His affable smile did not decrease in charm as he sat down in the chair which Jules offered. But his heart was beating with uncomfortable speed, and he was slightly unnerved. His German soul was shaken by the presence of formidable might which the older man represented, and he felt like a schoolboy. He took hold of himself with conscious grimness, remembering that this time he held the advantage. The advantage, he said to himself, as he accepted one of Jules’s invariably excellent cigars. He forced himself to look at Jules only, after the formal introduction to Ernest Barbour. If he did not look at the latter, he would be safer, he knew. His fair skin had flushed a little. He saw that Jules observed this flushing with sardonic satisfaction, and his cold rage rose and strengthened him. The thin French snake, with his smooth dark head and elegant woman’s hands! A brutish surge of contempt flowed from him suddenly, and Jules felt it with his subtlety.
They conversed pleasantly, with glances of mutual friendship and amiability. Neither wished to approach the subject which had brought Franz to Windsor. Jules had the delicate and sadistic patience of the French. He could wait. He could enjoy himself, while the blond beast grew hotter and more disconcerted. The attacker, in this instance, would not have the advantage. Franz felt, rather than saw, that the silent Ernest Barbour had begun to move impatiently in his chair, as if he, too, felt contempt for all this graceful fencing on Jules’s part. Franz was suddenly surprised. Ernest Barbour was the deadliest enemy any man could have, yet Franz was conscious that a strange twisted sympathy ran between them, which gave them a mutual scorn of this light capering, as though they both watched a goat cavorting, and found the watching irritating.
I will not be pushed, thought Franz, but he said with sudden polite abruptness, looking at Jules: “I am a busy man. You are a busy man also, Mr. Bouchard. You know why I have come. I’ve grown tired of waiting for my ore. I do not find your explanations satisfactory.”
Jules allowed his dark Jesuit face to grow concerned. “You have not received those last consignments from your mines? That is very bad.”
“Very bad,” said Franz, brutally. “I do not need to tell you what this means to me. I have accepted your explanations. I can accept them no longer. For, you see, I know what lies behind all this. You think you can cripple me. You cannot.”
Jules raised a deprecating hand, gravely. “But this is absurd! My explanations, and my regrets, were sincere. I sent out telegrams. I had special agents searching. I am sure, in a few days—”
“I will receive this consignment. Yes.” Franz regarded him with the hard blue points of his narrowed eyes. He did not smile. His face took on the heavy porcine look of an aroused boar, and his thick neck turned scarlet. He sat in his chair very quietly, but there was a tensed appearance to his body, as though he was about to charge. “But what of the next? And the next?” He forgot Ernest Barbour, sitting in such immobile silence near him, listening, always listening.
Jules spread out his hands artlessly, and Franz felt a brutelike aversion for him, and a loathing contempt. “We,” murmured Jules, “wish always to serve our customers. We have many. You are the most important. We wish to serve you satisfactorily. But delays and errors occur. That cannot be helped, Mr. Stoessel. You are making much out of nothing. I can only say again that I am sorry, and that I hope it will not happen again. Aren’t you making mountains out of molehills?”
Franz, aroused now, struck the shining desk before him with his clenched fist. He leaned towards Jules. “I have no time,” he said, and his guttural accent thickened. “This must stop.” Again, he felt that strange twisted wave of understanding flow from Ernest Barbour to him, in spite of the enmity and the inexorableness.
Jules was silent. Then he said: “I have explained. I can’t understand all this excitement. You are creating an embarrassing situation, Mr. Stoessel. You refuse to accept my explanations. What can I do?” He regarded Franz with vicious aversion, though his smile was polite. Then he dropped his eyes to his cigar, as though he was embarrassed and distressed. He glanced at his uncle, with a look that said: What can one do with a beast like this, with a barbarian like this?
“I know what I can do,” replied Franz, loudly, with a threat in his voice. His thick yellow hair seemed to rise slightly on his large head. There was an ugly aspect to his face, and his thick lips opened, squared. “This is no time for politeness. I know what I can do.”
