The Eagles Gather

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  If anyone with a suspicious nature questioned the background of this fine aristocrat. it was pointed out severely that he had lived for some time at the villa of Baron Israel Opperheim on the Riviera, and that the two were the most affectionate of friends.

  Von Bernstrom moved about the terrace, softly, on the balls of his feet, regarding everything with reserved pleasure. He peered briefly through an open window at the drawingroom, whose blue dusk was invitingly cool and fresh. He saw the dim mirror of the floors, the crystal chandelier, the shape of a grand piano, the white marble fireplace. There were flowers on the dark glass of every table top, and their sweet fragrance seemed to fill the quiet air like incense. He allowed the bleached harshness of his expression to soften with anticipation. Lord Ramsdall watched him. There was a cunning lift to his heavy red lips.

  ‘Ah,’ breathed the count, ‘charming! Charming! It is strange how delightful a prospect seems when it is about to become one’s own.’ His voice, light and only elusively accented, was very agreeable. ‘What taste, my dear Ramsdall! But you were always known for your taste, were you not?’

  Ramsdall inclined his head. ‘Very sporting of you to say that, Wolfgang. But there has been a woman’s touch here, too, you know. A young lady of taste, herself, considering that she is an American.’

  They heard a soft footfall. The count immediately retreated to a position on the flagged terrace near his friend, and they both affected to be engrossed in happy contemplation of the blue sea.

  A young lady, who had entered the drawing-room, now stood in one of the windows, gazing at them from the threshold a moment before she stepped down upon the terrace.

  The count and Ramsdall turned, with a look of pleasant surprise and pleasure. They bowed.

  ‘I trust we are not too early, dear Mrs Bouchard,’ said Ramsdall. ‘But, as Wolfgang is to be my next tenant, he decided he wished to arrive a little beforehand. To gloat, probably.’

  The lady smiled faintly. She extended her hand, and the count took it and raised it to his lips. He studied her with real delight and covetousness.

  ‘I gain a pleasure, to lose one, dear Madame,’ he murmured. ‘We shall be disconsolate when you are gone.’

  As Mrs Bouchard and her husband were accustomed to entertain only rarely, and cared little for those who swarmed ravenously along the Coast, this was an extravagant statement of the count’s. But the young lady showed no surprise.

  ‘How very kind of you, Count,’ she said, in a sweet but disinterested voice. The count was annoyed, but, as always, piqued. These American women! The most beautiful in the world, with such bosoms, such waists, such legs. But cold as death. He, himself, preferred the French, who knew much about love, and a great deal about wickedness. He adored wicked women. American women were never wicked, even those foolish and intoxicated expatriates who swarmed noisily (in exquisite toilettes) around the tables at the Casino. They lacked maturity, poise, grace, and their imitations of vice were the imitations of children. When they went too far, they were gross and disgusting. It was the Puritan in them, he suspected. A debased Puritan was the most revolting of creatures, for he had no taste, no reticence.

  Mrs Bouchard, however, was not in the least wicked, he meditated. But cold as a stone, as rigid as death. A beautiful statue of frozen flesh. Extraordinary, too, for so young a woman, in her early thirties. Most delicately designed for love and intrigue, his reflections continued. Yet, she had lived in this villa, within sight and sound of all the subtle and dainty viciousness of the notorious Coast, and had remained, like Cæsar’s wife—uncorrupted, aloof and indifferent. Was it innocence, or distaste? The count believed it was neither. It was simply a lack of capacity for joy, for living, for delight. No doubt she was stupid, almost as stupid as his own German women. This reflection soothed his vanity, and so he regarded her with more amiability, and even superior pity. How most appalling to have lived here in the very presence of gaiety and pleasure and intoxication for over five years, and never to have experienced one moment of excitement and intrigue! But that, most certainly, was because of her invalid husband, and her devotion to him.

  The count’s large and transparent nose twitched with aversion. How pitiable, this lovely young creature’s martyrdom to one who was apparently less than half a man! He, Wolfgang von Bernstrom, would have been delighted to have been allowed to relieve the tedium of her onerous life, if she had permitted it. He, and so many others. But she had allowed no man to approach her. What devotion! What stupidity! He drew out a white chair for her on the terrace, and she sat down. The gentlemen seated themselves, also, and smiled tenderly upon her.

