X
And now, from the spirit world—if that was it—Trudi was renewing her control of the susceptible Lanny Budd. A new religion had been born and a new martyr was saying: “I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.” A new evangelist was preaching: “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour: Whom resist stedfast in the faith, knowing that the same afflictions are accomplished in your brethren that are in the world.” This world, it appeared, had changed very little in nineteen hundred years; the same human weakness confronted terrifying tasks, and the same moral efforts had to be made, the same injunctions to be laid down, over and over, world without end, Amen.
Without speaking a word, Trudi had said everything she had wanted to say to Lanny—or would have wanted to say if it had really been Trudi instead of Lanny’s subconscious mind! Lanny’s subconscious mind knew Trudi extremely well and would have no difficulty in making up words for her. So now, for the rest of Lanny’s life, Trudi was going to be standing at the foot of his bed, asking: “What have you done for the cause today? Are the workers any nearer to freedom from exploitation and war because of your efforts? Have you really had your mind upon it or have you just been having a good time as in the past?”
Unconsciously, automatically, in Lanny’s mind these exhortations would shade into those of the old-time religion which he had read in his boyhood and which his Puritan grandfather in Connecticut had hammered home in a Sunday-morning Bible class. “I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind,” and so on. “Not slothful in business; fervent in spirit, serving the Lord; Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continuing instant in prayer; Distributing to the necessity of saints”—this last word would have to be altered, of course, for they were no longer called saints, but comrades and fellowworkers. Their necessity was exactly the same, however, and Lanny had been one of the “distributors,” to the endless exasperation of his mother and her friends, of Rosemary and Marie and Irma, each in her turn resenting the coming of ragtag and bobtail to their homes, the flood of begging letters and of leftwing publications with flaring incitements and indecently bitter cartoons.
These begging visitors and letters came no more of late years, for Lanny was pretending to have lost interest in the “cause,” and only half a dozen friends shared his real thoughts. What Trudi now exhorted him was: “Get in touch with the underground again, and give them money so that the work may go on. Do not try to save me, because I am beyond help. Do not waste your time in grief or regrets, because what has happened cannot be changed, and your duty is to the future.”
Yes, he heard it all and knew it by heart. Trudi had said it, and he had assented, and must now obey her stern directive. He hadn’t intended to tell her about President Roosevelt, but in that ghostly meeting he had known that it was all right to tell her, and she had replied: “That is a truly important thing for you to do. If you can persuade That Man and bring him along with us, it will be the greatest service to the cause.”
“But can we trust him? Will he really do anything to help us?”—so he had asked, wavering in his soul.
“Nobody can be sure; perhaps he doesn’t know himself. But do what you can to open his eyes, and watch him and see what use he makes of your efforts.”
This from the Trudi-ghost bore a striking resemblance to what Lanny himself had been thinking. But that wasn’t evidential, for Lanny’s own thoughts had borne a close resemblance to Trudi’s. She had been occupied during a year of marriage and several years preceding marriage to make certain that this should be the case. She would hardly give up the effort now that she was in the spirit world—or was she in that world? Where was she, and what was she? Find out if you can!
BOOK TWO
Wrong Forever on the Throne
5
Forward into Battle
I
Lanny took up his life where he had left off. Zoltan Kertezsi, Hungarian art expert who had taught him his trade, had been to Salzburg for the festival and now arrived in Paris. Lanny dined with him in his apartment, and they talked shop through the meal; what paintings they had bought, or sold, or had orders to buy or sell, and the prices paid or offered. It might happen that Zoltan knew of something that met Lanny’s requirements, or vice versa; they helped each other, and would argue over a share in the profits, but reversing the usual procedure, the receiver insisting that he hadn’t really earned that much. Lanny had never told his friend what he was doing with his money, but the other must have guessed that he was giving it away for some purpose.
