House of All Nations (88 page)

‘All the same,' said Aristide, ‘Alphendéry is neither a bolshevik nor unemployed.'

‘A little of both,' she said in a contralto voice, ashamed of her anger, at the breakfast table.

* * *

Scene Seventy-three: Sell the World

Y
ou'll have to call in Carrière and buy him off,' said William soberly.

‘He won't even talk to us now: haven't we been sending De Ville-de-Ré, and Guipatin and Dumans and God knows who for months? He's sworn to get me. Lallant, who is his stooge, has collected round him every crook in Paris who gets his living off blackmail.'

In between attending to his usual business and writing speeches, at Jean Frère's instigation, Alphendéry now had to run down to the courts two or three times a week to give evidence or argue in several cases. The Wades looked likely to win the case, in which Jules would have to pay the wife one hundred thousand francs. The landlords in the Rue Tronchet looked likely to win. Parouart, Rosenkrantz, Carrière—it had come to the point where William said with truth, ‘We live only to give evidence against our clients.'

They had been confidently assured by not only Olympe, who was farcical, but by Lemaître, who was all that was finest in Parisian jurists, that it would be possible, taking advantage of the natural delays of the courts, to postpone a final decision in Carrières suit, for two, three, or four years, the same with the suits of the decorators, the landlords, the Wades, Parouart and the Gemini. Parouart's suit had been rushed through at unprecedented speed, and the decision, unexpectedly in their favor, given in record time. But now this case rose again from the dead in the form of a John Doe proceeding. Although they had nearly five millions in caution money tied up while these cases were in progress, they were all gambling on the chance that their ‘big chance' would come before any of the decisions were given, expecting to weary out their opponents—all except Carrière perhaps—or to seize the one chance in a million before the Carrière decision was given, and place the sum total of their funds abroad. Their daily conversation had now for the most part become a discussion of the chances of their own and
their enemies' survival; every rumour to their enemies' disadvantage and discredit was marked up, every piece of bourse gossip favouring them was discounted.

As it was then possible to comment publicly on affairs in the courts, Carrière lost no opportunity of calumniating Bertillon, holding him up to ridicule and innuendo, and even mentioning in small paragraphs the cases of Parouart who recently sued the Banque Bertillon ‘against X' and the other plaintiffs.

‘Carrière is making the mistake of his career, attacking a secret alliance of the Banque du Littoral du Nord. Débuts' (the head of the Banque du Littoral) ‘won't like that. I'm surprised too, because Débuts is a liberal radical, the same as Carrière.' Thus Jules to journalists.

He told William later on, ‘And what have I to lose?' sitting back comfortably in his cardinal's chair and looking as cool as a cucumber, although all the troubles in the world were buzzing about his ears. ‘If Débuts asks me, I deny it: a newspaperman's canard.'

They comforted themselves that Carrière's newspaper campaign would presently be its own antidote: in the capital of smartalecks the readers would say, ‘This Carrière has his knife in Bertillon and that's all.' They comforted themselves that Carrière was sinking a fortune in his campaign, in bribing underministers of finance and commerce to arrange quotas his way (in fruits and wines); that he dropped so much money in the market and in gambling that he would soon be pockets inside-out; that he was at loggerheads with his wife, who was sure to shoot him; that Caro, his chorus boy, had left him; that Carrière would shoot himself out of chagrin; that he was in the Oustric mudhole up to his ears; that he was bankrupt and his uncle and mother, who administered the estate, would give him no more money till he came of age ‘offically' at thirty-five, a matter of three years; and so on.

The employees of the bank were also much harassed and embarrassed by the questions of their friends and families on the Carrière scandal. ‘If Bertillon had really a contract with Carrière why didn't he pay it? Wasn't it a shame for a man of Betillon's distinction? What was the
inside story
? Was it true that it was a duel to the death between the two? Why? Weren't they old school friends? Was Bertillon bankrupt? Of bad faith? How did it come about that Bertillon made such a contract, that is, with little consideration, with Carrière, knowing his influence? There must have been an unwritten consideration, probably disgraceful—these bankers, after all, everyone knew. If Bertillon really had the goods on Carrière, and could prove that he was an income-tax evader, why didn't he push him to the wall?

The employees, according to their lights, answered these questions with different kinds of cynicism and despair. They liked Bertillon, according to their salaries. They had no use for Carrière simply because he was ‘the enemy'. Without doubt, with his campaign against Bertillon he was threatening their existence. Fifty members of French working-class families on the unemployment lists—was that likely to increase the popularity of the government, of the finance minister? Especially at a time like this when the working class needed to be hoodwinked, appeased, when times were getting worse.

