Ambassador’s Reception
Saturday, April 18, Paris. In the early evening darkness, the taxi stopped and started as a throng of limousines and taxicabs snaked its way up Avenue d’Iéna towards the American ambassador’s residence at Number 2. Dexter sat in the rear seat quite relaxed and said to Marcelle, “One encouraging comment for you. In London there is now an undercurrent in Parliament that the Baldwin cabinet should have had the courage of its convictions and proceeded with the Hoare-Laval process. It was only meant as a start.”
Marcelle said, rather evenly but with an absent air, “Yes, the advantages come into sharp relief against the backdrop of lost opportunities.”
Dexter leaned back and listened to the tune Tout va très bien, Madame la Marquise (All is just fine, Madame la Marquise) coming from the great new innovation, the car radio. He smiled; the song was everywhere these days. He began to hum along. The song told a story of a vacationing marquise calling her caretaker, who starts describing to the marquise a series of cascading misfortunes befalling her country estate, each misfortune followed by the reassuring words that “all is just fine.” The last verse describes the chateau burning down followed by the ever-reassuring chorus.
Marcelle smiled and listened with a contented smile on her face. She knew Dexter thought the song described the arc of France’s foreign policy, which she agreed had been an ever-cascading series of misfortunes. She also felt that the flippant song described how quickly the privileged elites of Paris had gotten over the German reoccupation of the Rhineland. They had resumed in just a matter of weeks their mindless pursuit of this year’s vacuous social season, a wonderland of balls and soirées. Like tonight, she harrumphed to herself.
The taxi pulled up to a curb, a doorman came forward and opened the door, and Dexter stepped out and then reached back for Marcelle. He held her hand as she set one high-heeled shoe out on the asphalt and then the other. She had a lovely cream-colored stole trimmed with dark foxtail around her shoulders. She held a small clutch purse in her left hand while holding the stole clasped in front of her. They walked over to the entranceway and into the foyer. A maid came up and took Marcelle’s stole and hat and handed Dexter a claim check. He handed her his hat, stick, and topcoat.
Dexter took Marcelle’s arm and they swept forward into the large drawing room. Dexter said, “It’s what they call an informal reception. No announcing of names and such. Less formality. You get to the champagne straightaway.”
Marcelle laughed: the insights of an aging junior diplomat.
A waiter came over with a tray of champagne glasses, looked at Marcelle. “Madame?”
“Yes, please.”
Dexter nodded affirmatively and the waiter handed him a second glass. Across the room, Dexter spotted Daisy and Virginia beautifully gowned and their prosperously stolid husbands, black ties standing above starched white shirtfronts. He said to Marcelle, “Come on. Duty calls. You’ve met the ladies before. Now the gentlemen.”
She saw the two American ladies from last year’s Fourth of July reception. She presumed the men were the husband bankers. As they walked across the room, she saw out of the corner of her eye the American ambassador and his wife standing over in the center near a large fireplace. The wife had a beautiful sash across a grandmotherly bosom ending in an ample midriff that dropped into a dress of ever-wider flounces nicely arranged. Marcelle was impressed with the bright blue trim on the pale green dress. Yes, there was an artistry combined with shrewd business acumen for the couturiers who made and sold these dresses to the aging doyennes of society. She smiled to herself. Irène had just re-cut one of her old silk dresses into something long and elegant for tonight. She was a treasure.
Seeing Dexter and Marcelle approach, Daisy exclaimed, “Ah, a diplomat for the ambassador’s reception.” Turning to Marcelle, she held her hand. “So nice to see you again.”
Dexter held out his hand to Daisy’s husband and said, “Henry, may I present my fiancée Marcelle.” Marcelle held out her hand.
The husband shook her hand and turned sidewise to the other man and said, “John, I lost another bet.”
Marcelle looked askance at John and turned and held out her hand to him and cooed sweetly, “I heard about the first bet. What was the second?”
Dexter looked startled. Marcelle turned to him and laying on the sugar, eyes twinkling, said, “The first one traveled the corridors of the Quai d’Orsay,” and she paused and said with an edge, “dear.”
Startled, Henry put his hand to his mouth and said, “Oops!”
Daisy rolled her eyes and scolded him with her expression.
John stepped forward to push the conversation towards a safer shore. “Here, let me see your left hand.” Marcelle held out her left hand. John took it in his own and held it up, admiring the beautiful diamond ring on the ring finger. He showed the hand around. “See?” Daisy and Virginia looked on with true admiration.
Marcelle said, “It belonged to Dexter’s grandmother.” Daisy and Virginia were truly impressed.
John bowed his head towards Marcelle and said, “That’s the second bet.” He explained to Marcelle with some seriousness, “It’s so rare for a man so skilled, at shall we say the first bet,” and he nodded at Dexter, “to fall for the second bet. But I see why,” he gallantly added and kissed her hand.
Marcelle smiled warmly at him.
Henry turned to Dexter. “You really need to come speak to the American club. Dreadful about the Rhineland business. But why did the Frogs ever sign a pact with the Bolshies?” referring to the Franco-Russian pact that was the ostensible cause the Germans gave for marching into the Rhineland.
John chimed in, “Hitler said Communism was enemy number one. Surely we can all agree on that. He’s put Germany back to work.”
