IX
That was the line the father was going to take. Budd’s didn’t engage in any wars; Budd’s made munitions, and played no favorites. The father found time, in the midst of excitements and confusions, to hammer that fact in and rivet it. “I’ll have to go back to Newcastle, to try to straighten out my father and brothers; and I don’t want my son to step into anybody’s bear trap. Remember, there never was a war in which the right was all on one side. And remember that in every war both sides lie like hell. That’s half the battle—keeping up the spirits of your own crowd, and getting allies to help you. Truth is whatever you can get believed. Remember it every time you pick up a newspaper.”
The father went on to prove his case. He told how Bismarck had forged a telegram in order to get the Franco-Prussian war started when he was ready for it. He told about the intrigues of the Tsar’s government, the most despotic and corrupt in Europe. He explained how the great financial interests, the steel cartels, the oil and electrical trusts, and the banks which financed them, controlled both France and Germany. They owned properties in both countries, and would see that those properties were protected; they would make billions of profits, and buy new properties, and be more than ever masters, however the war might end.
“And that’s all right,” continued the father; “that’s their business; only remember it isn’t yours. Remember that among their properties are all the big newspapers. Find out who owns the one you read.” Robbie took up several that were lying on the table. “This is the de Wendels’,” he said; “the Comité des Forges—the steel trust that runs French politics. This one is Schneider-Creusot. And here’s your old friend Zaharoff!”
The father opened one paper, and asked: “Did you get this little story?” He pointed to an account of a state ceremony which had taken place on the previous day—Zaharoff had been promoted to commander of the Legion of Honor. A strange bit of irony, that it should have happened the day that Jaurès was shot! “I don’t hold any brief for Socialist tub-thumpers,” said Robbie; “but he was perhaps honest, as you heard Pastier say. They shoot him, and they give one of their highest honors to an old Levantine trader who would sell the whole country tomorrow for a hundred million francs.”
Practically all the Americans in Paris sympathized with France, because they believed that France had wanted peace, and because it was a republic. But Robbie wouldn’t leave it at that. What counted nowadays was business, and the oil, steel, and munitions men of France wanted what all the others wanted. “Is it peace when you lend billions of francs to Russia, and force them to spend the money for arms to fight Germany?”
“I suppose you’re right,” the boy had to admit.
“Put yourself in the place of the German people—your friend Kurt, and his family, and millions like them. They look to their eastern border—”
“A dark cloud of barbarism, the Graf Stubendorf called it,” Lanny remembered suddenly.
“Russian diplomacy has one purpose—to get Constantinople, and that means to keep Germany from getting it. Russia is called a steam roller, and it’s built to roll westward; the French paid for it, and taught the Russians how to run it. Of course the Germans will fight like hell to stop it.”
“Who do you think’s going to win, Robbie?” Purely as a sporting proposition, it got a boy keyed up.
“Nobody on earth can say. The French are setting out for Berlin, and the Germans for Paris; they’ll meet, and there’ll be a smash, and one side or the other will crumple. The only thing you can be sure of is that it won’t be a long war.”
“How long?”
“Three or four months. Both sides would go bankrupt if it lasted longer.”
“And what will England do?”
“I could make a pile of money if I knew. The men who have to make the decision are running around like a lot of ants when you turn over a stone. If England had said she’d defend France, there wouldn’t have been any war. But that’s the trouble with countries that have parliaments, they can’t make up their minds to anything—not until it’s too late.”
X
Harry Murchison had put down his money and engaged a stateroom for two on a steamer sailing the next day; also a berth for Lanny in another stateroom. He had done this before the rush began, and now it was a part of his “ultimatum.” He and Beauty could be married that night; or they could be married by the captain of the steamer. Harry came two or three times during the day to plead his cause and argue against the folly of hesitation. He would lock the door so that nobody could interrupt them, and he wouldn’t let her answer the telephone; he was a young man who had been used to having his own way most of his life. He hadn’t much consideration for Beauty’s feelings; he said that she was somewhat hysterical right now, and didn’t really know her own mind. Once the die was cast, the marriage words spoken, she’d settle down and be glad somebody had acted for her.
It was the technique known in America as “high-pressure salesmanship.” Beauty would beg for time, but Harry would insist: “I’ve got to sail on that steamer. There’s going to be an awful lot of plate glass smashed in the next few months, and I’ve got to be in Pittsburgh to see about replacing it.”
“Don’t leave me, Harry,” the tormented woman pleaded. “Surely you can put it off one more week.”
“If you don’t go now you mayn’t be able to go until the war’s over. Call up the steamship company and see what they tell you. Everything is booked for months ahead, and there’s talk of our government having to send steamers to get Americans out of Europe.”
Robbie decided suddenly that he had better go too. Cablegrams were being delayed and censorship might stop them entirely. He told Harry that if Beauty rejected the chance, he’d take her half of the stateroom. “But don’t let her know it!” he hastened to add. “If she goes, I’ll manage to get on board somehow.” Robbie was a friend of all the steamship people, and knew discreet ways to arrange matters. “They can put a cot in the captain’s cabin,” he remarked, smiling.