In defense of Jules Bertillion his own employees used these arguments …

Michel said, ‘Carrière's in with the high banking crowd; they'll drop you Jules, and they'll back him to the finish: don't fool yourself.'

Jules frowned: ‘The Comtesse de Chamfort is for me, Voigrand is for me, Jean de Guipatin is for me: they're high bank, I think.'

Micel laughed with self-mockery. ‘Those two girls are for me, too, as a side line; even Bomba got as far as a rose-garden interview with the Comtesse de Chamfort: she's rich enough to keep her own menagerie.' He hastened to add, ‘You're a lovely, lovely fellow, Jules: you could charm away the consciences and the prejudices of judge and grand jury, even if you'd committed matricide and they'd been paid for a decision against you … but softhearted as gold is, it is impervious to the smiles of the poor; and, no use fooling yourself, Jules: in their terms, you are poor. Furthermore, you don't know how to build up a fortune.'

‘Now you tell me,' jeered Jules gently.

‘Why not? You think you're a crtic of painting, but you've never even drawn a face on your blotter!'

‘Ah, ah,' grinned Jules, and after a few strokes, he held up his blotter: a very passable face of Carrière, ‘for example!'

‘Hatred, not art,' said Michel.

‘Ah?' Jules spent a few minutes sketching faces of other persons round the bank. In fact, he had a little talent.

‘And what then? Can't I make money? Haven't I made some twenty million francs for you, purely by speculating in the market, these last two years.'

‘You can't make it for yourself; you can only make it on someone else's risk.'

‘Defect of temperament.'

After a few minutes they both abruptly came back to the center of discussion: Michel said, ‘Let's work out our old scheme. It will dispel the cloud of blackmailers in a minute. Sell the bank, take a small luxurious secret room or suite of rooms, near the Opéra, say, and do business for a few rich men. It will increase your prestige and make you nothing but money. You can't beat Carrière at the publicity game: all the cards are in his hands. You can beat him at the prestige game, simply by retiring: unheard of move! He'll be furious.' Jules smiled slyly at the vision, tapped affectionately on the desk, ‘Become a mystery man.' Jules laughed softly. ‘Only I like glitter, brilliance, you know … old fogies can maneuver behind the beyond. Not me. I'd do it for six months and then I'd be unable to resist the splendor of the façade.'

‘At any rate, try it.'

‘I might'; but his expression showed plainly that he would never be intoxicated with the idea.

‘Nevertheless, it was your own idea: you suggested it as far back as ten years ago. You were more modest then, Jules—you had a sure footing.'

Suddenly Jules cried, ‘Let me be damned in my own way!' He came down on the four legs of his chair, twisted his face, his blue eyes flashed. ‘Who told you I wanted to build a bank? I don't! I want to play around and go up in smoke perhaps! Why not! It's my bank, it's my fun. You people are crazy wanting me to make something! What for? To keep you all going! I don't give that much' (a flip of the fingers) ‘for anyone, understand! I don't want to be pensioning forty or fifty people for life. A mystery man!' He got up and impatiently took two or three steps up and down. ‘Children build houses with blocks; I don't build. I'm a bear, you hear that.' His passion fell off him, like tatters falling off a Prince Charming, his sun came out again. ‘Michel, I'm a borer eating the leg of the pier!' He laughed, placed his two hands on Michel's broad thick shoulders, shook him: it seemed as if all his vigor was in his hands. He said affectionately, ‘
Capitalism is spitting blood
: ha, ha! You teach me that, Michel, and then, like a grandmother, you want to see me make a career!' He took a few steps in the room again. ‘But how did I make my first money? In a
krach
! In the war! And after? During the mad inflation of the mark! And after? In 1929! And now? I lost a golden opportunity when the pound went off: you see? You two are urging me to build, and I'm losing my grip.'

‘No,' said Michel, ‘believe me, Jules, it's the Fragonards you have at home; their baleful influence.'

‘I have a hunch,' cried Jules laughing, his skin luminous, his eyes jellies of vivacity, ‘in the next two or three months, there are fortunes to be made—on the bear side; let us bear the world! Michel, we'll become Rockefellers: all we need is the daring! Let's stake everything on a crazy hunch I have! Something tells me.'

‘Yes?' said Michel very dryly, disgusted. ‘Is a picture on the wall upside down? Did you run your tire into a horseshoe this morning? Call in the fortunetellers: I'm leaving.'

