House of All Nations

by Christina Stead

  This went on for some time. Everyone was indicted, everyone in a great conspiracy against poor Raccamond, the gentle fool. The silence of them all at length embarrassed him, and by degrees he returned to a more perspicacious state.

  Campoverde understood nothing at all of all this and looked at Raccamond with revulsion. Jean de Guipatin, in his deep soft voice, the lofty accent much diminished, said kindly, ‘Aristide, it would be foolish to behave like a jealous woman: blot out the whole show for self-justification and a sort of pitiable notoriety; you would be like a woman who jails her husband for alimony or shoots her husband and so abolishes all husbands, present and future. You can realize that you would be committing suicide yourself, and no one would take you for the instrument of eternal justice.’

  ‘You threaten me with a boycott?’

  ‘Yes. If you do this, I will let everyone within earshot hear about it and the way you went about it, your belly growing bigger and bigger, your appetite getting more monstrous, until you wanted everything in the bank for your own. And the fact that you accepted a gigantic salary, knowing very well where it must come from; and that you bribed clerks, put in your men, stole books, stole clients, everything.

  ‘Now,’ said Jean, shaking his head, ‘you are on the wrong tack. I have no pride; I am humble. I know what I am, a very simple and rather stupid young man who is accepted under protest, because he has a father who is one of the richest men in France. You have not the intuitions which humility gives. You cannot distinguish reality from the wild melodramatic rendering that your jealous ambition paints you. That is why I would lay a bet on any odds of your coming to grief. You haven’t the coolness necessary to success. Mr. Bertillon is superstitious and he averred that you had the evil eye on you, or something like that, wasn’t it, Jules?’

  ‘He’s unlucky,’ said Jules crossly.

  ‘You see?’

  ‘All right,’ said Aristide, ‘now I know where I stand. And you too, Prince Campoverde?’

  ‘Oh, as for me,’ said the young man laughing, ‘a fortuneteller told me I’d make my fortune with this bank, and there it is: I won’t leave it. Who would?’

  ‘You won’t give me two million francs guarantee, then?’ asked Aristide.

  ‘No.’ Jules leaned back in his chair, gradually coming to himself.

  ‘But you’ll keep to the other agreements?’

  ‘Those? Oh, sure, sure. Yes, of course.’

  ‘And you’ll show me the gold?’

  ‘Any time you like.’

  ‘And you’ll give me six months’ salary while the restitution is going on so that I can travel round and put my affairs in order?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you pay it to me now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Aristide’s color came back: he recalled the scene—Carrière being paid his money on the nail. Jules saw this through half-closed lids; he picked up the telephone and before William could make a move, ordered briskly, ‘Henri Martin? Send one of the boys up with—how much is it, William?’ William started to protest, but Jules hushed him with a gesture, ‘How much is it?’

  ‘One hundred and twenty thousand francs. Aristide must give a receipt for that.’

  ‘Only for half,’ said Aristide at once. ‘Otherwise my income-tax statement is askew. Give it to me, half in cash, half in a check on my London corporation.’

  Jules gave the necessary orders: William wrote out two receipts, one for the cash and one for the London corporation. When it was paid, Aristide, suddenly restored to equanimity and even amiability, said, ‘When do we start for Amsterdam, Mr. Bertillon?’

  ‘I’ll go by plane tomorrow,’ said Jules offensively. ‘You can go by train when you like. No, wait, the day after. I have to get a witness in Amsterdam and he may be busy tomorrow.’

  This was arranged. Jules immediately secretly sent a telegram to Alphendéry asking him to travel to Amsterdam to be his witness in an opening of the vaults.

  ‘Why Michel?’ asked William.

  ‘Just to spite Aristide,’ said Jules, with hatred.

