The Eagles Gather

by Taylor Caldwell

  Adelaide feared that Christopher would wound Celeste. She never thought Celeste might destroy Christopher.

  One day he said playfully to his sister: “One of these days you and I will go away, somewhere, alone, and you shall be my housekeeper and my hostess. Just you and I, alone. Would you like that?”

  And she had replied with eager affection: “Yes, yes! That would be wonderful!”

  But he had not been satisfied. He had looked into her lovely blue eyes and had seen no passion in them, no understanding. They were the eyes of a child, who knew nothing at all.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Francis Bouchard, second-cousin of Christopher, and president of The Kinsolving Arms, said facetiously of the other young man:

  “Chris’ determination to keep Celeste ‘pure’ is an objective manifestation of his subjective opinion that he, and all of us, are really ‘nasty men.’ He’s a Puritan at heart.”

  This description of Christopher as a Puritan aroused long and hearty laughter among the Bouchards. None of them had any affection for him. In all the world, no one loved him but Celeste, and, in spite of everything, his mother. But Francis Bouchard, the angular, the frigidly blond, with his bitter ice-blue eyes and sleepless exigency and unscrupulousness, had a liking for him, and a respect. Nearing forty, Francis was already famous for his ability to smell a victor far off, and the other Bouchards began to take serious interest in his growing friendship for Christopher. There had always been a casual and subtle liking between them. Now it was noticed that Francis had a habit of dropping in to see his cousin (who was secretary of Bouchard and Sons), and spending an agreeable half hour or so with him at least twice a week. There were apparently no secret consultations; the door was always ajar, or their voices were always audible through the glass walls. But Christopher, who laughed very little as a rule, could often be heard to laugh. There was a malicious quality in his laughter, which, like his speaking voice, was without resonance or depth. This laugh, more than his “Egyptian” eyes and immobile smile, warned off honest men.

  One of the chief complaints of Christopher’s acquaintances was that he was acridly witty at times, vitriolically wry at others, but had no real sense of humor. This was true, for he never forgot the slightest affront, the slightest indifference. These were carefully stored away in his box of vengeance together with great affronts, and even injuries. The pettiest revenge gave him a sense of relief and satisfaction, like the lancing of a small but aching boil. He could wait for years. In the meantime, the unsuspecting offender was treated with usual politeness and amiability. Then all at once he found himself struck or smarting, routed, and when he looked about him, puzzled, he would see Christopher’s faint smile and motionless eyes. Many of the offenders, being decent men, were immediately more ashamed of Christopher, then, than they were of the original, and perhaps unintentional, affront. Those who could, kept away from him, partly from fear and partly from the dread of having again to encounter such degrading meanness in another man.

  Emile had once called Christopher “that venomous silver snake.” Christopher had heard of it, for he, too, like all other men, had “friends.” He stored it up. He put the affront far down in his box, however, because he knew that he and Emile had much work to do. Malice could wait on expediency, however it ached to be satisfied, and however almost maniacal vanity throbbed in secret.

  Christopher was thirty-seven in 1925, to Francis’ forty. Francis was very tall, Christopher only middle-height. But their general build, their avidity, their coloring, their fleshlessness and their expressions, gave them a startling resemblance to each other. Whatever small infusion of French blood they both possessed was not evident in their Anglo-Saxon fairness and American swiftness of thought and objective action. (Francis’ coloring and distinctly American physiognomy, a type to be found in profusion in the South and West, was a great disappointment to his wife, Estelle, who had a romantic turn of mind.)

  The friendship grew obviously closer. Armand, rubbing his bullet-head, and pursing up his thick sullen lips, felt uneasy. There was a French subtlety in him, which smelled danger. He well knew that both Christopher, his brother, and Francis, his cousin, hated and derided him. He knew how intrinsically evil both of them were. His uneasiness was rooted in his soul, that soul that knew the malaise of probity on many impotent occasions. Often, when thinking of them, his broad sallow forehead would wrinkle up; his scalp, under the thinning graying auburn hair, would wrinkle. He would jingle the coins in his pocket, and feel a momentary comfort. Then his formless misery would return. He would look about for some one to whom he could confide his vague uneasiness. But there was no one but his mother, and she, poor soul, would only be frightened by any of his confidences.

