by Unknown
‘Who is Hughie?’
‘Jacques-Olivier Hué, head of the protocol. Always known as Hughie.’
I was getting more irritated every minute. I have a sense of humour, I hope; this situation was clearly very funny; it was maddening not to be able to join in such a good joke, to be on the stuffy, official side against all these jolly bandits. I said, spitefully, ‘As far as Alfred can make out, your friend Sir Louis simply lived for pleasure when he was here.’
‘Ambassadors always go on like that about each other,’ said Philip. ‘One’s predecessor is idle and one’s successor is an intriguer. It’s a classic of the service. But Sir Louis was an excellent ambassador, make no mistake about it.’
‘Oh all right,’ I said. ‘Let’s try and keep our tempers. If we think it over calmly there must be a solution.’
A long silence fell between us. At last I said, ‘I’m going to speak to Mrs Jungfleisch.’
‘You can now if you want to – she’s sitting in her car in the courtyard, reading the New Deal.’
‘Why isn’t she in there shrieking with the others?’
‘I tell you, she’s a very serious girl – she puts aside certain hours every day for historical study. Besides she says the room is too hot – twenty people in that tiny room on a day like this – it must be the Black Hole of Calcutta.’
‘Then why not go home and read the New Deal there?’
‘She likes to be in on things.’
‘The cheek of it!’ I said.
I stumped out into the courtyard, opened the door of Mrs Jungfleisch’s Buick and boldly got in beside her. She was very fair and pretty with a choir-boy look, accentuated by the big, white, pleated collar she wore and straight hair done with a fringe. She turned her calm, intelligent blue eyes upon me, put down a document she was reading and said, ‘How d’you do? I am Mildred Jungneisch. We did meet, ages ago, at Oxford.’
I was agreeably surprised by her voice which was not very American, rather more like that of an Englishwoman who has once lived in the United States. Although I knew about the charm school prospectus being too elementary for her and guessed that this was the fully qualified charmer’s voice, specially warm, for soothing an irate ambassadress in the grounds of her own embassy, it worked. Feeling decidedly soothed, I said: ‘Please excuse me for getting into your motor without an invitation.’
‘Please excuse me for sitting in your courtyard without an invitation.’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I’m sure you must, Lady Wincham. It’s about Pauline, of course?’
‘Yes – how long do you think she intends to stay?’
‘Pauline is utterly unpredictable. She will leave when she feels inclined to. Knowing her as I do, I guess she’ll still be here at Christmas.’
‘With you still feeding her?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘If my husband were a private person, none of this would matter. As things are, I intend to get rid of Lady Leone.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘In my experience of Pauline it is impossible to deflect her from her purpose.’
‘Aha! She has a purpose?’
‘Please do not misunderstand me, Lady Wincham. Her purpose is a simple one, she wants to have a good time. She has no desire to upset you, still less to damage the embassy or embarrass the Foreign Office. It all began because she had a sudden impulse to stop the train at Orry-la-Ville and spend one last night in this house which she worships – you can have no idea what she feels about it.’
‘I quite understand, on the contrary. People do get like that about houses and this one is so very extraordinary.’
‘You are under the spell already! Then she found she was having fun. She rang up a few friends, for a joke; they came around. It started to be the thing to do; one signs your book and then one goes in to see Pauline. Excuse me, please, there’s the Nuncio – I think he’s looking for her door.’
She got out of the motor, put the prelate on his way and came back again.
‘Philip tells me that you are a very responsible person,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you explain to her that if she goes on like this she will undo all the good she and Sir Louis have done during their brilliant embassy?’
The honest choir-boy eyes opened wide. ‘Indeed, Lady Wincham, I have told her. I’ve even pointed out that only one person, in the end, can reap an advantage from her action.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Why, Mr Khrushchev.’
I felt this was going rather far; still it was all on the right side.
