She put her delicate little hand on his and smiled at him tenderly. “Dear Daddy. And you’ve got. so many other worries. But I’m so glad that you love Celeste so much; I thought, at times, that you were indifferent to her, and she is so darling and good.”
The girl was startled at the sudden dark flush of color that surged over her father’s face. He rose abruptly. He did not seem to know what to do or where to go. Annette, confused, stared at him. In an effort to escape her his eyes were caught fully by hers. He stammered: “Darling, don’t overestimate me. I haven’t cared about Celeste as much as I might have done. I’m so much older—and then, I’ve had you, and your mother, and your brother. It’s only lately—”
But his daughter smiled at him more tenderly than ever. “Poor Daddy. Never mind. We’ve all harassed you so much. But underneath, you were concerned about Celeste’s engagement, weren’t you?”
He stared at her somberly a long time before he answered, and then his voice was grim and shaken: “Yes, dear, you can believe that. I was very much concerned about it. Very, very much.”
She was alarmed, and even when he bent down and kissed her, and laughed at her gently, her alarm remained. It stayed, even in her later contemplative joy.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Each in his turn, Armand, Francis, Emile, Jean, Hugo and Christopher tried to purchase Peter Bouchard’s holdings. They used no finesse in approaching him, and it was this lack, this disregard of the niceties, which awakened his curiosity. This curiosity was enhanced by the way they all approached him within twenty-four hours of his announcement that his holdings were for sale.
Someone had called his grandmother’s favorite brother, Martin Barbour, “a blue-eyed idealist.” Peter was not such an idealist, in its more ridiculous connotations. He believed sensibly that “wisdom with an inheritance is very good.” He knew, too, that the way to combat power is with power, and that to answer a man intelligently one must use his own language, or his own weapons. From his early youth he had been enraged at the monstrous imbecility and wickedness of average men, their lack of values, their malevolence and meanness. He saw how they hated their betters, and the malignancy of their attacks on them. Like his ancestor, Armand Bouchard, he realized that the best defense of a good man is enough money to protect him from other men. He, like Armand, had no desire, by prodigal charity and generosity, to dispose of his own money and thus make himself an easy victim of his species. He saw clearly that a good man, out of compassion and gentleness and simplicity, might make a fortune and give it entirely away to the destitute, and be considered inferior to the scoundrel who victimized many and retained his own wealth. Sometimes his anger dissolved into an appalled paralysis when he contemplated men and the things that men do, the idiocies they believe. How was it possible for any civilization to arise and maintain its vitality, when the majority of mankind was so ghastly stupid, so vicious, so animal-like?
One young American soldier, during his war service, had said simply: “Most folks are lice.” Nearly thirty years of life had convinced Peter that there was a great deal more truth than gentility in this observation.
Nevertheless, his awareness of the pediculous character of his kind did not make Peter a cynic. But it frightened him. He saw that the only thing one could aim for was to delouse the animal-spirit of the people, and at least leave it clean and harmless. Animal-souled they might be, but this did not postulate that they deserved destruction, exploitation, misery and death. Their very lack of discriminating intelligence, their dearth of subtlety and awareness and consciousness, made them just the more piteous, just the more in need of kindly and superior protection. But the most sinister aspect of the whole matter was when unscrupulous and evil men set out to use the huge blundering weapon of the people for private and wicked ends and wholesale death and greed. Even animals, whether enclosed in fur or in human flesh, had a certain fundamental right to a measure of peace and freedom and pleasure and life, and even the superior had no right to deprive them of this right.
Peter believed in democracy, just as he believed in truth or the existence of air. For he saw that the great advantage of democracy was the liberty of all men to protect themselves from each other.