  He was president of Bouchard and Sons, and therefore the most powerful of the clan, the final voice in any of the subsidiaries. He tried to take comfort from this. For a time it did comfort him. Then eventually his uneasiness became sharper when he realized that his very powerfulness made him more the object of hatred and envy and greed.

  Armand was not the type of man who hates indiscriminately. He hated Christopher and Francis more than he ever had, or would, hate any other men. But even this hatred was eager to be dissolved and reconciled into friendship. He felt some dreary pleasure in his yearning to be on better terms with these watchful enemies; it gave his inner integrity, small though it was, a feeling of virtue and strength and patience. Most of the yearning was sincere, for there was a spot of wistful softness in him; but it was also related to apprehension.

  He made an effort to approach Francis on a more intimate basis. To his surprise, and gratification, Francis received his approaches amiably and with open interest. What Armand did not see (for he did not possess much duplicity) was that Francis’ attitude was identical with that of a buyer who has already been approached by one salesman and is now approached by another.

  Armand was the most powerful, and so Francis listened and watched. But there were some things Armand would not do. In spite of his big swollen body and comical short legs, round red face and little jet eyes, he had a pleasant slow smile which inspired trust. In spite of his role at Geneva, at Locarno and Versailles, in spite of his huge greed and unhiding rapacity, there were still things he would not do. And these things that he would not do inspired Francis’ contempt for him, and his derision. The fact that Armand came to him with a genuine attempt to be friends only increased this contempt and derision. Christopher was activated by no such emotion. He might have a strong liking for Francis, whom he resembled so closely, but that liking would not have prevented him from cutting Francis’ throat, if necessary. And Francis, smiling to himself, respected him.

  Part of Francis’ genius was his ability to make right decisions swiftly. He made his decision, after a short time, in favor of Christopher. It was a long gamble, and would take years. But he could wait. However, he left one small door open through which to admit Armand, should there be a radical change.

  None of the clan was at all deceived in Christopher’s character. They knew what he was. They knew his silent and deadly ambition, his enormous vanity and capacity for revenge. Therefore, when Jules had died, and it was discovered what had been left to Christopher, and that he would, indeed, be almost a lackey to his older brother, the clan had laughed with huge enjoyment. They had let Christopher see the glittering edges of their laughter, for all their innate wariness of him.

  They were not at all surprised by his brilliance in Geneva and in Europe generally. But they were surprised that he showed so little rancor and open detestation for Armand. He had always had a delicately insulting manner towards Armand. Now it was tempered into a pale shadow of amiability. Most of them were deceived.

  But Armand was not deceived.

  For a time the soft inner spot of integrity and generosity was uneasy. He had tried to make some amends to Christopher. He had doubled his salary as secretary. On his birthday, he had given his brother a block of stock in The American Auto
motive Company, and for a Christmas present, made him a director in The United Utah Railroad and its subsidiaries, at a handsome salary. Does he think he can buy me? thought Christopher with coldly raging hatred. But he took the stock with much gratitude, and collected the extra salary. His enmity and vengeance grew faster, now, like a malign growth. His natural malignancy stood behind his eyes whenever he thought of his brother.

  The others began to watch, with increasing interest and malevolence. Francis’ brothers watched intently: Jean (deadly little Jean) and Hugo, the buff-colored and jovial politician. But none watched so intently as Emile, the brother of Armand and Christopher.

  Emile, the treacherous and opportunistic, the agreeable and athletic and bulky, the generous and the egotistic, was vice-president of Bouchard and Sons, at a salary twice that of Christopher’s, and one half that of Armand’s. In comparison with Emile, Christopher was poor.

