House of All Nations (22 page)

‘William's right: sterling won't go off. You have nothing to worry about.' Jules looked dogmatic.

‘You feel as confident as that? I almost think you're right. Would you like to make it a bet?' Carrière moved up to Jules's desk, his dark blue eyes glinting intently through the long lashes. ‘How much do you bet, Jules?'

‘Anything you like: what do I care: I'll take you to any amount. I've just got a hunch sterling isn't going off this year. It's an old trick. Everyone's counting on it going off. Why shouldn't they squeeze the shorts? Let me stay on through this crisis and all the money in the world will pour into London. That's how they live. There's no other reason for planting your money up there in the fog.'

William, who had been playing nonchalance all through this, felt his nose-for-danger twitch. ‘Jules! Even Alphendéry says he can't understand a thing in the Bank of England statement.'

‘It's just like Kreuger's,' said Alphendéry: ‘they smell the same to me. True, there's a statement but what's the good of a statement in Aramaic. I don't read Aramaic.'

William, struggling for Jules's financial soul, became easy again.

‘Why,' said Carrière, ‘a matter of foreign relations: would France allow her to go off; France has gold. Why wouldn't she lend it to England?'

‘She won't,' said Alphendéry. ‘She's so busy lending it out to make a ring of roses round Germany … You see, Jules, there is a likelihood, that's all you can call it.'

‘The Bank of England,' laughed Jules, ‘is just like Bertillon Frères …'

‘With this difference,' Michel rushed in, ‘with this difference,' he laughed softer and repeated, ‘with this difference though: we've got a cover of one hundred and ten per cent or something like that.'

‘Yes,' said Jules: ‘now what would I do if I were Montagu Norman? But, it's my bank. I'd kill myself with laughing to see the whole world selling me short and I'd let them mortgage the last foot of Uncle Tom's farm and then I'd snap down: I've got the dough—or, I've got the power, or the backing. No, my bet is he won't go off.'

‘I'm glad I never took up banking,' said William, ‘they say it requires so much brains.'

Jules silenced him testily, ‘You don't help with those funniments. I am in banking.'

‘Banking?' meditated William. ‘Don't call it banking. Call it a raffle or
rouge-et-noir
and you'll know what that is you're doing. Every time you hear a man say, or think, “I'm a Napoleon: you're just mud on my spats,” or “One day you'll be able to see my star without the aid of a telescope,” or “I bumped my head on the moon last night, I must remember to stoop tonight,” or “Things are going on and on and up and up,” or when he calls a janitor a building supervisor or a crapshooter a banker—you know that tomorrow you'll have to buy a box of matches from him outside the church … Know what you are: you won't lose any money, even if you don't make the grand sweep. I've heard about one but not seen it yet …'

He pulled out one of his eternal cigarettes, did not offer it to anyone, lit it, and kept his eyes on Alphendéry, for he knew both Carrière and Jules were furious with him. He went on in an intimate conversational tone as if he were opening his secret heart to Alphendéry, ‘That's how they all come a cropper. The little ones throw dice on the zinc counter, the middle ones buy Snia-Viscosa, the big ones go to Deauville. You go in the office sweepstake and go without lunch all the week to punt at Auteuil, to get two hundred francs to buy ten shares of Dummy-Gummi Incorporated and put a mortgage on your house and buy a false identity card to be able to get into Monte Carlo and get to the point of putting a bullet through your head, because you want to have the right to sit with crooks and order hot hors d'oeuvres at Philippe's. You begin with a postage stamp and end with a postmortem.'

‘Speaking seriously,' began Carrière, deliberately turning to Jules, leaning on the desk, compellingly balancing on both hands, with a brilliant, persuasive, old-school-friend intimacy, ‘Jules, are you taking any chances on the pound?'

‘Why, the Americans have to keep the pound at par. Your money's safe. Any boy would be crazy not to take you on. It's a little safe money.'

‘Would you guarantee such a contract as mine?' said Jacques, friendly, detached. Jules flopped down on the two front legs of his chair and brought his hands down on the blotter, in a whirlwind of good humor.

‘I'll guarantee you to pay your whole contract on that brewery in Burton-upon-Trent at not less than one hundred twenty-two francs to the pound. Tell them to send the sterling drafts to me. I'll pay them.'

‘Every three months?'

‘Every three months, whatever—'

Alphendéry spoke, ‘Jules, aren't you rather rash? How long a period do the drafts cover, Carrière?'