Jules raised his eyebrows with delicate and bewildered questioning. He said nothing.
Franz threw himself back heavily in his chair, and it creaked with his weight. His expression was ugly, menacing. He began to speak slowly, almost ponderously, fixing his hard intent eyes on the other man:
“Do not believe that Sessions can supply the steel demand of America, and that you can keep down competition, and destroy it. Do you think you can destroy, or hinder, me?” Now he smiled, with somber and open contempt. “This country is growing very fast. I am already supplying more vital industries than you are. My steel is going West; I am building up that territory. New railroads are being built. I am already supplying the major part of the steel, and intend to expand indefinitely. You do not like that, Mr. Bouchard?”
“I am only offended at your manner, Mr. Stoessel.” Jules’s smile was imperturbable, ingratiating, friendly.
Franz waved a large, impatient hand, as though to brush away a fly. His manner became more and more menacing, full of brute force and murderous determination.
“I came here today because I know what I can do, and I shall do it, if you compel me.
“You know that the turnover of my stock on the market is far greater than Sessions’s, and not only that, but I intend to pay a dividend soon, which will raise my prestige and my credit, and will be an immense advertisement for Schmidt. Mr. Joseph Bryan, who is my friend, will like that. You will regret that very much, Mr. Bouchard. He would do anything to frustrate you and Regan.”
At the mention of those names, Ernest Barbour stirred in his chair again, and Franz felt the full impact of those inexorable eyes upon him. But he did not look at the other man. Strength was rising in him, strength which would bludgeon down this capering Frenchman, who was gazing at him with ophidian quiet.
He went on, feeling the surging within him:
“Ten years ago, you might have destroyed Schmidt. Now, Schmidt is the giant. You cannot do this, Mr. Bouchard. You are resorting to petty efforts to annoy me. I don’t like to be annoyed, Mr. Bouchard. I want this to stop. And I shall stop it, today. I own 10 per cent of Sessions stock. I can throw it on the market, among other things.”
Jules did not answer. His expression was obscure, but under his dark skin he had paled a little.
Franz said, more quietly, but with a deadly intonation: “You can annoy, but not hurt me seriously. You are too involved in diversified interests. Barbour-Bouchard, which controls Sessions, is too involved. I specialize only in steel. I have already pushed you out of the major markets, and you know I am already supplying much of Europe and South America with fine steel, far beyond your capacity to produce.”
Still, Jules did not speak. He no longer tried to disguise his hatred and his disgust for Franz. Worse, he knew that he was being beaten, and right before the eyes of his hated uncle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ernest’s cold faint smile, and deep, impersonal enjoyment. He thought suddenly, absurdly, of the heavy man with the shield and the “good big sword.” He twisted, internally. He tried to smile courteously, with delicate amusement. But Franz did not return his smile. His large fair face was murderous, savage. Jules saw the openly clenched fists, the thick flushed neck, and he had the ridiculous idea that this man would not hesitate to seize him and bludgeon him with those fists, if necessary.
“Shall I go on?” asked Franz, and added: “I understand you are trying to buy up all the tributary small lines to control the network of the State. Unless you permit my ore to go through at regular schedules and at reasonable prices, you will never go through with that enterprise,—for
the reason that I have already talked with some of the small owners, and offered to band them into a corporation. I have options on their property, for the company which I am about to form. I promised them that I am not so much interested in the profits of the company as the service of the roads, and the prosperity of the State.”
And now he did smile, broadly, with open cynicism. Jules was suffering real and acute pain. It was not in his nature to attack directly, but always with deviousness. He had a hatred for blunt directness, for the open assault. It offended some malevolent fastidiousness in him. His precise and involved mind was suddenly confused, and he winced a little, as though physically revolted. Open threats nauseated his sense of nicety. He loved the game for excitement and subtlety. Now there was no subtlety, only the raw smell of open battle with a sweating beast with whom direct contact was physically repugnant.
Then Ernest Barbour spoke, with careful cold smoothness: “Mr. Stoessel.”
