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two extremes met, and while vowing the deadliest hatred, they made war on the same

parliamentary system.

Lanny couldn't afford to visit his Red uncle, but he invited Denis de Bruyne to dinner, and the

three Budds listened to the story from the point of view of a French Nationalist. The situation in

the de Bruyne family bore an odd resemblance to that between Robbie and his son. Denis

belonged to a respectable law-and-order party, and was distressed because his younger son had

joined the Croix de Feu, most active of the French Fascist groups. Now Charlot was off

somewhere with his fellows, conspiring to overpower the police and seize control of the

country's affairs. At any moment he and his organization might come out on the streets, and

there would be shooting; the unhappy father couldn't enjoy his dinner, and wanted Lanny to

find the crazy boy and try to bring him to his senses. Such were the duties you got in for when

you chose a lovely French lady for your amie!

Lanny said no; he had tried to influence both boys, and had failed, and now he was out of

politics; he had made a promise to his wife. He listened to the innermost secrets of la

république française, derived from first-hand observation. He learned about Daladier, the

baker's son, who had just become Premier, the fourth within a year; what interests had

subsidized his career, and what noble lady had become his mistress. He learned about Chiappe,

chief of the Paris police, a Corsican known as "the little Napoleon"—he was five feet three inches,

and had just been "fired" for being too intimate with Stavisky. He had known all the wholesale

crooks, the blackmailers and Jewish métèques of France, and had whispered their secrets to

his son-in-law, publisher of one of the great gutter-journals of Paris.

Lanny observed that the individuals who awakened the anger and disgust of Denis de Bruyne

were the climbers, those struggling for Wealth and power to which they had no valid claim. He

rarely had any serious fault to find with the mur d'argent, the members of the "two hundred

families" who had had wealth and power for a long time. They had to pay large sums of money

in these evil days, and the basis of Denis's complaint was not the corruption but the

increasing cost. The politicians demanded larger campaign funds, and at the same time kept

increasing taxes; their idea of economy was to cut the salaries of civil servants—which Denis had

discovered was bad for the taxicab business. To make matters worse, the taxicab drivers were on

strike! Robbie listened sympathetically, and when his friend got through scolding Daladier,

Robbie took a turn at Roosevelt.

VII

Next day Lanny escorted his wife to the Summer Fashion Show. This wasn't a public affair,

but one for the trade; an exhibition of the new styles which the manufacturers intended soon

to release. Irma was invited as a special honor by the fashion artist to whom she entrusted her

social destiny. Lanny went along because, if she endeavored to take an interest in his things,

it was only fair that he should do the same for hers. They sat in a hall with many potted palms,

gazing at a long ramp with dark blue curtains behind it; along the ramp paraded beautiful

and chic young women wearing summer costumes with a strong Japanese flavor, or note, or

atmosphere—the journalists groped about for a metaphor. There were bamboo buttons and

coolie hats; the ladies' gowns had fan-tails like Japanese goldfish, the afternoon costumes had

cut sleeves like kimonos, and the evening wraps had designs resembling Japanese flower

prints.

Among the favored guests at this show was an old friend of Lanny's; Olivie Hellstein, now

Madame de Broussailles, very lovely daughter of Jerusalem whom Emily had picked out as a

proper match for Lanny. That had been some eight years ago, and now Olivie had three or four

children, and had become what you called "maternal," a kinder word than "plump." Words

which have an unpleasant connotation change frequently in the best society, where people try

so hard not to wound one another's feelings.

Olivie was a woman of Irma's type, a brunette with deep coloring, in temperament rather

placid, in manner sedate. They had entertained each other, exchanged visits, and satisfied their

curiosity. Now they talked about having to wear summer clothing with a strong Japanese

flavor, or note, or atmosphere; they would have to wear it, of course—it would never occur to

them to rebel against what the fashion creators decided was the fashion.

Lanny, wishing to be polite, remarked: "We were talking about your family last night. My

father is having a meeting with your father."

"A business matter?" inquired Olivie.

"Mine is trying to persuade yours that he can deliver certain railroad equipment at Brest at a

lower price than it can be manufactured in France."

"It will be pleasant if they become associated," replied the young matron. "My father has a

great admiration for American production methods, and wishes they might be imported into

France."

Pierre Hellstein was a director in the Chemin de Fer du Nord, and controlled one of the

biggest banks in Paris. Robbie had asked Denis about him, and they had discussed this wealthy

Jewish family spread widely over Europe; also the position of the railroad, reputed to be run

down and overloaded with bonds. The Hellsteins didn't have to worry, because the government

covered its deficits; there had been criticism in the Chamber—the French Republic was going

broke in order to protect the railroad bondholders. Denis de Bruyne, who owned some of the

bonds, resented these criticisms as irresponsible and demagogic. As for Olivie, beautiful,

serene, magnificent in a long sable coat, she was perfect evidence of the wisdom of guaranteeing

large incomes to a few chosen individuals, in order that they may be free to attend fashion

shows and constitute themselves models of elegance and refinement.

