Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 749
The lady said:
“Of course you were under drugs.... But she put me onto Mlle Eudoxie. The girl in the beauty parlour.... How did she manage to nurse you and work in a beauty parlour too.... So of course I didn’t go without news all the while Gloria was in Spain.... She — Eudoxie I mean—’phoned me every day.... Most kindly.... I suppose the other girl... Jeanne something, relieves her....”
Suddenly she asked:
“Posh, what is Pisto-Brittle? The police say that the poor fellow you were kind to... who killed himself... gave as his address ‘Pisto-Brittle Works,’ somewhere.... It appears as if he might be one of our American relations....”
His heart beat so that his voice came in gasps....
“He was... in the Regiment,” he said. “... The Forty Worst....”
“Gloria,” she said, “sent some flowers for his grave.... She went to see the body.... To assure herself it wasn’t you.”
She raised herself above him:
“Why there is Gloria!” she said. “You aren’t separated.
... I had thought.... Mostly because you are said to be giving all those things to the Museums....”
She waved a handkerchief. She went to the end of the terrace and then down the steps.
CHAPTER TWO
IF HE COULD HAVE HAD A QUIET MOMENT.... THERE must be a sensible way in which to approach this situation.... Every situation had a side from which it could be approached sensibly.... But he didn’t know what his health was going to do. He could not even tell whether he whispered in order to conceal his identity.... The dreadful thought that his health might be going back on him!... The maid, Mary, burst out from the summer house. Like a shining cannon ball! She exclaimed:
Oh, Mr. Hughie you’ll kill Miss Elizabeth....”
Her face with its bullet black eyes was so stuffed with feeling that you could not tell what at the moment was the uppermost emotion. She went on:
What men haven’t done to the poor dear!... First that husband of hers.... Then Mr. Bill and Mr. Jago... who weren’t even any blood relation to her and now you...
His voice disappeared. It shrieked and wheezed. He was trying to say that he was treating her well now, wasn’t he? He beckoned her wearily to come nearer. — He wanted her to go away. Yet he beckoned. She said:
“I don’t like to put my ear under your nose. I know how to keep my distance.... Yet I seed... saw... you in your bath....”
She had her head down: he managed to get out his question. She said:
“No one would accuse you of not acting nice to her.... It’s what you’re doing to yourself.”
She brought out tremulously:
“They say down in the Town you’re living with three women.... Them two and Mrs. Gloria.... You may be as rich as Croesus but you can’t act that outrageous and live long.”
He felt a rueful smile break out on his face. He whispered:
“Poor Mary... I live like a monk. I have to.... A jolly old monk by the jolly old doctor’s orders....”
She said:
“There are monks and monks.... If you could only persuade Miss Elizabeth of it.... It isn’t for me to ask how you live. But the worry has been dreadful for her....”
Her face became filled with panic.
“They’re coming up!” she said breathlessly. “If Miss Elizabeth caught me...” She was off like a startled black rabbit.... —
He had exchanged Christian names with that man. Was that illegal? He did not suppose so. Godfathers and Godmothers were not infallible. If they called you Habbakuk you did not have to parade it before the world.
Was it criminal? He didn’t think so. There might be irregular details. He was in possession of another man’s passport. But the French police probably held his. They certainly would not have buried it with Hugh Monckton.
Was it then immoral? He could not see that it was. To oblige a poor fellow about to take his own life... who had taken his own life! — he had used the most effectual means to conceal his suicide. The poor fellow had begged him to use any means to hide the fact he was dead. If it had been established that he had taken his own life there would have been a financial panic.... He did not know how great a financial panic. But the world was in no position to stand even a ripple of suspicion about one of its few brilliantly sound, great businesses. Monckton’s was the one living proof that kept what were called business methods still practicable.... Possible even!