They talked about politics. Zoltan despised that vile world, but just now there was so much murder in the air of Europe that the smell of it reached even to the highest ivory-tower dweller. The urbane and gentle art expert described the plight of Salzburg, famous for its baroque architecture and its music festivals, conducted, as it were, just below the entrance to an ogre’s den. Hitler’s retreat at Berchtesgaden was a couple of miles up in the mountains, barely across the Austrian border, and now the Führer was summoning the statesmen of various small nations and setting forth his demands—which meant in every case that they should cease their resistance to Nazi agents who came in as tourists and occupied themselves with throwing the affairs of the country into turmoil. Every day Hitler felt himself stronger, and with each concession he wrung from others he was stronger yet.
When the two art lovers could no longer bear these painful thoughts, they played music. Zoltan was a violinist; no great artist like Hansi, but with a fine style of bowing and a lovely tone. He played the sort of music which corresponded to his gentle nature and delicate tastes. Lanny accompanied him, and it was just what he needed to soothe his hidden grief. They played early Italian arias by Tenaglia and Pergolesi, and the haunting cry, Have Pity, O Lord (Pietà, Signor’), which is said to have been written by the tenor Stradella. After that they played the slow movement from the Mendelssohn concerto, and when the tears ran down Lanny’s cheeks, he could exclaim: “Oh, how lovely!” without seeming affected or sentimental to his friend.
Before they parted, the American remarked: “By the way, Zoltan, do you happen to know anything about the Château de Belcour? I met someone who told me about interesting old French paintings there.”
“I have never heard them mentioned,” replied the other.
“The party I was talking to is no judge of art, but the descriptions sounded interesting, and I thought we might go some time and have a look.”
“Do you know the owners?”
“I think I have met the Duc de Belcour; but I understand the place has been rented to Graf Herzenberg, who is connected with the German embassy.”
“Not so good,” said the Hungarian. “But if you like I’ll make inquiry among some people who might know, and see what I can find out.”
“Good, and I’ll do the same. Be as quick as you can, because I have a deal that may take me to Valencia, and I’d better go before Franco gets any nearer.”
“That’s a pretty dangerous trip just now, Lanny.”
“I suppose so, but people get afraid that their art treasures are going to be destroyed by bombs and they offer them at bargain prices. One of my American clients has been tempted by some of the things I described to him, and he’s anxious for me to have a try at getting them out.”
II
From there the investigator went to call on his Red uncle, tough old warrior of the class struggle, who had been the means of seducing the youthful Lanny away from the faith of his fathers, suggesting to him that la belle France was not the altogether admirable lady she had seemed. Jesse Blackless still lived in the tenement on Montmartre, among the humble people whose cause he had espoused; he had moved to an apartment on a lower floor, because the climbing of stairs was too hard o
n his heart. His faithful wife had given up her work in the Party offices and was helping him as secretary; with the class struggle intensifying, there were more speeches to be made, more documents to be filed, more funds to be raised.
Jesse hadn’t seen his sister Beauty Budd in a long while, and Lanny told the news from his home on the Riviera and the one in Connecticut. Jesse, for his part, rarely had any news, except on that filthy subject of politics. He was even more contemptuous of it than Zoltan, for he knew its real insides; but somebody had to clean the Augean stables, and a third-rate portrait painter had made himself into a first-rate muckrake man. He had lost nearly all his hair, and his scalp, which had once been browned in Riviera sunshine, had been bleached in the close atmosphere of the Palais Bourbon, which housed the deputies of the French parliament. Député Zhess Block-léss, as the French called him, was wrinkled and lean, but his tongue was as sharp and active as a whiplash.
He had always talked freely to his nephew, who was not to be converted to the uncle’s Communist Party line, but was a good listener and also a mine of information about the class which Jesse desired to “liquidate.” Just now the deputy was especially stirred up, for the civil war in Paris appeared to be near the boiling point. The French Fascists were split among themselves by the ambitions of their rival leaders; and, said Uncle Jesse: “When thieves fall out, the Reds come into their own!” A story had come to the deputy’s ears, and he was collecting evidence with the intention of blowing it wide in the Chambre. The Cagoulards, the “Hooded Men,” who had been beating and murdering their opponents, were preparing their final coup to overthrow the French republic and set up a dictatorship of the Right. They had got arms from both Germany and Italy, and had them hidden in hundreds of places all over the land.
