Empire

Standard Oil had the same proprietary feeling about judges that Blaise’s mother-in-law had about members of Congress, only Standard Oil paid large sums of money to make sure that the judges would always rule in their favor. In fact, most of the letters from politicians dealt not so much with pro-Standard Oil legislation as with judicial appointments. From the look of one letter-book, Archbold’s web of bought officials ranged from city halls to governors’ mansions to Congress and the appropriate courts and, finally, to the White House. But Blaise had been disappointed in the one letter to Archbold from Theodore Roosevelt. The letter could have meant anything, or everything, or nothing.

“I don’t think I have any use for the letters.”

Hearst’s physiognomy could not betray relief either; he stared blankly at Blaise, who said, “I don’t think that the Tribune, as a Washington paper, should get too mixed up in these things. If there’s a crusade for good government again, we might join in. Or Caroline might. I’m happy with bad government.”

“You’re in, like it or not. There’s no alternative.” Hearst was flat. “You’ll sit on the letters?”

“I think so.” But Blaise intended to keep Hearst in suspense as long as possible. “I’m only interested in one letter, one politician…”

“Roosevelt?”

Blaise nodded. “The letter I bought can only be interpreted in its proper context. Well, I don’t know the context. Do you?”

Hearst hummed, in his usual high off-key voice, a few bars of “Everybody Works but Father,” the year’s popular song. Blaise was grateful there was no banjo to accompany that chilling voice. “I’ll tell you what I guess the context is. Hanna was in deep with Rockefeller. So was Quay. My letters are full of them. But then everyone knows about them, anyway. They got money from Rockefeller, from everybody, for the Republican Party, for Roosevelt, for themselves.”

“For him, personally?”

Hearst shrugged. “I don’t think he’s that big a fool. But he’s got to have money so he can go round the country at election time, attacking the trusts that are paying for his train. When was your letter dated?”

“Last summer. After he was nominated.”

“Well, that makes no sense. But then, Hanna and Quay are dead. So he’s got nobody with the nerve to go to old Rockefeller, or even Archbold, and say, ‘Give me half a million for the campaign, and I’ll go easy on you.’ I expect that when he wrote Archbold, he was fishing.”

“Did he catch anything?”

Hearst’s thin smile was slow and genuine. “It doesn’t make any difference if he did or didn’t, does it? I mean, it’s the way the thing looks that matters. You could make the case as to how Roosevelt’s managers have always been on the take from Standard Oil, then, by the time you get around to his being in touch with Archbold, when he was desperate, trying to raise money from Morgan and Frick and Harriman, everyone will believe Teddy’s on the take, too, which, I suspect, he is.”

Ignobly, Blaise wondered how he could put together this story before Hearst did. Obviously, he could not unless he knew the contents of Hearst’s letters, all written before 1904. “I suppose you’ll use this when Roosevelt does something that favors Standard Oil, if he does.”

Hearst shook his head. “I’ll use what I’ve got-or not use it-in connection with my own campaign in 1908.”

Blaise did not use to himself the word “blackmail,” but that was indeed the Chief’s intention. As the owner of eight popular newspapers and the Archbold letters, he could make the leaders of the republic leap through any hoop of his choice. “There’s one more detail you should know,” said Hearst. “John D. Archbold is an old personal friend of Theodore Roosevelt.”

“That is something.”

“That is something.”

“If,” said Blaise, doing his best not to sound eager, “you were to publish these letters, what excuse would you give, for having stolen them…?”

Hearst attempted another chorus of “Everyone Works,” with invented words. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t say I’d stolen them. They came to my attention, that’s all. Then I’d also say that I do not consider that letters written to public men on matters affecting the public interest and threatening the public welfare are ever private letters.” At that moment, Blaise realized that Hearst might yet become president and, if he did, he might surprise everyone; in what way, of course, it was hard to tell.

4

CAROLINE SAT AT the large marquetry table, said to have been the very one that the Duke had used when he was the controller of the royal revenues, and opened the two letter-boxes. The first contained fragments of Aaron Burr’s autobiography, with a commentary by his law-clerk Charles Schermerhorn Schuyler. She glanced through the pages, and decided that Henry Adams, if no one else, would be fascinated. She skipped to the end of the book, written years after Burr’s death, and read what she already knew, of her grandfather’s accidental discovery that he was one of Burr’s numerous illegitimate children.

The second leather box was a final journal by her grandfather, covering the year 1876. He had returned to New York for the first time since 1836, with his daughter, Emma, the Princesse d’Agrigente. This was the volume that she intended to read carefully.

Once the Hearst party had left, Caroline spent every moment that she could reading her grandfather’s journal. She was charmed by his amusement at the strange American world, fascinated by his description of her mother’s campaign to find a wealthy husband, the object of the visit, appalled at her grandfather’s cynical complaisance. But then father and daughter were broke, and he was just able to support the two of them by writing for the magazines. Fortunately, Mrs. Astor took them up; and they were in demand socially, thanks to Emma’s beauty, and her father’s charm. At one point, Emma had almost married an Apgar cousin, for convenience, something her daughter had actually done.

As Caroline read on, she began to see something alter in Emma’s character-alter or be revealed to the reader, Caroline, but not to the narrator, who seemed unable to understand the thrust of his own narrative. Sanford made his entrance, with wife Denise, who could not give birth without danger. As Denise and Emma became closer and closer friends, Caroline found that her fingers were suddenly so cold that she could hardly, clumsily, turn the pages. Caroline knew the end before the end. Emma persuaded Denise to give birth to Blaise. In effect, Emma murdered Denise in order to marry Sanford.

Emma’s expiation was the long painful time she took to die after Caroline’s birth. But did Emma feel guilt? Did she atone? Confess?

Caroline sent for Plon. It was late afternoon. She wanted to talk to Emma’s oldest son while the-crime was still vivid in her mind. Plon sprawled handsomely on a sofa. Caroline told him what their mother had done. At the end, somewhat dramatically, she held up the journal and waved it in the air; told him of the murder. “Brulez,” Plon read from the cover. “That’s what you should have done, you idiot! Burn it. What difference does any of this make now?”

“You knew all along, didn’t you?”

Plon shrugged. “I thought something had happened.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Of course not.”

“Did she seem tragic or sad or-dark?”

“She was adorable, as always, even at the end, when there was pain.”

“Did she make confession, to a priest?”

“She was given the last rites. She was conscious. I suppose she did.”

Plon lit a cigarette from a new gold case. “You know, when someone becomes emperor of the French, and conquers all Europe, he doesn’t brood much about the people he killed.”

“But she was a woman, and a mother, not emperor of the French…”

“You don’t know how-I don’t know how-she saw herself. She had to survive, and if the sad lady, her friend, Blaise’s mother, must die, naturally, in childbirth, then die she must.”