For sometimes, in the past, during all Henri’s brutal and indifferent derelictions, she would start from her trance of serene self-control with a dazed sensation as if being awakened from a drugged sleep. Then she would experience the agonizing pain and despair and repudiation of resignation. Her own human desire for love and peace and security could not be controlled on these occasions. She would ask herself, with frantic misery and rebellion, why she should have been singled out for lovelessness and detestation and ignoring. What had she done? Was she not a woman, who desired only to serve and to love, and to be possessed of just a little peace? Why must all the self-abnegation be hers, the self-withdrawal? Could not Henri have spared for her a little affection, a little consideration, a little tenderness?
It had been so much worse when Celeste had returned. She did not confess even to herself how frenziedly she had hoped that Henri and Celeste would not come together. That was because she had always so loved and admired Celeste, so trusted her. Celeste, she would argue childishly, but with faith, had too much integrity, too much honour and kindness and sense of duty, to betray her niece and her husband. If Celeste became faithless, then Annette’s last defence against a monstrous world would be gone.
But Celeste and Henri had come together. Annette guessed quite accurately at the struggle which must have tormented the older woman. Her pity was deep and profound. Nevertheless, her heart was assailed and torn apart with bewildered pain. If only it had not been Celeste! Annette could not explain, even to herself, why she should feel such wild despair. She would watch Celeste, note how she averted her eyes from her niece, see how her pallor and silence and coldness increased daily, how her every word was distrait and incoherent or sorrowful. At these moments, Annette’s despair and anger would soften, and she would feel only compassion. Once or twice she had to restrain herself from crying out: ‘It doesn’t matter, darling! Don’t suffer so. I’m really glad.’ But some virtue in the poor little creature’s soul would ooze and bleed like a separate and wounded organ, and her last faint hold on life, her last faint faith in mankind, would loosen and sicken.
And then, she understood that Henri and Celeste saw each other no longer. After her first confusion, she was sharply overjoyed. Celeste could no longer betray her. Her faith and her hope were renewed again, her courage and her tranquillity.
She was waiting for Henri today. The warm quiet room was fortified with lamplight and fire against the gloom and greyness of the twilight, against its cold and deathlike menace. Annette wore a soft yellow wool dress and her bright fine hair was swirled about her head in ringlets. Her whole appearance was gentle and childlike, and he large blue eyes shone brilliantly. She heard Henri’s approach, and the old painful throb began in her throat. She turned to him, smilingly, and held out her hand.
‘Hello, dear,’ she said, softly, searching his face with inner anxiety.
He looked at her in silence, his expression lowering. Then he said, briefly: ‘Good evening.’ He spoke with an effort, when he added: ‘A miserable day, isn’t it?’
He sat down heavily, near the fire, propped his elbow on the arm of his chair, cupped his chin in his hand. He stared at the fire. He had forgotten her. She saw his gloom and abstraction, and was impotent. If only he drank, as other men did! If only there could be the pleasant tinkle in tall glasses, the pungent odour of whiskey, the heartening hiss of soda! But, Henri Bouchard had no solace, no escape from reality.
He desired none. Was that a weakness, or a strength? Annette did not know. She only knew that alcohol was loathsome to him, that the taste and smell revolted him. Once he had remarked that he wished they dispensed it in capsules, so that one need not taste it, but could get the effect nevertheless. But he had not really been serious. He desired no effect Annette timidly sat down near him, a fixed bright smile on her little three-cornered face. She clasped her hands tightly together, and said in a light tone: ‘Would you like a capsule, Henri?’
‘Ah?’ he said, gloomily, turning his head slowly to stare at her. He scowled. ‘A capsule?’
She felt a fool under that long and inexorable look which condemned her for her inanity. She stammered, still smiling fixedly: ‘You know, dear. You’ve often spoken of capsules. For alcohol. It’s such a horrid day, and so much flu about. I thought perhaps you might like a drink.’
She waited for his abrupt and annoyed refusal. But, to her surprise, he began to smile. He dropped his hand. He regarded her with an almost friendly look.
‘That might not be bad. All right, then. But not Scotch and soda. That’s too extended a drink. Something concentrated—and strong. I don’t know what.’
