Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  'I got a valet first,' said Madame Deume with reverence, 'then I was put through to the Under-Secretary-General himself. He was quite charming, I must say, such a pleasant voice, very resonant, with a hint of depth to it, and so polite! To begin with we untangled the misunderstanding, then he made his apologies and said how very sorry he was, he put it so well, I mean, perfect savoir faire. It was a good thing I thought of telephoning when I did because I only just caught him, he was about to leave to go to an important function.'

  'Is that what he said?' asked Adrien.

  'Well I imagine it's an important function, since it's being given by the Argentinian delegation. Anyway, he said he'd make his excuses to the delegation, explaining about the misunderstanding, and he'd leave the moment dinner was over and come on to us. Really, charming beyond words! He quite won me over, and I don't mind admitting it! Besides, we should appreciate all the trouble he's putting himself to, I mean it's extremely good of him to come on here immediately after dining with members of the Argentinian government, it's awfully flattering for us. It's funny but I felt completely at my ease when I was chatting to him. I think I can say that we already know each other,' she concluded chastely.

  'Sounds as if Argentinians have dinner wather late,' said Monsieur Deume, who was starving.

  'The more formal the function, the later dinner is served,' said Madame Deume, the milk of her charity having been set flowing by her phone call. 'At least now we know how we stand, and it's a weight off my mind I can tell you. Everything's straightforward now, all cut and dried: he said he'd get here at ten on the dot. Now the first thing on the agenda is to get rid of that butler, I don't want to see his face here any more, we'll get Martha to lay on a light refreshment. Hippolyte, go and tell that bumptious littel upstart that dinner has been cancelled. Better tell the caterer's man too. Give them something so there won't be any unpleasantness, three francs apiece is more than enough, what with everything. Didi'll pay you back.'

  'I daren't!'

  'I'll go,' said Adrien, 'and while I'm about it I'll let Ariane know what's happened.'

  'Poor Didi! You seem to get all the nasty jobs. Still, you are the man of the house. Oh, and send Martha to me in the dining-room, would you, perlease?'

  Following his wife into the dining room, Monsieur Deume stared open-mouthed at the sumptuously laid table brave with flowers, candles and champagne. He caught a whiff of imminent bliss. They'd be able to tuck into a whole feast of good things and it would be just family, with no important guest there to keep an eye on them. And they could eat the aspawagus without having to use tongs! His great round eyes watered at the prospect, and he rubbed his hands.

  'Shall we sit down now?'

  'I should think not,' said Madame Deume. 'We'll have a bite to eat standing up, on the hoof. Martha, you can bring bread and cheese and the three ham sandwiches left over from lunching. Put it all on the sideboard and then you can start clearing away the table things. Come on, girl, get a move on. For now, just put everything in the kitchen. It will all need to be put away properly but I'll come along later and show you exactly what to do, and be careful with my tablecloth, fold it properly so that it doesn't crease. The dinner will do for the younger Rampals,' she said, turning to her husband. 'I'll phone them in the morning, first thing.'

  'How do you mean, the Wampals? They're not in Geneva, are they?'

  'Oh dear, what with everything that's been going on, I forgot to tell you. They phoned this afternoon to say they'd just arrived. As delightful as ever. I yearned to invite them there and then to come to dinner this evening. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, and we could have made the most of the food we'd got in and at the same time it would have shown the Under-Secretary-General the sort of people we know.'

  'Are they staying long?'

  'Three or four days. They're here, you know, for the usual business. I mean they have no choice, given all those disgraceful taxes they're forced to pay in France. She mentioned it ever so amusingly on the phone. She said she'd end up with corns on her hands from all that snipping! You look as if you don't understand, but it's really quite simple, it was a reference to cutting dividend warrants off their bonds. With a pair of scissors, do you see? In those naice littel private areas they have in the strongroom at the bank. Anyway, as I was saying when you interrupted, I very much wanted to invite them for this evening, but, since Adrien wasn't in at the time and not knowing what he'd make of it, I didn't dare, because from his point of view he'd probably want to entertain his chief on an intimate basis this first time round, so I was noncommittal, said I'd call them back tomorrow, mentioned I was giving a large, very large, dinner party this evening, there's no harm in them knowing, and didn't know which way to turn what with having to get everything ready. So I'll phone them tomorrow morning first thing.'

