The Final Hour
A Novel
Taylor Caldwell
TO
BURT AND PHOEBE WETHERBEE
WITH LOVE
‘To every people there comes one terrible and inevitable final hour when it must choose between those things by which men live, or those by which they die.’
BARON OPPENHEIM
BOOK ONE: OUR OWN DRUMS
—Look, sir, my wounds!
I got them in my country’s service, when
Some certain of you brethren roared and ran
From the noise of our own drums.’
Shakespeare (Coriolanus)
CHAPTER I
‘A charming place,’ said Count Wolfgang von Bernstrom, as he looked about him. ‘Each time I see it, it appears more delightful to me. I am very fortunate, my dear Ramsdall, in leasing it from you for the rest of the summer.’
‘And I,’ said George, Lord Ramsdall, somewhat drily, ‘am fortunate in leasing it to you There is a plague on Cannes this season.’ He paused, and glanced obliquely at the German.
Von Bernstrom shrugged stiffly, his hard military shoulders moving as if made of wood and not flesh and bone. He adjusted his monocle and surveyed the terrace with unaffected pleasure before replying: ‘So many rumours, my dear Ramsdall. So much hysteria. I, for one, believe nothing, know nothing, see nothing, hear nothing. A very comfortable state of mind. I recommend it with enthusiasm. Why anticipate an unpleasantness that most probably will never arrive? Such a dispersal of energy! One needs to conserve energy these turbulent days. One must be aware, yet not too aware.’ He smiled and his pale dry face wrinkled with a kind of mirth which was really mirthless. His eyes, too, were pale and dry, with a curious sort of brilliance in their whites, as if they were made of polished marble. His light thin hair was cropped in the Junker fashion; he had a sharp spade-like chin, a colourless slash of a mouth which opened frequently in a smile that was oddly charming, despite its lack of human warmth. That smile revealed excellent and flashing teeth. His cheeks were sunken, as if sucked in, and between them his thin hooked nose was aggressive, yet possessing a translucence as though formed solely of cartilage and skin. He gave the impression of fleshlessness, because he was unusually tall and thin; there might have been only aristocratic bones under his lovingly tailored English tweeds. The pared cleanliness of the Teuton appeared exaggerated in him. An aura of soap, cold water, shaving lotion and aseptic cologne wafted from him to Lord Ramsdall on the warm salt wind.
It was said of Lord Ramsdall that he amazingly resembled Winston Churchill, whom he hated with hysterical passion. Short, stocky, with a rosy cherubic face and prominent blue eyes and a button of a pink nose, he appeared all amiable shrewdness. He had a big round head covered with tendrils of faded blond hair, through which his skull shone rosily, like a baby’s scalp, quite unlike Mr Churchill’s. He was fond of being called ‘Johnnie Bull,’ and tried unremittingly to carry out this characterization by a bluff and hearty manner, a rich and rotund laugh, a robust manner of speaking, and an open and engaging smile. If he was ever aware that his only and beloved daughter, Ursula, was called the ‘Bitch of Cannes and points East,’ or that she was at the present time the mistress of Count von Bernstrom, he gave no evidence of it. If he was loathed and hated in England because of his oppression of the workers in his great steel-mill (subsidiary of Robsons-Strong), and if he was strongly suspect among those he spoke of contemptuously as ‘Reds,’ and, too, if his newspaper, the London Opinion, was accused of pandering to the pacifistic policies of the doddering Chamberlain (to the danger of the British Empire), these matters were of no apparent importance to the happy and generous peer. On this beautiful morning of May 9, 1939, all seemed well with George, Lord Ramsdall, and he appeared to have nothing more on his mind than a warm affection for von Bernstrom and a simple delight that his white elephant of a villa (which he had happily been able to lease to the young American couple for the past five years, at a most satisfying sum) was about to pass into the hands of his dear friend, with a substantial lease.
