The Eagles Gather

by Taylor Caldwell

  He came to her across the bare polished floor, his footsteps loud in the quiet. And then he was amused in spite of everything, for with a childish and frightened gesture she suddenly thrust out her hand to him, stiffly and convulsively. He thought it was a gesture to keep him off, and then he saw that in her small wet palm his ring sparkled and shimmered.

  They both looked at the ring, Henri with an air of interest and detachment, Celeste as though it were some dangerous object which fascinated her, and from which she could not take her eyes. Then, after a long moment, Henri took the ring, but he also took with it the little tremulous hand. She stared somewhat wildly into his eyes. He smiled back at her reassuringly, and pressed the hand warmly and firmly.

  “So, you’re really kicking me out, Celeste?” he said. With his thumb he stroked the hand he held. He continued to smile at her. And very slowly she began to relax; the fear on her face diminished. Her trembling subsided. She smiled back at him uncertainly. Tears began to fill her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Henri,” she murmured, pleadingly.

  He shrugged lightly. He looked at her lips and throat. He still stroked her hand. It was no longer rigid; it seemed to press against his, as though looking for comfort and protection.

  “Well, don’t be so upset about it, child. It happens every day, you know. It could have been worse. You might have found out after we were married. That would have been pretty bad, wouldn’t it?”

  She nodded, unable to speak. He saw that her fright had gone. She was comforted; she sighed, as though released from intolerable strain. Very gently, he let her hand go. Then, after a moment, during which they had regarded each other eloquently, he touched her cheek with his fingers. She sighed again, smiled, took one small step towards him, and then stopped.

  “Good-bye, Celeste,” he said gently.

  “Good-bye, Henri,” she whispered. Her smile disappeared. Something like dark confusion and distress rushed across her face, something bewildered and full of grief.

  She watched him leave the room. She listened with pain to the last sound of his footsteps. She heard the distant door shut as he left the house. She stood in utter immobility for some moments. Then she rushed to a window, and oblivious to those outside, she rolled up a shade with frantic hands, and looked after him. Perhaps he felt her looking, for he glanced back. He stopped dead. He saw her white face pressed against the glass, her eyes. For a long time they gazed at each other, not moving. Then he lifted his hand lightly to her, and went on. She did not return the gesture. She did not move at all.

  A little later, Adelaide heard Celeste running towards her room. She heard her cry out. A moment later the girl was sobbing in her arms, as though in terror and obscure sorrow.

  Armand, on his way to the mountain resort where his ailing daughter was staying for a few weeks, relaxed in his private car, and smiled. He looked through the windows at the moving, rising countryside, and sighed deeply. At times he had to rise and walk up and down the car, as though he were too restless to sit. Then he would glance at his watch. He smiled again and again, and hummed to himself. He put his hands in his pockets, and slowly and deliciously jingled the coins in them.

  CHAPTER LX

  Armand watched them come in. He sat behind his desk, solid, impassive, untidy and inscrutable. His hand played with a pen, tapped it. One by one they came in, casually, talking together. Hugo and Nicholas, Jean and Emile, Francis and Christopher and Henri. Christopher and Henri were apparently the best of friends. The awkwardness of the broken engagement was not evident in their manner towards each other, which was easy and offhand. They greeted Armand, joked with him, helped themselves to his cigars. Hugo and Jean asked for a drink, and then filled their glasses generously with whiskey, adding soda.

  Armand waited. That morning Christopher had come into his office and asked him if he had time for a little consultation. Armand had regarded him in silence for a moment or two, and then, in as indifferent a voice as Christopher’s, he had said that he would have time. After Christopher had gone out, Armand had thought: They’re going to show their hands. Somehow the thought did not agitate him as much as he had expected. He was even conscious of a little detached excitement. When he remembered the broken engagement, he smiled, and the smile was not pleasant.

