The Eagles Gather

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Bob Stressman? Well, he’s excellent as our resident agent in Geneva. But there’ll be too many British and French statesmen at Locarno who have big holdings in Schultz-Poiret and Skeda and Robsons-Strong for our comfort and profit. Whatever he is able to do, they’ll be watching like hawks to see that their own pet Companies won’t be neglected. If he tries to kill anything, they’ll fuss and fume about, suspecting a plot which will lower the value of their stock, or possibly bring about a permanent peace.”

  Christopher smiled faintly. “I give the French credit for doing nothing radical to bring about a permanent peace, Emile, And the British, though less intelligent, know on which side the Bank of England stands.

  “Peace! Remember how old Armand steamed and fumed about the Versailles Treaty? Remember what I told him then? That the self-determination provision alone is worth five billion dollars. The Polish Corridor is worth three Kaisers. Military disarmament? Clauses? Metternich would be proud to have composed these! War-guilt? Sazaroff must have had a hand in the ‘war-guilt’ matter, for which we never did adequately thank him. Though not fully evident as yet, the French occupation has done more for the armaments industries than a Cæsar, five Kaisers and two Napoleons could do.

  “Locarno need be worried about no more than Versailles. Vultures have never yet been known to lay doves’ eggs. So long as the eminent Dean Birge, three bishops, a former Premier, four bankers, eight peers, fifteen members of the House of Lords, four foremost newspaper publishers, one Chancellor of the Exchequer, and a British holder of the Nobel Peace Prize hold controlling stock in Robsons-Strong, Robsons-Petrillo of Italy, and Skeda of Czechoslovakia, not to mention nice blocks in Schultz-Poiret, we don’t need to fear any Locarno or League of Nations, or any other League or Kiss-Mommies and back-scratchers. So long as the British Tories need a dam against Russian bolshevism in Middle Europe, you need not fear that Germany will be completely wrecked. In fact, you can be assured that the new Germany they are plotting will be five times as formidable as in 1914. The ‘backbone’ of Britain can be made to wiggle like a charmed snake whenever the armaments flute-player sings his pretty tune. Look what they did for Mussolini!

  “I tell you now that the Locarno Conference, like Versailles, is our guarantee of perpetual dividends.”

  He picked up a paper. “Look here. This was cabled this morning. It is an order for five thousand tons of nitrate of soda for Japan!” He picked up another paper. “And from Robsons-Strong this morning: Nitrates, powder, airplanes and airplane motors! Who do you think all this is for? And on the eve of the perpetual blessing of Locarno, too! Rest thee, Messiah Wilson!”

  Francis nodded, smiling. “And that new gun I was telling you about last week, Emile, the machine-gun that can fire five thousand bullets a minute, operated by steam or gasoline or hand or electricity. We’ve got orders from Britain, France, Russia, Czechoslovakia and Japan for it, enough orders to keep us busy for the next two years or more. Are they going to use it against each other? Perhaps! And are they going to let Germany (all in a spirit of love, of course!) have it also? Perhaps, too. Disarming of Germany? Don’t be silly! Britain would no more allow Germany to be really disarmed than she would cut her collective Tory throats.

  “Schultz-Poiret and Skeda and Robsons-Petrillo and Bedors will see to it that Germany re-arms, all nice and secret, of course, for the dear people must not be unduly alarmed about the possibilities of any future wars. They will see to it that Germany gets a brand-new and much more ferocious brand of nationalism than she ever had before. They will see to it that the Communists and the internationalists and the peace-makers get bayonets in the neck if they become too noisy.”

  “Well,” said Emile, “I only hope you are right. But please recall that Germany is doing excellently with that radical gang in power in Berlin. You’ll have a hard time overthrowing liberalism in Germany now. Chris may be right in saying that a liberal is only a castrated Communist, but Germany is swarming with these eunuchs and they appear to be full of ginger. They’ll not stand for militarism.”

  “You forget,” smiled Francis, “that I have just said that the British and French Tories will see to it that all these liberals and radicals and internationalists will have a bayonet in their throats if they don’t see reason, and profits.”

  “A new revolution, eh?”