He wasn’t proposing to claim to be a public benefactor! But concealing the suicide of that poor fellow had certainly saved a number of people at least from anxiety, if not from loss. Hugh Monckton had said that his “A” shareholders were quiet people. Not speculators. Or, if they had speculated at all it had been on the mechanical skill and the probity of Hugh Monckton’s father — and to some extent on the probity of the son and the business acumen of his cousin Eustace.
That the shares would at least have fallen disastrously if the suicide had been known Henry Martin knew to be a fact. They had fallen quite a little at the mere rumour of the suicide. And even after the denial they had remained depressed until the declaration of the dividend. And then they had soared — all over the world.
M. Lamaricière, who had managed his own money for him had operated on the Paris Bourse. At the time he had been too sick to know anything about it. All he had really known, in between two collapses, had been that M. Lamoricière had paid six million odd francs to his account and that he had at once paid twenty thousand pounds into Hugh Monckton’s London bank. In repayment of the loan — if you could call it that.
He had thus been left with about $140,000 dollars — his competency.
Buonapartist Lamoricière with his black beard, black glasses and his air of magistrate-undertaker had since explained what he had done. He had indeed explained it several times. He had the gift of repetition. M. and Mme. Lamoricière were the most frequent visitors of that ménage. They had come once a week for coffee and once a month for dinner ever since Henry Martin and Jeanne Becquerel had been installed in the Villa Niké.... And, each time, after a little exordium on French politics from the Buonapartist angle he had told to the apparently breathless audience — Mme. Lamoricière, Jeanne Becquerel, Eudoxie and himself — how he had fought with lions on the Paris Bourse. He was a Corsican and, in spite of his starched manners, the story lost none of its effect because of that....
What, for his present purpose, had most remained to Henry Martin, in the way of knowledge, had been the fact that, at the rumour of Hugh Monckton’s suicide, Monckton A shares had vacillated and weakened dramatically. At any rate in Paris and New York. In Wall Street there seemed to have been a full-fledged bear attack on Monckton’s. They were largely held there. Apparently when Hugh Monckton and his father had visited New York three or four years ago they had mopped up a good deal of American capital.
Of course the suicide of the President of a company a few days before the declaration of a dividend had been something that American bears could work on. And the denial of the suicide had passed relatively unnoticed. Henry Martin, in the old days, had witnessed several bear raids on Wall Street. He could well believe that no contradiction of a false rumour would have much effect once that cry of hounds had begun.
M. Lamoricière had alleged there had been other interests at work. The automobile manufacturers of both France and the United States had no doubt done what they could to enhance the panic. They could hardly hope to bankrupt Monckton’s. But the forcing down of the shares of a company was bad publicity. It undoubtedly affected sales. However desirable a product might be, the public — particularly the automobile public — would doubt the smartness of a car whose manufacturers were in a bad way.
It was all, however, a little confused in his mind. He had wanted it to be. Really he had wished not to know.... That was it. He had wished not to know. He had not even seen about investing the £28,000. The sum remained untouched: on deposit in an English bank. This had worried M. Lamoricière. M. Lamoricière approved of everything everyone did — except of course the rulers of the French Republic. But that really worried him. There was that, for him, huge sum lying idle — three and a half million francs! Earning two and a half per cent. And precarious at that. M. Lamoricière was sure that the English Socialist Government would raid these banking henroosts. He was also sure that the sterling pound would fall.
He said he was aware that such a sum was of infinitesimal importance to his distinguished client. But with him it was a matter of principle. Of public spirit. The world was dying because of hoarded capital. He really begged Henry Martin to consider a scheme for investment of the money. Of course if Henry Martin had any gigantic plan on hand that might call for a sudden capital outlay he had nothing to say.
Henry Martin was imprudent enough to say that he had absolutely no scheme on hand. He was in no state of health to engineer anything big — or even anything at all. He liked to have money in the bank.
