When she had finished looking at Sophie Timmons, the hardware lady from Cincinnati who had married a French baron and wished she hadn’t, and at Sophie’s second husband, the retired engineer, and at the one-time professional beauty whose friends had given her that unusual name, and at this too-well-known lady’s son and daughter, Miss Creston started inspecting Sophie Timmons’ drawing-room, the paneling, the draperies, and the pictures on the walls—which wasn’t exactly polite behavior. Then she got up and looked at the books in the bookcase—which was really just like saying that the conversation bored her. Lanny knew how Sophie’s books had been chosen; she would get one that people were talking about, and start to read it, but rarely finish, because by that time people were talking about some other.
It happened that somebody mentioned Hitler, and a speech he had just made denouncing the mistreatment of Germans in the Sudetenland. What did the man want, and where was he going to stop? One of the company remarked: “Ask Lanny; he knows him.” Another, a stranger, interjected: “You mean, personally?” The reply was: “He was a guest at Berchtesgaden just recently.”
That brought Lanny into the spotlight, and the lady with the glasses stepped in and joined him there. Turning from the books, she exclaimed: “My God, do you mean one can actually visit that man?”
Said Lanny, mildly: “One can, if one is properly introduced.”
“And how does one get introduced?”
“Well, it happens that the Führer is an admirer of my stepfather’s paintings, and I took some there and he bought them for his guest house.”
“Oh! It was a business matter!”
“Partly that, but social, also. You would find him a quite charming companion, I assure you.”
“I suppose he’s fond of little children, and all that!”
“It happens that he is especially fond of children.”
“And how does he have them prepared?”
For once Lanny wasn’t quick on the uptake. All he could say was: “How do you mean?”
“I mean: How are they cooked? What sauce are they served with?”
The company had stopped all other conversation to listen to this colloquy. Polite persons all, they must have been taken aback, even as Lanny was. However, he managed to smile, and replied: “It happens that he is a vegetarian. The only babies he eats are chicks before they have begun to be; in other words, a poached egg on his boiled vegetables. But he will serve you baby lamb or calf if you desire it.”
The woman stood there, as conspicuous as if she were making a speech; and nobody offered to interrupt this duel. “Tell me, Mr. Budd,” she said; “do you approve of this charming vegetarian’s political procedures?”
“I am an art expert, Miss Creston. I help to find beautiful paintings, mostly for American collections. I have found that it is necessary for me to deal with people who have all sorts of political opinions, and I try not to force mine upon them.”
“But you must have a few opinions of your own, don’t you?”
Rather awkward for Lanny Budd, who couldn’t afford to have the members of this group go out and say that he had evaded such a challenge. This duel was something to be talked about, and would be talked about all over the Cap before the day was over—it was after midnight. He had to make a flat answer, and it had to be one which would satisfy the Fascists and Nazis who swarmed on the Coast of Pleasure.
Said the son of Budd-Erling: “I used to have political opinions when I was young; but when I arrived at years of discretion I found that they disturbed my digestion and my judgment of art works. So now I confine myself to my chosen profession and let more qualified persons run the world’s business affairs.”
“And if you found that one of these persons was getting world power by means of wholesale murder and lies, that wouldn’t disturb you in the least?”
“I am afraid, Miss Creston, I should have to remain in my ivory tower, and leave it for you to deal with that dangerous person.”
“Ivory tower, Mr. Budd?” snapped the woman. “It seems to me you might better call it a cave, and yourself a troglodyte.”
You could feel the shock run through that well-bred company—for that word had a terrible sound, even though not many knew its meaning.
Lanny still took it amiably. Said he: “My understanding is that the troglodyte was a hairy man, and I could hardly qualify for that.”
This gave the company a chance to laugh, and broke the tension. The ladies started to talk very fast about something else; and Miss Creston, realizing that she had said a mouthful, returned to her seat.
X
Lanny’s job had brought him close to that state known to psychiatrists as schizophrenia; two minds living in the same body. He was a perfect reactionary, and felt all those emotions—he had to, in order to make them real to an audience. Then he would go apart by himself, and be the perfect rebel. Now he sat quietly, stealing an occasional glance at this stranger, and thinking: “Gosh, what a nerve! Here’s a woman who hates every hair on the Nazi beast, and she doesn’t mind saying so among people who would like to poison her!”
He remembered the picture which Nina had drawn, of himself being converted by some ardent anti-Nazi girl, and then marrying her! He could be quite sure that Miss Creston would undertake the first part of the job, at least. But how could this operation be carried on, here in one of the world’s leading gossip centers? As the story stood at this moment, it was exactly right for a presidential agent: a Red vixen had challenged him, and had called him a troglodyte! “What is that?” the horrified dowagers would ask, and when they were told, “A caveman,” they would say, “Oh!” and forever after be sure that Lanny was a good fascist. But if the story were to have a sequel: “Oh, my dear, what do you think? He went to call on her and took her motoring, and they say they are fast friends now,”—no, manifestly that would brand Lanny for the rest of his days.