  “Possibly. An anti-Communist revolution, for instance. This can be done, Sir Herbert Linstone of Robsons assures us. The people of any nation are stupid and sheep-like. They can be made to believe anything. In Germany, they can be made to believe that some group, liberals or radicals, or anything, in fact, caused them to lose the war. They can be made to believe that Russia intends to invade Germany, or Roumania. Or that France is still snarling at them. Once they destroy their liberals and their internationalists (who believe in ‘human dignity and peace,’ the imbeciles!) our friends in Europe can begin estimating dividends again. A militaristic and nationalistic regime in Germany means the stopping of Communist propaganda in Europe, and the re-arming of Germany.

  “The thing is that Britain and France must find a devil for Germany. Communists, perhaps the Roman Catholics, or maybe the Jews.”

  Emile laughed. “The Germans are intelligent, good Francis de Sales! You fail to reckon with their intelligence.”

  Francis smiled frigidly. “I have yet to see any intelligent man proof against an offered victim. So, you see, we need not worry about Locarno. Just at present, we are considering more private matters.”

  A little silence fell. Emile’s rodent-like eyes moved slowly, and then swiftly, from one face to the other. His own face changed. He began to smile.

  “Ah?” he said gently.

  Francis leaned back in his chair and negligently smoked. He seemed to find the bare white ceiling very engrossing, for he gazed at it intently. Christopher did not move, but as intently as Francis gazed at the ceiling so intently did he regard Emile.

  “You, Emile,” said Francis meditatively, “have an—an uncomfortable reputation for—shall we say?—loyalty. Misguided loyalty, perhaps. You are not a stimulating companion in a gossip session.” He suddenly sat upright and looked at his second-cousin. “Are you?” he demanded.

  Emile stared into his eyes, his big shoulders humped towards his own ears. He lifted his left hand slowly and rubbed his nose with his knuckles. He spoke slowly, softly, distinctly: “I don’t like idle gossip. I listen only to that which is profitable.”

  Again, there was a little silence. Christopher smoked delicately, as though he were alone in the room and listening only to his own idle thoughts. But Francis and Emile regarded each other like rival hypnotists.

  Francis said thoughtfully: “You are vice-president of Bouchard and Sons. Your salary is commensurate.” He paused. “Or perhaps I wrong you? Perhaps no salary is ever commensurate?”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Emile gently. But his face and features had thickened, become almost brutal. He leaned towards the desk, looked first at Christopher and then at Francis.

  “I listen only when it is worth my while to listen,” he added with heavy emphasis. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “You mean,” almost whispered Christopher, “that being ‘worth-while’ does not mean a possibility that might be dangerous?”

  “Exactly.” Emile smiled. “I am no gambler. I bet only when the dice are loaded.” He stood up. He was breathing a trifle quickly; his fleshy chest rose and fell. A faint film of perspiration had come out on his skin. He waited. Francis and Christopher exchanged glances. But they did not speak.

  “Well?” said Emile, again looking from one to the other.

  Francis began to study the signet ring on his fleshless finger.

  “The dice,” he remarked, “are loaded. But we need another player. However, even with loaded dice, the game is precarious.” He shook his head slightly, and sighed. “No, Emile, the game, I am afraid, is too risky, too involved, for a loyal non-gambler like you. I think you had better maintain your delight
ful reputation as a non-gossiper and a non-carrier of tales. Particularly as a non-carrier of tales,” and he lifted his bright blue eyes blandly to his cousin’s suddenly suffused face.

  Emile’s mouth hardened grimly. “So, you do not trust me, eh?”

  Francis smiled as though at an amiable joke. “Emile, my dear relative, I never trust any one. Your own late-lamented father always impressed that on you, didn’t he? That no one is to be trusted?” He shook his head as though in denial. “Did you expect me to be loose-tongued?”

  Emile turned slowly to Christopher. “I see,” he said. “It is you, after all! I might have known it!

  “I’ve been suspecting something for a long time. You can tell me. I’ll do no loose talking. You know very well that my tongue isn’t hinged in the middle.”