It was the Franco procedure all over again, and among the conspirators were Marshal Pétain, the hero of Verdun, and General Weygand, who had been Foch’s chief of staff; also Chiappe, the Corsican head of the Paris police, and Doriot, former Communist leader said to have sold out his party and bought himself an estate in Belgium with money got from the Nazis. CSAR was the name of this group—Comité pour Secret Action Révolutiormaire—and their funds were coming not merely from abroad but from anti-labor forces in France, including the tire manufacturer Michelin, and Baron Schneider, the armaments king. Again the parallel with Spain; Franco having got his funds from Juan March, ex-smuggler who had become tobacco king of that country, and his guns and tanks and planes from Hitler and Mussolini.
Uncle Jesse said: “The de Bruynes ought to know a lot about all that. Can’t you get them to talk and bring me their story?”
“Sure,” said Lanny. “But for heaven’s sake, don’t mention my having been here. And by the way, Uncle Jesse, here’s a story that may be of use to you. I have heard a report that the Nazis have a château not far from Paris, where they take people from the underground and hold them. Do you know anything about it?”
“I have heard such stories more than once, and I don’t doubt them. Manifestly, the Nazis aren’t going to let the underground operate without hindrance.”
“The story I was told is quite specific. It has to do with the Château de Belcour, which has been leased by someone in the German embassy. The person who told me doesn’t want it talked about at present, because he believes they have an important prisoner there, and if they are alarmed, they’ll take the prisoner into Germany.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” replied the Red deputy.
“And one thing more,” added his nephew; “I want to go to Valencia on a picture deal. Can you get the visa for me?”
“Any time you say,” replied the uncle, who had close connections with the Spanish embassy in Paris because his party in Spain was collaborating in the national defense.
“Make it as soon as you can,” said the nephew. “Things look bad there and later might be too late.”
III
Next on Lanny’s list was one of his oldest friends, Emily Chatters-worth, châtelaine of the very grand estate known as Les Forêts. A childless woman, Emily had tried to find happiness in a career as salonnière; now her health was failing and she was sad, because in the rage of these times she saw the death of urbanity, dignity, even common honesty in that France which was her adopted home. She loved Lanny as a son, and he could never pass through Paris without driving out to see her. Old friends are a part of life’s treasure—also old places, such as this château with an artificial lake behind it, and a lawn shaded by plane trees, where Anatole France had sat and discoursed upon the scandals of the long-dead sovereigns of his country. Inside was a drawing-room where Isadora Duncan had danced to Lanny’s piano playing; also where Bessie Budd had fallen in love with the violin playing of Hansi Robin.
Emily now had snow-white hair and a slowing step; a stroll in her rose garden was all that she was equal to. She had invited two nieces from the Middle West to live with her, and both of them were fine young women whom Lanny might have invited to go for a drive with him; he was in the embarrassing position of being supposed to be “eligible” when he wasn’t. What he did was to tell the three ladies the news he had collected in America and England and Paris, omitting for the most part the distressful subject of politics. He talked for a while about paintings and finally said: “By the way, Emily, do you know the Duc de Belcour?”
“He used to come to my salons, but I haven’t seen him for years.”
“I understand he has some paintings that he might like to get rid of. He has rented his estate, you know.”
“I heard so—to some German.”
“No doubt I can get Kurt to introduce me to the German; but first I’d like to make sure the comte approves my inspection.”
“I don’t know where he is now,” said Emily; “but I’ll give you a letter to him with pleasure.”
“Thanks, darling,” replied the art expert. It is convenient to know people who can introduce you to anybody in the great world. It is like having a large library at your disposal; you don’t know everything that is in every book, but you know what book to go to.