He was no sentimentalist, for he had no illusions and no hardness of heart. Therefore, though he had no particular care for luxury and wealth, he was careful to retain half of his income for himself, distributing the rest among the unfortunate. It was not that he passionately loved mankind; but he did love justice. He had no compassion for a man who got himself horribly diseased through dissipation and excesses; as for himself, he would have let such a man die, and die as painfully as possible. He had no maudlin pity for congenital criminals; such were better and speedily dead, before they polluted other men. Nor did he waste time on the incompetent and malingering; they too, ought to die, for the good of their kind. (He believed that a time was rapidly coming when the superior would realize that it was their duty to inhibit the activities of the inferior, and prevent the births and hasten the deaths of the malformed both of body and mind.) But for children, for the helpless, betrayed and seduced, he had endless compassion, and for their oppressors, endless hatred.
Francis was surprised and somewhat taken aback to discover these things about the brother he and the others had constantly ridiculed, he, with easy indifference, and they with malice. Peter’s not such a fool, he thought, surprised. Peter’s lack of clear-water simplicity, his lack of trust in anybody, his quick shrewdness and understanding, created respect in him. It was a pleasure to talk to Peter, he discovered, gratified. One did not have to be on constant guard to prevent treachery. What a relief this was!
He said, one day: “Pete, why don’t you stay here and learn something about the rest of us? I’ll make you a place in Kinsolving, a good place. If you can just get over your aversion for the making of national purges.”
Peter smiled and answered: “But, you see, I do have such an aversion. If your pleasant products would only kill off the professional soldiers, the old Generals, the patriots and politicians and bandmasters, and, of course, people like you, I’d be all for it. But they don’t stop there. They kill off children, and blow up schools and churches, and make men hate each other more than they do normally. This is all very bad, you see.”
However, he accompanied Francis to The Kinsolving Arms on many occasions. He was particularly interested in the sanitary condition of the great plant, the apparent healthfulness and contentment of the workers, the short hours and excellent pay. He seemed pleased to hear that most of the men belonged to labor unions.
“Is all this the result of your great heart, Francis, or was it just forced on you?”
Francis grinned. “Well, it was forced on us. What did you expect? Do you think one of us would give our workers a living wage if we could get away with not giving it? But we can’t. We fed the dogs, and so they grew teeth, and when they grew teeth, they threatened us and demanded more food. Just a vicious circle.”
Nevertheless, as he passed through the shops, the men glanced at him with respect and even liking. He knew as much as they did about the operations of their machines. He had an easy air, and liked guns passionately. Sometimes he would stop and quarrel violently with a foreman or a worker about some small operation, and even when spiritedly defeated, he accepted the whole matter with familiar good-fellowship. How much of all this is sincere, and how much false? thought Peter. However, the results were the same, and he supposed that was all that mattered.
On another occasion, thinking of the Bouchard stock still in Peter’s possession, Francis great-heartedly offered his youngest brother a directorship in Kinsolving. “Then,” he had grinned, “you might have some legitimate voice in the things we do. Not much, mind you, but some. Reformers like that. Little influence, big noise.”
Peter had taken no offense at this, but had laughed. Francis had called in one of his secretaries, and had dictated a formal offer to his brother. Peter gave the matter no thought imm
ediately. The next day he returned. Francis was out. He sat down at the carved walnut desk and wrote a note in answer.
“I’ve thought over the offer of a directorship, and somehow the idea pleases me. Will I have to buy Kinsolving stock? You see how ignorant I am. I don’t want to give up my Bouchard stock, yet, for a number of sufficient reasons.”
He went home. It would be a puny directorship, of course. But he would hear a great deal. What he could do with it, he would do. Perhaps he was romantic, he thought, but perhaps there might be just the slightest chance that he could be of some help in the making of policies. Besides, it would be an excellent position to observe everything from. He knew how ignorant he was of a full understanding of the methods of war-makers.
Francis found the note upon his return. He saw instantly what was behind it, and was amused. And then he was thoughtful. He would explain to Peter that his value as a director would depend upon the amount of Kinsolving he possessed; a rather far-fetched explanation, perhaps, but then, Peter was ignorant. He would induce him to sell the Bouchard stock to him, in return for Kinsolving.