It was a trying position for Lanny, not knowing whether his future was to be on the French Riviera or in a smoky valley of steel and coal three thousand miles to the west. He made no complaint for himself, but he did think that the cards were being stacked against Marcel. It was an elementary principle of justice that both sides should be represented in any court. Lanny had a strong impulse to represent the painter, but Robbie had asked him to keep his hands off, and Robbie’s wish was a command.
In between codings and decodings, Lanny would go to see his mother, and tell her that he loved her—that was about all he could say. Toward evening he found Mrs. Emily with her; and these two fashionable ladies had tears running down their cheeks. It wasn’t because of Beauty’s problems, nor was it the million Frenchwomen left at home to face the thought of bereavement. It was a terrible story which Mrs. Emily had brought. While troops were marching and crowds shouting and singing in all the streets, fate had chosen to strike another blow at Isadora Duncan. She had lain in agony for many hours, trying to bear her baby; and at last when it was placed in her arms, she had felt it suddenly beginning to turn cold. She screamed, and the attendants came running and tried to save it, but in vain; in a few minutes the spark of life had expired, and that unhappy woman was desolate again.
“Oh, my God, what has happened to the world?” whispered Lanny’s mother. It certainly seemed as if some devil had got hold of affairs, at least temporarily. Everybody had been so happy, the playground of Europe had seemed such a delightful place—and here it was being turned into a charnel house, a sepulcher not even whited.
“I see those pitiful men marching away,” said Mrs. Emily, “and I think how the hospitals and the graves will be filled with them, and it just seems more than a woman can bear.”
“I know,” said Beauty; “it’s one of the reasons why I’m so tempted to flee from France.”
“If the Germans break through,” said the other woman, “my home lies directly in their path.”
> “Surely the Germans wouldn’t harm that beautiful place!” exclaimed Lanny’s mother. But then right away she remembered having heard how the Turks used the Parthenon to store powder in!
XI
Robbie and his son went to dinner. Beauty declined their invitation; she couldn’t eat anything, she said. They guessed that Harry was coming again. The time was getting short; if she was going she had a lot of packing to do. Apparently she was, for Mrs. Emily had given her another talking to. Also Robbie had been with her—and Robbie was not following the course he had advised for his son.
Father and son came back to the hotel, and there were more delayed cables. But Beauty phoned; she wanted very much to talk to Lanny—just a few minutes, she promised—and Robbie said all right, he’d go on with the decoding himself.
Beauty was pale, seeming more distraught than ever; she was walking up and down the room, twisting her hands together. “Marcel has gone to war,” she announced.
There was a telegram lying on the table, and Lanny read it. “I have been called to the colors. God bless you. Love.” No high-pressure salesmanship here!
“Lanny I’ve got to make up my mind now!” exclaimed the mother. “I’ve got to decide our whole future.”
“Yes, Beauty,” said the boy, quietly.
“I want to think about your happiness, as well as my own.”
“Don’t bother about me, Beauty. I’m going to make the best of whatever you decide. If you’re Harry’s wife, I’ll make myself agreeable and never give you any worry.”
“It’ll mean that you go to live in America. Will you like that?”
“I don’t know, because I don’t know what I’ll find; but I’ll get along.”
“Tell me what you really prefer.”
Lanny hesitated. “Robbie doesn’t want me to interfere, Beauty.”
“I know; but I’m asking. I have to think about both of us. If you had your choice—if you had nothing to consider but your own wishes—where would you go?”
Lanny thought for a while. His father could hardly object to his answering a straight question like that. Finally he said: “I’d go back to Juan.”
“You like it there so well?”
“I’ve always been happy there. That’s my home.”
“But now there’s going to be war. It mayn’t be safe any more.”
“Those French warships will stay in the Golfe, I imagine; and it isn’t likely anybody’s going to lick the British and French fleets.”
“But Italy has some sort of a treaty with Germany and Austria. Doesn’t she have to help them fight?”
“Italy has just announced that she will take a ‘defensive attitude.’ Robbie says that means they’ll wait, and see which side offers them the most. That’s bound to be England, because she has money.”
“Our friends all talk about going back to America. It’ll be lonely at Juan.”
“Maybe for you,” said the boy. “But you know how it is—I never did see enough of my mother. We could read, and play music, and swim, and wait for Marcel to come back.” Lanny stopped, not being sure if it was fair for him to mention that aspect of the matter.
The mother’s voice trembled as she said: “He may never come back, Lanny.”
“There’s a chance, of course. But Robbie says the war won’t last long. And Marcel may never see any fighting—Robbie thinks the Provençal regiments will be kept on the Italian border, at least till they’re sure what Italy’s going to do. And then again, Marcel might come back wounded, and we’d both want to take care of him. It wouldn’t be nice to know that he was hurt, and in need of help, and we couldn’t give it.”
“I know, Lanny, I know.” The tears were starting again in the beautiful blue eyes. “That’s what has been tearing my heart in half.” She sat with her hands clasped tightly together, and the boy watched her lips trembling. “That’s really what you want to do, isn’t it, Lanny?”
“You asked me to tell you.”
“I know. I couldn’t decide it all by myself. If I do what you say, I may be a forlorn and desolate old woman. You won’t get tired of me?”