  'But won't evewything have gone all dwy by tomowwow, poppet?'

  'I'll see to it that it doesn't. With the fridge, there's nothing to worry about. Everything will be just as good when it's warmed up.'

  'I see,' Monsieur Deume murmured unenthusiastically.

  'Such a sumptuous menu — and it couldn't have come at a better time, seeing as how the Rampals are nobility,' said Madame Deume for the benefit of Martha, who, however, did not register its significance.

  'Old Fwench nobility,' added Monsieur Deume mechanically.

  (For several generations past, Leerberghe parents had passed on to Leerberghe children a healthy regard for the Rampals, who owned properties in Belgium which had been administered by a succession of Leerberghe sons, their faithful liegemen. For a century and more, the Rampals' wealth, castle and hunting-grounds had been the subject of many a conversation around the Leerberghe hearth on winter evenings. When he was just three years old, comparing the Rampals to Adele (the Deumes' maid at the time), little Adrien would cry with convincing solemnity: 'Dele, poo! Ampal, nice, not poo!' As this makes clear, he was full of early promise. Madame Deume quickly communicated the infection to her husband, who could never mention the dazzling name Rampal to people he knew in Geneva without adding, with a little quake in his voice and eyes modestly lowered, that they were 'old Fwench nobility'.)

  'Anyway, I'll have a word on the subject with Didi in the morning. I won't bother him tonight, so that he can give all his mind to his boss. If he thinks it would be better to invite his famous Rassets, though personally I've never clapped eyes on them, then he can decide to do that. But either way we shall be hosting a grand dinner party tomorrow night, either for the Rampals or the Rassets, or, failing that, for Madame Ventradour, I say failing that because she's not out of the same drawer, besides all that caviare for a single guest would be a waste. To be honest, I think I'd prefer the Rassets, it would be an opportunity to make their acquaintance in grand style. Come along, Martha, quick about it, and could we have a littel more vim, perlease? Oh and by the by, Martha, and pay attention to what I'm going to say. The gentleman will be coming at ten, but to be on the safe side I want you in white gloves standing smartly by the door in good time, so you're ready in case he comes early. Go and take up your position by the door at nine thirty. Stand up straight, don't forget your white gloves and mind you don't dirty them, and take good care of your apron too, it has to stay spotless. When the gentleman rings, you open the door with a smile, then you take his hat with a smile, but your smile must not be familiar but modest and . . . servanty. Then, when you've done that, you go to the drawing-room, where we'll be waiting, you open the door and in a clear voice and without smiling this time you announce the Under-Secretary-General of the League of Nations, the way it's done at grand receptions. Is that clear?'

  'But Antoinette, Adwien said that he would go and meet him in the hall fifteen seconds after the doorbell wings.'

  'You're right, I'd forgotten. Frankly I prefer it. Announcing guests calls for someone with a certain manner, a certain sense of occasion, a certain knowledge of how things are done. Poor Martha, you wouldn't have been up to it, would you,
seeing as how in your lowly station such naiceties as receiving important persons do not loom large, I believe! It's not a criticism. It's hardly your fault that you come of humble stock,' she ended with one of her luminous smiles.

  Adrien returned and said that Ariane was not hungry and would not come down until their guest had arrived. Monsieur Deume made for the sideboard, picked up a small piece of bread, and on it balanced a small piece of Gruyere. 'Hippolyte!' said Madame Deume disapprovingly. He didn't need to be told twice, put the bread and the cheese back where he had got them, and stood waiting until his wife had said grace. It was a bit thick, though, saying pwayers over a bit of cheese which, to boot, was to be eaten standing up!

  'O Lord,' began Madame Deume, who parked herself in front of the sideboard with eyes closed, 'we thank Thee for granting and preparing with Thine own hands this evening which we are about to spend in the fellowship of the Under-Secretary-General of the League of Nations. Yes, thank you, Lord, thank you. (As she could not think of anything else to say, she repeated "Thank you" several times in a progressively affecting, melting voice to fill the silence while waiting for further inspired words to suggest themselves.) Thank you, thank you, oh thank you. We give Thee thanks too because Thou hast, in Thy wisdom, made the foot of our dear son to lie in the path of his superior. Oh grant that our wondrous companionship here this evening prove to be a plentiful fount of blessings upon our dear Adrien, and may he ever find his path strewn with opportunities for moral advancement and spiritual enrichment. Amen.'

