The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Antoine hesitated. Then he said: ‘Yes. Yes, that is true.’

  Annette did not weep. She was unusually quiet, and her little face had a dwindled and profoundly meditative look. She, alone, had loved her father. She looked at him as he slept in his bronze coffin, and was glad that he was dead. Though Henri made a gesture as if to restrain her, she bent over Armand and gently kissed his stony cheek. She whispered to him, her breath warm on his lifeless lips: ‘Goodbye, darling. Don’t forget me.’

  Celeste looked at her brother as he lay there, majestic in death, and she thought: But I never knew him at all. Emile, big, stout, misshapen and black of eye, stared at Armand; he did not know that Armand, dead, resembled him very closely. Christopher looked at his brother, also. He thought: He never could stomach us.

  Henri said nothing at all. He stood at the foot of the casket, and thought: Not for the reasons you wished it, but for my own, it is better that you died. I will do as you wanted me to do, but not for your reasons. Only for mine. In the end, it will be the same.

  The other relatives were profoundly curious about Armand’s will. They had always despised him, felt only amused contempt for him. They remembered his cowardice. They were sorry for him, of course. But they, too, believed it was better that he had died. The regarded Annette and Antoine curiously. The greatest of the Bouchard fortunes had now passed into their hands.

  Armand was buried with his family in the private cemetery originally purchased by Ernest Barbour. He lay near his father and his mother. All about them, Bouchards and Barbours slept under great bowed willows and evergreens. The cemetery was like an immense and well-tended park, with flower-beds and winding gravelled paths. The family had never liked mausoleums. They preferred the earth, the strong earth, from which their peasant bodies had come, and which they instinctively loved. Here, in a quiet and lovely corner, slept Gertrude Barbour, Ernest’s beloved daughter, grandmother of Henri and Edith, who had died in her pathetic youth. Beside her lay her husband, Paul, and at her left hand slept her daughter, Alice Bouchard. Not far away her brothers slept, Godfrey Sessions Barbour, brought from his beloved France (Godfrey, the great American composer, and his wife, Renée Bouchard), and Reginald, snatched from the grasp of the Mennonites in his death, and Guy, murdered in the Pennsylvania hills, and Charles, the dull and obscure, who had died of typhoid fever so very long ago. Near them, on a low but strangely lofty eminence, dominating the whole cemetery as a king dominates his kingdom even in death, lay Ernest Barbour, and on each side of him lay his wives, May Sessions and Amy Drumhill, their bodies long one with the earth. Amy’s children lay below her, to the left of the beautiful lonely eminence: Elsa Barbour and Lucy Van Eyck, and John Charles. (It was her son, Paul, who lay near Gertrude, his wife.)

  Scattered far and wide, in that cemetery, lay numerous others, part of that empire of family and power which Ernest had founded. Their names were carved on simple marble and granite stones. Jules Bouchard, in a circle of gravelled paths and flowers and trees, lay beside his wife, Adelaide, in her grave which had not yet sunken, and poor Peter. His brothers were there, too, François and Leon, and Leon’s wife. And many, many others.

  Few ever visited those quiet and more humble graves near the high stone walls, the graves of Armand Bouchard, and his wife Antoinette (grandparents of Jules), and their beloved son, Jacques, the cripple, who had killed himself. (Jacques had been removed from the outer side of the walls of the Catholic cemetery, and Armand and Antoinette had been taken from within those walls, and all had been buried here at the order of Ernest Barbour.) Here, in this distant spot, lay also Ernest’s parents, Joseph and Hilda, who had never returned to their beloved England, and their daughters, Dorcas and Florabelle. There were shafts, too, in memory of Martin Barbour, who had died in the Civil War, and of Honoré Barbour, much loved cousin of Jules. But Martin lay buried in some lost grave in the South, and Honoré had fallen far into the grey sea.

  Husbands lay beside wives and parents, and children lay there, too. On the bronze gates of the cemetery was welded the plaque: Barbour-Bouchard. Gardeners were here, constantly tending, weeding, trimming, planting. Above the tops of the walls stood the heads of great trees, in which birds sang in the sunny silence of the summer. Not far away was the small but exquisite chapel which Ernest Barbour had built.

