Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  'Worry not, my dear fellow. I shall now proceed to search the premises and shall achieve my ends. I have had a great deal of practice at this sort of thing.'

  The disconcerted little seal watched the toings and froings of the whistling Garter as he set about a methodical search, opening drawers, peering into cupboards, and announcing his discoveries one after the other. Three tins of sardines! One of tuna-fish! Pretty unexciting fare for an hors-d'ceuvre, but no matter! A loaf of bread, not started! Coconut biscuits! A pot of jam! A tin of Milanese tripe! Another of cassoulet!

  What a rum do, thought Monsieur Deume. Clearly, all wealthy English aristocrats were eccentrics to a man, he'd always heard as much. This chap was eccentric all right, but he was also important, that much was written all over him, the way he carried on, the way he talked, and then there was the decoration, the same as the one worn by the President of France. So let him get on with it, don't cross him, especially since doing so might harm Didi's chances. Oh dear! It must be the excitement.

  'I'm sowwy, my Lord. I won't be vewy long.'

  Take your time, my dear chap. While you're gone, I'll warm up the tripe and the cassoulet.'

  In what he called 'the little nook', Monsieur Deume sat and pondered. Really, it was a rum do. He was an odd chap, of course, but a decent enough type for all that, seeing the bright side, willing to lend a hand. Definitely out of the top drawer though, high-handed yet not at all toffee-nosed, and a way with him of putting people at their ease. Still, he would never have dreamed that an English lord would have known what to do with tripe and cassoulet, and fancy him rummaging through cupboards, and with such good humour too. These Englishmen really took the biscuit. Concocting tea parties out of tins, it was most peculiar. But there, it was true the English liked large breakfasts, so perhaps the principle extended to tea as well. A tea party for a third party, that was weird too, but it was a well-known fact, was it not, that people in important positions sent representatives to funerals, weddings and official dinners, he'd read about it in the newspaper. But that was as may be, it would have been better if this chap had come to the dinner party of the third party last night, when he'd have found everything ready for him, and not turned up unexpectedly today like this. Obviously all these important men were so busy that they did everything in a hurry, when they could fit it in. If only Antoinette had left the key to the fridge, he would have invited the chap to eat up the remains of the caviare. Still, best let him get on with it, for Didi's sake especially.

  Returning to the kitchen, which was now filled with the pleasant aroma of the tripe and the cassoulet, he found the Garter, still in shirtsleeves and top-hat, cutting thick wedges of bread while keeping an eye on the two saucepans, the contents of which he stirred from time to time with a wooden spoon. The table, arrayed in the best damask cloth, was set. Everything was ready, places laid, serviettes daintily folded, crystal glasses, sardines and tuna in the hors-d'ceuvre dish, and even flowers in the middle of the table, yes, the flowers from the drawing-room! There was no denying it: his Lordship, not a man to let the grass grow under his feet, had thought of everything. But what would Antoinette say if she happened to come back?

  'Could I help you to cut the bwead, my Lord?'

  'As you were, Father-in-Law, just sit you down and don't fret. Anyway, 'tis done. Twelve slices should be enough to be going on with. But there won't be any butter on them, a state of affairs we can fairly lay at the door of your lady wife and her wretched key.'

  'Yes, I'm twuly sowwy about that,' said Monsieur Deume. He bowed his head, guilty by association.

  'Never mind, let's say no more about it. These unpretentious coconut biscuits, though quite elderly and lacking the bite which is their principal charm, enhanced by this rather runny strawberry jam, she used too much water and not enough sugar, will make a democratic dessert. Of course, when I breakfast at George's I fare rather better. Noodles with garlic, stuffed aubergines, chopped liver and onions, lamb's-foot salad! Because George knows that I dote on lamb's feet served with a vinaigrette sauce and lots of onions. When I say George, I refer to my noble British sovereign, whom God preserve! Please stand up as a mark of respect! Thank you, you may sit down again. As to the bold, long-drawn blast of wind which I have this moment emitted, be not amazed. It is a custom of the English court and indicates to the host that the guest feels utterly at home and perfectly at his ease. But come, take up your serviette and let us begin by attending to the fruits of the sea!'