  * * *

  Scene Ninety-five: Léon’s Grand Passion

  Alphndéry and Léon met in Amsterdam. ‘See if you think I’m right, Henri. One morning when I walk in, I find Jules surrounded by Señor This and Señor That and Rear-Admiral Something; I inquire what’s going on. “Why,” says Jules, “are you still here? I thought you’d left us?” The same evening I go out with William as usual, and William got drunk, a very rare thing for him, but he shouted his address getting into the taxi, and William said, “Well, cheer up, Alphendéry, we’re good for at least nine months and we’ll all be cozy: I saw to that!” Bluff, a put-up job, indiscretion? I don’t know, Henri. I heard the bell ring: I jumped.’

  ‘ ’M, ’m,’ considered Léon frowning at Alphendéry with one eye, ‘ ’m … Go on, my boy, and—and—and you said?’

  ‘I went into Jules and said, “I’m transferring my money.”’

  ‘How’s that, how, transfer?’

  Alphendéry explained patiently, ‘I gave them all my gold back to show to Aristide Raccamond.’

  Consternation shook the face of Henri Léon. ‘You gave it back? No.’

  ‘Yes, they asked me—to show to Raccamond—I said to Jules, “I’m transferring it out.” Well, it took me three days to get them to sign the transfer back. I sweated those three days.’

  ‘My boy—I respect you—very nice of you,’ Léon’s voice had taken on a deep note of love, since he realized that Alphendéry still had the money, ‘but—fouh—very dangerous—elfin type like, any man with—that type. You were lucky to get it back.’ He nodded impressively, his eyes calculating the worth of the man in front of him. He suddenly beamed, coughed a laugh. ‘And so you said, I’ll go and play along with Léon, eh?’ ‘

  ‘Or Ralph Stewart. Stewart thought I could swing the big accounts.’

  Léon looked anxiously at him. ‘Big accounts, eh? Baron Koffer? He likes you, eh? Well! No, no, you come to London with me. You get my account; you give it to Stewart. Good account; you get commissions. I give you ten per cent commission on all you make for me … Michel, want some—er, some cognac, cognac, eh, eh, waiter?’

  ‘No, and neither do you: you’re already drunk with Léon.’

  Léon peeked suspiciously, then a radiant smile painted his whole face with youth. ‘Very good, “drunk with Léon”: drunk with—hi, hi, hi, that’s the best I’ve—“drunk with Léon.” You’re good, my boy, you’re good. You stay with me, eh? We’ll make dough, boy, you won’t be able to see our heels for dust. Yes? Yes! Some cognac, waiter. We’ll celebrate.’

  * * *

  Scene Ninety-six: The Secret Vaults

  When Jules, Claire-Josèphe, and Aristide had assembled at the Amsterdam bank on the appointed Saturday morning they found Alphendéry already there, talking to the bank manager whom he had come to know. At this unexpected sight, Aristide trembled and lost some of his wooden dignity. He scarcely acknowledged Alphendéry, wherefore Jules said with malice, ‘Mr. Alphendéry is my witness.’

  Raccamond, outraged, said in a high tone, ‘But I thought your wife and these others—’

  ‘My wife is here to witness to her own gold; the gold broker, Mr. van Eyk is here to see his two subordinates make the count, merely as a matter of business; Mr. Heuting, the bank manager, is here as a matter of routine. I represent myself; Mr. Alphendéry is my witness. You are here in your own interests.’ He turned sharply from Raccamond, asked the bank manager to lead the way downstairs, and said no more, except curtly, when the vault was opened, ‘This section contains the gold of certain clients, gold held in private numbered accounts; this section holds my wife’s gold; this section holds gold belonging indiscriminately to the bank and myself. I guarantee the bank, as it were, it being a private institution and belonging to me.’


  With suspicious, careworn, hungry eyes, Raccamond watched the counting of the gold. Alphendéry, seeing his eyes wander once, said cheerily but in a tone only to be heard by Jules, ‘You’d better watch: we’re going to all this expense and bother for you alone.’ He laughed and good-naturedly pawed Aristide’s arm, evidently intending to make him feel more friendly.