  The new raw earth near Jules and Adelaide was disturbed again for Armand. They laid him there, and the red clods fell on his coffin. His many relatives and innumerable acquaintances left him to his sleep, and the bronze doors closed after them, April rain fell on his grave. A bird or two picked at evicted worms on the oozing clods, above the spot where his silent heart lay. His head was near the roots of a mighty evergreen, which one day would penetrate his body and his skull, and claim them.

  The relatives returned to the house which he had built to hear his will. But they were shocked into complete amazement and bewilderment. For the lawyers told them gravely that there was a stipulation with regard to the will.

  It was not to be opened for a year or until America had declared war on Germany, or until Henri Bouchard gave the signal. If America had not been embroiled in the war, or Henri had not given the signal, then, at the expiration of a year after Armand’s death, the will was to be opened.

  CHAPTER LVIII

  Celeste had named her child Land Burgeon Bouchard. Land Burgeon had been her mother’s father, a harsh and ribald old man of great integrity, and possessing a very dirty tongue. But he had been tough, and he had been disillusioned, and like most men of his kidney, he had been kind, just and compassionate. He had died long before Celeste had been born, but she possessed, as a legacy from her mother, a dark portrait of him.

  It was an ugly portrait, but full of life and vitality. The short and wiry old man was painted sitting in a huge carved chair, his large and knobby bald head bent forward over his chest, as if he were deformed, his gnarled hands clenched on the head of his cane, his big bristling chin belligerently thrust outwards. He had a wrinkled and irascible face, very ugly, with a huge Roman nose, a thin wide mouth all tightness and grimness and cynicism, and little beetling eyes, choleric and contemptuous. But his great bald brow had a cold nobility about it, and his expression, though bitter and disingenuous, had no craft, no cruelty. The wide white points of his collar came up about his sallow jowls; the cravat was knotted below them like a hangman’s knot. It was the portrait of a great gentleman, bawdy, ferocious, but all honour.

  I should like to have known him, thought Celeste, standing beneath that portrait with her child in her arms. He wasn’t a liar, her mother had told her. He also never liked the Bouchards, Adelaide had added, with a sad and twisted smile. He had called Jules ‘that French jackanapes with the priest’s face.’ He never called the Bouchards by that name; he used the English translation: Butcher! Celeste smiled, remembering her mother’s stories of her father, how he used his cane lavishly when enraged, how his tongue had been famous for its ribaldry, caustic epigrams and abusiveness. But, he had been a man of integrity—and he could never endure the Bouchards. None of his grandchildren had inherited any of his facial characteristics, though Adelaide had often declared that Celeste’s eyes, direct and steadfast, had something of her grandfather’s expression. Yes, thought Celeste, I should like to have known him.

  She lived very quietly with her little boy on Placid Heights. He was eight months old now, and, to his mother at least, very precocious. He had a mass of light and virile hair, light grey eyes with a bold look, a short strong nose and a strong chin. But his mouth was tender, if firm, and when he smiled several dimples sprang out in his cheeks. And when he smiled so, his amazing resemblance to his father disappeared in an expression of great sweetness. He was a good, quiet and self-contained baby, much attached to his mother. He rarely cried, and played for hours by himself with his multitude of toys. When Celeste held him close to her breast, he wound his little hands strongly in her hair, but very gently, and his grey eyes were luminous. Celeste would feel th
e weight of tears behind her eyelids, and the knot of grief and love in her throat.

  She guarded him jealously, with a kind of fierceness. He had several teeth now, and could pull himself up in his crib. She was certain that he could say a few words, though his nurses disagreed. Celeste would carry him into the gardens, and let him roll on the warm May grass, laughing and shrieking with joy. She would expose him to the sun, and rejoice in the stocky strength of his little body. Bouchard: Butcher! No, he would be no butcher, this little one. His mother would see to that, to the end of her life. She would take him away, some day, so that he would not be corrupted.