  'But I should be boiling the kettle for the tea.'

  'I see that you are not aufait with these things,' said Naileater. 'In circles a la mode, no one drinks tea at teatime! The fashion nowadays is for Bordeaux! There are several bottles in that ill-favoured little cupboard there, be a good fellow and open one! I'll make a start and you can catch me up,' he smiled, and he tied his napkin round his neck then gave a contented sigh. 'Ah, dear friend, how happy I am for once to be breaking bread in a humble cottage far from my feudal Shropshripshire mansion!'

  Having downed his first glass of Bordeaux, he laid into the sardines and tuna, demolishing them noisily, pausing only to refill his glass and invite his chum Deume to feel free, refresh the inner man, for goodness sake, and take a glass or two, for who knew what generalized cancer fate held in store for them? Thus exhorted, the old gentleman did justice to the hors-d'ceuvre and the Bordeaux. Without waiting to be told, he opened a second bottle the moment the steaming saucepans were brought and emptied directly into soup-dishes by the Principal Private Secretary, who had girded himself with Martha's white apron in order to protect the great sash of the Legion of Honour. Their faces gleaming, the two messmates drank deep and tucked into the tripe and cassoulet, switching delightedly from one to the other, exchanging many a grin, bursting into merry song and swearing eternal friendship.

  Over dessert, his mood of exultation turning to gloom, Monsieur Deume, with his face smeared with jam and speaking in veiled terms, disclosed certain disappointing aspects of his married life. At this, Naileater recommended the use of a stout stick every morning, then proceeded to tell such amusing anecdotes that the little seal almost choked on his laughter. They drank each other's health, called each other by their first names, with young Hippolyte chortling and chuckling for no reason whatsoever, then haranguing his glass, which was no sooner empty than refilled, and even on two occasions tickling his lordship under the arm. He had never had such a high old time, and new horizons opened before him. And if Antoinette showed her face, why, he'd let her have a few good swipes with his stick!

  'Come, old friend,' exclaimed Naileater, throwing his arms around him, 'let's drink with stout hearts and make the most of the time we have on this earth! A murrain on racial discrimination! I shall even go so far as to pay homage to Lord Jesus, son of the Lady Mary, provided that you, good old Hippolyte, pay homage to Lord Moses, God's bosom companion. So here's to Christians, I say, for there's good in all of them! Upon which note, though of different faiths yet sworn friends unto death, let us drink up and sing and thankfully embrace, for this is a day of rejoicing and friendship is the spice of life!'

  CHAPTER 26

  On this same afternoon, Benedetti, Head of the Information Section of the Secretariat of the League of Nations, had assembled fifty or so of his dearest friends at the cocktail party which he hosted each month. Of the modest gaggle of ideas contained in Benedetti's tiny brain, the most firmly rooted was the principle that in this life it was vitally important to have many friends and contacts, to return all invitations, and to make no enemies. Hence the monthly drinks parties held in his enormous drawing-room. Enormous it certainly was, yes, but on to it was tacked a minute and quite hideous bedroom which overlooked a small, dark yard. Appearances, that was what counted.

  His important guests, holding frosted glasses into which they peered at floating ice-cubes, reacted according to their several temperaments with anger or gloom when approached or buttonholed by a guest less important than themselves and consequently
of no use to them in their efforts to climb the social and professional ladder. Staring vacantly, their minds preoccupied by strategic- thoughts, feigning attentiveness to some bore who, highly delighted with his capture, oozed charm and warmth, they mounted a holding operation to contain such unproductive company until something better came along, that is, a more profitable prize in the shape of someone, anyone, who outranked them. They tolerated the buttonholing because it provided them with the passing pleasure of flexing their power and exercising their talent for benign contempt, or else because it enabled them to save face by rescuing them from isolation, a fate even more appalling than being seen talking to a subordinate, for not knowing anyone was the greatest of social sins. Besides, exchanging conversation with an underling was not of itself discreditable as long as it was done in a tutelary and sufficiently offhand sort of way, for a brief conversation could be construed as charity. But it was not a good idea to let matters get out of hand. The chat should be cut short quickly, and then promptly followed up by a rehabilitating discussion with a person of superior rank. Which explains why the important guests, mumbling their vague yeses and quites, kept their anxious, restless eyes on the buzzing throng and, without seeming to, maintained a periodic, three hundred and sixty degree sweep, hoping in the glare of their revolving lighthouse beam to catch sight of a choice fish, a Superchief, to be harpooned without further ado.