VIII

"Oh, by the way," said the daughter of Jerusalem, all at once; "I understand that you were in

Germany not long ago."

"Just before Christmas," replied Lanny.

"I do wish you would tell me about it. It must be dreadful."

"In some ways, and for some people. Others hardly notice it."

"Oh, Monsieur Budd," said Olivie, lowering her voice, "may I tell you something without its

going any farther? I'm really not supposed to talk, but we are all so worried."

"You may be sure that my wife and I will respect your confidence, Madame."

"We have just learned that the Nazis have arrested my Uncle Solomon. You know him,

possibly?"

"I had the pleasure of meeting him at the home of Johannes Robin. Also, I am one of his

depositors in Berlin."

"They have trumped up some charge against him, of sending money out of Germany. You

know, of course, that a banker cannot help doing that; especially a family like ours, doing

business in Austria and Czechoslovakia and Rumania, and so many other countries."

"Of course, Madame."

"We Jews hear the most dreadful stories—really, it makes you quite sick."

"I am sorry to say that many of them are true. They tell you thatsuch things happen in

violent social overturns. But I doubt if the Nazis would do physical harm to a man like your

uncle. They would be more likely to assess him a very large fine."

"It is all so bewildering, Monsieur Budd. Really, my father cannot be sure whether it would

be safe for him to go into Germany to see about it."

"I will make a suggestion, Madame, if you don't mind."

"That is just what I was hoping you might do."

"I ask you to consider it confidential, just as you have asked me. Tell your mother and father,

but nobody else."

"Certainly, Monsieur Budd."

"I suggest their sending somebody to interview General Göring. He has a great deal of

influence and seems to understand these matters."

"Oh, thank you!" exclaimed Olivie Hellstein. "I am so glad I thought to ask you about it."

Irma put in: "Send somebody who is dignified and impressive-looking, and tell him to be

dressed exactly right, and not forget any of the Minister-Prasident General's titles."

IX

Out of duty to the memory of Marie de Bruyne, Lanny made an effort to see her younger

son, but found it impossible. Charlot was meeting somewhere with the leaders of his society,

and the inquiries of strangers were not welcomed. This Tuesday, the sixth of February, was to

be the great night in which all the organizations of the Right in France would "demonstrate"

against the government. Marching orders had been published in all the opposi tion papers,

under the slogan: "À bas les voleurs! Down with the thieves!" At twilight Charlot would

emerge from his hiding place, wearing his tricolor armband with the letters F.C.F., which meant

that he was a Son of the Cross of Fire. He would be singing the Marseillaise; an odd

phenomenon, the battle-song of one revolution becoming the anti-song of the next! In between

singing, Charlot and his troop of patriotic youths would be yelling the word

"Démission!"— which meant the turning out of the Daladier government. Less politely they

would cry: "Daladier аи poteau!" meaning that they wished to burn him alive.

Lanny drove his wife to the Chamber, going by a circuitous route because the Pont de la

Concorde was blocked by gendarmes. For an hour the couple sat in the public gallery and

listened to an uproar which reminded Lanny of what he had heard on the floor of the New

York Stock Exchange at the height of the panic. Daladier couldn't make his speech; his political

enemies hurled at him every abusive name in the extensive French vocabulary, while at the

same time the Communists sang the Internationale.

When this became monotonous, the Americans went out to have a look at the streets. They

couldn't see much from a car, for fear of being caught in fighting, and decided that the best

place from which to witness a Paris démonstration was from the windows of their hotel suite.

Robbie, sensible fellow, was in his rooms, talking business with the head of a French building

concern which sometimes bought ascenseurs. The two younger people stood on the balcony of

their drawing-room, which looked over the great Place de la Concorde, brilliantly lighted, and

with an obelisk in the center having floodlights on it. Directly across the Place was the bridge

over the Seine to the Palais-Bourbon, where the deputies met; a building in Roman style with

many tall pillars brightly shining.

There must have been a hundred thousand people in the Place, and more pouring in by every

street. They were trying to get across the bridge, but the police and troops had blocked it with

patrol-wagons. The mob started throwing things, and soon there was a pitched battle, with

charges and counter-charges going on most of the night. The Fascists hurled whatever they

could lay hands on. They pried up stones from the pavement, and tore off the scaffolding from

the American Embassy, which was under repair. The railings of the Tuileries gardens provided

them with an iron missile, shaped like a boomerang and impossible to see in the dark. When the