the day after they die. If the workers knew what I know about myself, I’d leave for Vishnuland tonight: and one of these days, some Michel, or some other fellow, is going to put them wise.’
‘They have already been put wise,’ murmured Alphendéry.
‘No! Let the guys in high finance put machine guns on their garden walls,’ said Jules. ‘I’m a postwar man. I live from day to day and I’m doing no more fighting, even for cash. I’m just a gilded pickpocket and, believe me, a pickpocket has to have twinkling ankles.’
There was a sound from the door of the interior staircase, like linen being torn. Richard Plowman walked in boldly, went to Jules, put his hand on his shoulder, ‘Everyone is depressed: things will change. In a month or two you’ll see that Michel’s theories don’t sound so convincing,’ urged he.
William surveyed them all, calmly, with his fair round face. Michel was contrite, anxious, but he said, ‘Plowm
an, you’ve forgotten how you made your money. Did you read about Wiggin.’
‘There are such men,’ said Plowman, worried. ‘It is most unfortunate.’
‘The world’s always rotting somewhere,’ said Jules cheerfully, ‘and I have a nose for decay.’
The others all went out and Plowman settled down seriously, to undo all ‘Michel’s influence.’
* * *
Scene Twenty-five: The Friendly Touch
Léon, for a reason he would not tell, was staying in the Hotel Scribe. When Alphendéry rolled in, he called, with peremptory habit, to the waiter, ‘Another coffee, quick!’ Léon mumbled, ‘You know Mrs. Weyman?’ and then began to shout lustily, ‘Well, Alphendéry, how about taking a trip down to Gibraltar? They say all the rich Andalusian women and girls from Seville—flying there—say the town’s full of beauties: no husbands. Oh, boy! Would you and me—excuse me, Margaret, a little fantasy. Well, how would you like’ (gigantically) ‘to go to Gibraltar, Margaret? Give you a little color. Plump—well, you’ve got enough. You’re pretty, did I ever tell you that? You’ve always been pretty since I’ve seen you, but after this lunch—it was a good lunch, eh? Eh? I’ll make you happy, Margaret, and want nothing in return. Alphendéry’s getting to know me: sometimes I’m generous. Sometimes, only sometimes.’ He chuckled and drank all his coffee at a gulp.
Alphendéry laughed, ‘Spanish money is flowing in Biarritz like water.’ He leaned towards Mrs. Weyman. ‘The Americans are sending over old boats out of Charleston harbor and doing a regular ferry trade between Spanish ports and Hendaye.’
Léon said in a gay storm, ‘Margaret, I’m for the people. If they look like putting any sort of order down there, I’m going down. I’m going to buy an estate there. Not too big. And I’ll go to the government and I’ll say, “Friends, I’m friendly to your cause, I believe in you: I want to put my money in your country. It’s a grand country, and I like the women.” (That’ll move a Spaniard’s heart!)’ The genial gust blew round them. ‘How would you like to be in olives, Alphen? I’ll buy a small olive plantation down near Málaga. And I’ve been looking into the perfume business. I’m going to send my Antwerp manager down to look into it. There’s only two, three firms in the business. Very bad perfume. I’m going to give the Spanish republican girls a new Coty. A fortune: and I’m no Corsican. I’ll stay out of politics. Yes! Those boys are running it well enough for me. Where there’s a republic, there I know how to make money. I’ll see the widow or the sweetheart of Garcia or Hernandez, those boys who died for the republic, and I’ll say to her, “Sweetheart, I’ll make you happy. I love the republic too.” And I’ll look after her, give her everything she wants, make her forget. She’ll be grateful to me.’ His face clouded for a second. ‘If one of them’s pretty. If she’s got revolutionary fire. Fire.’ His face cleared and he looked with a thrill of pleasure at Méline. ‘They wear roses in their hair still in Andalusia, don’t they?’
‘And follow the bullfights,’ said Alphendéry, with excitement.
‘No, sir, no bullfights, don’t like them. The beautiful girls still go; they still hang their shawls over. But with men. No, a factory girl, a working girl, they’re more tender,’ he said tenderly. He looked happily at Mrs. Weyman as if he expected her to share his tenderness. She smiled at him. He grasped her arm, said, ‘You’ve got a beautiful figure, Margaret. You’ll go along with me: come along, come along, Alphen. How’s Bertillon? Making any money?’
‘We made some this week.’
‘How much, how much?’ queried Léon. ‘All right. Come along.’