  Christopher was silent. But Francis leaned towards Emile playfully and touched his arm. “You don’t carry our colors, Emile! Perhaps, under your shirt you carry some one else’s. Perhaps it might be ‘profitable’ for you to talk, in the name of your famous ‘loyalty.’ “

  Emile regarded him with black hatred. His lips moved, and then were still. Francis continued to smile.

  Then Christopher opened a locked drawer and drew out a sheet of paper. It was the letterhead of Bouchard and Sons and was signed by Emile, himself, and was addressed to the Chamber of Commerce at Gainesville, Florida. In it Emile discreetly asked the Chamber for information, confidential, naturally, about the little airplane company of Duval-Bonnet, and begged to be informed about its officers, its backers, its financial standing, and its activities.

  Emile, staring at it, was utterly nonplussed. His eyes gaped; his jaw fell. While he still stared, Christopher handed him the envelope which had held it, and Emile observed that the stamp was cancelled.

  “Of course,” said Christopher tonelessly, “so many things could have happened to this letter. For instance, it might have been insufficiently addressed, and so returned to this office. Again, I might have opened it by mistake, on its return. So many things can happen to a letter, you know.”

  Emile wet his lips. Then, very slowly, he lifted his eyes to his brother’s indifferent face.

  Christopher folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. He proffered it to Emile. Emile took it automatically. But he did not remove his eyes from Christopher. However, he began to smile unpleasantly. His breathing had quickened.

  Francis stood up.

  “Christopher and I are having a little conference at my home tonight,” he said. “At ten o’clock. Nothing very important, of course. Just—gossip. Now, you have a reputation for not caring about gossip. However, perhaps you would like to be present, Emile. As usual, you may listen, and laugh.” He thrust his hands deep into his trouser-pockets and glanced humorously at Christopher. “But I think Emile had better bring his check-book, don’t you, Chris?”

  Christopher smiled. “No one,” he said, “is admitted without a check-book.”

  Emile said nothing. Then Francis tapped him lightly on the chest with his index finger.

  “No, Emile, you are no gossiper. Neither am I. If I were, I might have told my wife a funny little tale I heard about you in New York. And Estelle, you know, is such a friend of Agnes’.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Now that she was old, Adelaide Bouchard dreaded each fresh encounter with the Bouchards. Her spirit had acquired no calluses to protect her exposed nerves; rather, any resistance, any fortitude, which she had been able to summon up during past encounters, had exhaustedly disappeared. She felt vulnerable all through her mind and soul. She was like an old woman feebly defending herself with bare hands against arrows tipped with poison. Wherever she turned, the tips were against her heart and throat. And time made them sharper and more poisonous.

  Not that the Bouchards were anything else but solicitous and affectionate to the widow of the formidable Jules Bouchard. Yet they could not keep their derision from their smiles, their humorous chaffing from their voices, their officiousness from their manners. No one defended her, not even her sons.

  When Estelle, Francis’ wife, called upon Adelaide, and invited her and Celeste and Christopher for dinner, Adelaide timidly and immediately refused.

  “But, dear Adelaide,” said the former Estelle Carew with affectionate protest, “you have not been to dinner since January, and here it is May! What is the matter? Have I offended you in any way?”

  “No, no,” answered Adelaide hurriedly. “But I—I have not been very well, you know. This neuritis. I hardly go out at all.” She wrung her withered slender hands in her lap and looked at Estelle with the imploring expression of a frightened child. Her smooth braided hair was almost white now; her face had shrunken, and was deeply lined. Her wide thin mouth was without color. Only her gentle brown eyes were alive, still capable of hurt, still bewildered and ingenuous and sad. She was very thin, almost emaciated, and wore old-fashioned gowns with high lace necks, with a pearl-framed cameo at the throat. On one shrunken finger she wore her broad gold wedding ring, but that and the cameo were her only jewels. Her body always seemed to be swaying forward; her shoulders were bent. Her breast, which had nursed four children, was flat under the old-fashioned gathers.