The villa, situated close to the sea between Juan-les-Pins and Cannes, shone white and gleaming in the brilliant May sunshine, every french window sparkling. It stood on brown rock, but on three sides of it were narrow green lawns, immaculately fresh and clipped, and beautifully landscaped with shrubs and beds of flowers. It faced the blue and incandescent ocean, and the air about it was sweet and pure with salt and the fragrance of the gardens. Everything was so still, so warm, so peaceful, that Lord Ramsdall momentarily regretted that he must leave Cannes almost immediately for dusty gritty London, where so much was to be done, and done without delay. Thinking this, he glanced again at von Bernstrom, and his full lids almost closed over the bulge of his eyes.
The German appeared much younger to the casual eye than he truly was, for he was in his fifties. But there was a lean agelessness about him, like the agelessness of a predatory hawk. He had been the Kaiser’s youngest general in the late war, but he refused to be called by his former title. ‘I am done with things military,’ he would say in a tight tone, with a stiff lift of his bony hand. He would avert his narrow head when saying this, and would present his profile, that harsh profile, as if something impossibly nauseating had been mentioned. Nor did he ever speak of the Third Reich, or Hitler, and if these were spoken of in his presence, he would relapse into grim silence, pent and angular, and would soon make an excuse to leave the company. Never did he at any time give the impression of loathing or abominating the present regime of his country, except for these slight manifestations. But the latter were quite enough, for the naive. As for the initiate, von Bernstrom’s attitudes and expressions occasioned them grim if secret mirth. He visited Germany very seldom. He had lived in France for nearly ten years, an apparently, gloomy and reticent exile, an aristocrat who could not even mention the vulgar upstarts, vagabonds and criminals who now infested his country. Consequently, to romantic ladies in particular, he was a fascinating figure, and they quite forgave him his dun fat little wife. In truth, they usually forgot her. His affair with Ursula Ramsdall had their approval, their admiration and affection. If the lady had formerly expressed the most vitriolic passion for the Nazis, it was discerned that since her amorous entanglement with von Bernstrom she had apparently had a change of heart.
Also, there were persistent rumours that his estates in
Prussia had been confiscated by the omnipotent Hitler in revenge for a lack of enthusiasm for the Austrian paper-hanger, and that his visits to Germany, infrequent though they were, were filled with danger for him. However, for one rumoured to be practically without resources of a financial nature, he lived well, even lavishly. Ramsdall had once remarked vaguely that ‘probably the chap has a decent account in the Bank of England, and in France and America.’ At any rate, there was no affair of any importance occurring without von Bernstrom’s presence, and the Casino saw him frequently, losing or winning vast sums with great indifference.
If anyone with a suspicious nature questioned the background of this fine aristocrat. it was pointed out severely that he had lived for some time at the villa of Baron Israel Opperheim on the Riviera, and that the two were the most affectionate of friends.
Von Bernstrom moved about the terrace, softly, on the balls of his feet, regarding everything with reserved pleasure. He peered briefly through an open window at the drawingroom, whose blue dusk was invitingly cool and fresh. He saw the dim mirror of the floors, the crystal chandelier, the shape of a grand piano, the white marble fireplace. There were flowers on the dark glass of every table top, and their sweet fragrance seemed to fill the quiet air like incense. He allowed the bleached harshness of his expression to soften with anticipation. Lord Ramsdall watched him. There was
a cunning lift to his heavy red lips.
‘Ah,’ breathed the count, ‘charming! Charming! It is strange how delightful a prospect seems when it is about to become one’s own.’ His voice, light and only elusively accented, was very agreeable. ‘What taste, my dear Ramsdall! But you were always known for your taste, were you not?’
Ramsdall inclined his head. ‘Very sporting of you to say that, Wolfgang. But there has been a woman’s touch here, too, you know. A young lady of taste, herself, considering that she is an American.’
They heard a soft footfall. The count immediately retreated to a position on the flagged terrace near his friend, and they both affected to be engrossed in happy contemplation of the blue sea.
A young lady, who had entered the drawing-room, now stood in one of the windows, gazing at them from the threshold a moment before she stepped down upon the terrace.
The count and Ramsdall turned, with a look of pleasant surprise and pleasure. They bowed.