She was dizzy with excitement and happiness. It had been so long since he had condescended to speak to her casually, or to notice her. He was staring at her now with a curiously thoughtful expression, and there was a quickening in the colourless and inexorable eyes that were regarding her intently. She jumped up at once and rang for a servant. She gave the order for two Manhattans. ‘But very strong, please,’ she whispered. She returned to Henri and sat down again. Her smile was wide and strained.
She knew very well that she had intelligence and eloquence, but with Henri she had always been mute and absurd. She wanted to say, as always, bright and subtle things to him, brilliant things which would inspire his admiration. But the words that came from her were always dull and awkward, and without vitality. She loved him so terribly, and feared him even more. She could only gaze at him with the light and brilliant blueness of her eyes, and wish desperately that she could approach him, that he would speak to her fully of what tormented him in these wild and dreadful days. She was sure that he would be amazed at the extent of her knowledge.
Though Henri was not a subtle man, he was astute and penetrating. He knew much of what his wife was thinking. Annette was quite mistaken: he did not consider her a fool. In many ways, he considered that she was superior to Celeste; her mind was pellucid, more mature, more civilized. Often, he was very sorry for her, and angered with himself for his own brutality, for no one, he knew, could hurt this poor pretty little creature without suffering some hurt in himself. He was not given to compassion, but he had felt more pity for Annette than he had ever felt for another human being.
Though his look was still curiously thoughtful and alert, as he stared at her, he allowed himself to relax a little. When the cocktails were brought, he gave them a brief glance of distaste, put the glimmering glass to his lips and gulped hastily He made a grimace, wiped his mouth hastily with his handkerchief. Annette sipped hers slowly, hoping and praying that the rigidity of her body would lessen, and that she would be able to speak to him in casual tones. All her married life, she had dreamt of an hour when she and Henri might talk together easily, might reach friendliness and intimacy, might laugh together in the firelight. Was this the hour? She had never been with him before when he was so thoughtful, so ready. The cocktail created a bright and glowing warmth in her, and the tense trembling of her muscles relaxed. It might have been her imagination, but Henri appeared less stony now, and his broad strong hands lay quite easily on the arms of his chair. Her heart became an enormous and quivering lump in her chest, and there were sudden tears in her eyes.
‘Was that good?’ she asked, in a shaking tone. ‘I mean, the capsule?’
‘Yes,’ he said, in a friendly tone. ‘Not bad at all. Except for the taste. Why don’t they invent drinks that aren’t repulsive to the palate? That would be a godsend. I feel warmer now. I’ve been cold all day.’
What can I say that will interest him? thought Annette, desperately. But she could find nothing to say. She heard herself speaking: ‘I heard from Papa about an hour ago. He’s been ill again. He’s terribly frightened. And he’s gained twenty pounds, which is very bad.’
Why should he be interested in Armand? But to her surprise, he was interested. ‘He eats too much,’ he commented. ‘What about the List? Has he been neglecting it?’
‘I don’t know. I think he’s jus
t unhappy,’ said Annette, her tone lowering sadly.
‘Why should he be unhappy, Annette? He never liked the business. It’s been a relief to him that he isn’t connected actively with it. Is he lonely? He never cared much for company.’
Annette said, without forethought, and with pain: ‘He’s sick in his soul, Henri. I don’t think even he knows why.’ Henri was silent. But his eyes remained on hers, thoughtfully. Then he said, after a long moment: ‘Yes. Yes, I can see that. It’s too late for him. It was always too late.’
His paleness was less. There was even a flush about his eyes, as the alcohol took effect on his unaccustomed stomach. He said: ‘Sometimes I think it is always too late for all of us. Perhaps I’m sentimental. But you know what the Chinese say “Each man lives a life of quiet desperation.”’ He smiled a little.
It was the alcohol which made Annette say impulsively, leaning towards him: ‘Henri, do you live such a life? No one ever knows anything about you. Do you? Do you, Henri?’ He did not answer her for a moment, but only stared at her. Then he said, with strange quietness: ‘Yes, I do.’
She clenched her hands together, and cried out: ‘Let me help you, Henri! I’ve always wanted to, you know.’