That let M. Lamoricière out. He had really implored Henry Martin to consider his scheme for investment. It was threefold. It provided for expenditure in the three principal countries in the world — France, England and the United States. In that way — the investments were to be all in conservative bonds — Henry Martin would be sure that whatever happened to the exchange of either country his investments would be stabilized. He had the scheme drawn up in beautiful stiff white paper with blue horizontal and pink vertical lines. He left it with Henry Martin one evening.
He turned up next afternoon in a remarkable state of excitement. He wanted really desperately to know what Henry Martin thought of his scheme.
Henry Martin had not read the document. He had to pretend that he had and that he thought it excellent. Only it did not fall in with his plans.
M. Lamoricière did not stay more than a few minutes. It then appeared that his excitement was not about the investment but about a lady. He had brought with him a remarkable lady. Only she had been too shy to come in. She was a Corsican poetess. A true Buonapartist. The clarion call of her verse was such as to inflame a continent. Knowing Henry Martin’s engrossment in literature....
He had run twice to the back gate where, apparently, the Corsican muse lingered. In between, he had discoursed on the necessity to the world of a Buonapartist tocsin. Thrilling Corsican words to fiery music as a counterpoise to the Marseillaise. They must écraser l’infâme. The Infamous One was not merely Marianne, the Third French Republic. They must stamp out the brood everywhere. England, if his illustrious client would permit him to say so, could only be saved by Buonapartism. She was now nothing but a Socialist Republic. One of the brood of the Infamous One. M. R... r... msi Mackdonáld was nothing but a Robespierre.... Henry Martin must hear the Corsican muse sing her Vocéro—”The days are marching, marching, marching” — with her voix de compositeur. No composers had great voices. Creative genius nullified execution! But the glorious spirit pierced through!
Henry Martin accompanied him on his third visit to the back gate. He met a small, sulky, mouse-coloured girl of very insufficient chest development. With cold fingers and the motion of her arm like a pump handle she shook hands. Then, whilst M. Lamoricière drew himself up to pronounce a proper exordium by way of introduction she snatched her hand from Henry Martin’s. There was a very large, bediamonded gold watch on the thin wrist. To the accompaniments of vexed “T-T-T’s” from M. Lamoricière, too thin legs in too large silk stockings flashed up the steep path.... The muse hid in a bramble bush.
M. Lamoricière muttered:
“Modesty!... Virginal modesty!...” His exasperation was nevertheless evident. His black beard quivered whilst, resuming momentarily the air of a ramrod-backed undertaker, he made his formal farewell and announced a speedy return. Then he started up the steep path which had not been made with a view to formal, black comportment.
Henry Martin heard him say with considerable vigour when he was level with the bramble bush:
“Je n’ai pas pu introduire le sujet. Le moment n’était pas opportun. Et puis j’ai ma migraine!” — He had not been able to introduce the subject. The moment had not been opportune. In addition he had had his headache....
An angry whisper had answered him.... lrritabile genus auctorum!... The irritable race of poetesses!... Henry Martin imagined with amusement that the lady must be giving in the town below a concert at which her own tocsins would be sung or rung! No doubt she had wanted the English milor to act as patron — or at any rate to buy a good wad of tickets. Henry Martin would have had no objection. Her dingy and immature appearance was no bar to her being an excellent poet. French poets — and indeed poets the world over — were not unusually obscure and dingy beings. Someone had once said that the best goods are not necessarily done up in the best looking parcels. And all French poets were starving — not so starving as the rest of the poets of the world. But still starving. The young woman was rather small for a Corsican muse. You would expect a Corsican muse to be a dark Juno. But it was not the largest people who made the most noise in the world. Napoleon himself was not much more than five foot five and a very small frog — as he had reason to know there at night — could make a sound more resonant than the bellow of a bull. So Lamoricière might be right as to his muse and Henry Martin would be quite willing to take a dozen tickets for her concert.