  He was curious about Henri, whom he had not seen since the engagement had been broken. But Henri appeared detached enough, and on good fraternal terms with his cousin, Christopher. In fact, they seated themselves side by side with affability. Christopher was exceedingly ingratiating to everyone, a fact which made Armand’s spine tingle as though it moved in an atavistic raising of hair. Annand’s heart began to beat thickly, and he was suddenly afraid.

  “Well,” said Jean, with a wink at Armand, “we’re here, Chris, as you asked us to be. Go on with your plot. For you’ve got a plot, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have,” replied Christopher agreeably, smiling from one to the other. “Or, I should say, we have. Henri, Emile, Hugo, Francis and I.”

  “I don’t like the word ‘plot,’” said Hugo, grinning. “The last time that was said of me in the papers I had to pay out fifty thousand dollars. Don’t use ‘plot’ anybody. I’m allergic to the word.”

  Armand said nothing. He watched them all from behind his desk, like a stout bear ready for anything, and wary.

  Nicholas grunted. His small surly eyes roved about the room. “Well. Come to the point, Benedict Arnold,” he said to Christopher. “We’ve known there was some stinky scheme. A long time ago. We thought perhaps something had come up to stop it.” And now he grimaced maliciously at Henri. “But it looks as if I was premature. The plot goes on. Or does it?”

  “It does,” said Christopher, and there was something in his voice which made Armand sit up. The pen in his fingers tapped more rapidly, and his eyes pointed.

  “What have you got on your mind?” he asked his brother.

  “Pardon me, you should say, ‘on our collective minds,’” Francis interposed amiably. “You see, Armand, we’re all in it Don’t look so disturbed. This is a business conference, not a lynching bee.”

  Armand flushed. A sullen expression settled on his face. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said sardonically. “Come to the point. What’ve you all cooked up?” He did not look, now, at Christopher. He looked at dark, bloated Emile with his thick curly hair and ruddy complexion. Armand’s quick glance became thoughtful, and lingering. His big fat-coated muscles tightened. All at once he smelled treachery and danger in the room. He had known they were there, but now he smelled them with his soul, and he could hear his heart throbbing heavily. Finally, he looked at Henri. The young man sat in complete and meditative silence, a silence that was both forbidding and strange. And now Armand saw that his face had the color and solidity of stone.

  Emile lit one of his eternal cigarettes, and puffed at it impatiently. “All right Chris,” he said in a hard, irate voice. “Don’t prolong the agony. Out with it.” Armand, watching him, saw that he was perturbed, for his fingers dropped the cigarette on the floor. He lit another. There was anger in his perturbation. Armand became more thoughtful than ever. He focussed all his attention on Christopher, and waited. The room seemed suddenly stifling to him. A gray September rain was washing down the windows, and a gray light suffused the air.

  Christopher, the sadist, seemed in no particular hurry. He leisurely withdrew some sheets of paper from a brief-case; his motions were all delicate and careful. Henri turned his head slowly in his direction, and waited, too. There was something about him like the statue in Barbour Park, something as strongly immobile and expressionless and somber.

  Armand said, his eye on the neat sheaf of papers in Christopher’s hand: “Don’t be too polite. You’ve been scheming for a long time, ever since our father died. You think you’ve finally succeeded. I’ve been waiting for this, a long time. You’re not a fool. You don’t strike until your object is in range. Like a snake.”

  The two factions, in spite
of the fierce tension between them, could not help exchanging glances of amusement. They all hated Christopher, and none of them had any particular dislike for Armand. “I presume,” Armand added, looking into his brother’s motionless “Egyptian” eyes, “that your object is in range. And that I’m the object.”

  The mortal enmity and hatred of a lifetime were suddenly visible between them, like a virulent presence. Armand thought heavily: He would not come out in the open like this if he was not sure. He continued to look into Christopher’s eyes, not with rage or detestation, but with sober weariness and despondency. He thought again: I wonder what it would have been like if we had been friends. His candid peasant blood, flowing from both Barbours and Bouchards, quickened with a passion for simplicity and honesty, for integrity and kindness, for goodness and peace. And as it quickened, his last enmity for Christopher dissolved in it, and he could even regard his brother with a sudden pity, a regret that he could so give himself over to worthless things like envy and malice and revenge. He saw the other’s gloating, the balefulness of the triumph on his face, and he felt no fear or consternation, but only a sort of compassionate distaste and wonder.

