The Eagles Gather

by Taylor Caldwell

  He left them. Annette watched him go, still smiling. Even when he had disappeared down the stairs, her eyes were fixed on the spot where she had last seen him. Armand could not bear that white smile, that quiet acceptance, which was both adult and without hope. It reminded him too poignantly of his mother.

  “Annette, my darling,” he began. She did not look at him. She still gazed at the spot where Henri had been. She still smiled. But she said in a low voice: “Please, Daddy.”

  And so he could say nothing at all.

  But that night he waited until Annette and her mother had gone to bed, and then he went to Henri, who was sitting alone, thinking heavily, on the deck. He sat down beside the young man, not speaking yet. They watched the dark blue heaving of the quiet ocean under the millions of pointed stars. The yacht was in a bell of silence, barely rising or moving. The awnings had been rolled back, and the wind, burdened with salt freshness, rushed over the deck.

  Armand began to speak without emotion: “We’re sorry you are leaving us tomorrow, Henri. We wish you would stay with us a few days more.”

  Henri answered as unemotionally: “Thank you. But I promised Celeste—”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Again there was silence. But now Henri had turned his face intently upon Armand in the darkness. Armand lit a cigar; the light trembled in his hand.

  “Henri,” he said very, very quietly. “I want to speak to you openly. You have intelligence. So, I’ll be frank with you. You’ve been in the plant quite a while now. It interests you. You’d like to be there always. I can see that. I can also see many other things. Your great-grandfather is legendary. From the stories about him, I think you are like him.”

  He paused. Henri said nothing. He had turned his head, and he was staring at the almost invisible ocean.

  Armand sighed, but his voice was steady and deliberate: “I am Bouchard and Sons, Henri. I’ve always made it a point not to relegate power. That’s dangerous. Especially when you are surrounded with—with men like—those I could name. I’d like to think I could turn all this over to a son, a son who was strong enough. My own son isn’t. I’m hoping Annette’s husband will be the strong one.” He added, even more quietly, but as steadily: “Do you understand, Henri?” Henri answered, without turning his head: “Yes, I understand.” Armand could tell nothing from his voice. But when Henri did turn to him, his voice was stronger, colder than the older man expected:

  “But, you see, there’s Celeste.”

  Armand was silent. In spite of his frankness, and the openness of his own approach, he was taken aback at this brutal reply. He felt his face grow hot with embarrassed anger. The insult to Annette was almost more than he could endure without exhibiting shameful rage. Henri stood up. He stood close enough to Armand so that something of his indomitable personality flowed out to the other man.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Good-night.”

  He walked away. Armand heard him go. His cigar went out in his hand. Then, after a long time, he lit it again. He was quite tranquil.

  CHAPTER XLII

  When he arrived in New York, Peter called upon his old uncle, Etienne Bouchard, the veteran actor of the romantic school. Etienne lived in an ornate apartment overlooking the East River. He affected red velvet dressing gowns, tied over a rounded paunch with gold braid and tassels. He was an old man, and he wore a toupee over a bald skull like a tonsure. Offstage, he used no rouge or eye-shadow, yet these cosmetics seemed to have ingrained themselves in his skin, giving him a theatrical appearance in a daylight which he loathed. He was fat, with a gelatinous paunch, an excellent carriage, a portentous tread, a rich sonorous voice, stately gestures, and a romanticism which had effectively protected him from reality all of his seventy-odd years. He no longer had any parts, except extremely minor ones. Fortunately, he had a huge fortune, which he expertly administered in spite of his grandiose gestures, and was often accused of buying opportunities to act in small roles. The younger and more ribald members of his acquaintance called him “East Lynne.” What rim of hair he had, flowed; his long hysterical, face with the brilliant large dark eyes was well known to every theatrical agent in New York. Once he had been exceedingly handsome. He still had a presence. He had never been even a moderately good actor.