As a matter of precaution he asked: “Can you tell me anything about his politics?”
“I haven’t heard of late. He’s le vrai gratin, so doubtless he’s a Royalist.”
“A Royalist these days can be anything from an intellectual bandit like Maurras to a devotee of the Church.”
“Belcour was a reserved and proper little man. I cannot imagine him joining the enragés.”
“Thanks again,” said Lanny.
IV
His next duty was to call up Denis de Bruyne. He had promised Marie on her deathbed that he would help to guard and guide her boys—and little could that dear soul have dreamed the use he would make of the intimacy! Denis always invited him out to the château; he would call at Lanny’s hotel on Friday afternoon and return him on Monday morning. On the way out they talked about the two families; Denis, a business associate of Robbie Budd and a heavy stockholder in the airplane enterprise, was interested to hear all news about the plant. The head of the family was nearing seventy; his spare frame erect and active, his white hair and little mustache always neatly trimmed, his manner that of a grave père de famille. The château was no more than a fair-sized villa, with lovely but unpretentious grounds. A long wall facing the south was covered by carefully trained grapevines and peach and apricot trees. The house was of red stone, and its furnishings had been handed down through half a dozen generations. The place had been one of Lanny’s homes, and whenever he came here he lived over his happy years with Marie de Bruyne.
On the drive out, Denis imparted a strange item of news to his guest. He lowered his voice, even though there was a glass shield between him and the chauffeur, and though this chauffeur, the son of an old family servant, had been jokingly described as “the most conservative man in France.” “You will find changes on the place,” said the master. “I hope you won’t be too greatly distressed.”
“What are
they?” asked the guest, who understood that all changes are distressing to a conservative Frenchman.
“We have felt it necessary to protect ourselves, and have erected a small fortification in the garden.”
“Good God!” Lanny wanted to say; but he had learned to guard his tongue, and remarked: “Not for the boches, I suppose—but for, the canaille?”
“Precisely,” replied his host. “I have reason to feel sure that the present tension cannot continue much longer.”
“But why should you think that troublemakers would pay any special attention to your home?”
“We have something in storage that they will surely be interested in.”
“I see,” said Lanny. There was nothing in this idea to startle him unduly, for there was a partly underground storage room at Bienvenu, once used as an ice-house, and ever since Lanny could remember Robbie had kept it full of machine guns, rifles, carbines, automatic pistols, and ammunition for all of them. Robbie had never had any idea of using these weapons, except for demonstrations; they were samples of what he had to sell, and he meant for people to use them a long way off, in China, South America, or the Balkans.
When they reached the château, Denis took his guest and showed him a perfect little “pillbox” of reinforced concrete with firing-slits on all sides. It stood on a knoll which commanded the rest of the estate and a valley slightly below it. Only the wall with the vines and fruit trees stood in the way, and Denis remarked, casually: “We shall have to blow that up, of course.”
V
Lanny learned what this was all about when he met the sons at the family dinner table. Denis fils, now over thirty, had a gentle and well-bred wife who ran the household; they had three children, who had been taught to give Lanny the honorary title of “uncle.” Charlot, two years younger, was an engineer, and had been put in charge of the technical side of a plant which his father had recently taken over; his wife and two little ones were also part of the household. Charlot was especially fond of his mother’s former ami, considering him as his teacher in political and economic affairs. In fulfillment of his duties as a sort of foster father, Lanny had tried to awaken a social conscience in these two boys. As time passed, he had come to realize that he couldn’t make them think as he thought, and that if he did so, he would be only breaking up their home life; so he had given up and let them travel their own way. But they had not forgotten his early attempts, and had the idea that they were applying the lessons in their own fashion. Of late years, since Lanny had decided to crawl “underground” and hide, he had assented to everything the de Bruynes had told him; so now he was, in their estimation, one of themselves.
Presidential Agent (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 12