He had looked eventually out of curiosity at M. Lamoricière’s proposed list of securities. If it erred at all it was on the side of safety — as far as English and American bonds went. What he proposed to buy in those countries were nearly all Government securities or shares in English Banks and American first class Insurance Companies. But, curiously, when it came to France, he proposed nothing but Industrials. This was because of his gloomy view of the chances of the Republic. He expected a revolution, national bankruptcy and the establishment of a dictatorship at any moment. A great many Frenchmen talked like that. The commissaire de police — the notorious Coco — who looked in from time to time of an evening with Eudoxie and his wife gave astonishingly lurid accounts of the Governmental precautions against Royalists, Communists, the Army, the Navy, the Arsenal workers and the market women. Instruments of destruction were ready for use against almost every barracks, battleship, club and public meeting place in the town below. They might indeed expect the town to burst into flames at any moment. At any hour Italian bombing planes might be expected. It was not half an hour from the Italian frontier and, if they came, the Communists and Arsenal workers would rise in sympathy with them. It was an open secret that the British Mediterranean fleet wâs ready, with the connivance of the Government of the Republic, to occupy the town and suppress the revolutionaries. That was why so much shore leave was given when the British squadron came into the harbour. They wanted them to be able to find their way about.
So there was no wonder that M. Lamoricière avoided French Government securities. He even proposed to invest a relatively large sum in a publishing business. The name of the affair was unknown to Henry Martin. But that was not astonishing. And the black-bearded man appeared to have made investigations. He was absolutely trustworthy.
Something of the sort Henry Martin would have to do, one day or another. But for the moment, at any rate during his convalescence, he could do nothing. He seemed to have an invincible repugnance from the idea of touching that money at all. He had made it, yet he had made it by speculating with Hugh Monckton’s money.... At the back of his mind lurked always the idea that it was not his money!... Even though Hugh Monckton had begged him to use the money for his own benefit.... It was too like money for nothing!
Yes! His mind avoided the thought of that money. Much as, when you are alone with a dead body, you avoid looking at it.... That was precisely it! He had been alone with the body of Hugh Monckton but, as far as he was aware, he had not avoided looking at him. He could see him now. At the time he — Henry Martin — had had liquor taken.... That was the phrase!... Liquor taken! He did not propose to blame himself for that. After those two agonising thwacks from the yard of his boat with the blood streaming from his jaw and his temple.... The end of the yard had been iron-bound.... And he had been half starved and streaming with water, rain water and sea water.... He had had to have a drink from his flask....
That had been just before he had discovered the body..... He could see the poor fellow now.... If he forced himself to! He was lying with his face to the pine-needles, amongst the red pine trunks. In his right hand was his gun, in his left, his passport. The gun had an inlaid, ivory stock. The barrel was damascened. The passport had a -celluloid cover. The cover had been stamped in gold — with Hugh Monckton’s arms, three hammers in the first and third quarterings. And the motto “Sine fabro nihil.”... “Without a smith you can have nothing.”... They were Henry Martin’s own arms too.... That was perhaps not a remarkable coincidence. Perhaps a great many Smiths had those arms and that punning device.... “By hammer and hand all Art doth stand....” They might even be related. The lady had said that Hugh Monckton’s great grandfather had come to England in 1849. His, Henry Martin’s, father had landed from Luxemburg, in the United States in 1880 or so.... Later perhaps.... They might as she had suggested be distant cousins. Perhaps Hugh Monckton’s great grandfather had come from Luxemburg too.... That would account for the singular resemblance....
It must be a very strong likeness for so many people to have taken them for each other.... Positively the only person who had known that he was not Hugh Monckton had been Eudoxie.... But of course she had seen him without the beard... which she had insisted on his growing!
Of course it was striking that Hugh Monckton’s — presumably — aunt should have recognised him — as her nephew. But it was not by any means unprecedented. All sorts of pretenders were always being recognised by relatives... who weren’t relatives! She so desperately wanted Hugh Monckton to be alive that she would have denied the evidence of her senses.... Such cases were by no means rare....