Franz turned and looked at the speaker, and stiffened himself against his treacherous respect and fear for him. He made himself appear attentive, but uncompromising. “Yes, Mr. Barbour?”
They regarded each other in a little silence, as antagonists regard each other, weighing, measuring.
“It seems to me,” said Ernest, calmly, “that you are ignoring even the most fundamental ethics of business relationships. You have come in, into this establishment, breathing fire and smoke and threats. It is extraordinary, to say the least. Very extraordinary.” His eyes were bland, but full, also, of a glazed ruthlessness. They reminded Franz of gooseberries, for they appeared of the same glassy roundness and color. Power was in them, but, very strangely, it was no power that Franz recognized in himself, or could understand. He heard Ernest continue: “In America, Mr. Stoessel, we don’t do business this way. Not in quite this way. We don’t charge into the offices of others, shouting threats. We conduct business as gentlemen, not as Prussians.” And he gave his slight smile again, which disdainfully challenged Franz to feel offense. “We discuss our problems. We don’t wave our fists. Do you understand me? This is very distressing—”
Franz’s flaring nostrils distended so that their red membranes became sharply visible in his face, which had become extremely white. But he spoke as coldly as Ernest had spoken:
“You imply I am not a gentleman, Mr. Barbour, and, inversely, you imply that Mr. Bouchard is. You seem to think that I ought to have come here and listened to lies and promises, and then gone away, with expressions of mutual regard. That is foolishness. Nothing would have come of all that. I want something to come of it. I have no time to waste. I was really more polite than Mr. Bouchard. I paid him the compliment of believing him to be as busy as I, with no more time to waste than I. Was I mistaken?”
A hypocrite, Jules has said, thought Ernest. But the worst kind, the hypocrite who is frank. What does he want out of Schmidt, which he has made? Power? I have wanted, and gotten power. It is all I ever really wanted. He wants it, too, but as a substitute for something else, which to him is really more valuable than power. What is it? Is he running into a blind alley of success, away from himself? And he felt a profound contempt for a man so effeminate, so childish, so weak, as to prefer something nebulous to something enormous. Were all Germans like this, bellowing ferociously, while they howled dismally inside? He could feel only disgust.
He said, so quietly that his monotonous voice was almost gentle: “You were not mistaken, Mr. Stoessel. We are busy men. We are here to adjust differences. But your approach was offensive. I repeat, we don’t do business this way.”
Then Franz knew that he was putting him on the defensive, thinking it would embarrass and rout him. He smiled grimly, though his respect for this formidable man was not lessened, but rather increased.
“You mean, Mr. Barbour, that it is my manner you resent, and not my intention? You mean you would rather I had made my threats in a more gentlemanly way?” But you mean, he thought, that I ought to have been overwhelmed by you, and have left here with nothing accomplished.
The glazed look diminished a little in Ernest’s fixed eyes, and again he smiled, but this time as though with involuntary amusement. He waved his hand. “Go on, Mr. Stoessel—with your threats, if you wish.”
Franz turned back to Jules, and did not see the wry pursing of Ernest’s lips, as though the older man were acknowledging a real adversary.
“Mr. Bouchard, I am a busy man. I have just this to say: I am serving notice on you that I want shipments on time, or better. No more sidetracking, or fictitious losses. I don’t want the trouble of the tributary lines, but if you force me to take the trouble, you will be the final loser, not I. For instance, you have almost the whole monopoly on fine steels for arms and other munitions, and I haven’t wanted it—so far. I might never want it. I have enough just now. However, I have a very splendid laboratory staff, and if I set their minds to it, I shall find a better steel than yours, for this purpose.”
He stood up. There was a long silence. Jules had covered the lower part of his thin face with his fine hand. He stared at the desk. Ernest tapped the fingers of one hand on the back of the other. There was a peculiar expression of surprise, and impersonal appreciation, on his face, and even the shadow of admiration.
Franz waited. Neither of the other two men looked at him, but he bowed to Ernest, ironically. He was choking with his sense of triumph.