‘Unfortunately Pauline has no public conscience whatever. I find many European women are like that. They do not give a thought to the great issues of our time, such as the delicate balance of East and West – they will not raise a finger to ease the path of N.A.T.O., U.N.E.S.C.O., O.E.E.C or the World Bank. Pauline is frankly not interested.’
‘So there’s nothing you can do?’
‘Regretfully, no.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I may look rather mousy but I must tell you that I very often get my own way. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye, Lady Wincham. Awfully nice to have seen you.’
Chapter Four
‘WE must send for Davey,’ I said.
This uncle of mine by marriage had long filled the same role in our family as the Duke of Wellington in that of Queen Victoria. Whenever some apparently insuperable difficulty of a worldly nature arose, one consulted him. While Alfred and I had been staying with him, we had of course talked of little else than our appointment and Davey had urged me not to forget that he understood the French. He had once lived in Paris (some forty years ago), had frequented salons and been the darling of the hostesses. He understood them. He had never liked them much, ‘cross, clever things’, and indeed, before the Nazis had taken over, during the decadent days of the Weimar Republic, he had greatly preferred the Germans. It was a question of shared interests; his two chief ones, health and music, were catered for better in Germany. As soon as the healthy, musical race began to show other preoccupations, Davey left Berlin and all the delightful Bads he was so fond of and which did him so much good, never to return. He always said thereafter that he did not understand the Germans. But he continued to understand the French.
I don’t know what magic wand I expected him to wave, since Lady Leone and Mrs Jungfleisch were not French and he had never claimed to understand them. True, he was a childhood friend of Lady Leone’s but that was no reason why he should prove more persuasive than the head of the Foreign Office. It would, however, be a comfort to have him with me as I felt sure he would be on my side, more sure than I was about Philip whose loyalties must, in the nature of things, be rather divided. After my talk with Mrs Jungfleisch I had a long discussion with Alfred as a result of which I telephoned there and then to Davey.
‘It’s an S.O.S.,’ I said. ‘I’ll explain when I see you.’
‘You have run into storms,’ said Davey, hardly bothering to conceal his glee, ‘even sooner than I had expected. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got a place on an aeroplane.’
The next morning, one read in Mockbar’s page:
DUKES
Four French Dukes, three ex-Ministers, nine Rothschilds, and countless Countesses crossed the courtyard of the British Embassy yesterday evening. Were they going to pay their respects to our envoy, Sir Alfred Wincham? They were not.
ALONE
The former Pastoral Theologian and Lady Wincham sat alone in the great suite of reception rooms on the first floor, waiting for callers who never came. The cream of Parisian society, meanwhile, was packed into a tiny room off their back staircase.
TWO AMBASSADRESSES
It is no secret to anybody here that an unexpected and awkward situation exists at the Embassy where we now seem to have one ambassador and two ambassadresses. Lady Leone, wife of the last envoy, is still living there. Lady Wincham, though a woman of charm, cannot comp
ete with her brilliant predecessor; she is left out in the cold. The Corps Diplomatique is wondering what the upshot will be.
I went to Orly to meet Davey. Although he was now past the middle sixties, his appearance had hardly changed since the day, nearly thirty years ago, when I first saw him with my sharp little girl’s eyes at Alconleigh looking, as I thought, unlike a captain and unlike a husband. (On the second count, at any rate, I had been completely wrong. Nobody ever had a happier marriage than my dear Aunt Emily.) If his face had become rather like a portrait by Soutine of that other younger face, his figure was perfect. Elegant and supple, waving the Daily Post, he darted out of the group of arrivals from London. ‘A pretty kettle of fish!’ he cried cheerfully. ‘Must see my luggage through the customs – wait for me in the motor.’