He was about to toss the penciled note into his wastebasket, when suddenly his eyes dwindled to hard brilliant pinpoints. He stared thoughtfully before him, turning the note over and over in his lean hands. Then, after some time, he called his secretary and asked him to put this note with the letter he had written his brother and deposit both of them in his private safe.
At dinner that night there were only Estelle, Francis and Peter. The girls were expected home from school the next day. Francis said to his brother; “How about that Bouchard stock? I want it. I’ve figured how much of Kinsolving you’ll get for it.”
“That interests me,” replied Peter. “What is all this rush of all of you for Bouchard?”
Francis laughed. “Nothing much.”
“A rise in the market?”
“Perhaps.”
Peter replied jokingly: “Then, I’ll keep It. Perhaps. I’ve got some cash. What’s the closing quotation on Kinsolving today?”
Francis told him. Peter glanced humorously at Estelle, and said: “Maybe I’ll buy some and keep it. Anyway, I’li let you know. I like money, too.”
Francis urged him to come to the office the next day at noon, for a further discussion. When Peter arrived, he found that Francis had been “unexpectedly called away.” But there was a note for him, a formal note on the letterhead of Kinsolving:
“Perhaps you’re right about your Bouchard holdings, and future profits on them. Perhaps you are in a better position to judge than I. But Kinsolving is going up; we are anticipating a large order for Japan within the next two weeks. I’ve told you enough to make you realize just what this will mean. Perhaps you’ll give more consideration, now, to our offer of a directorship in our Company.”
The secretary, who had silently entered the room, then informed Mr. Peter that Mr. Francis had asked for a reply.
“I’ll see him tonight,” replied Peter, getting up.
But the secretary had had his orders. No, he had replied respectfully, Mr. Francis wished the transaction to be an entirely business one. This was a formal offer, and needed a formal reply. A stenographer was at Mr. Peter’s service.
Peter was amused. Even Francis was not above red tape and office etiquette, apparently. He allowed a stenographer to be brought, and dictated:
“From my observations I would say that I believe that Bouchard would be more valuable to me at present than Kinsolving stock. I’m going into the subject extensively. However, I’m not adverse to buying Kinsolving with my spare funds immediately, even if I decide to retain Bouchard holdings. I’ll have to talk to you about the directorship, which interests me more and more.” He ended, the irony lost on the written page: “The Japanese orders ought to make everybody happy.”
At four o’clock that afternoon Francis appeared at Christopher’s office with all the correspondence which had passed between himself and his brother. Christopher read it carefully. A spot of color appeared on his cheekbones.
“Movie-ish. And crude,” was his comment.
“But pleasingly damning,” said Francis.
“But how do you know he hasn’t already told Celeste why he wants the directorship, and the reason he is retaining Bouchard is because we’ve been idiots enough to let him see that it’s of considerable importance to us to get it from him, and he wants to know why?”
“It’s all ambiguous enough, written down like this. It sounds damning. A little work on our part would convince a saint that there is something stinky in the whole thing, his protestations to the contrary. Show it to anybody, and they’ll tell you the same thing. Then, if he hasn’t already told Celeste, I’m going to warn him not to mention it to a soul. I don’t think he has, personally. He’s pretty close-mouthed. It would have to be used in his absence, however, and very, very confidentially, and reluctantly.”
“I still think it’s crude. Celeste’s not a fool. Anyway, keep all of it. We may have to use it.”
Christopher then lapsed into somber reflection. He said: “It’s slow work. I can’t use blunt methods. I was a little rough, and Celeste flew to his defense like an enraged mother-cat. That won’t do. I don’t know what’s the matter with me! I’ve lost my deft touch.”
“Well, it’s damned serious for all of us. We don’t know whether Henri will back out if the marriage doesn’t go through. In fact, I’m sure he won’t. He’s got too much Duval-Bonnet stock, for one thing. And too large a loan to you. Has he any word about the twenty million yet? Twenty million! And have you any idea of the ‘proposition’ he mentioned he’d have for us?”