  His nephew, Peter, was the only one of the Bouchards who did not ridicule the pathetic old man, and who had even the slightest affection for him. Peter was really fond of him. His posturing, he thought, was harmless; it was the play-acting of a child who dared not look in closets or under lonely beds. Etienne had never grown up. The world, for him, was still a place of splendid gestures, of heroes, of pure damsels struggling to preserve their virginity from top-hatted roues, of scheming grand dames, of lords and ladies and duchesses and silk-stockinged leg-makers, of noble poets and tragic murderers, of Macbeth and King Lear, of Lucrece and Mrs. Patrick Campbell, of East Lynne and the Jersey Lily. The Twentieth Century was, to him, just a dirty and noisy newsboy, inopportunely at the back door. He had tried to dramatize the World War, and had been rudely hurt, a hurt he soon forgot in the footlights and the smell of scent and greasepaint and powder and satin.

  He had practically no friends. He bored even those who tried to use him, so that even this vermin avoided him. When he spoke to anyone, the latter soon had the unpleasant impression that Etienne did not really see him. He was only a face in front of which the old actor postured. His eyes had a bemused and inward expression, in spite of their restless, egotistic brilliance. He had always been too much in love with himself ever to see a woman objectively, so he had never married. He had had many gallant love affairs, most of which were in his imagination. His courtesy to women, his generosity towards them in spite of a natural avarice, his gallantry, his romantic attitude, aroused the pity of the more discerning, the cupidity of the conscienceless. One had only to admire him to exploit him utterly. A rapturous expression at the end of a period opened his purse without restraint. Yet, he was a shrewd gambler on the Stock Exchange, who seemed to have an uncanny ability to pick out a low-priced stock a day or two before its startling rise. He had left all his money to a tuberculosis hospital for indigent actors. He believed himself to be a great artist, not a misunderstood artist by any means, but a Figure in the Theatre. His family was ashamed of him.

  He received Peter with embraces, rich periods and theatrical exclamations, all of which were sincere in spite of the flamboyance and the dramatic gestures. (He had last seen Peter two months before.) His big apartment, all gilt legs, flaming carpets, flowers, blazing draperies and exotic portraits, was discreetly shaded against the raw sun, which he detested and feared. He called his Japanese servant and demanded refreshments for the guest. Peter, uneasily perched on a loveseat composed of golden wood and purple-striped satin, was served hot black coffee in gilt-encrusted cups and triangle-shaped sandwiches of caviar and anchovies. Etienne sat opposite him in his red velvet dressing gown. He had not yet put on his toupee, and his polished tonsured skull gleamed in the subdued light of exotic lamps. He smiled at Peter with deep affection. The creases in his haunted face were full of greasepaint. Diamonds glittered on his white fingers, which were carefully manicured.

  He began to tell Peter of his new part. Of course, it was just a summer theatre, but every experience was “broadening.” Manfield, they said, was a tyro compared to him, but this was probably a gross exaggeration. Manfield was his hero. He sighed. The dreadful, mercenary Bouchards had produced no artists save Godfrey Sessions and himself. There was no beauty in the family. He, Etienne, was very tired. It was a hard thing to have to work, year in and year out, in an attempt to convince the world that the Bouchards could produce an artist occasionally. The world was still skeptical; they did not believe that such a family could produce any delicacy or loveliness or refinement. But he would never give in, until the world acknowledged that the family had its quota of richness and elegance and artistry, after all.

  He sighed again. He dropped his big romantic head upon his chest. H
e lifted his hands slowly, let them drop back upon his knees in a theatrical attitude of self-sacrifice and noble heroism. He was a martyr, posturing splendidly before the cynical face of a world that continually accused the Bouchards of only the grossest motivations, and no soul.

  Peter sipped his coffee, and panted a little in the intense scented heat of the apartment. He did not smile at Etienne, nor find him ridiculous. He was infinitely compassionate and understanding. He regarded his uncle affectionately.

  “Tell me about your new part,” he said, and there was no hypocrisy in his mind or his voice. He was sincerely interested. He knew that men in all their phases were the business of writers. He found no man completely contemptible or completely uninteresting.

  Etienne talked about his part. He became hysterically enthusiastic. He acted out the most sonorous passages for Peter. He paced up and down the dim room, which was filled, in spite of the blinds, with a sort of luminous filtration of the blazing sun outside. In this luminous dimness his many rings sparkled and flashed as he gestured. His eyes glittered. His voice boomed, soared, trembled, quivered, accused, implored. His tread shook the floor. The Japanese servant came and went silently, with the indifference of familiarity. Peter was infinitely touched. He knew by now that there was no such part for Etienne. But Etienne had forgotten this. He had an appreciative audience, after many barren months.