Or could he call this lady up and ask her to meet him secretly? Not very well. Could he say: “I am completely in sympathy with your ideas, but for reasons of state I have to pretend otherwise?” He would need to know a person very intimately indeed before he could speak such words.
XI
Driving home with his mother and half-sister, he heard what they thought about this episode. “That perfectly odious creature!” exclaimed Marceline; and: “Did you ever hear such insolence in your life?” demanded Beauty.
“Who is she?” Lanny inquired.
“Sophie says she is from New York, and writes stories for the magazines.”
“How does she come to be here?”
“She’s related to those people who brought her. I’ll wager they don’t bring her to Sophie’s again.”
“They won’t need to,” said Lanny with a chuckle. “She studied the house and everybody in it. We’ll all find ourselves in a short story some day.”
“I never wanted to scratch a woman’s eyes out so much!”—this was Beauty.
“I rather admired her nerve,” remarked the wayward son.
“Oh, you would!” countered the mother. “It would be like you to look her up and fall in love. You always did pick out the people who insulted you and patronized you.”
“Don’t worry, old darling; I don’t like that aggressive type. If ever I fall in love again, it will be with some gentle, submissive damsel.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” retorted Beauty, so far from gentle or submissive herself. “There’s that lovely Lucy Cotton, ready to adore you if you would give her the least encouragement.”
It was necessary to deal respectfully with a relative of good old Sophie. Lanny said: “It’s not easy for a man to be sure about these amiable young things. They turn out so different after you know them a while. Take Marceline. When she was young, I thought she was the sweetest and gentlest ever; but now you see, she knows exactly what she wants and never gives up until she gets it.”
They had been discussing the subject of money on the way over to the party; and in the i
nterim Marceline had lost several dollars because of her mother’s card blunders. Now she took up the challenge, in a manner not so different from the Red vixen. “Sell my third of the paintings now and give me the money, so that I can go and live decently in Seville, and you won’t ever again be bothered with the problem of my temperament.”
“There now, you see!” said Lanny to his mother.
26
Pleasure Never Is at Home
I
Beauty had made all her plans to spend the summer at Wickthorpe Castle, and with Margy at Bluegrass, renewing her acquaintance with little Frances and enjoying the delights of visiting London. But here, unexpectedly, was the problem of Marceline and her infant, doubly dear because it had been named Marcel. The young mother couldn’t very well be taken on this tour; she couldn’t be left here alone, for she had never been alone, and had no resources within herself. Moreover, she dared not stay too long away from her husband; she said that men were weak and undependable, and Seville was full of idle and predatory women. Marceline agreed with General Sherman on the subject of war.
What she wanted was for her mother to give up the trip and stay in Bienvenu and take care of the baby while Marceline joined Vittorio. It was a lot to ask, but Marceline had never let that stand in her way. She had been brought up to be beautiful, and to live by that beauty; to take care of it, dress it, have it admired and waited upon. She had been taught that only rich people were of consequence, and now she had many rich friends and couldn’t keep up with them; she wouldn’t have any other sort, because she looked down upon the others and found them depressing. An unhappy situation for a young woman to be in, and Marceline blamed everybody but herself for it. She complained persistently, and set out with dogged determination to get what she wanted.
Lanny had learned how to meet that attitude to life; he said No and meant it, and let Marceline know that he meant it. But poor Beauty couldn’t do that; she said No and meant it, but then gave way, which was the same as not meaning it. She pleaded that it was her duty to see Frances, and not to let that dear child forget her entirely; but Marceline said that was rubbish—what Beauty was thinking about was Ascot and Ranelagh and the balls and parties at Margy’s townhouse. It would cost a lot, and Marceline wanted that money to live half-way decently in Seville, where you paid five prices for everything, and maybe ten by now. She argued and nagged: it was just this one season; those hateful Reds couldn’t go on with their mad fighting much longer, and then Vittorio could come back with honor, and find something to do that would pay him more than a beggar’s wage.
Knowing that she was going to get her way, the young mother proceeded to wean her baby; and Beauty was just on the point of writing letters to call off her trip, when there came an emotional cyclone which turned both mother and daughter on their heads. There had been delivered at Bienvenu a letter addressed to Vittorio; a letter in an unfashionable envelope, addressed in a woman’s handwriting of an inelegant sort. Lanny had dutifully readdressed it to Seville and thought no more about it. Then had come a second, and he had repeated the procedure. Now came a third, and this time it was addressed to Marceline, and she received it without Lanny’s seeing it. The first notice he got was in the form of a scream, and then a storm of rage and weeping from his mother’s room. He went in and found his half-sister lying on her stomach on the bed, kicking her feet in the air, alternately shrieking and biting her handkerchief which she stuffed into her mouth. Beauty was there, pale and bedraggled without her morning make-up; she didn’t say a word, but handed Lanny the letter, which Marceline had crumpled up in her rage and then thrown into her mother’s lap.
Lanny spread it out. It was in French, and the substance was that the writer had learned Vittorio’s real name and had written to him twice that she was pregnant and about to lose her position. She needed help, but Vittorio had left her letters unanswered, and unless the family would make him come to her aid she would be forced to resort to the law. Celestine Lafitte was the name, and the address was a small café in Cannes.