He steered them to the writing room, planted Margaret Weyman in a chair and exhorted Alphendéry: ‘Have you got a piece of paper, my boy? About my private matter—I have an idea.’ He became coyly confidential. ‘I brought Honfleur, the socialist leader, a piece of Wedgwood china last time I came from England. You know, he collects. He’s a socialist. You can’t bribe him. You’ve got to flatter him; not too broadly either. He invites me to dinner and says to me, ‘I think we will take power within two years and I hope so: supreme power is a great experience for a man.’ Oh, boy I Can you imagine that? Such a mental cripple! He was quite touched by the china. Original, you see, simple, the friendly touch. Just a little friendly thought between old socialists. I told him I was a socialist in Roumania, I applied for French naturalization papers the day the war broke out, but I wrote a letter to the minister, Viviani, the old socialist, telling him I had always been a Frenchman at heart and a socialist by instinct and that in the meantime I was joining the French colors, though a foreigner. It looks good, Alphendéry. I think I made an impression on Honfleur. ‘Look up my record,’ I told him. ‘Five years of war, Honfleur, and not touched. I am not only patriotic but lucky.’ Ho, ho. I tell you, he seems to like me. And when he gets in, I think the officership of the Legion of Honor is a certainty. I’ve got to get my foot in.’ His voice sank lower and he flushed charmingly, ‘My ultimate object is—the grand cross. I’ll get it, my boy: I’m lucky.’ He struck a Napoleonic, somber, prophetic tone. He raised his thick, short arm, his eyes smoked. ‘Michel, let’s write a letter. ‘Dear Mr. Honfleur, or, ‘My dear Mr. Honfleur’? He called me Léon: then he writes me a letter, ‘My dear friend.’ I can’t call the hoary revolutionist ‘My dear friend,’ not yet. Michel, this is where you and I can work wonders: we compose a letter to him, just sentiment, quite amiable, expressing admiration. An old socialist like me is deeply touched by—that’s the point, Michel! By what? We got to think up something—touch him on his soft spot. You help me. It’s our business: you go into the private matter with me and I’ll do you good, my boy.’
‘You want to get it free?’ asked Alphendéry dubiously.
‘Not free, my boy, not free: but—deposit technique: no lump sum. Work it up. Get him involved on the side of sentiment, then charity, then check to him for gift to old socialist in want—something like that. Involve him. Lay the foundations now when the socialists are out. He stuck to us when things looked black, they’ll say after. It’ll look genuine. I am French (along with four other naturalizations), I do love France, I did fight for France. See! They make a coalition. They put me in the Legion of Honor lists. You can’t pay for it then. Why? See how I figure it, Michel? See if I’m right. In this I’m dead right. When they’re in power,’ he lowered his voice, ‘prices for Legion of Honor will be high. Question of honor, political opponents. Of course, the conservatives are corrupt. Who pays attention? So Legion of Honor is cheap. But the socialists got to be honorable. Principle; muckrakers. So Legion of Honor is dear. I hedge. See? I come in on clean government and high prices for the Legion of Honor and I pay dirty government prices in advance. Smart, eh, a hochem? What do you say, Michel?’
‘Sounds all right,’ Alphendéry acknowledged brightly, ‘but you might have to wait some time.’
‘I’m a socialist: socialist government comes in, sets up wheat commission. Will they give it to Léon? Léon got his Legion of Honor from Tardieu! No, no, no, my boy. These tories won’t have me: the others will have me. Got to play their game. I’ll wait. Besides, ho, ho, besides, my boy, I like to get an option: no fun in buying outright. Ho, ho. He, he, you think I’m a bizarre character, don’t you? I like to play the game though: any ass can buy it—plunk! Make a donation! Smack! Legion of Honor! No.’
Alphendéry said patiently, ‘All right: what do you want to write?’
‘That’s the problem! There’s nothing to write. What to write, eh? What excuse?’ He exclaimed excitedly, ‘I have it! Galan and Hernandez! Recognition first by sister republic—Ideal, my boy.’
‘What?’ asked Alphendéry astonished.
‘My dear Mr. Honfleur, it gave me a great deal of pleasure to dine with you the other day—h’m—It was indeed an honor—h’m, honor, my boy, honor, eh? That’s better: flatter: bigshots like flattery, lot of flattery, lot of kicks. Read it back.’
Alphendéry
was mortified but mildly complied, “My dear Mr. Honfleur, It was indeed an honor—‘ ‘
‘An honor,’ Léon meditated dubiously, ‘a bit greasy, eh? Banal? I was immensely gratified—’
‘Egocentric,’ Alphendéry put in, sharply.
‘You’re right, egocentric, no good. My dear Mr. Honfleur, I look back with the greatest pleasure—’
‘Greatest and most intimate pleasure,’ supplied Alphendéry.
‘Greatest and most intimate pleasure: h’m! Ho, ho! Sounds like a—love rendezvous: so it was. I made love to the Goy: I cooed to him. Oh, boy—well—most intimate pleasure—no! Too literary. He knows me. My dear Mr. Honfleur, Your kindness in receiving me—no: out with it: it grovels. Let’s see. Got to get the right word. He’s a writer, sensitive to—Here, here, here! Write, write! Alphendéry! My dear, etc. Since our delightful meeting the other day, I have pondered over your words, and been guided by them in my studies of the present situation. H’m? How’s that? Long and limp, eh? Never mind. You see, there’s the dinner, an allusion, no bowing and scraping for a dinner: then, his words of wisdom. Go on, Michel: a socialist worrying about the present situation, you see? Write. There is only confusion beyond the Rhine; we watch Russia with sympathy but we are—no, no, but—and we are moving towards an understanding with Russia and this any French patriot who is also a socialist views with enthusiasm. Nevertheless, nevertheless, Michel—’ he shot his thick arm up and down, ‘nevertheless,’ he looked Michel sternly in the eye, ‘those of us, and you first among us, who have spent their lives working for socialism, must see in the Spanish Republic the beginning of a new day for western Europe. That most concerns us!’
Alphendéry said crossly, ‘Too much like a stump speech: he belongs to the welling-eye brotherhood himself.’
‘Too much like a stump speech? Is it? Let’s see: read it over.’
After sweating for an hour, the two literary artists had produced a page of text in which every word had been erased, underscored, and rewritten three or four times. It then read:
House of All Nations Page 22