  Estelle, in her modish English tweeds and furs, studied her thoughtfully, and not without some compassion. She, herself, at thirty-seven, was a slender, handsome and vital woman, the mother of two very sophisticated young daughters, Rosemarie and Phyllise. Her carefully waved hair was a glistening copper-color. Her carefully corseted figure was straight and tall, with prow-like breasts. She was excessively fond of horses and had an excellent stable. Her friends amusedly declared that she had the face of a vigorous mare. Certainly it was long and narrow and high-colored; her eyes were big, liquid and hazel, and quite intelligent. Her shoulders were square, her hips compact; she stepped firmly and quickly. When she talked her lips moved more than ordinarily, like the wide mobile lips of a chewing horse. Her more unkind acquaintances asserted that she whinnied when she laughed. For the rest her hands were strong and slender and corded, the brown hands of a born horsewoman.

  The only child of the late John Carew, railroad magnate and one of the larger stockholders of Bouchard and Sons and The Kinsolving Arms Company, she was enormously wealthy in her own right. However, she had a number of poor relatives whom she was constantly assisting. She was a shrewd woman, though. She never assisted them beyond bare necessities. The giving invigorated her; almost, at times, she pranced, like a horse who realizes he has been very good indeed. She loathed “pretty” clothes and was dressed invariably in cloth dresses, riding habits and severe silks. Her legs, being excellent, were duly displayed in the current style of short skirts. Officious, arrogant, masculine, not unkind, assertive and vigorous, she terrified Adelaide more than any other of the female Bouchards. She was much amused at Adelaide’s obvious terror of her. But she would not have been so amused had she known that part of the terror was due to Adelaide’s feeling that she could not cope with the commonness of this granddaughter of Irish peatfield peasants. Adelaide Burgeon Bouchard instinctively fled from earthiness and all coarsenesses.

  “Nonsense, Adelaide,” said Estelle, not unkindly. “You must get out more. The fresh air is splendid for you. You look positively faded and anæmic. No one ever sees you. Life ends quickly enough without immuring one’s self prematurely.”

  Adelaide was silent, but a look of bitter longing came into her lowered eyes. Estelle regarded her with rising impatience. Heavens knows, she did not particularly relish the idea of this half-dead old woman sitting at her hearty dinner-table! But Francis had informed her that the invitation must be given, and accepted. There was Celeste who must be considered, Celeste, one of the richest girls in the world. Estelle respected riches more than anything else. She was sorry for Celeste, who, nearly nineteen, was as immature and unworldly as a ten-year-old. It was too bad indeed for the girl. Estelle thought complacently of her own two daughters, Rosemarie, who was fifteen, and Phyllise,
who was thirteen. Smart, cynical, sophisticated girls, with knowing airs and blasé manners, and with fine seats on a horse. Rosemarie attended an exclusive school in New York; Phyllise, who had just had an appendectomy, was invalided at home. Rosemarie, however, was also home just now for a few days, for consultations about the possible removal of her tonsils.

  “But I shall not take no for an answer,” said Estelle, when she became convinced that Adelaide was not going to speak. “Think of Celeste, dear. She never goes anywhere, either, lately, and almost nineteen, too! Is she going to enter a convent, after all? Well, then, she simply must go out. The girls love her; they will do her such good. For her sake, at least, you must forget your neuritis just for tomorrow night.” She smiled humorously.

  Adelaide lifted her eyes and gazed at Estelle with tired sadness. Her faded brows drew together, not in a frown, but in a motion of exhausted thought. She knew that Celeste was always bewildered and uneasy with the Bouchards, also. Rosemarie, four years her junior, always made the girl feel awkward and stupid and unattractive, though Estelle’s daughter was totally without beauty.

  “I’ll speak to Christopher,” murmured Adelaide, with a sensation of relief. Christopher, as usual, could be depended upon to refuse the invitation for Celeste.

  Estelle smiled again, this time rather derisively. “But Christopher has already accepted, Adelaide. I spoke to him yesterday. He said he was certain you would accept.” Adelaide was palely incredulous for some moments. She had once heard Christopher call Rosemarie and Phyllise “a pair of little tarts.” Adelaide drew in her lower lip in confused perplexity.

  She murmured, at last, still incredulous; “Then, if Christopher has already accepted, for Celeste and me, there is nothing more to be said except ‘thank you, Estelle.’” The butler brought in the tea-tray and Adelaide poured with a hand that trembled. Estelle again felt compassionate.