  “Yes,” said Christopher, lightly, “you’re the object.” He glanced at his faction. But Francis was looking at Armand, and not at Christopher, and his expression was puzzled and a little ashamed. The others sipped their drinks and smoked, and waited.

  Christopher laid the papers on Armand’s desk, as an executioner momentarily lays down his sword. “Let’s talk a moment about Parsons Airplane,” he said. “You own fifty-one per cent of that, don’t you?”

  Armand raised his brows without answering. His eyes narrowed.

  Christopher quoted the market price of Parsons common stock. “However,” he said, in the same light, almost jocose tone, “when it is known that Duval-Bonnet has secured the South American contracts, and the Russian contracts, not to speak of the French and the British and the Japanese, Parsons will drop out of sight.”

  Armand said slowly: “Yes? And have these contracts been secured?”

  Christopher smiled. “The South American contracts are certain. Duval-Bonnet on the strength of them, will compete with Parsons for the others.”

  “I see,” said Armand thoughtfully. “This is very interesting. But would you mind telling me how this affects you, and what business you have with Duval-Bonnet?”

  Christopher’s smile widened into malignance. “Yes, I’ll tell you. I’m Duval-Bonnet.”

  Armand’s faction turned pale. One by one, each man turned to his neighbor and regarded him in speechless consternation and incredulity. One by one, each hand put down its cigar or drink. Christopher’s faction exchanged glances, and then watched the effect on the others. Armand did not speak or change color. The hand that tapped the pen was motionless. Only his eyes showed any emotion, and they glittered. Henri hardly seemed concerned with what was going on. He sat in his silent and impassive statue-pose.

  “The proof,” said Christopher, laying his narrow fleshless hand on the papers, “is right here. Look at it, all of you.” Armand made no effort to touch the papers. He gazed only at his brother. But the others, with exclamations, seized the papep. They turned them over, examined them, and finally fell into a grim silence. Then Armand spoke, calmly and dispassionately: “What do you want?”

  “I,” said Christopher, slowly, watching him, “want to be president of Bouchard and Sons.”

  No one spoke. Armand’s faction was too stunned, too shaken. Christopher’s faction merely waited. Armand’s eye travelled carefully from one to the other, and in spite of themselves, the eye of each man dropped away from him, even Emile’s.

  Armand said quietly: “Is that all you want? And if I say no?”

  Christopher’s faction was uneasy. They looked up, alertly, at him. They had expected Armand to be profoundly shocked, to threaten, to bluster, to be utterly overcome. They had not expected him to sit like this, unmoved, unagitated. They began to wonder if he had something up his sleeve.

  “That’s all,” said Christopher genially. “Yes, that’s alL And if you don’t, Parsons is out of business, and you know what a loss that’ll be to you. But I’ve got a bigger pressure than that.” He glanced at Henri, and now for the first time Henri’s implacable eyes lifted and riveted themselves on the other man with the coldest and most curious of expressions. “Yes,” said Christopher, smiling at his cousin, “I’ve got a far bigger pressure. You’ve seen what a huge loan has been given us—twenty million dollars. Henri got it. He’s majority stockholder, temporarily, in Duval-Bonnet. His stock is security for the loan, which will soon be repaid. We have discussed this matter carefully, and if you don’t come to terms with us, he’ll dump his Bouchard bonds on the Market, and we’ll dump our Bouchard stock. And you know what that means, with a Sino-Japanese war in the offing within a year or two, and a European war within another few years. You know what that means in government contracts. You know what it means to the business of re-arming Germany, and what repercussions it will have on Robsons-Strong, Kronk, Schultz-Poiret, Robsons-Petrillo, and Skeda and Bedors. You know what it will do to any prospect we have of war. You know what it will do to our subsidiaries. You know what it will do to any hope of electing Hoover, or any other Republican, in 1928, and what success it will bring to the Democrats.”