‘Three years from this month,' said Jacques briefly, with a touch of scorn.

William pleaded earnestly, ‘Jules, if you want to throw money away, throw it in the street: think of the fun you'll get out of seeing Marianne Raccamond burst with indignation when she sees a couple of street cleaners in Rolls-Royces.'

‘I woke up this morning knowing I was going to make money,' said Jules. ‘It's all right. I'm sorry for you, Jacques, but I can't stop you: you're wasting your money. O.K. It's a deal.'

‘What's the consideration?' asked Alphendéry coldly.

‘O.K. We'll just call it a friendly bet,' said Carrière coolly. ‘We'll have a letter, one from you, one from me, countersigned. That's sufficient, isn't it? No documents. It's enough.'

‘What's the consideration?' said Alphendéry.

‘Certainly,' said Jules. ‘You send me your letter, not a lawyer's letter.' He was restless however, and got up, stretching his legs. William and Michel Alphendéry said nothing more, both having one idea in mind and that was to make Jules go back on the bet as soon as they could get him out of the sight of Carrière. Carrière picked up his hat and stick and looked at them with that smooth, bursting expression which is almost a smile.

William stood up.

‘And what's the consideration? If the pound should go off and we had such an arrangement with you, we should be liable for any amount—there are no buffers for runaway currencies. You ought to do your banking with us, Carrière, on the strength of a deal like that. You ought to pull in some of your friends in the Chamber of Deputies, and tell Larue to give us carte blanche. Or would you rather have an overdraft? That would be more in our general style of business. I'll write you a check now. How much? Jules is giving away the bank in the morning. Be round early and see if you can't get a slice. If you know anyone who wants a bank tell him to drop round.'

Jacques laughed, and had a twinkle for William.

‘Oh, I'll give you a deposit, Bertillon. Jules, write down two million francs on your books for me: I'll send it round. Now be sure to write it down to my account. I've got a little account of two million over at the Crédit. I'll tell them to transfer it …'

‘Keep your petty cash,' Jules said languidly, grandly. ‘What's two million? I don't want your deposit. I can rustle up business without you putting up earnests. Don't be a fool.'

‘Well, I'm still saving up,' said William. ‘I'll take it, Jacques: so just send it round to my account, will you?'

‘I'll tell them to transfer it before closing this afternoon,' said Jacques, negligently magnificent to Jules.

‘I'll tell you what we'll do,' said Jules, on whom common sense was slowly gaining. ‘We'll pay one-half per cent of it into Raccamond's account. It will give him confidence and he's your man in a sort of way, isn't he? Ten thousand will cheer him up. He's still so blue about that Claude Brothers business. He still has to go down to give testimony and he's one of these neurotics who want to bang their heads against the wall every time anyone says “You're a crook.”'

Carrière looked at Jules in an odd way. Jules laughed. ‘Oh, don't mistake me: I know he's all that's crooked. But that makes no difference. He's out for himself but he can't do without me. And ten thousand is a nice present … Well, I'm having lunch with the Comtesse de Voigrand. I'll tell her I've seen you. How's your mother?'

‘The old buzzard got back to town yesterday. That reminds me. I must ring her. I want her to advance me some cash for those vineyards I want to buy near Lyons. Everyone says it's a bad investment, wine is going to be used for irrigation one of these days. But I'm banking on the Eighteenth Amendment being repealed in the U.S.A. With the people getting no jobs and no dole, they've got to give them some pleasure in life. She always behaves like a hellcat but she usually comes across.' A spasm of hatred passed over his face. He said, viciously, with a raw, rich tone, ‘I hate her.'

‘Why?' said Jules carelessly. He didn't care for his mother, either, but he had no emotions about her.

‘She knows I'm waiting for the pleasure of sending roses to her funeral and she gets heartier every year. She enjoys making me crawl for the few million francs I want for my ventures. She knows what I could do with half—just half—six hundred million francs.'

He looked at Jules with hatred: Jules calmly, penetratingly returned the look. He knew what fly was stinging ambitious Carrière's mind. Jules and he were abreast, in the figures of their reputed fortunes—about one hundred and thirty million francs each. Jules had a little family money behind him but Carrière's inheritance when his mother died and two of his uncles died would be colossal, counted in astronomical numbers. But they were all healthy and Carrière, fretting and rotting away his youth was just as likely to die as they. When he left, William commented.