  Emile was watching. He was sleepless in his watching. He never took sides in any family disputes, partly from a natural aversion to quarrels, and partly because he never knew from which antagonist he might want a favor in the future. Too, he was incapable of the slightest loyalty, whether personal or in business. Yet, because he never gossipped about any one, and was never heard to make a malicious or scandalous or nasty observation about another, he had a reputation for loyalty among the clan. He would listen, with obvious amusement and interest, and his laughter would be as loud as any one’s, but he would merely shake his head and smile, or leave, if pressed for an opinion. He had no reticence about making a thrusting observation to a man’s face, but this was done with so much candor and “frankness,” and he had such a reputation for not “talking about any one behind his back,” that he aroused little offense. Of them all, only Christopher was not deceived.

  Christopher well knew that Emile would join the victor, or a potential victor, with alacrity. But until he was certain that a given man would be the victor, he would do nothing.

  Armand trusted Emile more than he did any one else among his relatives. His secret integrity protested faintly, smelling an enemy. But he quieted it. Emile, who never gossipped nor sneered, and who was indifferent to intrigue, surely could be trusted.

  And so it was that Armand, growing more and more uneasy and formlessly apprehensive, went one day into his brother’s office.

  CHAPTER IX

  By this time there were already two distinct factions in the Bouchard clan. But Armand did not know it, though his soul suspected it.

  On the side of Christopher were Francis Bouchard and his politician brother, Hugo, and all their subordinates, including directors and vice-presidents and other executives, and political lackeys. Hugo, married to Christine Southwood, had inherited the throne of her father, “Billie” Southwood, as Chairman of the Republican Party in Pennsylvania. His salary received from Endicott James of New York (publicity agents and attorneys for Bouchard and Sons) was huge. But his own private fortune was more enormous than the most sanguine of his relatives suspected. This was in addition to three directorships on the boards of the subsidiaries, and his holdings in these subsidiaries. His magnetic personality was no small part of his assets. Jean said of him that he was a club in brown velvet with a gold handle. His wife, for all his genial infidelities, adored him; his three young daughters worshipped him. He was much more formidable than he appeared, a fact which the unfortunate Armand overlooked.

  On the side of Armand was the bachelor, Nicholas Bouchard, son of the recently dead Leon, and now president of the Windsor National Bank, and a director in both the Manhattan Merchants Trust Company, and the internationally potent Morse National Bank, which Jay Regan controlled. Nicholas, thirty-five years old in 1925, was short, Napoleonic, in appearance much like his dead father, stubborn, sullen, avaricious, rather dull but tenacious, suspicious, silent, slow to think and act, but dogged and astute. His personality alone would have inclined him more to Armand than to Christopher, whom he detested. He was no asset to any gay party, but was always and assiduously wooed, in spite of his dun coloring, his greenish skin and eyes and hair, and disagreeable grating voice and uncouth manners. (His sisters-in-law constantly tried to marry him off to their women friends, without success. His faithful inamorata was the stout middle-aged widow of a former police chief, a cozy woman who could cook delightfully and who looked like the mother of half a dozen children.) And also on the side of Armand (astonishingly!) was deadly little Jean, brother of Francis, about thirty-eight years old. He was secretary to his uncle, Andre Bouchard, president of The Sessions Steel Company, and married to his cousin, Alexa, a big Wagnerian blond. This smiling little man with his full dimpled face, wide, whitetoothed smile and small sparkling black eyes, resembled Emile somewhat, and was great friends with him. His wit, his gaiety, his laughter and affectionate and sympathetic manner, made him a tremendous favorite. But he was far more intellectual than Francis, subtle and extremely dangerous. More than any one else in the family, he looked excessively French.

  The subordinates of Nicholas and Jean, their friends and associates in New York, were naturally on the side of Armand, also.