‘I trust we are not too early, dear Mrs Bouchard,’ said Ramsdall. ‘But, as Wolfgang is to be my next tenant, he decided he wished to arrive a little beforehand. To gloat, probably.’
The lady smiled faintly. She extended her hand, and the count took it and raised it to his lips. He studied her with real delight and covetousness.
‘I gain a pleasure, to lose one, dear Madame,’ he murmured. ‘We shall be disconsolate when you are gone.’
As Mrs Bouchard and her husband were accustomed to entertain only rarely, and cared little for those who swarmed ravenously along the Coast, this was an extravagant statement of the count’s. But the young lady showed no surprise.
‘How very kind of you, Count,’ she said, in a sweet but disinterested voice. The count was annoyed, but, as always, piqued. These American women! The most beautiful in the world, with such bosoms, such waists, such legs. But cold as death. He, himself, preferred the French, who knew much about love, and a great deal about wickedness. He adored wicked women. American women were never wicked, even those foolish and intoxicated expatriates who swarmed noisily (in exquisite toilettes) around the tables at the Casino. They lacked maturity, poise, grace, and their imitations of vice were the imitations of children. When they went too far, they were gross and disgusting. It was the Puritan in them, he suspected. A debased Puritan was the most revolting of creatures, for he had no taste, no reticence.
Mrs Bouchard, however, was not in the least wicked, he meditated. But cold as a stone, as rigid as death. A beautiful statue of frozen flesh. Extraordinary, too, for so young a woman, in her early thirties. Most delicately designed for love and intrigue, his reflections continued. Yet, she had lived in this villa, within sight and sound of all the subtle and dainty viciousness of the notorious Coast, and had remained, like Cæsar’s wife—uncorrupted, aloof and indifferent. Was it innocence, or distaste? The count believed it was neither. It was simply a lack of capacity for joy, for living, for delight. No doubt she was stupid, almost as stupid as his own German women. This reflection soothed his vanity, and so he regarded her with more amiability, and even superior pity. How most appalling to have lived here in the very presence of gaiety and pleasure and intoxication for over five years, and never to have experienced one moment of excitement and intrigue! But that, most certainly, was because of her invalid husband, and her devotion to him.
The count’s large and transparent nose twitched with aversion. How pitiable, this lovely young creature’s martyrdom to one who was apparently less than half a man! He, Wolfgang von Bernstrom, would have been delighted to have been allowed to relieve the tedium of her onerous life, if she had permitted it. He, and so many others. But she had allowed no man to approach her. What devotion! What stupidity! He drew out a white chair for her on the terrace, and she sat down. The gentlemen seated themselves, also, and smiled tenderly upon her.
She directed an indifferent look upon the German. ‘I’m afraid this is going to be a very dull luncheon,’ she said, without the slightest regret. ‘I have invited only you, Count, and you, Lord Ramsdall, and Baron Opperheim. You are all such friends, and you have been kind to my husband. So, there will be only six of us, you three, my mother, and my husband—no one else. Peter hasn’t been very well lately, and so I didn’t wish to disturb him. You understand?’
‘My dear, dear Mrs Bouchard!’ exclaimed Ramsdall, with an expression of fond understanding and regret upon his ruddy face. ‘Of course, we understand. It was very kind of you, indeed, to invite us. We’re grateful, I assure you.’
‘We are leaving tomorrow,’ continued the young lady. ‘We are to stop in Paris for a few days, and then we go directly home.’
For a moment she wore a betraying expression, sad and wistful, and very tired. She does not wish to return, thought the count. She is not entirely stupid, then. It had been his experience that very rich American ladies were invariably stupid and insensitive. But this delightful little creature, with such incredible wealth, had moments, too, of human regret, human insecurity and sorrow. Ah, had he but discovered this sooner! He might have corrupted her into joy.