Then, getting in beside me, he said, ‘Mind you, it’s not a new situation, far from it. Lady Pickle kept the key of the Embassy garden in Rome and gave a garden party there weeks after the Betteridges had arrived. Sir George looked out of the window and saw her receiving the whole of the Embassy black list. Lady Praed opened a junk shop in the Faubourg here and nabbed people as they were going into the Embassy. Lady Pike went back to Vienna and then I seem to think she lived in a tree like a bird. English ambassadresses are usually on the dotty side and leaving their embassies drives them completely off their rockers. Alfred’s statement is out in the evening papers – perfect, very dignified.’ Alfred had said that Lady Leone not being well enough to travel, he was, of course, delighted to lend her the secretary’s flat until she was better. ‘You needn’t worry, Fanny, the sitting ambassador holds all the cards – he can’t help winning in the end.’
‘If he doesn’t win soon it may be the end,’ I said.
‘Yes, it’s time she went. I lunched at Boodle’s just now – Alfred’s enemies are beginning to crow – you may imagine. Daily Post in great demand there.’
‘We utterly count on you, Davey.’
‘Quite right. As soon as we get back I must have a very strong cocktail and then I’ll go straight to Pauline.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ve got an ambassadress from some invented country (the real ones are all away still) coming to call on me at six. That fits in very well and we’ll see you at dinner.’
As I sat with a little rat of a woman in black velvet with jet sleeves (dressed for the thé dansant I thought until I remembered what an old-fashioned notion that was), I heard the usual irritating sounds of distant laughter, punctuated now by Davey’s well-known and rather specially piercing shriek. He was evidently enjoying himself. I found it even more difficult than usual to concentrate on the thé dansant lady’s domestic problems. ‘The Americans get them all because they don’t mind what they pay.’
Davey reappeared in a black tie, at dinner-time.
‘Nobody to meet me?’ he said, seeing three cocktail glasses only.
‘I thought you would be tired after the journey.’
‘Now that I’ve got this extra kidney Fm never tired. No matter.’
‘Whom would you like to see – anybody special? A lot of people are still away but Philip could find somebody for tomorrow, I expect, and of course, Davey, you must ask your own friends while you’re here.’
‘Well, tomorrow –’ a little shade of embarrassment perhaps – ‘I said I’d take pot luck with Pauline.’
‘Don’t tell me poor Mrs Jungfleisch has got to stagger here with a pot fqr a whole dinner party now?’
‘Only for Pauline and me. The others will dine at home and look in after.’
‘Perhaps you’d like my chef to send something up?’ I said, sarcastically.
‘Now, Fanny, don’t be cross and suspicious. This is only a little exploratory operation – if I’m to effect a cure I must know all about the case, mustn’t I?’
‘Mm. Who was there?’
‘They came and went – awfully elegant and pretty and funny, one must hand them that. I’d forgotten about French clothes being so different. They think it was very brave of you to beard Mrs Jungfleisch in her own motor.’
‘She was in my own courtyard. Do they talk about me?’ I said, not best pleased.
‘My dear, you are topic A. They know absolutely everything you do, which dressmaker you’ve got an arrangement with, what the arrangement is, what clothes you have ordered (“fa, alorsl”), what impression Alfred makes at the Quai (“évidemment ce n’est pas Sire Louis’s”) and so on. When they heard I was your uncle they were all over me. Thought to be a new feather in Pauline’s cap, getting somebody who is actually staying with you and a relation to boot. By the way, Philip Cliffe-Musgrave – I suppose he is on your side? If you ask me he has been in communication with the enemy.’
‘That’s inevitable under the circumstances.’ Alfred now appeared and we went in to dinner.
The next morning was spent trying to get in touch with Davey’s Paris friends of olden times. He had lost his foreign address book, it seemed. I sent for Philip to assist; he looked carefully at the names but said he had never heard of any of them in spite of having had four years of intensive social life all over France. None of them were in the telephone book. ‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ said Philip, ‘you wouldn’t believe how many people here aren’t. There is the pneu-matique, you see, for urgent messages.’