  Finally he had finished. He collapsed gracefully in a chair with the exhausted air of a great artist who had given his all, and who wished, now, only to be alone with his thoughts. He sighed deeply, over and over. He touched his eyes with the edge of a cream-silk handkerchief. He gazed about his apartment with bemusement and mournful gentleness: a great artist becoming conscious of mediocre surroundings, and inexpressibly wounded by them, though forgiving. Peter said: “It was very striking. You made the part.”

  Etienne flashed his brilliant eyes on his nephew with quick eagerness. “Do you think so? But art is so unappreciated these materialistic days. Even art must be chromium-plated and utilitarian. As though beauty were not sufficient in itself. But it has become a prostitute. It wears a brassiere, and leers. The theatre concerns itself with Sex, and sexual abnormalities and smartnesses. It laughs at lofty gestures and poetry. There is a loveliness even in decadence. But the modern world is not even decadent. It is just dirty.”

  Peter saw that he did not really believe this, or, at least, he did not believe it permanently. To have believed it completely would have been his death.

  Etienne had a deep affection for Peter. All his life he had been wounded; he had not been insensible to the laughter, though he had pretended not to hear it. Peter had never laughed at him. He had always been interested. Gradually emerging from his heroic role, his gratitude made him aware that Peter was troubled and distressed. Etienne might be a fool, but he was not unsubtle. He called for benedictine, and made Peter take a glass. Then he said, with a simplicity that others did not suspect existed in him: “What is it, Peter? Something is distressing you, isn’t it? Can I help? May I help?”

  Peter answered directly: “Yes. I’m upset. And terribly worried. I think you can help, Uncle Etienne, in a way.” And then he told his uncle about Celeste.

  As he explained everything to him, Etienne’s eyes began to sparkle with excitement and delight. This was delicious! Young love, harassed perhaps, and the cruel self-seeking brother in the background. “Yes, that is so!” he cried, though Peter could not help protesting that this was not the melodramatic case. Etienne sprang to his feet with a lightness remarkable in a man of his age; he began to pace up and down. “Yes, yes, I see it now! I remember that Christopher! A piece of steel, chromium-plated! A dagger with a chromium hilt! Yes, yes, it is so! Don’t deny it! Did you not just say it was all Christopher?” He stopped before Peter, his eyes shining with impatience and quickening excitement.

  Peter hesitated. “It isn’t as crude as all that, Uncle. You see, I doubt very much that Christopher would force Celeste to marry anyone she didn’t want. He is too fond of her for that. It’s just that he thinks Henri is the man for her, and it is just fortunate that Henri is also the man for him. I don’t know just why, but I’m sure of it. And that brings me right down to Celeste again—”

  Etienne clasped his hands ecstatically together, and shook his head. “I still believe it is that Christopher. And the child? When did I see her last? Years and years ago. A tiny white little thing with black curls? Ah, yes. What am I? Her uncle?” Peter frowned, concentrating. “Let’s see. Her father and mine were first cousins. I’m her second cousin. My father was your brother— Her father was your cousin—She is your second cousin, Uncle Etienne.”

  Etienne was disappointed. “I thought she was my niece. Anyway,” brightening, “she will be my niece when you’ve married her. Dear me, how mixed up we are, we Bouchards. One would suspect decadence. But instead, the Bouchards are so coarse. What can I do to help you, Peter?”

  “I’m going to call her up right now, and I’m going to ask her to meet me here, in your apartment. I should like you to leave us alone. I’ve got to talk to her. That’s all. Down at Crissons, Christopher will make it a point not to leave us alone a moment.”

  Etienne was delighted. This was pure romance! “You must elope!” he cried. “You must be married at once! I’ll be your best man, Peter. Or, perhaps, I’ll give the bride away?” He was overcome. “The Little Church around the Corner! Doctor Benson and I are old friends.”

  Peter was more touched than ever. “Well, all that is rushing the thing, Uncle Etienne. But I’ll call Celeste now, if you don’t mind.”