  To restore my spirits after this dose of Madame Deume, I propose to write a letter to Georges-Emile Delay, a Protestant minister at Cuarnens in the Canton of Vaud, a truly pure and good man, a real Christian, a brother. My Christian brother, as I call him in my heart.

  CHAPTER 20

  'Shall we retire to the drawing-room?' Madame Deume said grandly, crackling and rasping in her diamante-encrusted shot-silk dress.

  'Yes, let us wetire to the dwawing-woom,' repeated her diminutive husband, who, limping slightly, hands clasped behind his back, followed her lead and was followed in turn by Adrien.

  They sat down. To an accompaniment of assorted twitterings, Madame Deume rooted out particles of ham which had stuck in her teeth. Then she asked the time. Both men reached for their pocket-watches and Adrien said that it was twenty minutes past nine. Monsieur Deume set his turnip back one minute.

  'He told me quite definitely that he would be here at ten on the dot,' said Madame Deume once more.

  'Forty minutes to go,' said Monsieur Deume.

  'I'm so glad I thought of having Martha put a wave in her hair with the curling-tongs,' said Madame Deume. 'She really looks quite presentable in her linen apron and matching gap. Fortunately I took the precaution of buying two housemaid's aprons. If I hadn't, what with her bleeding all over the place, we'd have been in a pretty pickle! But it's all worked out naicely.'

  Yes, she'd thought of everything. She had put Martha through her paces and made her repeat her tasks in order. A little rehearsal had been staged for her benefit, with Didi as the Under-Secretary-General ringing the doorbell, then coming in and handing over his hat, to which a walking-stick was added just in case, though Adrien had said that his chief was not a walking-stick man. As soon as their guest reached the drawing-room, Martha was to let Ariane know and ask her to come down. Then, exactly ten minutes later, she was to appear in the drawing-room with three different kinds of hot drink: tea, ordinary coffee and decaffeinated. Their guest would then choose. Next he would be invited to take a liqueur or, if he preferred, a glass of champagne. There would be plenty left over for no end of Rampals or Rassets. But if his chief preferred a herbal infusion, an eventuality ruled out by Didi, it could be quickly prepared, for they had all sorts in the house — verbena, camomile, lime-blossom, mint and aniseed. Yes indeed, everything was under control. She let her eyes wander round the room and gave a satisfied sigh.

  'The drawing-room looks a picture,' she said.. (She pronounced it piksher.)

  While Martha, her hair waved, wearing her white gloves and impersonating a housemaid, stood at her post behind the door, ready to answer the call and quaking in her shoes, the three Deumes sat patiently, tactfully waiting. As tense as if they were visitors in their own home, they did not dare settle back comfortably in their chairs. Ears already cocked for noises off, they racked their brains for something to say and then exchanged a few words on vapid topics of conversation in desultory fashion, blowing on flames which died down again at once. Out of an obscure sense of their own dignity, they refrained from mentioning their guest now that his arrival was imminent. They were reluctant to admit that they had thoughts only for him and that their hearts swelled with pride at the idea of entertaining a person of such eminence, albeit at ten in the evening. However, from time to time a reference to the Under-Secretary-General got through. It was a way of intimating how very much at their ease they felt. But for the most part they opted for a silence pregnant with mutual regard and a paradoxically cheery gloom, Madame Deume checking to see if her nails were clean, or fluffing up her lace jabot, or unleashing a bountiful smile, her crooked yellow teeth resting affectedly on the soft cushion of her lower lip. Since their honoured guest had said that he would be in their midst at ten o'clock sharp, she was confident of success and radiated smug self-satisfaction. She was so happy that several times she expressed her love for her adopted son with a muted 'Coo-ee, darling!' which she punctuated with roguish pats on his hand. Adrien had brought home a photograph of Solal which he had cut out of a Paris daily, and to while away the time she said that their guest looked every inch a leader of men. It was the highest accolade she could bestow.