  Beneath the laughter, the smiles and the affable pleasantries lay a deep ground swell of serious endeavour, a mixture of unease and vigilance, as each guest watered the seed of his worldly interests. Swirling the ice in his glass or forcing a smile, but inwardly dispirited and dismayed by the inevitable underling presently trying his patience, each Important Person stood ready to make his nuzzling approach to a More Important Person, who had at last been located but was, alas, in the clutches of some tiresome, hated rival. Keeping watch on his future prey while pretending to listen to the Unimportant Person clinging stickily to him, he remained on full alert, eyes bright with stratagems and inattentiveness, prepared to dump the Other Ranker after a hasty 'We must talk again soon' (never make enemies, even of the small fry) and, like an expert hunter who knows exactly when to strike, ready to make his play for the More Important Person who would, he sensed, be free any second now. Which was why he never took his eyes off him for a moment and cocked a smile ready for use. But the More Important Person, no fool he, had scented danger. Abruptly disengaging himself from his current hanger-on and pretending not to catch the eye or see the smile of the merely Important Person, the lovingly covetous eye and the serfish smile as yet no more than a hint of what encouragement might make it, the More Important Person, giving the impression that he had noticed nothing, slipped quietly away and was immediately lost in the drinking, masticating crowd, while the thwarted Important Person, disappointed but not downhearted, dismayed but tenacious and firm of purpose, readied himself, now that he was rid of his own bootlicker, to start and pursue a new prey.

  But having escaped the danger of social devaluation, the More Important Person now came up skilfully upon an even more important person, a Most Important Person in fact, only to discover, alas, that he was surrounded by a crowd of fawning courtiers. His eyes already glistening with deference, his face aflame with modesty and surrender, he in turn steadied himself to fire his harpoon at the first possible moment, though without losing his dignity, not out of pride and self-respect, but because making oneself cheap is invariably prejudicial. He waited for the chance to pounce, the moment when the Most Important Person would at last shake off the circle of beaming admirers. In his heart was hatred for his rivals, who seemed rooted to the spot, warmed by the sun of power. Gentle and patient as a seal crouching by a hole in the ice hoping for a fish to surface, he waited and set his social skills the task of finding the kind of amusing, spirited conversational gambit which would engage the attention of the Most Important Person and draw his friendly interest. From time to time he would lock the object of his desire in his gaze, willing him to give a sign of acknowledgement, hoping for a distant smile which would allow him to step forward in the most natural way in the world and, quivering with girlish excitement, join the knot of vassals. But senior men rarely acknowledge their inferiors.

  Since their inferiors, tomorrow's corpses every one and all diligently applying themselves to the business of success, were vaguely aware of the boredom (variously gracious — 'I see, most interesting, well done, congratulations' — or preoccupied — 'Perhaps, yes, possibly, it's an idea worth following up' — or frankly hostile — 'I've no idea, I haven't had time') of the superiors they were trying to impress; and since, for their part, these same More Important Persons did not always manage to strike up a conversation with Most Important Persons — either because every Most Important Person was already being monopolized by other incipient corpses no less intent on making a favourable impression and wondering how best to book him for their next cocktail party, or else because of the dearth of Really Important Persons ('Honestly,' some of the guests would complain when they got home, honestly, darling, Benedetti's show was appalling, nobody worth talking to, just a crowd of hangers-on, perhaps it's time we dropped him') — a profound, unstated gloom ruled this roost loud with clucking laughter and the twitter of chitchatting voices. There was gaiety on every lip. But the eyes were anxious and restless.