He and Davey sat on my bed surrounded by books of reference. ‘To begin with,’ said Philip, ‘we’d better consult Katie.’ Katie was Miss Freeman of the Embassy telephone exchange, a great dear, soon to become a key figure in our lives. He took my telephone and said, ‘Have a look at your list, Katie, will you, see if you’ve got any of these people and ring me back.’ He read out the names of Davey’s friends. A few minutes later the bell rang and Philip answered. ‘None? Not even on G.P.O.? Thanks, Katie.’
‘What is G.P.O.?’ I asked.
‘Garden Party Only. It runs into thousands. If they’re not on that it means they’ve never set foot here. Now we must start on these directories.’
At this point Davey took his list back and jettisoned several mysterious figures, saying he had not really known them so very well or even liked them so very much. He could die happy without having seen them again. But he absolutely clung to three who must be found at all costs. They were a Marquis, an Academician and a doctor. We began with the Marquis who was neither in the Bottin Mondain nor the Cahiers Noirs de la Fausse Noblesse nor the Dictionnaire des Contemporains. Two fellow Marquises whom Philip rang up had never heard of him (though they said of course the name was that of a famous family) nor had George at the Ritz bar.
‘What are his hobbies?’ said Philip.
‘He used to be the greatest living expert on Russian genealogies.’
‘Try Père Lachaise,’ said Philip.
‘Not at all, he’s quite alive, he sent me a faire part of his grand-daughter’s marriage just the other day.’
‘What address on the faire part?’
‘I lost it. I can only remember, the church – St François Xavier.’
Philip rang up the Curé of St François who gave him an address in Picardy. A telegram was duly dispatched there.
‘That’s one,’ said Philip. ‘Now, what about this alleged Academician?’
‘Do you mean to say his name means nothing to you?’
‘No, and furthermore I’ll take a huge bet he’s not in the Académie Française. I know those old Forty by heart and oh how I despise them. There they are, supposed to be looking after the language, do they ever raise a finger to check ghastly misuses of it? The French wireless has started talking about Bourguiba Junior – Junior – I ask you – why not Bourguiba Fils?’
‘That’s awful, but what could the Forty do?’
‘Make a fuss. Their prestige is enormous. But they don’t care a bit. Anyway, as I was saying –’
‘But I’ve got a photograph of him in his uniform – I sent a pound to help buy his sword – I know he is a member.’
‘What’s his subject?’
‘Aha!’ said Philip. ‘Then he’ll be of the Académie des Inscriptions. English people always forget there are five academies under the same cupola and mix them up.’
Davey was displeased at being thus lumped together with ignorant English people but Philip was quite right. A pneumatique was sent off to the Institut de France.
As for the doctor, he seemed to have found the perfect hideout. ‘Docteur Lecœur,’ said Davey impatiently, ‘the greatest living expert on the vésicule bilière.’
I asked what that was. ‘It’s a French disease we don’t have in England,’ said Philip, rather too spry.
Davey shot him a look of great dislike. ‘It’s not a disease at all, it’s a part of the body. We all have it. You ought to see the stones that came out of mine.’
Philip giggled annoyingly. He then rang up several famous doctors and the École de Médecine; nobody had ever heard of this greatest living expert.
‘He used to live in the rue Neuve des Petits Champs.’
‘Doesn’t exist any more.’
‘Pulled down? Those lovely houses?’
‘Not yet, thank goodness. Only rechristened.’
‘Oh, it is too bad. What about the “Ballad of Bouillabaisse”?
“A street there is in Paris famous
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is,
The New Street of the Little Fields.”
How cruel to give it a new name. The Academicians might well have protested about that.’
‘Not they!’
‘I wonder if Docteur Lecocur isn’t still there? D’you know, I think I’ll go round and see – I must have a little walk anyhow. Where is the best chemist?’
He went off in slight dudgeon. Philip said, ‘The English so often have these unknown French friends, I’ve noticed. Collaborators one and all, mark my words. And talking of that, has it occurred to you that your uncle isn’t perfectly sound? He seems to be keenly fratting with Pauline in her entresol.’