He lifted his hand and half concealed his mouth. Over his hand he regarded her with a strange intensity. ‘Why?’ he asked.
The tears were thick on her golden lashes. She said, with sad humility, dropping her head: ‘Because I love you.’ There was a sudden thick silence in the room. Henri saw that fair bent head, the trembling of the little immature breast, the tense white hands on the childish knees. He saw her desolation and misery, and hopelessness. He frowned, and his lips drew together in a hard and puckered line, as if he was greatly ashamed and embarrassed, and unendurably touched. He sighed. She had never heard him sigh before, and the sound pierced her heart. She looked up, and exclaimed in a trembling voice: ‘Oh, Henri. Henri!’
And now he saw her piteous face, its pain and weariness and loneliness. ‘Don’t,’ he said, quickly and abruptly, and turned away. He pushed himself to his feet. He began to walk up and down the room, his hands clasped together behind his strong back. His steps quickened. He seemed to have forgotten her. She watched him through a splintering dazzle of tears.
And now he began to speak in a low tone: ‘You oughtn’t to have married me, you know. That was a long time ago; there’s no use speaking of it now. I had my reasons. I thought I might find time to be kind to you. I haven’t found the time, or, perhaps, the inclination. You knew what I was. There has never been time in my life for anything but—’
He halted. She rose involuntarily, and stood near her chair, grasping the back. She cried out: ‘Yes, I know everything about that, darling. But I always did love you so terribly. Don’t reproach yourself. You’ve made me so happy, really, just being married to you.’
He turned his head over his shoulder and stared at her incredulously. He stood, now, below the portrait of his greatgrandfather, and it was two identical faces that looked at her with granite disbelief. A wave of dim confusion rushed over her. Her heart was beating wildly.
He was smiling again. He came hack to his chair and sat down. He looked up at her. ‘Sit down, my dear. Don’t be so tense. You are quite romantic, you know. I can’t imagine that just being married to me has given you very much.’
‘Oh, it has,’ she whispered, through pale lips. She sat down on the edge of her chair. Her eyes were glowing, filled with light. Her humility, her sincerity, made him acutely embarrassed. He lifted his hand and bit his index finger, and averted his face from her.
His embarrassment increased, and his uneasiness. And again, he felt repulsion for her. It was as if she had touched his flesh with urgent loving fingers, and all his body tightened in repudiation. He regretted this involuntary sensation, but he could not help it. If only she would not look at him like that, if she would not be so intense, if only she could be casual ! But she would never be what he wanted, and so, all these years, he had repelled her for fear of her intimacy.
The alcohol had dulled his normal reactions, however, and so after a moment, he could control his embarrassment and his pity. He said, not looking at her: ‘You’ve asked me, Annette, whether you could help me. I think you can.’
‘Yes?’ she cried. ‘Please tell me.’ She could not believe that she had heard him rightly. She leaned towards him. Her little hands fluttered as if to touch him. Again, his muscles tightened, and he was ashamed of their tightening.
‘Do you know what is happening today—in America?’ he asked, quietly, denying her eagerness and intensity. ‘You live such a secluded life, my dear. I’ve often wondered whether you were aware of what’s going on, and what it all means to us.’
She shrank, and flushed. But she made her voice as quiet and impersonal as his own: ‘I’m not entirely a fool, Henri. I read, and listen. Yes, I know. I feel terribly impotent and frightened about it all.’ She added: ‘I go to the public meetings of the American Freedom Committee.’ She hesitated: ‘Please don’t be angry, but I’m a member. One of the Charter members. And one of its largest contributors.’
‘No!’ he exclaimed in surprise. But there was no annoyance in his look, only interest. ‘I didn’t know that. I’m not angry, my dear. In fact, I’m pleased. You siee,’ and he hesitated only a little, ‘I’m the largest contributor. I also finance Gilbert Small, its radio speaker.’
A wave of delight and excitement flooded her. This was intimacy beyond any of her hopes. She was drawn into a conspiracy with him. She could hardly control herself. She began to laugh incoherently.
‘Do you know anything at all about what I am trying to do?’ he asked, when she was calmer. He leaned towards her over the arm of his chair, and he was very grave. ‘Anything at all, Annette?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Can’t you tell me a little?’