Joyously but with determination, Jules caught his arm, ‘Michel, you're my fortuneteller, I need no other. The sign I go by is this: when Michel,
ursus major
, as they say, tries to make me a great figure in the community, a real catastrophe is coming: why? When
they
have converted you there's no one else to convert! Your own reasoning!' Michel smiled sheepishly: ‘All right; perhaps you're right. And what will we sell?'

‘Everything,' said Jules whirling his arms with the gestures and smile of a dancer. ‘You say Kreuger? O.K.! K. and T.? You say Insull? O.K. Insull! Let's sell the American market, the French market, the Swedish market.'

‘Henri Léon says wheat,' remarked Michel.

‘No, no,' Jules wagged his finger vigorously, ‘nothing real. I don't speculate in commodities; that's bad luck. Speculating in rust on wheat is bad luck. Speculating in heart failure among the mandarins of the Bourse, that's good luck.'

‘What a Red Indian you are, Jules, the original Voodoo Kid!'

Jules snickered in his engaging vanity. ‘My dear boy, do I need fortunetellers? I'm the topnotcher of fortunetellers.
They
buy their curtains at the Samar Pont-Neuf, and I buy mine,' he made a large gesture, bringing in the cardinal's chair, the pillar lamps, the lusters, the tables, ‘I buy mine at Alavoine, Place Vendôme, and Jansen, Rue Royale: a fortuneteller, I!'

Michel got up, half convinced, in spite of all his knowledge, by Jules's fire. ‘You really want me to sell?'

‘Sure, sure!' Jules collapsed, sank into his chair, became sardonic to mask his fatigue.

‘What, Jules?'

‘What I said!'

‘K. and T.?'

‘Whatever you like'; a burst of energy: ‘but sell, only sell, sell only; sell the world!'

‘Our experience.'

‘Sell it!'

‘Jules, a hunch is a hunch, but—'

Jules smiled wearily and pityingly at Michel. ‘Michel, there is nothing to life but a hunch. Cause and effect? Philosophy? Economics?' His hand cut an elliptic in the air, ‘Like the charts nuts make of throws of the dice. Nobody who ever made any
money
, ever had any
brains
—a proof—'

Michel laughed. ‘Men sell highest ex brains,' finished Jules, with fatigue, ‘unless brains is their racket! No money in ability! Look at Mahmoud! Did you see the wonderful little telephone board he figured out? An Arab; a savage! Starves himself into a swoon at Ramadan and all that; does what they tell him at the mosque. I could do it too, but if I did, if I learned to do a single useful thing in life, Michel, only one thing, I would not be able to make money: utility and moneymaking are incompatible. My Fragonards are useless, my evening jacket is useless.'

‘It makes you beautiful.'

‘My beauty is useless: so, I'm a howling success.' He smiled, radiant in his folly, full of sorcery, ‘And you are useless, Michel; that's why I intend to keep you with me forever: the Reds will never get you!'

Michel laughed and went to the door. ‘You're babbling. I'm going to put through the orders.'

‘Sell, sell, sell,' said Jules mocking. As he went down the corridor, Michel heard the airy voice, ‘Sell, sell.' And in fact, Jules, a successful fakir, had the upper hand of his good sense: and Michel sold fifty thousand shares of Swedish Match. A few months later, everyone was to ask himself where Alphendéry, ‘the mystery man of the bank,' and Jules, ‘the young banker of great promise,' got their information.

* * *

Scene Seventy-four: Worldling versus Mercury

C
arriére, with his idea of vengeance, irritable and melodramatic, swollen by vanity and drugs as well as by a very competent knowledge of his own superiority in position and wealth, required a speedy end to the short duel. He had boasted of his intention all round Paris and the resorts of the Upper Ten Thousand to which they both belonged, and he was anxious to see the leers, fears, congratulations, and swarming of parasites and petty ambitions which would follow Jules's complete crushing, as well as the new polarization of his society. He dreamed of it at night, unhappily, sometimes
groaned, sometimes woke dreaming it was all over and he had his hand on Bertillon's slender, long, and muscular throat. A dream he had one night reminded him of a day in vacation time during his schooldays, when he had gone bathing with Jules Bertillon for the first time. Sensitive to beauty and endless sonneteer at that time, he was seduced out of indifference by Jules's youthful delicacy: for a season he had tried to make friends with Jules. His dream had always been the ‘ideal friendship.' But Jules always chose for friends rich idle healthy mediocre boys and discussed with them countless schemes for getting on in the world.