He looked at her intently, without betraying his scrutiny. She was small and exquisitely made, with a beautiful figure, if slightly too slender for his taste. And most excessively chic, he acknowledged. She almost always wore a thin black dress, very plain, but of impeccable style, relieved only by a small necklace of rosy pearls. What lovely slender legs, lovingly curved at the calf, tapering to the most fragile of ankles and the tiniest of little arched feet! She sat gracefully in her chair, remote, and unconscious of herself, and most probably of her visitors, too. The count delighted his eye with the frailness of her waist, the perfect line of her small breasts under the filmy black stuff. His gaze rose to the whiteness of her throat, where the pearls moved with her quiet breath. After a moment, he looked at her face. How perfectly adorable, how exquisite in its perfection!
For her face, small and pointed, seemed carved of new ivory, so firm and clear were all its contours, its lines, and its curves. He could find no flaw, no hastiness, no crudeness or lack of expertness in that carving. However, there was a sort of rigidity about her features, a delicate sternness, which, to him, was somewhat repellent, inhuman. Too, she had a worn look, not so much patient as repressed and determined. That look lingered about her small red mouth with its deep corners, around the thin flaring nostrils of her nose, and covered in a kind of stony fixity about her deeply set and beautiful dark-blue eyes, over which the clear black lines of her brows were like the satin curves of a bird’s wings. Her black hair, very lustrous and vital and full of deep shining waves, was brushed upwards to rest like an old-fashioned coronet upon the top of her head. Her little ears, with their pearl earrings, were white and as translucent as alabaster, and fully revealed. She had a luminous pallor, very vivid, and there was not the slightest stain of colour upon her cheeks, whose smoothness and clarity aroused the hatred and envy of every woman who looked upon her.
The count remembered that she was of French descent. Yes, in those cheekbones, in the line of her shoulders, in the smallness of her hands and feet, in the grace of her carriage and posture, there was a distinctly French suggestion. But the spirit was not French! She had English blood also. That might account for her remoteness, her indifference, her iciness of manner, her withdrawn hauteur. However, he recalled that on one or two rare occasions he had seen a flash about her, a restrained vehemence, a hint of hidden and wistful warmth, a generosity of temperament immediately hidden. He felt a tender pity for her again. How most deplorable, to have been victimized into service to an abominable invalid, a husband who apparently had not been a husband. Not amazing, then, that the life had gone from her.
He thought of her husband, and the bleached skin of his face, wrinkled like parchment.
In the meantime, the young lady and Lord Ramsdall had been conversing with amiable disinterest about nothing at all. ‘The servants, of course, will remain on for the count,’ she said. She hesitated, ‘Except the chef, P
ierre, and his wife, Elise. They told me they preferred to return to Paris, if they can’t find positions here.’
The count came to himself at this catastrophe. He scowled. ‘But Madame! That is impossible. Intolerable. How am I to maintain a ménage here without tham? You have been the envy of all our friends, for possessing such treasures. It is unendurable, not to be countenanced.’ He turned with a scowl to his friend. ‘My dear Ramsdall, I understood that the servants were attached to the villa.’
Before Ramsdall could reply, the young lady looked directly at the count. Now for the first time there was a sudden breath of agitation about her, as if she was angered or indignant. Her dark blue eyes flashed. But she said quietly: ‘They are not attached. Pierre and Elise came with me from Paris. It was understood perfectly that if they did not wish to remain, after we left, they were to return to their home.’
But the count hardly heard her. He made a rude gesture with his hand, which dismissed her as a stupid child, an intruder, one who does not need to be considered. All his native arrogance, his intolerance, were implicit in the cold violence of his manner. He looked only at Ramsdall.
‘I insist these creatures remain. How am I to continue without them? I will not countenance their leaving.’
Mrs Bouchard sat upright in her chair. Her cheeks were suddenly stained with scarlet. ‘This is not Germany, my dear Count,’ she said, and her voice rose, clear and hard. ‘Pierre and Elise are free citizens of France. You ‘‘insist” on their remaining. That is very incredible.’ And she laughed angrily, and with contempt.
He turned to her, and she saw the intolerant hatred in his eyes, the will to dominance, the fury of a man unaccustomed to resistance, the cowardly rage of a race that will not be refused what it desires. Peter is right, she though. They are impossible. They are dangerous. They are deadly.