  Aristide shook his arm free and looked again to the gold. He had a notebook with him and was calculating its worth. When the counting was through, he said in a disappointed and truculent tone, ‘And is that all that belongs to the bank?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned pompously to the gold broker and said, ‘This gold here actually belongs to Mme. Bertillon?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the broker with intense dislike.

  He was not moved. ‘And this gold here actually belongs to private clients?’

  ‘This gold is held privately in numbered accounts,’ said the broker, after looking at Jules for a nod. ‘I can say no more.’

  Raccamond turned fretfully away, gnawed by anxiety. The gold said to belong only to the bank itself (or to Jules, indiscriminately) amounted to about four million paper francs, not more. He had expected at least twice as much. He was intensely anxious about the gold said to belong to Claire-Josèphe and the numbered accounts, and he taxed Jules about these as soon as they were free of the bank. Alphendéry was rich with reasons, jolly with laughter at Raccamond’s expense: he said, ‘Good God! What are you asking for in times like these? Think yourself lucky to have seen even one bar of gold. The German bankers would like to be able to do what Jules Bertillon has just done.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to hear you,’ said Aristide in grand gloom. ‘I understood that you were not with us any more.’

  Alphendéry laughed and said, ‘I am not either: I just came as a personal friend, you know. I am working with Mr. Léon and—others—you know now. And not much of anything. My health is not too good.’ Jules winked at him and Alphendéry made his good-bys, intimating that he had an appointment with Léon.

  This made Aristide restless enough. He said with spite as soon as Alphendéry had gone, ‘I don’t believe you’ve severed your connection with that man: it doesn’t look like it. A man doesn’t show his gold to a mere friend. I believe you’re still working in secret with him. On every side I see your evident bad faith. What am I to believe? And this gold that belongs to your wife—and to alleged private clients?’

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ said Jules airily.

  ‘No. I thought there was much more, much more. I am not satisfied. You must show me more gold than this.’

  Jules bit his lip. ‘I’ve gone farther with you than with any living man: do you think I’d have done the same for my own brother? You jump over yourself with ambition, Raccamond. If you’re not satisfied now, you never will be.’

  ‘I had a figure that I set—’ said Aristide obstinately, ‘seven and a half millions in gold. If you had shown me that much belonging to the bank I would have been perfectly satisfied; but what you have shown me is only twenty per cent: it is not enough. You must show me more; if you have it. Why do you say you are doing it for me? It is for the clients. I get nothing out of it.’

  ‘Backing for the million guarantee you want to swallow,’ gibed Jules, ‘for the bank you want to get hold of. Let’s put things plainly, Aristide: everyone knows what your object is.’

  ‘My object is honest: I want to see business done in a fair and square fashion. I want to see the rest of the gold. If there isn’t any more, it is your wife’s duty to give some of that gold of hers to the bank; it is your family duty to the clients who accepted your personal guarantee.’ Claire-Josèphe looked at Aristide quietly, without speaking. He took it for assent. He looked upon Claire-Josèphe as a silly, meek woman with a head full of frivolities, impressed by all businessmen. He continued, ‘Besides that, the only thing you can do at the moment is to buy in the greater part of your positions, so that in any case, the gold you have shown me almost if not quite covers them.’

  ‘If you’re so honest,’ said Jules, ‘why not buy in the lot? If it’s only a question of fair and square.’