He was silent. He regarded her with narrow penetration. Then he spoke briefly and quickly. She listened, hardly breathing, the light welling in her eyes, her little face very pale and intent, forgetting everything but what she was hearing. Once, only, did she whisper, as if she could not control herself: ‘I didn’t know!’
He slapped his hand heavily on the arm of his chair, and shrugged. ‘Well, you know now,’ he said, flatly. Then he was silent, staring at the fire. She watched him.
‘And now,’ he continued, after a long moment, ‘there is a way you can help me. If you are willing to do it, without question. Things are very ominous; they are coming to a crisis. I haven’t given you anything, except a brief outline. Now, I need your help.’
‘Yes?’ she whispered. ‘Anything, Henri. You have only to ask me.’
‘It might not be easy. You might wonder,’ he warned. He was silent a moment, and now he looked only at the fire ‘How much do you love your brother, Antoine?’
‘I love him very much,’ she said, simply.
‘I was afraid of that. You don’t know of course, that he is the head of the faction that is opposing me?’
She was dumb with miserable amazement. At her silence, he turned his large head and regarded her with tense grimness. ‘Yes,’ he said, slowly, ‘that’s right. That’s why I still want to know if you will help me. And, in helping me, help destroy your brother, and the others with him. That’s probably why I ought to shut up now, and not say anything more.’
She could not speak. All her joy was gone, and there was only terror and anguish left behind. But she looked at him resolutely.
‘Your father knows,’ he said, with cunning astuteness. ‘He knows all about it.’
He saw how she struggled to draw a deep breath. She lifted her chin. She was very white, and the bright rings of hair on her little head were like a shining crest, curiously strong, but curiously piteous and vulnerable, also.
‘Tell me what to do,’ she said, in a low firm voice. He saw the pulsing of her small white throat, so thin and soft, and he felt new respect for her.
‘I will tell you, then,’ he sa
id slowly, watching her. ‘Tomorrow, visit Antoine and Mary. Just a casual call, you know. You wondered how they were getting along, and you wanted to see your father. Then, express regret that Christopher and I seem to be at odds. Speak impulsively, as if you were sorry and confused. Tell Antoine, but very casually, and in distress, that Chris and I have had a violent quarrel. You don’t know what it’s all about, of course. But it worries you. Everything worries you.’
He paused. Annette was looking at him in silence. The firelight glittered on that lifted small head with its indomitable but defenceless curls.
Then she said: ‘Is Christopher—?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, impatiently. ‘But you’ve promised not to ask questions. I can only tell you that Antoine suspects something, and he must not suspect. If he does, then we’ll learn nothing more of what he is doing under cover, from Christopher. But look, I’m wasting time.
‘And then, you must confess that I’ve been borrowing money from you. A lot of money. That I seem very worried.
That I went to New York to see old Regan, and that I came back in a very gloomy and depressed condition. You are very concerned about me. You wonder what it is all about. You wish I would give you my confidence.’ He paused, and smiled grimly. ‘All this sounds very foolish to you, doesn’t it? And silly?’
‘No,’ she said, steadfastly.
‘Well, then, you can infer that old Regan wouldn’t see me, or something. You gathered that, you’ll say. Then, you can add that I’ve quarrelled with Emile, and Nick and Francis about something. Very violently. You are very bewildered. You don’t know what it is all about. You wish you did. You want to help me.’
‘Yes,’ she said, simply.
‘And here’s another thing,’ he said, with gathering intensity. ‘Before you talk like this to Antoine, who will be very sympathetic and interested, by the way, you must see your father. You must tell him this: that he is to pretend that I’ve tried to borrow five million dollars from him, with my bonds as collateral. And that he has refused me. Bring him down, then, to Antoine. Have him remark about it pettishly and tell Antoine that he has refused. Your father will understand. You will, in front of Antoine, beg him to lend me this money. He is to refuse, very angrily. He is to complain about me, that I seem to be losing my grip, and that he is beginning to have doubts about me. He is to say some nasty things. No doubt he can think them up on the spur of the moment,’ and Henri smiled grimly with amusement.
The Final Hour Page 43