  He went to the telephone. In a few moments he was asking for Celeste. The butler informed him that Miss Celeste was down at the golf club. But Mrs. Bouchard was there. Peter was soon connected with Adelaide. Her voice came to him, strained, tense, full of anticipation. “Yes, Peter. This is Adelaide. What is it?”

  “Adelaide, I’m at Uncle Etienne’s. When Celeste returns, will you speak to her alone, and ask her to meet me here? At once? I don’t care what time it is. Adelaide, it’s very important. I’ve got to talk to her.”

  Adelaide’s voice, quivering now, came to him: “Peter, shall I come with her?”

  “No. Just alone. I think that’s best.”

  He hung up. Etienne had disappeared. Now he was coming from his bedroom, triumphantly carrying a small gold box. He deposited it with a flourish on the table, and beamed at Peter. Then, with great ceremony he opened it with a small golden key. Jewels sparkled inside. He lifted a ring from its velvet bed and dramatically held it aloft, Cæsar selecting a gem for his favorite. It was an antique ring, a radiant opal, full of fire and flame and golden lightning and blue sky, set in a circle of exquisite diamonds. The gold was very old, heavy, and curiously wrought. “Florentine!” crooned Etienne. He laid it in Peter’s palm with slow gestures of wistfulness and real emotion. “I bought it for a woman I thought I was going to marry. In Florence. It’s a museum piece. She didn’t want me,” he added simply. “Now, it is your betrothal ring, for Celeste.”

  “It’s exquisite,” said Peter. The opal flamed in his palm. It had a heart of fire. “Thank you, Uncle Etienne. Celeste will love it.”

  Etienne was gratified. He bent over and looked at the gem. “Celeste. Celestial. A heavenly gem for a heavenly maiden.”

  Peter was much moved. He looked at the theatrical face, which now seemed so old and hopeless, so tired, so eternally seeking. He put his arm about his uncle’s shoulder. “You’re so good, Uncle Etienne.”

  CHAPTER XLIII

  It was seven o’clock that evening before Celeste arrived. The New York sky was a dusky molten color, and the heat had intensified. Etienne had insisted upon remaining until Celeste came. “Young girls are always aware of improprieties,” he had said. “To meet you alone here, without first assuring herself that I had consented to this rendezvous, and was willing that my apartment be used for that purpose, and that I considered it entirely proper, would be to injur
e her sensibilities.” To Etienne Bouchard, the girls of the late Twenties were still fragile flowers, whose dewiness must be protected.

  Celeste, pale and tired, but smiling, was received by Etienne with great and affectionate ceremony. Her beauty and gentle manners delighted him. Her courtesy towards him flattered and soothed a spirit that had been wounded from its first consciousness. She did not remember ever having seen him, she admitted, but she had heard an immense lot about him. “Good reports, I hope, my dear?” he asked, holding her hand. She regarded him gently. “My mother always admired you, Etienne,” she replied.

  She hardly looked at Peter. But there was a constant faint tremor about her pale lips, as though she were much agitated. She had not asked him why he had sent for her. But she knew. She sat on the edge of her chair, quietly, her gloved hands folded on her purse; she kept smiling at Etienne. Peter might not have been in the room. When Etienne, with elaborate coyness, declared that he knew the young people had much to say to each other, and that he would now leave them alone, Celeste betrayed a visible fright. To conceal this, she removed her broad-brimmed straw hat, and held it over her hands. Her black upspringing hair made a vivid contrast with her smooth white cheeks and winglike dark brows. Since she had lost considerable weight the pure modeling of her facial bones was very noticeable.

  Now Peter and Celeste were alone. A thick silence filled the dim hot room. Celeste bent her head. There were tears in her eyes. The Japanese servant brought in a silver tray of wine and hors-d’œuvre. Peter poured a glass of wine for the girl, and handed it to her silently. She took it. She lifted her eyes for a brief moment, and met Peter’s. He smiled it her, and after a moment, she returned the smile. “It’s good wine,” said Peter. Celeste laughed a little. The tears on her lashes sparkled. They sipped the wine, and the tenseness in the room seemed to relax.