“No,” answered Christopher malevolently, “I haven’t! But I’ve a very good notion we won’t like it. I tell you, nothing must come in the way of this marriage. We’ve got him then. Celeste won’t let him put anything dirty over on us. I hope,” he added. “At least, we’ve got a lever.”
“At any rate,” said Francis, “I’d rather have him with us. Do you know, I’m more and more convinced he’s a bad devil to cross. And a bad devil to have on the other side. Do you believe in reincarnation?”
“Go to hell!” said Christopher.
Francis went out, laughing.
That night Francis informed his brother of the amount of Kinsolving that he would need to buy in order to become a director. Candidly, he told Peter that he would not consider offering him a directorship unless he turned over Bouchard stock to him and exchanged it for Kinsolving. “A rather unusual demand, perhaps,” he said, “but frankly, I’ve got an ax to grind, myself.”
“Aren’t you taking all this a little too seriously?” asked Peter, diverted. “I didn’t say I wanted the damn thing. I’m not sure I do. There’s been a small change in my ultimate plans. How did I get this far in the discussion, anyway? Is the business going to pot? Or something? If I did get myself a directorship, I don’t think I’d sell my Bouchard, not for a while, anyway. I’d buy Kinsolving with what I have. How’s the Japanese order?”
Francis then advised him, that as the matter was “confidential,” and “others might be too interested,” Peter must tell no one of the offer of a directorship. He was enormously delighted when Peter assured him, bored, that no one knew or would know.
The next day he dictated a formal letter to Peter, a copy of which was added to the other correspondence:
“We have decided to withdraw the directorship offered you. We know this will meet with your approval, as the Japanese orders have not come through as anticipated. No doubt you will prefer to retain your Bouchard stock, and I would advise you to do so, considering its ultimate value, as outlined by you.”
Peter was exceedingly puzzled upon receipt of this letter. But he knew very little of business procedure, and supposed this was all right. He said to Francis, later: “Why all the heavy correspondence? Do you always do this? And how do you get anything else done, if you waste your time writing people involved letters when you’ve got a telephone and a b
attery of secretaries?”
“It’s customary.”
“It’s idiotic.” Francis laughed. Peter laughed. And when Francis saw Peter laughing, he laughed more than ever, so that when Peter had stopped, the laughter went on and the younger man was puzzled again.
CHAPTER XXXIV
The household at Endur was preparing to leave for Crissons. The weather was brilliantly hot and still. For the first time, Adelaide, tense and excited these days, longed for the day of departure. She felt that it would be a respite from the fuming dark fever that pervaded every room, a fever which was all the more dangerous because it was silent.
Not a voice had been raised these past weeks, not an angry or furious or wretched word uttered. Everyone dreaded to precipitate a crisis, particularly Christopher. On the surface, everything was as it had been. Henri came in the morning for Celeste, at least four times a week. Sundays, Henri and his sister and Christopher and Celeste were all together, apparently gay and light-hearted these warm June days. Henri came to dinner two or three nights a week. Sometimes Peter was there. He and Henri were scrupulously polite to each other; in no way did Henri indicate that he had the slightest suspicion that anything was wrong, or anything threatening him. They did not argue extensively, and apparently had little interest in each other, beyond a purely formal one. Edith was cordial to Peter, and invited him repeatedly. He dined with her and Henri at least twice a month at Robin’s Nest, and relationships there thawed to friendliness. In spite of her fear and her anger against Peter, and her attempts at contempt, she began to like him, reluctantly. When Henri carelessly called him a fool, she was surprised, herself, to hear her denial.
“No, I don’t think he is even an idealist,” she said. “I think,” she added, with an air of surprise, “that he’s just an honest man.”
Henri did not make any reply to this, and Edith sat back, much intrigued by her own amazement. “Isn’t it strange that we should feel such antagonism, or incredulity, whenever we see a really honest man? Nice commentary on us!”
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