At one moment Marceline proposed to rush off and tear the bitch’s eyes out; at the next she wanted to travel to Seville and perform the same operation upon the faithless husband. She used astonishing language, the sort that wasn’t printed until the last few years; Lanny was surprised to discover that his half-sister knew such words, not merely in English and French but in Italian. It was like an explosion in a sewer.
“Marceline, dear!” exclaimed the shocked mother. “The servants will hear you!”
“To hell with the servants!” cried the hysterical girl. “To hell with the whole rotten world! That’s what I get for marrying a broken-down wreck of a man and sticking to him in spite of every misery and discomfort! The dirty stinking two-timer!”
“You don’t even know that he’s guilty, my child.”
“Of course I know he’s guilty; he’s a skunk, a wolf! He can’t keep his eyes off any good-looking woman—I’ve watched him, I’ve given him plenty hell for it. I’ve heard the talk of those Italian officers when they didn’t know I was near.”
Lanny would have liked to say: “I told you what the Fascists were,”—but that wouldn’t do any good, and he had to leave politics out of it.
“He couldn’t wait while I had a baby—that’s the sort of dog he is. Jesus, how I hate him! Let him have his Celestine—let her be the one to go to Seville and be his camp-follower! Not me!”
II
It was a long drawn-out scene. A woman who had been petted and spoiled through her almost twenty-one years had had snatched away from her the thing she most wanted, and her way of taking the blow was without dignity or even pathos. She wanted to punish the two persons who had robbed and humiliated her, and the only idea she could think of was that Lanny should go and see this woman, and give her money to travel to Seville, so that she could make Vittorio miserable for the rest of his life. “Give her a gun and tell her to shoot him if he refuses to support her!”
Lanny said: “In the first place, Marceline, I doubt if the woman could get a visa into Franco Spain. All French passports are now stamped: ‘Not valid for Spain.’ And in the next place, Vittorio couldn’t support her in Seville on his pay, even if he wanted to. She and her child would starve to death.”
“All right, let them!”
“You overlook the fact that the woman might find some way to get her story into the newspapers. The Red press would find it very much to their taste.”
“I don’t care what they say—I’m through with Vittorio, his bitch and his bastard.”
Lanny, a bastard himself, said no more. He knew that he would have to see this woman, and if she had any evidence that the child was Vittorio’s, he would give her enough to tide her over the period while she was incapacitated. He would count that a small price for getting completely rid of a Fascist brother-in-law. When Marceline had got over her hysterics, he thought it the part of wisdom to tell her the reason why her husband had so suddenly departed for the wars. When Marceline heard that, she decided that she had been made a fool of by all the members of her family, and that from this time on she would look out for herself.
She was the child of Marcel Detaze, and somewhere within her was steel. She dried her tears and put war paint on her face, and announced that she was ashamed of her lack of self-control, and from this moment on nobody would see her shed a tear. What she wanted was a divorce from Vittorio as quickly as it could be arranged under the French law. Mlle. Lafitte would presumably serve as a witness, and in that way might earn the money to have a baby. “After all, I’m sorry for the poor brat,” remarked the bitter young wife, and then winced, realizing that her own precious infant had the same father.
Lanny thought it over and decided that this was a matter for the family lawyer in Cannes. He consulted this gentleman, who invited the restaurant cashier to his office and found her amenable; she agreed to receive the sum of two thousand francs a month for a period of a year in return for her testimony that she had bee
n seduced by the Capitano. She had some notes in his handwriting, and the lawyer pointed out to her that she would not be compromising her claim against the officer; after the war was over he would presumably return to his homeland, and she might follow him there and bring suit for the support of the child. So everything was “jake,” as Robbie Budd would have said if he had been present. The suit was filed, and notice sent to the ex-aviator; then the daughter of Marcel Detaze said to her mother: “Let’s give a party right away, a good one, and invite all our friends, so that I can show them I’m not down and out!”
III
The dénouement of this tangle of events was something which nobody could have foreseen. Sophie, Baroness de la Tourette, undertook to give the party, because she had a much larger dancing floor, and admired the “child’s” nerve, so she said; she had known Marceline since the hour after her birth, and had helped to keep her a “child” all these years. Sophie made a suggestion that was practically a command: the way for a “child” to display her insouciance to the smart world was to do some of that lovely dancing that she and Lanny had displayed off and on for the past ten years.
For Lanny, also, this was a command. Grieving over the already-consummated murder of Austria and the all-but-consummated murder of Spain, he would find it like dancing on a grave; but there was nobody he could say that to, and he really wanted to help his half-sister in this time of trial. He hadn’t done any dancing for quite a while, but had kept himself in condition by tennis and swimming, and Marceline had danced even while she was pregnant. Now she fell to practicing in a sort of frenzy. It was a way of defying the world, of answering all the patronizing, the sneers and jibes which she knew were being made behind her back; it was a way of punishing Vittorio, of telling him to go to hell. The daughter of Marcel Detaze was coming back into the grand monde again, she was going to have another début and score another triumph.
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