“You can bet I won’t.”
“And you’ll stand by Marcel? You’ll help us, whatever hard things may come?”
“Indeed I will.”
“You’ll be a French boy, Lanny—not an American.”
“I’ll be a bit of everything, as I am now. That hasn’t hurt me.” He tried to conceal his joy, but didn’t succeed altogether. “You really mean it, Beauty?”
“I mean it. Or, rather, I’ll let you mean it for me. I’m a weak and foolish woman, Lanny. I oughtn’t to have got into this jam at all. You’ll have to take charge of me and make me behave myself.”
“Well, I’ve wanted to sometimes,” admitted the youngster. He wasn’t sure whether he ought to laugh or cry. “Oh, Beauty, I really think it’s the right thing to do!”
“All right, I’ll believe you. I’ll have to write a note to Harry. I just haven’t the courage to see him again.”
“That’s all right—he ought to stop worrying you. He really hasn’t any claim to you.”
“He has, Lanny—more than you can guess. But I’ll tell him it’s all over—and we’ll never see Pittsburgh.”
“I can get along without so much smoke,” declared the boy.
“I think I’d better tell Robbie first,” said the mother. “Maybe he can help to break the shock to Harry. He’ll tell him I’m not really as good as I look!”
“Harry won’t suffer so much,” said the young man of the world. “There’ll be plenty of girls on the steamer willing to marry him.”
“He’s a dear, kind fellow, Lanny—you’re not in a position to appreciate him. I’ll write him, and he can sail tomorrow, and you and I will go to Juan right away. I’ll save and pay my debts, and give up trying to shine in society—do you think there’ll ever be any more society in Europe, Lanny?”
So it was settled at last; and so it was done. Robbie and Harry sailed the next day—with nobody to see them off. Beauty was packing up her many belongings, with the help of the maid whom she had engaged for her Paris sojourn, but whom she was not taking to the Riviera. Lanny was helping all he could, and writing a letter to Rick, and also one to Marcel, which he hoped would some day be delivered by the postal service of the French army. The army was rather preoccupied on that particular day—since it happened to be the one which the Kaiser’s troops had chosen for the invading of Luxembourg and France.
BOOK THREE
Bella Gerant Alii
12
Loved I Not Honour More
I
The August sun on the Riviera is a blinding white glare and a baking heat. In it the grapes ripen to deepest purple and olives fill themselves to bursting with golden oil. Men and women born and raised in the Midi have skins filled with dark pigments to protect them, and they can work in the fields without damage to their complexions. But to a blond daughter of chill and foggy New England the excess of light and heat assumed an aspect hostile and menacing; an enemy seeking to dry the juices out of her nerves, cover her fair skin with scaly brown spots, and deprive her of those charms by which and for which she had been living.
So Beauty Budd had to hide in the protection of a shuttered house, and have an electric fan to blow away the heat from her body. She rarely went out until after sundown, and since there was no one to look at her during the day, she yielded gradually to the temptation of not taking too much trouble. She would wear her old dressing gowns to save the new ones, and let her son see her with hair straggling. She got little exercise, there being nothing for her to do in a house with servants.
The result was that terror which haunts the lives of society ladies, the monster known as embonpoint, a most insidious enemy, who keeps watch at the gates of one’s being like a cat at a gopher hole. It never sleeps, and never forgets, but stays on the job, ready to take advantage of every moment of weakness or carelessness. It creeps upon you one milligram at a ti
me—for the advances of this enemy are not measured in space but in avoirdupois. With it, everything is gain and nothing loss; what it wins it keeps. The battle with this unfairest of fiends became the chief concern of Beauty’s life, and the principal topic of her conversation in the bosom of her family.
No use looking to the government for help. During the course of the war the inhabitants of the great cities would be rationed, and those of whole countries such as Germany and Britain; but over the warm valleys of the Riviera roamed cattle, turning grass into rich cream, and there were vast cellars and caves filled with barrels of olive oil, and new supplies forming in billions of tiny black globes on the gnarled and ancient trees. Figs were ripening, bees were busy making honey—in short, war or no war, a lady who received a thousand dollars’ worth of credit every month in the invulnerable currency of the United States of America could have delivered at her door unlimited quantities of oleaginous and saccharine materials.
Nor could the trapped soul expect help from the servants who waited upon her. Leese, the cook, was fat and hearty, and Rosine, the maid, would become so in due course, and both of them were set in the conviction that this was the proper way for women to be. “C’est la nature,” was the formula of all the people of the South of France for all the weaknesses of the flesh. They looked with dismay upon the fashion of Anglo-Saxon ladies to keep themselves in a semi-starved condition under the impression that this was the way to be beautiful; they would loudly insist that the practice was responsible for whatever headache, crise de nerfs, or other malaise such ladies might experience. Leese fried her fish and her rice in olive oil, and her desserts were mixed with cream; she would set a little island of butter afloat in the center of each plate of potage, and crown every sort of sweet with a rosette or curlicue of fat emulsified and made into snow-white bubbles of air. If she was asked not to do these things, she would exercise an old family servant’s right to forget.
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