  Jean and Nicholas stared at each other with the transfixation of horror. They were completely stunned. They swallowed dryly. Their eyes rolled upon Armand impotently and with something like disbelieving terror. Christopher’s faction, recovering from their momentary shame and uneasiness, smiled. Emile’s face was crimson. He regarded Armand with open enmity and cunning.

  But Armand did not seem upset. His hand had begun its pen-tapping again, very softly, almost thoughtfully. He still did not seem to see anyone but his younger brother, and now there was curiosity in his eyes, an almost detached curiosity and inquiry.

  Christopher spoke again: “Of course, we shall first expect you to sell me sufficient of your Bouchard stock to give me fifty-one per cent.”

  Armand said meditatively: “If I refuse, and you do what you threaten, you know what it will do to yourselves, as well as to me?”

  Christopher shrugged. “We aren’t too concerned. When fhe stock goes down we’ll buy it up. We can wait. But you can’t.”

  And now Armand smiled, as if involuntarily amused. He turned his head and again examined each member of Christopher’s faction. He saw only enmity,’ and the defensive dislike of men caught in dirtiness. Francis tried to assume airiness, and succeeded only in appearing jejune. Hugo, fat and buff-colored and jovial, appeared to be only a sly cheap politician up to old tricks. Emile, more crimson than ever, looked back at him with violence. And then there was Henri, and it was upon Henri that Armand’s interest centered. The young man had not spoken a word during all this, Armand commented to himself. He might have been a life-size image of himself, sitting in that chair, one arm over the back, his eyes fixed indifferently on the floor, his knees crossed.

  Armand rubbed his chin. He said to them all: “You’re a fine lot of skunks, aren’t you?”

  Christopher shrugged. He laughed. “No. Just business men, Armand. You know the tricks. We’re quite impersonal though, I assure you. Dog eat dog. I’ve always wanted control of Bouchard. You know that, yourself. I think I’ll do better than you. Yes, I’ve always wanted control, and now I’ve got it.”

  Armand said to Emile, ignoring Christopher: “Just as a matter of curiosity, what are you getting out of this?”

  Emile did not answer him, but his bloated face swelled. Armand nodded. “Just more money, I suppose.” He regarded Hugo thoughtfully. “More money, too. Duval stock will go very high. You’re a rich man, but not rich enough, I presume, to be governor of the State. Bribes and campaigns come very high.” He looked at Francis. “And money again. But of course, I’m being childish. It’s always money. In your case, it’s trickery also. You like trickery for itself.” And th
en, at the last, he turned to Henri, and there was a little silence before he spoke, this time, almost regretfully, and with wonder.

  “I always thought you lived up to the legend of your great-grandfather. I remember him very well. He played for big stakes. You play for peanuts. You’ve been used very cleverly. But Ernest Barbour was never used.”

  Henri lifted his, head slowly and regarded Armand intently. The older man met the inexorable eyes; he saw the peculiar smile. Henri removed the arm that had been swinging idly over the back of the chair. He straightened up. Suddenly his strong stocky body threw out an aura of power and exigency. Everyone felt it. Everyone looked at him with sharp alertness.

  “Peanuts?” he repeated softly. “I don’t think so. Seventy-five per cent of Duval stock isn’t peanuts. Forty-five per cent of Bouchard stock isn’t peanuts. Is it?”

  An incredulous pit of stunned amazement opened in that room, filled, now that it was so deathly silent, with the rush and melancholy cataracting of the rain. They heard the loud clicking of typewriters in distant offices. A police siren screamed in the gray wet twilight. No man looked at his neighbor, but only at Henri Bouchard, and they could not look away. They waited, almost without breathing. Christopher’s face had turned to a death-mask of itself.

  “Forty-five per cent of Bouchard stock?” whispered Armand. He leaned across the desk towards Henri. Now, for the first time, sweat appeared on his forehead.