  She directed an indifferent look upon the German. ‘I’m afraid this is going to be a very dull luncheon,’ she said, without the slightest regret. ‘I have invited only you, Count, and you, Lord Ramsdall, and Baron Opperheim. You are all such friends, and you have been kind to my husband. So, there will be only six of us, you three, my mother, and my husband—no one else. Peter hasn’t been very well lately, and so I didn’t wish to disturb him. You understand?’

  ‘My dear, dear Mrs Bouchard!’ exclaimed Ramsdall, with an expression of fond understanding and regret upon his ruddy face. ‘Of course, we understand. It was very kind of you, indeed, to invite us. We’re grateful, I assure you.’

  ‘We are leaving tomorrow,’ continued the young lady. ‘We are to stop in Paris for a few days, and then we go directly home.’

  For a moment she wore a betraying expression, sad and wistful, and very tired. She does not wish to return, thought the count. She is not entirely stupid, then. It had been his experience that very rich American ladies were invariably stupid and insensitive. But this delightful little creature, with such incredible wealth, had moments, too, of human regret, human insecurity and sorrow. Ah, had he but discovered this sooner! He might have corrupted her into joy.

  He looked at her intently, without betraying his scrutiny. She was small and exquisitely made, with a beautiful figure, if slightly too slender for his taste. And most excessively chic, he acknowledged. She almost always wore a thin black dress, very plain, but of impeccable style, relieved only by a small necklace of rosy pearls. What lovely slender legs, lovingly curved at the calf, tapering to the most fragile of ankles and the tiniest of little arched feet! She sat gracefully in her chair, remote, and unconscious of herself, and most probably of her visitors, too. The count delighted his eye with the frailness of her waist, the perfect line of her small breasts under the filmy black stuff. His gaze rose to the whiteness of her throat, where the pearls moved with her quiet breath. After a moment, he looked at her face. How perfectly adorable, how exquisite in its perfection!

  For her face, small and pointed, seemed carved of new ivory, so firm and clear were all its contours, its lines, and its curves. He could find no flaw, no hastiness, no crudeness or lack of expertness in that carving. However, there was a sort of rigidity about her features, a delicate sternness, which, to him, was somewhat repellent, inhuman. Too, she had a worn look, not so much patient as repressed and determined. That look lingered about her small red mouth with its deep corners, around the thin flaring nostrils of her nose, and covered in a kind of stony fixity about her deeply set and beautiful dark-blue eyes, over which the clear black lines of her brows were like the satin curves of a bird’s wings. Her black hair, very lustrous and vital and full of deep shining waves, was brushed upwards to rest like an old-fashioned coronet upon the top of her head. Her little ears, with their pearl earrings, were white and as translucent as alabaster, and fully revealed. She had a luminous pallor, very vivid, and there was not the slightest stain of colour upon her cheeks, whose smoothness and clarity aroused the hatred and envy of every woman who looked upon her.

  The count remembered that she was of French descent. Yes, in those cheekbones, in the line of her shoulders, in the smallness of her hands and feet, in the grace of her carriage and posture, there was a distinctly French suggestion. But the spirit was not French! She had Englis
h blood also. That might account for her remoteness, her indifference, her iciness of manner, her withdrawn hauteur. However, he recalled that on one or two rare occasions he had seen a flash about her, a restrained vehemence, a hint of hidden and wistful warmth, a generosity of temperament immediately hidden. He felt a tender pity for her again. How most deplorable, to have been victimized into service to an abominable invalid, a husband who apparently had not been a husband. Not amazing, then, that the life had gone from her.

  He thought of her husband, and the bleached skin of his face, wrinkled like parchment.

  In the meantime, the young lady and Lord Ramsdall had been conversing with amiable disinterest about nothing at all. ‘The servants, of course, will remain on for the count,’ she said. She hesitated, ‘Except the chef, Pierre, and his wife, Elise. They told me they preferred to return to Paris, if they can’t find positions here.’