Dexter said, good naturedly, “Yes, I have been neglecting my duties. I will come speak to the American club.” Turning to John, he said, “The Bolshies, as you so affectionately call them, are two thousand miles to the east. The Nazis are barely two hundred miles from Paris. Remember 1914?”
“Yes,” he mumbled, “but what does it all mean? Next week the French are going to vote. The Socialists are expected to win big. Then we’ll have a Bolshie right here in Paris. In the Matignon,” and he looked at Marcelle. He knew where she worked.
Dexter knew from experience that a light laugh was the right tonic for this situation. So he laughed and explained, “Blum,” referring to the leader of the Socialists, “took the Socialists out of the Communist International in 1920. He’s the best bulwark against a workers’ uprising there is. A new French government may be able to turn around the French economy. Keep the money in your bank safe.”
John nodded with some understanding. “Well, it’s sure the Radicals haven’t done it.”
Dexter nodded in agreement. Daisy broke in, lightly saying to Marcelle, “Yes, the Rhineland business was simply dreadful. Threatened to upset the entire spring social season.” Marcelle gave a quick look of sympathetic concern to Daisy. Dexter was impressed with the sincerity of the insincerity.
Virginia quickly added, “But it got right back on track. Why the Rothschilds had one glittering affair after another. Next month the horses will be upon us…and then the automobiles,” she said referring to the horse races at Longchamps and elegant automobile shows held in the Bois de Boulogne.
Marcelle smiled in agreement. “Yes, Tout-Paris lives in a world of its own delight.” Dexter laughed to himself; that’s the way Suzanne and Marcelle would describe Anthony Eden.
Over in front of the fireplace, the ambassadress turned to her husband between wellwishers and said, with barely concealed curiosity, “There’s Dexter. With his new ladyfriend. I hear she’s a real marquise.”
The ambassador good-humouredly replied, “I think that’s just a nickname.”
“Oh, no. I am sure. She’s a marquise.” The ambassadress continued to look at Marcelle with great interest. “She doesn’t seem to have very many jewels for a marquise?”
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“Rather pretty, though,” said the ambassador.
“There. One of the men is looking at the ring on her hand.”
“Oh, I am told by the social secretary that Dexter got engaged,” said the ambassador.
“Engaged?” A look of perplexity came over the ambassadress’s face. “Why I didn’t take Dexter for a climber.”
She turned and looked at her husband and asked earnestly, “I thought you said Dexter came from a good family.”
“He does.”
“Does he need money?” the ambassadress asked, her face clouded with concern. “Maybe that’s where the jewels went?”
“Oh, no. His grandparents settled a small trust on him when he joined the Foreign Service. The grandfather was at Gray Brothers Harrison and Company. It’s still in New York. Doing rather well, I hear. Well connected to Roosevelt.”
“Then where did the jewels go?” The mystery simply confounded her.
The ambassador snuggled up to his wife and whispered, “Into your imagination.”
“Oh, you’re so sweet,” she beamed. “Tonight you get a big hug and a warm kiss.”
“My dreams will be fulfilled,” answered the ambassador as he watched Dexter and Marcelle walk over towards them.
Dexter came up, nodded at the ambassador, and said to his wife, “Madame, may I present my fiancée, Marcelle Lambert.”
“Oh, how delighted I am. We have heard so much about you,” and she giggled.
The ambassador started to hum and whistle Tout va très bien, Madame la Marquise, his eyes looking upwards at the ceiling like an innocent schoolboy.
Marcelle quickly shot him a sharp glance and then looked back at the ambassadress, “You have?”
The ambassadress eagerly asked, “Are you really a marquise?”
Marcelle threw her head back and laughed and looked at the ambassador with great good humor. He’s really just an old boy, she thought.
“No, I am not,” Marcelle pleasingly answered.
“You are not related to the three banks and two steelworks?”
Marcelle laughed again, “No, that is the comtesse.”
The ambassador quit humming and smoothly intervened, “Why yes. We all heard about your evening at Lipp’s last fall.”
Marcelle smiled and explained, “The comtesse was with Monsieur le Minister…”
The ambassadress brightened, “That of course explains it.” Money was always on the arm of an important minister.
Marcelle added, “At the Matignon, I wear a black skirt, dark stockings, and a starched linen blouse. Not quite a maid. But close. A redactrice.”
The ambassador smiled and said with insightful shrewdness, “Marquise has a certain ring of truth to it.” Of course in today’s world, real influence would unobtrusively wear a black skirt and starched linen blouse.
Marcelle laughed and looked into his eyes. “Oh, yes, we are a great couple. Rumors travel the corridors of the Quai d’Orsay about him while nicknames about me echo down the halls of the embassy.” She held out her hand to the ambassador, who swept it up and gallantly gave it a kiss.
Marcelle looked at Dexter and then turned to the ambassador. “I can assure you the rumors about my influence are greatly exaggerated.” She arched an eyebrow towards Dexter and said, “About him, I’m not so sure.”
The ambassador laughed and hugged his wife. She looked at Marcelle and said with wonderful sincerity, “Someone has a beautiful daughter-in-law coming.”
Paris 1935: Destiny's Crossroads Page 45