  ‘We have to be reasonable,’ said Aristide, troubled. ‘We can’t make that big disturbance in the market. Let us buy back or sell out gradually. The position is—’ he paled at the thought, ‘colossal.’ He seemed shaken. ‘Colossal! I have not slept since I saw the London books. How is it possible for you to have taken on this immense responsibility so lightheartedly. I cannot understand it. Either there are books I have not seen, or you and your brother are the most bizarre businessmen I have ever seen. No thought of the future. Why, you could be ruined by a move in the markets, while we’re standing here talking.’ He wiped his forehead, not ashamed, even pleased, with the sweat of fear that had come out on him. He began to tremble somewhat, though. ‘It is terrible, terrible,’ he cried in anguish. ‘I have not had a moment’s peace since I learned of it. And it’s been going on for years! We have walked on the edge of a volcano—it can blow up any moment. God! I don’t dare face the facts—if it weren’t for my clients … If anything went wrong, before we have time to straighten the accounts, there would be nothing for us but to commit suicide.’ He looked at Jules. ‘I know you, Mr. Bertillon, you could never stand it. You don’t seem to realize where Alphendéry brought you with his wild, fanatic—unspeakable—speculation.’

  Jules looked calmly at him: ‘Yes, Alphendéry should never have done it. That’s what comes of trusting a man too far. You can’t trust anyone to keep his head.’

  ‘The commissions!’ cried Aristide.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The commissions back, half-commissions, he must have got from the brokers. What else would induce him to speculate like this? You’ve been robbed, Mr. Bertillon. You ought to send an officer of the law after him. You don’t seem to see the abyss, the profundity of self-interest. Why, the whole bank has been run by Alphendéry for his own profit! You have not counted. And your brother either a party to it or blind.’ He wrung his hands. Jules laughed.

  ‘Nobody twists me round his little finger,’ said Jules impatiently. ‘Don’t be melodramatic, Aristide. I was lax, all right, but I wasn’t robbed. Be sure of that. I have never been and I never will be. That’s all. Forget the subject, will you? You have Alphendéry on the brain. Forget him, too. I’ll meet you in Paris tomorrow, Aristide. Now, don’t go near the Amsterdam office, you hear. I don’t want them to know we’ve been up here without calling in: they wouldn’t like it.’ Aristide said nothing. ‘Do you hear, Raccamond?’

  ‘They have no supervision. I’m a director: it’s my right if I want to inspect it.’

  ‘You keep away from my bank, understand that,’ shouted Jules suddenly. ‘It’s my bank. If you’re a director, you’re my director … you’re under my orders. Stop getting round like a field marshal: you make me sick. You don’t seem to realize that all this is mine, arises in me, is nothing without me. If I shut up shop tomorrow, you’d be on the street. The whole crowd of you forgets that. You all posture, but I’m the one who charms the comtesses. I’m the one that gets the rake-off and if I divide with you, it’s because I want to and not because anyone forces me to. Remember that. I can fire you tomorrow and give no reason. Remember that. And I can have you locked up, if I want to. I don’t give a twopenny darn for your so-called books. I’ll deny them. I’ll take you for a ride into Belgium if you’re not careful and have you arrested there. Your accounts! They’re half in the red; I’m out of pocket over them. They don’t pay their margins and we have to foot it lightly because it’s the Princesse; they lose money and yell and we have to “make reparation” because it’s the Comtesse, and we mustn’t offend her. They’ve got an overdraft and they won’t pay up, and we’ve got to forget about it because it’s the Duchesse. And you call that business. Those are the accounts you brag about! You’d make a nice figure taking y
our accounts to another house: no one would take them. I can only afford to keep them because of my “practices” that don’t suit you. Why, you’re living on my charity, all of you, half the time and you go round inflated with righteousness, like a cow that’s eaten a bad weed; you shriek and dance thinking you’re the whole show. I’m the whole show. I’m the Barnum and you’re the only freak in the works.’ He laughed suddenly, angrily, looking at Aristide’s dignified and rebelling attitude. ‘Cheer up, Aristide. I’m king. I wouldn’t be in business if I couldn’t be that. I’m not going to be anyone’s partner, and I’m not going to work in with anyone. I’d rather shoot myself. That’s my nature. So don’t push me too far. Take what you can get, take what I offer you, and be thankful. I’m not mean. I’m willing to give you a fair share. But understand how things are in my bank.’