  All her life, now, was in this child. She talked to him, sang to him, played with him. And as she did so, the rigidity of her features began to relax, the stiff sternness of her mouth softened, the white still grief of her expression lifted.

  When her relatives called upon her, she was reluctant to let them see the child. They thought, slyly, that this was because his resemblance to Henri was so startling. But that was not the reason. She was afraid of their contagion. She made the excuse that he was asleep, or being fed, or out with one of his nurses. When the war was over, she said, she believed she would take the child to England, or perhaps to France, after the hoofprints of the boar had been washed away in its own blood.

  Sometimes the relatives would whisper to each other: ‘She seems to have forgotten Henri, entirely. A nice thing for him!’

  They could never tell what Henri was thinking. He, apparently, had not seen the child since the day it had been born. Annette came often to Placid Heights, alone. She, alone, saw the child very often. Celeste would let her play with him on the grass; she would laugh merrily as he pulled her soft bright ringlets. She would kiss him passionately, laughing and half-crying together, clasping him to her small shrunken breasts. Then she would look up at Celeste, who would be watching her broodingly, and her large light-blue eyes would be full of radiant tears.

  It had been exquisite agony for Celeste the first few times that Annette had come to her and had seen little Land. But even that had gone now. She seemed grateful for Annette’s gentle company, but when Annette would kiss and fondle the baby something hard and tight and dark would grip Celeste’s heart. She could hardly prevent herself from snatching him from Annette’s arms in a kind of blind jealousy which was inexplicable even to her. Later, she would feel the most excruciating compassion for Annette, and an immense sadness. She would not let herself consider whether Annette knew the truth, and in time, she came to believe that Annette had no suspicion at all.

  In fact, as her fierce protectiveness grew, she persuaded herself that the family had no suspicion, or that, if they had, they were beginning to forget.

  On April 10, 1941, Mr Hull declared that an agreement with the Danish Minister for the use of Greenland as an American base had been signed.

  On May 27, 1941, the President, in a radio address, declared an unlimited national emergency. He announced that the Battle of the Atlantic now extended from the icy waters of the North Pole to the frozen continent of the Antarctic.

  The subversive organizations of America went into a frenzy, into feverish and renewed activity. The ‘war-monger’ President was hastening America into ‘this terrible foreign war.’ Subversive newspapers, speakers, Senators, Congressmen, politicians, labour leaders, prominent and public figures, and many others, shrieked that ‘American boys would soon be dying on foreign soil.’

  But the people were calm, expectant and grim. It was the people who were silent amid the huge and frenzied uproar The ‘imponderables of the people’s conscience’ were felt throughout all America, watchful, disillusioned, undeceived and intent. The soul of America was felt, growing stronger every hour, the simple and still uncorrupted soul of an enlightened people.

  When Germany invaded Russia on June 22, there was a rising murmur throughout America like a deep but resolute sigh of relief, and a sound as if a gigantic army rose to its feet and tightened its belt.

  ‘We haven’t lost, yet,’ said Antoine to his faction.

  That faction, through its newspapers, more than hinted that the President should be impeached. It, too, felt great relief at the German invasion of Russia. Its suborned newspapers drew a deep breath, then exultantly cried that Hitler would now destroy ‘bolshevism’ in Europe, as he had long promised. The newspapers, also, made quite merry over the consternation and confusion of the American Communists, now that Hitler had broken the Pact between Germany and Russia. Not only the newspapers were merry: the American people, even in this terrible hour, could lean back and laugh heartily at this dilemma of the timid and pallid American Communists, who had declaimed so earnestly on ‘British imperialism,’ and ‘foreign wars in which we have no stake,’ and ‘war-mongers who would rush us into a conflict that is no concern of ours.’ The America Only Committee had had its share of members from among the American Communist Party, and their withdrawal in confusion and complete funk heightened American mirth hugely. It was not until later that the mirth became just anger. It was apparent, said the American people, that the Communists knew no loyalty to America, but only to the party line in Russia. They were no better than the fascists, after all. During the past two years, the American Communists had attacked the President as viciously as the native fascists had attacked him, and there had been a suspicious similarity between their propaganda and the Nazi venom. With the stupidity of their kind, and the obtuseness, the Communists soon boldly demanded American intervention in the war, ignoring the anger and the outraged laughter of the people.