“I have the honor to wish you good-day, Mr. Barbour,” he said, and walked quickly from the room.
After the door had closed behind him, Ernest rose. He was smiling as his nephew had rarely seen him smile, with an odd jocularity.
“You ought to have offered him twice what you did. Perhaps we might have gotten him. Though I never liked these Germans,” he added.
“In this instance,” mused Jules, smoldering with mortification, yet perversely edified, “there was nothing we could do. Nothing. He was thoroughly prepared before he came here.”
“It is a German trait,” replied Ernest. He did not appear annoyed at his nephew’s defeat, which was his own defeat. “Germans never move until the ground is entirely ready. Then they move rapidly. This convinces the superficial that they are audacious, while they are really only doggedly careful in advance.”
He tapped his finger thoughtfully on the desk and stared at his nephew.
“He won, this time. But somehow I don’t believe it has made him happy. Nothing will. Some men pursue power for its own sake. He pursues it partly because he can’t help it, and partly because it is a substitute for something else. A kind of opium.” He smiled meditatively. “If I were as young as he is, and had done this day’s work, I’d be walking on air. He is walking on stones, I’ll wager.”
* * *
The hot crimson flush of triumph which Franz had experienced stimulated him for exactly an hour. And then, quite suddenly, he was violently sick.
CHAPTER 19
The autumn earth and sky lay before Emmi as she sat near Egon’s grave.
The grave lay on the low rolling hill, which descended, like a series of smooth rambling terraces, to the wide valley below. The valley lay in a mist of radiance, gold and nebulous, and the mingled green and bronze of the earth shimmered softly in that calm and radiant light. In the far distance, the trees were russet, scarlet or still vividly green, glittering gently against a sky of such a dark blue serenity that she felt her heart rise on a suffocating wave of silent joy. It was near sunset. The west burned in deep bronze and golden waves, which slowly rose like a tide towards the cobalt zenith. She saw the distant hills, like great shoulders covered with copper-colored, yellow or crimson shawls. The air was warm, still, without breeze or movement. She could hear the rustling of fallen leaves, brown and saffron, along the gnarled black roots of trees, against the leaning head-stones, and across the thick long grass, but no wind seemed to stir them. They were like whispering voices, speaking of mysterious things. Long golden shadows streaked the earth, and through them, at intervals, ran a squi
rrel or a rabbit. And sometimes a pheasant, brilliant of plumage, scurried through the light and lost itself in the dark brown caves of the trees.
There was a wide shining silence over the earth which no spring, summer or winter could bestow, a peace of fulfilment, of beauty and prayer. The wheat-stacks stood yellow as butter in the bronzed fields. A feather of smoke rose from the red chimney of a toy white house against the side of a hill. The sky shone and the earth shimmered in colored answer. No bird voice streaked the brilliant quiet with a pencil of bright notes. Not even cattle lowed in the stillness. There was only the immense and fragrant silence, the welling of intense golden light in the west, the deepening warm blue of the eastern sky. The shadows of the tombstones lengthened on the long grass. The earth exhaled a rich odor, smoky and warm and full of mould. The sun still lay hot on Emmi’s shawled shoulders, and upon her jet-dripping bonnet.
Her hands rested on her calico knees, the palms upturned, and her brown face, her attitude, her peaceful blue eyes, seemed part of the autumn landscape. Never had she felt so happy, so serene, so quiet. Her thoughts whispered gently like the leaves. At moments they swelled to large floating shadows, like the few clouds in the sky, and were suffused with the vast and luminous peace. Her eyes wandered vaguely, filled with dreams, down a long aisle of golden trees, whose far tunnel-like end opened on pellucid mist. Down that aisle would come her grandson, very soon, to walk home with her in the evening. His mother would send him, anxiously and with concerned vexation, saying to him: “Grossmutter is tired and old. She has been very ill. She ought not to have gone to the graveyard today, but she will go every day. You are a big little man now, and you must bring her home, and help her on the way. Bring her as fast as possible, for the evenings are cold, and come very soon.”
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