  The count came to himself at this catastrophe. He scowled. ‘But Madame! That is impossible. Intolerable. How am I to maintain a ménage here without tham? You have been the envy of all our friends, for possessing such treasures. It is unendurable, not to be countenanced.’ He turned with a scowl to his friend. ‘My dear Ramsdall, I understood that the servants were attached to the villa.’

  Before Ramsdall could reply, the young lady looked directly at the count. Now for the first time there was a sudden breath of agitation about her, as if she was angered or indignant. Her dark blue eyes flashed. But she said quietly: ‘They are not attached. Pierre and Elise came with me from Paris. It was understood perfectly that if they did not wish to remain, after we left, they were to return to their home.’

  But the count hardly heard her. He made a rude gesture with his hand, which dismissed her as a stupid child, an intruder, one who does not need to be considered. All his native arrogance, his intolerance, were implicit in the cold violence of his manner. He looked only at Ramsdall.

  ‘I insist these creatures remain. How am I to continue without them? I will not countenance their leaving.’

  Mrs Bouchard sat upright in her chair. Her cheeks were suddenly stained with scarlet. ‘This is not Germany, my dear Count,’ she said, and her voice rose, clear and hard. ‘Pierre and Elise are free citizens of France. You ‘‘insist” on their remaining. That is very incredible.’ And she laughed angrily, and with contempt.

  He turned to her, and she saw the intolerant hatred in his eyes, the will to dominance, the fury of a man unaccustomed to resistance, the cowardly rage of a race that will not be refused what it desires. Peter is right, she though. They are impossible. They are dangerous. They are deadly.

  She continued, before he could speak: ‘When Pierre told me they would return to Paris, I tried to replace them for you. Tomorrow, a Belgian couple will come to you for an interview. I understand they are very reliable and expert.’

  Ramsdall tried to mollify his friend. He leaned towards him eagerly, and said: ‘Yes, yes. Mrs Bouchard told me about this. She has been very kind, Wolfgang, in trying to replace these two. It was really generous of her. There was no obligation on her part. I understand the Belgians are really excellent—’

  The count clenched his fist and struck the arm of his chair with it. It made a dull but curiously violent sound. ‘I am not interested in Madame’s “kindness”,’ he said, brutally, ‘I had planned on Pierre and his wife.’

  Mrs Bouchard, with a small choked exclamation, grasped the arms of her chair as if to rise with indignant haste. She said, speaking quickly and sharply, with a slight breathlessness:

  ‘It may interest you to know, Count, that Pierre’s son, Bernard, was killed in Spain. Captured, then tortured, then murdered by a German officer.’

  Her eyes were blue fire; she was very white. Her breast rose on an arch of passionate if repressed feeling. She looked at the count, and her face expressed her deep emotion.

  He was taken aback by her look, relapsed into a fulminating silence. Then he said, unpleasantly, with a nasty smile: ‘Ah, Communists, our dear Pierre and Elise! Very interesting. Exceedingly interesting.’

  She made a small gesture of disgust ‘Nonsense. You know it is nonsense. If one hates the fascists, must one be a Communist? My husband hates them. I hate them. That is why we are leaving.’ She paused, as if conscious of vulgar impetuousness, of indiscretion and ill-bred impulsiveness. Then her passion overcame her repressiveness, and she continued, more quickly than ever: ‘Will you call me a Communist, Count? Because I hate and despise this corrupt and useless society at Cannes, these parasites, these worthless creatures who connive with every foreign fascist who comes here to seduce the whining privileged from every country in Europe? Am I a Communist because I detest the kept women of French, Spanish, German and English politicians that swarm about this coast? The contemptible creatures who would sell the freedom and honour of their countries for soft beds and safety and the security of bank accounts? If this makes me a Communist, then I am proud to be one!’

  They regarded her with amazement. The little cold creature, the exquisite and inhuman little statue, had come to wild and indignant life, filled with ardour and passion. The count almost forgot her words, so intrigued, so excited was he. He saw how her breast trembled, how her hands clenched the arms of her chair so that the fragile knuckles were white, how her eyes glowed with a molten blueness. And she turned those eyes first upon Ramsdall, and then upon von Bernstrom, with disgust and loathing, significant and aware.