  ‘In the end, it is probably a good thing for us that Germany attacked Russia,’ said Antoine. ‘I was afraid that it would consolidate American opinion against Hitler. But the antics of the American Communists have enraged the country, and I am delighted to see that public opinion has recoiled to its original caution of 1939.’

  But he spoke without his original liveliness and gaiety. He spoke with sombreness and heaviness, strange manifestations for the elegant and insouciant Antoine.

  ‘It’s Armand’s damned mysterious will that’s annoying him,’ said the family, delightedly seeing his dark face, pale, now, to sallowness, and the brooding and hooded expression of his eyes.

  The Russian time-table, Hitler announced, was six weeks. The world, fantastically, believed him. The Germans rushed through the Ukraine, a bloody grey horde. Cities smoked in the wheat-fields. The rivers vomited bodies on the torn shores. Villages crumbled and dissolved under the thunder and lightning of steel and explosives. From the great flat stretches of the bleeding Ukraine came one long groan of agony and death.

  But the six weeks passed, and though the Germans were at the gates of Moscow and Stalingrad and Leningrad, and Russian blood fell upon the thirsty earth, Russia did not collapse, did not surrender. The world watched, amazed and incredulous. The Russians retreated, died. The Russian sky turned red with the fire of countless villages and towns. But Russia did not fall.

  CHAPTER LIX

  ‘We can soon strike,’ said Henri to Christopher, in August, 1941.

  ‘When?’ asked Christopher. ‘Are you waiting for war?’

  He was very curious about Henri. Did the swine know the contents of Armand’s will? If he did, he said nothing that could give the slightest hint. One never knew about him, his thoughts or his plans. Yet, Christopher began to believe that Henri knew what the will contained.

  As if he guessed Christopher’s thoughts, a livid flash passed over Henri’s pale eyes. He smiled a little. ‘If you mean: Am I waiting until Armand’s will can be opened? the answer is no. Suppose you leave the rest to me.’

  Christopher inclined his head humorously. But he did not feel humorous. His vanity was stung again with humiliation. If Henri knew the contents of the will, why, then, did he not move with regard to Celeste? Unless, and now Christopher felt a sickened pang, the will expressly prohibited Henri from any marriage with Celeste, or any divorce from Annette. If it was this, then, what was to become of Ce
leste, and her child? Was it possible that the dull and stupid Armand knew of the affair, and had provided against it? Was it possible that Antoine had told his father? If so, then everything was lost.

  He looked up again to see Henri watching him with cold cynicism. And then all the hatred of years flared up viciously in Christopher. He clenched his hands. Henri rose and walked to the windows of his office. He did not want Christopher to see his smile now. Let him stew, he thought.

  ‘We can soon strike,’ he said, his back to Christopher.

  They never spoke of Celeste these days, though her name hung between them threateningly.

  That August night, when Land Burgeon Bouchard was just one year old, Henri returned home for dinner, and was greeted sweetly and gently, as always by his wife, Annette. He was too engrossed in his own thoughts to see that she was even paler than usual, and that her eyes had a strange and steadfast shine. They ate their meal in silence, broken only by an occasional comment by Annette on the humid heat of the day, and her suggestions that a storm was imminent.

  Henri glanced idly through the open french windows. The west was a sultry blaze of crimson. High in this fuming light the thunder-heads were piled in purple masses. It was very hot and still. Even the locusts were silent. The trees hung heavily, their tops tinged with scarlet. In the brilliantly clear yet spectral air of sunset the grass had a peculiar vivid greenness. As Henri watched, thin lances of pale fire pierced the thunder-heads, and were followed by a far rumbling. All at once the motionless trees stirred uneasily, and a cool and sulphurous breath passed into the quiet room. The atmosphere was ominous with the coming storm.

  ‘Yes,’ said Henri, ‘we’re in for a bad one. Well, we need it.’