  The city of Windsor was soon cognizant of the two factions.

  Emile remained aloof from both, but continued his watching. He was wooed surreptitiously by both, but gave encouragement to neither. He maintained his reputation for “loyalty,” and was therefore more assiduously wooed than ever. Under it all, suspected only by Christopher, were his resentment and his rage against Armand.

  Armand, for all that he was the most powerful of the family, entered Emile’s office diffidently. The secret integrity within him always made him diffident in the presence of treachery and duplicity, though he never understood just why it was that he was diffident with Emile. He thought it was because Emile seemed so sure of himself, so compact and flamboyantly forceful.

  “Come in, sit down!” said Emile cordially, rising and indicating a chair. He smiled. It was a pleasant smile and showed his good teeth.

  Armand lowered his big-bellied bulk into the chair and sighed. It was a warm spring day. He looked about the opulent office with inner distaste. It seemed hot and overpowering to him. He pulled out a big linen handkerchief, slightly soiled, and wiped his large round red face, with its pursy and worried expression. He helped himself to one of Emile’s cigars, and Emile lit it for him.

  Jules had insisted upon his sons becoming as familiar with French as with their native language, English. Accordingly, his sons lapsed into French as easily as American Jews lapsed into affectionate or intimate Yiddish during family conferences. Too, French was closer to the natures of both Armand and Emile than it was to the Anglo-Saxon Christopher, their brother, though he had a greater dexterity with that language than they had, and seemed to understand its exquisite nuances more thoroughly.

  Armand began to speak with an absentminded pettishness which led the cunning Emile to believe that he had not come here just to speak of business:

  “I still think it was a mistake for one of us not to go to the Locarno Conference.” He paused, and fixed his little jet eyes upon his brother and frowned. “This is extremely important. We shall end up short, as we did at the Washington Naval Conference.”

  “Oh, we did not do so badly at Washington, Armand! Besides, I have it on excellent authority, as I told you the other day, that Congress will soon be asked to approve a new naval program calling for twenty-two ten-thousand-ton cruisers costing about twenty million dollars apiece. You have noticed the groundwork: the insolence of Britain in openly asserting that she still rules the waves—” He laughed. “Or rather, I should say, the insolence of the shipbuilders! A clever but obvious touch, that, was it not? I am still waiting to be congratulated on that suggestion.”

  “I thought it was Francis’ suggestion to the British shipbuilders,” said Armand absently, staring at the floor.

  “No! It was mine. You remember, it was in 1921. I said to Robsons himself: Temperate language never built a battleship. Call in you
r editors.” He called them in and said: ‘Gentlemen, Britain’s survival, expansion and welfare depend on one thing: an unsurpassed Navy. As the proposal now stands, the United States and Japan together will surpass us. Our life depends on equalizing that inequality. Britannia MUST still rule the waves.’ The next day, as a result, the Emerson Shipbuilding Company stock went up five points.”

  “Our stock,” said Armand gloomily, “is down two points today, though all other stocks are rising.”

  “If it does not rise steadily you are inconsolable,” answered Emile lightly. “Wait, my farmer with the goose-that-lays-the-golden-eggs! You are too cynical. You know what is coming. See, only this morning Robsons-Strong informed me that they have just perfected an amphibious tank that swims like a steel shark. But they ask an enormous price for the patent. On the other hand, Kronk also informs me he has a small battleship of 10,000 tons, faster than a cruiser and practically invulnerable. For certain patents, he will send us the blueprints. We shall then offer these blueprints to Robsons-Strong for the tank patents. If the worst comes to the worst, we shall have the tank patents and they’ll have nothing! But this is old larceny, which good old Uncle Ernest could manage so well. Times have changed. We need goodwill, also. Armaments manufacturers are less competitors these days than partners. I would rather we made a fair exchange with Robsons-Strong. Too, they have a bombing plane that can fly more than 200 miles an hour. We need that, too.