  ‘My dear Mrs Bouchard,’ said Ramsdall, hastily. ‘The count was unfortunate in his choice of words. He doesn’t believe what he said, himself. I am sure you know that he is virtually an exile from Germany, because he can’t endure that—that abominable upstart of an Austrian.’ He coughed, and out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the German. Von Bernstrom saw that glance; it was furious, warning. He bit his lip. ‘I am sure,’ continued Ramsdall, ‘that Wolfgang is entirely in agreement with you. He spoke out of temper.’ The noble peer smiled ingratiatingly at the lady, who had paled excessively, and was very still and silent in her chair. ‘Naturally, he was annoyed at the bad news of losing the best chef in Cannes. Who wouldn’t be? We must allow for his disappointment, my dear Mrs Bouchard. As you know, he intended to give his first dinner party next week in honour of a most distinguished, I might even say, royal, couple, and this disturbs all his plans. A royal couple, in virtual exile,’ he added, with a meaning and significant smile at her.

  She lifted her little hand in a scornful gesture. It was an eloquent gesture, and Ramsdall’s full and folded cheeks turned crimson with inner fury. She said, lightly, and softly: ‘Yes, I know that couple. I would not allow them in this house while I was a tenant. They are very good friends of yours, are they not, Count von Bernstrom?’

  He answered, with muffled dignity: ‘Indeed, Madame, I am proud to acknowledge it.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, very gently. Now her eyes were vivid again, full of things too portentous for speech, but completely understanding. And then she sighed, and sank back in her chair, as if exhausted. She was very pale; even her lips had turned white. She appeared ill. After a moment she resumed, and now her voice was drained: ‘The Belgians will satisfy you. However, there is no obligation on your part to accept them.’

  The count had recovered from his rage, at least, on the surface. He said placatingly, and with smooth haste: ‘Madame, I am very sorry. I spoke without thinking, I am very grateful. You have been more than kind. I cannot think of anyone else who would have had my welfare in mind to this extent.’

  She said, not looking at him: ‘I am sure this—royal couple—will find the cooking to their satisfaction.’

  The count overwhelmed her with extravagant protestations of his gratitude. In the meantime, he was mentally adding another item concerning her and her ridiculous husband to a certain dossier which was kept among secret documents in Berlin. He smiled, remembering those items, all concerning the antics of one Peter Bouchard, member of a family with whom the count was very famil
iar—very familiar indeed. His smile became more amiable and confident, as he expressed, over and over again, his contrition, his gratitude. He saw she was not listening. He was greatly annoyed. He was not accustomed to having women so oblivious of his fascination. She seemed to be involved in thoughts that greatly disturbed, angered, and sickened her.

  He said: ‘Though I will not pretend that I am not delighted to be the next tenant in this villa, I should resign it gladly if you, and your husband, dear Madame, would only remain. However, I can assume that Mr Bouchard has now so far recovered his health that he feels he can return to his own country? That is exceedingly happy news.’

  She came up from her thoughts and gazed at him with that pure directness which had in it the quality of a child’s regard. ‘My husband feels much stronger, he says. Of course, he has not recovered, can never completely recover, from the injury to his lungs from poison gas during the war. But now he wishes to return home.’ She paused. ‘He feels we must return home. Before the war.’

  “‘Before the war”!’ said Ramsdall, with an incredulous smile. ‘My dear child, there’ll be no war.’

  ‘I have it on the most confidential authority,’ affirmed the count

  ‘“Confidential authority”?’ murmured Mrs Bouchard. ‘Whose? Hitler’s?’ Her tone was sadly satirical.

  The count allowed an expression of distaste to appear on his face. He averted his head with an abrupt movement, as he always did at the mention of that ‘loathsome’ name.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, stiffly, ‘I must protest. No, my information comes from those who have balanced and very wise minds.’ ‘Nevertheless, there will be war,’ said Mrs Bouchard. She smiled strangely at the count. He saw that smile. His pale brows drew together suspiciously.

  ‘Your distinguished husband truly believes this?’ he asked. ‘How very depressing for him. It must pain him very much. We all know how he detests and abominates war. His book, The Terrible Swift Sword, the exposé of the armaments industry, the international plotters against the peace of the world, was very popular in Germany. It is still exceedingly popular. My friends in Germany so assure me.’