  And yet the gloom was not universal, for there present were Equals who, sensing their mutual equality, derived some satisfaction from talking to each other, though it was obviously very much a second-best and hardly comparable with the spoils to be got from a conversation with a superior, but what was the alternative? Antennae quivering, casually, and in oblique asides, two Equals, or at least two men temporarily giving each other the benefit of the doubt, dropped and swapped the names of important contacts by way of intimating how they ranked, where they stood in what they called the pecking order. If the outcome proved positive, the less equal of the two would extend, or try to extend, an invitation to the other in order to expand his own stock of contacts, but also — and more so, for the socializing classes are insatiable — to be invited in turn to the other's home, there to meet more Equals or better still Superiors to whom he would extend, or try to extend, invitations for exactly similar ends. And so on and so forth.

  Not one of these well-dressed mammals endowed with the opposable thumb had come in search of intelligence or human warmth. All without exception were driven by an urgent quest for contacts, whose social value they assessed by the number and quality of scalps collected. Thus a converted, homosexual Jew (who knew all there was to know about the kinship, marriages and health of everyone who counted in pan-European high society, where he had finally gained a footing after twenty years spent plotting, cajoling and being snubbed) was highly gratified to note that the person with whom he was talking was on visiting terms with an exiled queen who was 'absolutely adorable and terribly gifted musically'. When he had pigeon-holed his new acquaintance, he decided he was worth cultivating and as such invitable: so he invited him. It is such flummery which fills the waking hours of these poor excuses for human beings who all too soon will expire and rot and lie stinking in the earth.

  Sometimes, in this gilded cage, sex occupied the high ground, attenuating or even supplanting the dominant social imperative. Over there, discreetly in a corner, a bald ambassador (who for forty years had deferred in servile flattery to his superiors so that he might steadily rise and eventually, wizened and with a colon riddled with bacilli, achieve Importance) was talking animatedly to a young interpreter, equally inane in four languages, who was endowed with breasts which had yet to fall and a grotesque rump significantly enhanced by a skirt chosen for its tightness: so decreed the lifeplan of this simpering kitten now basking in the exercise of her temporary power. For the action of the sexual is fleeting, while the social urge is sovereign and enduring.