  The time hung nobly on them, and already they felt they were fully paid-up members of the Under-Secretary-General's circle of intimates, and of the Rampal coterie too. Waiting was a delight, and they bided their time free of apprehension and well disposed to the world at large. Now and then one or other of them got up and wiped away a trace of dust, repositioned-an occasional table or an ornament, checked to see whether the thermometer registered a temperature fit for a leader of men, closed the lid of the grand piano and then propped it up again because, on reflection, it looked better open for like that it struck a note of unstudied elegance. In turn, the two men went over to the window where, with back turned to the mistress of the house, they discreetly checked certain buttons.

  'The drawing-room looks a piksher,' repeated Madame Deume, the smiling, confident hostess. 'Still, you know, Didi, there is one tiny improvement we could make one of these days: we could hang curtains over the bay, cotton rep with great big flowers, hand-painted of course, and behind them we could install subdued lighting which can be turned on at night when the curtains are drawn, that's how Emmeline Ventradour has it, it would look very artistic. We'd only switch on when we had guests. But we'll talk about it some other time. Yoo-hoo, darling!' she said this time to her Didi, and she playfully pinched his wrist then shook it this way and that.

  When she had finished scouring her teeth with the help of further twitterings and the pocket toothpick loaned by her husband, and had given the alarming crescent under her fingernails another good scraping with Hippolyte's handyman's knife, she felt in the mood for a little of the conversation on elevated topics which she considered to be de rigueur at this point of the evening. Breathing minty waftures released by the lozenges she was sucking, she spoke of a book, 'so well written', entitled The Story of My Life, which she had made a point of displaying, for all to see, on one of those little trolleys which she called 'wheelie-trays'. She opened the volume, which the world owed to the pen of Queen Marie of Romania, and read out a sentence which had struck her forcibly: 'Blessed, thrice blessed, be the gift which God has granted me of feeling the beauty in things so deeply and of rejoicing in their beauty!'

  'Now isn't that lervely! It's so profound!'

  'Oh absolutely,' said Monsieur Deume. 'Pwofound's the word.'

  'That was written
by a queen, dear. Need one say more?'

  All graciousness, she gave a delicate smile, for she felt at one with the Queen of Romania, an intuition fuelled by the imminent arrival of the Under-Secretary-General, a high dignitary most certainly on calling terms with the dear Queen, into whose ken she therefore felt she had somehow, by proxy, swum. She had a sense that evening of belonging in the same top drawer. Then she raised the matter of a photograph which she had seen in an illustrated weekly. It showed another queen, who, at some official ceremony or other, had not been afraid to ease one foot out of her shoe to rest it. Just like any other woman! Wasn't that lervely?

  Then she drooled over a third queen, who had insisted on travelling by bus, just once, to see for herself, because she'd never been on a bus before! Imagine! On a bus! A queen who could afford coaches and expensive motor cars catching a bus! Wasn't that a lervely, a really lervely, thought! And what about the children of the English royal family, who'd wanted to take the tube, to see what it was like! Those littel princes on the Underground! Too sweet for words! she said with a tender smile. And, added Monsieur Deume, it was democwatic too. Returning to the queen who had caught the bus, Madame Deume quoted another moving incident in which she had been involved.

  'While visiting some small town or other, she made a point of shaking hands with one of the Mayor's deputies, a crippled grocer who had been forced by his infirmity to stay in the background in a wheelchair. I mean, she went out of her way, she went to him, although he was yards away! A grocer! Such a kind thought! A lervely gesture! As I read about it in the paper, there were tears in my eyes! They say she has magnetic charm, and with it so tremendously at her ease with ordinary people! Now there's someone who thoroughly deserves to have been set on high! Mind you, the same goes for queens in general, they're all so sensitive, so .. . bountiful!'

  Her stock of queens now exhausted, there was a silence. They coughed, cleared their throats. Adrien looked at his watch. Nine thirty-seven. 'Another twenty-thwee minutes,' said Monsieur Deume, stifling a nervous yawn. At least, he thought, the visit of this eminent dignitawy — cowwection, dweadful bore, he said to himself, to spite him — would be over by midnight, and then a chap could slip off quietly to bed without having to bellow out any more conversation in the waised tone of voice which showed that a person was socially accomplished, no more jabbewing on about this or that, no more waiting for this other cove to open his mouth first. Suddenly Madame Deume tapped Adrien sharply on the knee.