‘He's got to gorge on dead bodies, fermented juices, and living men to keep alive. His right is three fat corpses—his mother's, his two uncles'—and two million francs. That's the way he sees himself when he's normal. As I never dream I don't know what he sees when he gets outside a bottle of champagne …' William turned to Jules, ‘Forget that Mickey-Mouse sketch about the bet. I won't pay him a farthing even if you do sign anything with him. What do you let him get under your skin for?'

‘I know, I know, I never intended to,' said Jules. ‘A verbal arrangement is one thing: a contract is another.' William went out: they heard his coins jeeringly singing their tune into the distance. Round the corner they fell into silence.

‘His ideal is to put gold coins under a board and live along with his Chinese nightingale,' said Jules.

‘He's faithful to you, Jules,' came the voice of Alphendéry, behind his back. ‘Will's always narking you when he's with you but behind your back he won't hear a word against you. You know how he puts up with insults: everyone is good enough to sneer at William and he gives that round, white, pleasant look and laughs at me, ‘What do I care, if the bank gets on?' And the bank, Jules—what is it but you? It's a rare thing. Whatever happens, your brother William will stick to you: when you're getting on, he jibs, snorts, cuts across, but if you're ever in trouble, he'll be the last one to leave. You ought to see how he frets when you're sick. ‘My baby brother—that fool youngster.' The way he worries about you, Claire-Josèphe, and the children, I'd swear, if I didn't know, you were all his children.'

Jules said nothing for a few minutes, turned over a yachting monthly, looked into the shagreen-bound, gilt-edged diary with ivory leaves in which he had only made one entry in the three years since William gave it to him. Then he got up, took his hat, smiled affectionately. ‘Got to have lunch with the Comtesse … By the way, Claire-Josèphe says why don't you ever come over to dinner? We never have anyone … '

‘Don't be too cynical at the Comtesse's,' Alphendéry was solicitous. ‘These aristocrats are friendly but they're always watching you to see whether you fit into their game.'

‘She thinks I'm a riot,' said Jules. ‘I don't mean a thing to her: she just gets fun out of me. Don't forget one thing. Everyone adores a successful thief: he's the only thing on earth can guarantee them twenty per cent on their money. Ha, ha!'

‘And the bet?'

‘Oh—oh, I'll ask the Comtesse what she thinks. She detests Carrière and Carrière's mother. How did I come to make a crackbrained bet like that? However—I think I'm right at that.'

He was no longer there. Urbain Voulou going out to lunch saw Jules Bertillon, slender, arch, and very beautiful, driving off in his Hispano-Suiza with his stalwart chauffeur at the wheel. Urbain took off his hat and, watching Jules's courteous smile, let his hand fall till he seemed to be covering his heart. Jules looked like fine wax: and gold-dust stuck easily to that wax. Urbain Voulou, great soft lummox, was happy every time he saw Jules Bertillon and from then on till he met the crowd of bourse runners and clients' men he had once known, when they never failed to make him miserable by recounting all the tales told in town on the score of Jules Bertillon.

After lunch, Alphendéry walked a bit, then dropped into the old Café de la Rotonde, opposite the Galeries Lafayette, for coffee. William was there eating a Welsh rarebit. He was hunched over the little plate. He looked up when Alphendéry sat down at his table, grunted, and when he had swallowed a burning mouthful, said flatly, ‘If the worst comes to the worst, we've got a million pounds in gold in London and we can go. Shut up shop with profit. There's more money in a decent bankruptcy than in working for a living. But I won't let him get away with any such nonsensical contract with Carrière.'

‘He won't sign it: nothing's done. He'll think it over. He's going to ask the Comtesse and you know what she thinks of Carrière. He'll come back with a clear brain. He can't undertake a contract running into possibilities of millions of francs loss without consulting us. What's his object? To annoy Jacques. What's Jacques'? To annoy him. Do you realize—if the pound went off and began to slide? Well, we could pay it, I suppose. But I don't want Jacques to take his pound of flesh every month … Not that I care. One day everyone crashes. That's why I'm a bear. It's a twenty-to-one bet on the facts … You're betting on a funeral. Everyone's sure to pass out … My philosophy is, every day you make your expenses is a profit. You eat that day and you eat one day less out of your reserves. That's the only advantage I see in being in business: to live. But—Jules!'