  Thirsting for contacts and personalities, a Greek lady journalist, acting clever and cute, said 'Hello
, cousin' to a Russian princess to be chummy, shrieked at the correspondent of The Times 'Hi there, O Great One, I adored your piece in yesterday's paper,' then moved off to prowl in the purlieu of a pair of ministers who were taking themselves rather seriously. The bald ambassador, having succeeded in making a date with the owner of the large rump, was listening gravely to a porkling named Croci, a plenipotentiary minister of minor standing. He felt intense dislike for this upstart, who made unduly much of being addressed as Excellency, so he feigned a mind preoccupied with higher things as a way of making him repeat his questions. Having thus taken the wind out of his sails, he would then reply with exaggerated courtesy or even not reply at all but instead come out with a question on an entirely unrelated subject. Close by, a flaccid, bovine redhead, never once dropping her smile, was quietly berating her husband, a tall, stooping ape of a man with woolly hair and an anguished expression, for not having dared approach a high commissioner now in the clutches of Mrs Crawford, an American millionairess who, in a space of mere months, had managed to bag all the big names in international politics by the simple expedient of offering sumptuous hospitality, for when good things to eat are set before the good and the great they come running. Countess Groning's teeth were wreathed in friendly smiles. She extended her hand with mathematical precision, unleashed a guttural 'How do you do' and, hungry for secrets, asked a delighted Benedetti if it were true that the English delegate had really thumped the table with his fist during the private sitting of the Council. The reply being affirmative, she closed her eyes in political ecstasy while she savoured the titbit. A fat Lebanese lady who had bought a husband who was a fool but also Baron de Moustier — she was the President of a Literary Society founded by herself as a method of extending her range of top-drawer acquaintances — was talking excitedly about a lecture given by a duke who was also a French Academician which she had attended with the express purpose of accosting him afterwards so that she could say henceforth that she knew the duke, such a dear, unaffected, approachable man, and say it casually, as was only right. Meanwhile, overcome at finding himself in conversation with the impassive Guastalla, an incompetent but well-connected marquis who, because nobody knew what to do with him, had been appointed special adviser to the Secretary-General, Petresco promptly began talking about his holidays, which he would possibly be spending with the Titulescos, who had an estate at Sinaia, but it got so damnably hot there in summer that he had not finally made up his mind even though the minister had repeated his invitation several times. At this, an amiable smile appeared on the lips of the marquis. Whereupon, seizing her chance to be unconventional, Madame Petresco clapped her hands like some spoilt brat or self-willed schoolgirl and shrieked that she wanted to go and stay with dear Titu and nowhere else, who cared if it got hot at Sinaia, with dear Titu and nowhere else, with her boyfriend Titu and nowhere else, so there! And she went on clapping her hands wilfully and screeching the name of her Titu to impress the impressive Guastalla. Abandoned by a minister for the disabled who owed his entire political career to his wooden leg, a husband and wife who could not stand each other but were at one in their determination to scale the social heights readied themselves to mount a joint attack on the ambassador of a small, newly created state, an ex-journalist with dandruff who was staring at himself incredulously in a mirror. Weighed down with ten heavy rings, an aged English poetess looked on in scorn and splendid isolation while she fiddled with her comforting medieval hat from which hung a long black train, the sort worn by Catherine de Medici and queen mothers given to poisoning. Noticing Solal, Croci the minister made a beeline for him, saying how happy he was to have this opportunity of exchanging a few words with such a dear friend. In reality, he had only turned up in the hope of landing some snippet of ephemeral political information which he could pass on to Rome and thereby raise his stock. Adopt a high profile, wangle an ambassadorial appointment, rise up the ladder from which all topple and fall into the waiting hole below. To get rid of him, Solal invented a tip which he passed on in confidence to the porkling, who made an avid mental note, Adam's apple bobbing wildly. Mouthing courtesies, he went on his way, elated and accompanied by an undiagnosed cancer. The lift was slow in coming and he took the stairs at a run in his impatience to share his knowledge of this vital item of political jiggery-pokery with his minister. Now he'd get his embassy! Quick, encode the telegram and mark it 'Top Secret. For the Exclusive Information of His Excellency'! No, wait a minute, why not fly direct to Rome? An ironclad reason for a meeting with the supremo in person! Having at last got the bald ambassador to herself, Baronne de Moustier was quoting, in a voice made resonant by a large population of nasal polyps, a pensée perpetrated by the dear duke, such an unassuming, approachable man, to the effect that it is as important to be a good gardener as it is to be a worthy duke and peer. What a beautiful thought, and how true! she drooled, turning a heart-warming smile upon the ambassador, who, however, not one to be fooled by a scheming woman, cut her off brusquely and sidled up to Lord Galloway, to whom the Romanian delegate, casting prudent looks in all directions, was saying that she had it from an unimpeachable source that in Council the day after tomorrow the Italian delegate would speak not of national revendications, like last year, but of national aspirations, a subtle but crucial distinction which heralded a turning-point in fascist policy, she affirmed, as she stood, regally, categorically bejowled, with her tiny hand on her vast hip like the proprietress of a pot-house. Overhearing her, an eavesdropping journalist gave a start and hurried off to telephone this astounding scoop to his paper, bumping as he went into an elderly professor from the University of Zurich, who, in the hope of being awarded the Legion of Honour before he died, was keeping a sharp lookout for the French cultural attache, while Madame Petresco, eager to show off her social graces, circulated saying 'Delighted to meet you', adding a 'ch' to 'meet' the way Lady Cheyne did. 'Marry in haste, repeat at leisure,' said the Greek lady journalist, trying to be witty and chic for the benefit of Baronne de Moustier, who gave her a sullen glare and, paying no further attention to a little schemer who was nothing and nobody, fixed her eyes on the inaccessible Lady Cheyne, with whom Countess Groning was enthusiastically discussing Lord Balfour. Dear Arthur! Such a wonderful person and a really great man of course, she had spent a delightful week at his place in Scotland. Yes, she was to dine with him and Anna de Noailles this evening, dear Anna was a genius and what a wonderful friend!