Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  He sent the chasseur off immediately with all the letters and papers addressed to the patron and the patron’s family. He would not have dared to delay them for a moment, or even to inspect them in more than the most cursory fashion.

  He sorted out the remainder of the mail into little heaps that he put on the ledge of the desk. People would come and claim them. Sometimes Gwennie Morgan was sent in to fetch le courrier and distribute it.

  Le petit jeune homme who was secretary to Mr. Bolham always came for his own letters, usually hanging about in a nervous way until nobody was near enough to overhear his feeble “s’il vous plaît’s” and “merci’s.” He daily received one particular letter, addressed in a woman’s hand, in a cheap coloured envelope, faintly scented. The concierge, who had once spent six months in England, knew that the postmark on this letter was a suburban one, and that Denis took particular pains to post his replies, as often as possible, elsewhere than in the box in the hall of the Hotel. He was continually writing and receiving letters, and his correspondents, the concierge had contemptuously noted, were almost all of them women with undistinguished handwritings, and of provincial or suburban addresses.

  This morning the secretary of Mr. Bolham actually seemed to have forgotten about his precious letter. He did not come for it until much later than usual, and then took it without excitement. The concierge sensed the difference in a moment.

  Well — no affair could go on by correspondence for ever, not even amongst the lower orders of the English. The petit jeune homme was now interested in somebody else, probably in the young and beautiful wife of Mr. Moon. The concierge himself was interested in her, so far as the limitations of his job permitted.

  He smiled to himself satirically, inwardly rating Denis’s chances of receiving the slightest attention from the exquisite Mrs. Moon even lower than his own.

  (3)

  The few and casual phrases habitually exchanged between Hilary and Angie, when alone together in their bedroom, were usually either grossly indecent, or spasmodically blasphemous. They knew of no other mode of self-expression, unless it was a violent quarrel.

  This morning, between eleven and twelve o’clock, they were in the midst of a quarrel.

  Angie lay naked on the bed, smoking, and Hilary, in an extremely expensive purple silk dressing-gown, his dark hair hanging dank and unbrushed across his forehead, lounged against the green venetian blind of the open window, also smoking.

  “I’m not going to Cap Ferrat,” said Angie. “Or anywhere else.”

  “You’re not at all disobliging, are you?” asked Hilary ironically.

  “Why should I be obliging? You never do anything for me, that I know of. You don’t even make money.”

  “My little sweet, I was quite under the impression that we’d come here with my money. Or haven’t we?”

  “We’ve come here, to be exact, with money that belongs to the tradespeople at home,” replied Angie coldly.

  “How terribly accurate of you,” Hilary returned, even more coldly.

  There was a silence, full of hatred.

  “This place, as it happens, is utterly poisonous, and extremely expensive, and not a soul with whom one has anything whatever in common.”

  “Cap Ferrat would be three times as expensive, and I don’t suppose you’d like the crowd there any better. Unless there was a tart that happened to fall for you, like your Sonia creature at that filthy Bloomsbury party.”

  “Please leave Sonia out of it.”

  “Don’t be chivalrous and high-up, darling, because it makes you sound simply too silly. It’s not your line at all.”

  “I’m going to Cap Ferrat. Or Nice.”

  “And I’m not.”

  They were back at the beginning again.

  “Look at that lousy gang we got mixed up with last night — Coral, or whatever she calls herself, and her quite ghastly boy-friend.”

  “They weren’t any worse than the crowd we go round with in London.”

  “I think they were much worse. In fact, there’s no comparison at all. Women have no discernment whatever.”

  “I thought,” said Angie maddeningly, “that you prided yourself on never using clichés.”

  This made Hilary angrier than anything that she had yet said, and he swore viciously.

  Angie, taking no notice, got off the bed and began to pull clothes out of a suitcase and throw them about.

  Suddenly, having scored, she felt amiable again.

  “Let’s try this place a couple of days longer, anyhow. If we move now, it means finding the cash for the bill at once. What about the car you said you were going to get?”

  “I might find something at Cannes. I thought I’d get that fellow they talk about — the interpreter or something, who’s coming back to-day — to put me on to the right place. He’d be able to tell one what the chances are of selling it again, too.”

  “You’re sure to be able to sell it again,” said Angie. It was on this basic assumption that the young Moons conducted the whole of their existence.

  She drew on a long pair of green linen trousers, and pulled a white crêpe-de-chine jumper over her head. It left her neck and arms bare, and was finished off with a huge bow of green ribbon and a green belt.

  “That’s rather good,” Hilary admitted, looking at her.

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  She began to make up her face.

  “Look here, what about hiring a taxi and going over to Cannes this afternoon? One might run into somebody one knows, and anyhow one could have a look at cars.”

  “I want a hat,” said Angie, “or a béret, or something.”

  “I suppose the Hotel can put us on to a taxi. I’ll go down and talk to the concierge.”

  “Are we taking anyone with us?”

  “Who on earth is there to take? I wouldn’t be seen dead with any of them.”

  “It’ll be frightfully boring, if you’re going to take that line, Hilary. For both of us, I should think.”

  “Thanks, ever so,” said Hilary sarcastically, as he went out.

  (4)

  Mr. Bolham, who would not, of his own free will, have joined any party in which Mrs. Romayne was included, had agreed to go to the Réserve with the Morgans partly because he was on friendly terms with them and liked them, and partly because he wished to diminish as far as possible the length of time spent by himself alone with his secretary.

  If they remained at the Hotel, Mr. Bolham would feel obliged to do some work, which implied dictation, and this, in its turn, would necessitate the presence of Denis Waller.

  More and more clearly, the unfortunate Mr. Bolham realised that his dislike of Denis was assuming almost pathological proportions. He felt that he would, actually, have liked to hit him, or to send him, with one vigorous kick, flying into the sea. He did not suppose himself capable of ever giving way to these primitive impulses, but it annoyed him that they should be there at all, and gravely interfered with his conception of himself as a highly civilised man of letters and a detached observer of human nature.

  In order to make himself feel better, Mr. Bolham — whilst inwardly passing the most savage judgments on his secretary’s obvious weakness, vanity, cowardice, and inability to speak the truth — forced himself to treat him with outward civility, and even generosity.

  Learning from Dulcie Courteney that Denis had never tasted the famous bouillabaisse and had said that he would like to do so, Mr. Bolham immediately asked permission to include him in the party.

  “If you’re sure that you don’t want him to be doing anything else for you,” said Mrs. Morgan, “we shall be delighted, of course.”

  “Naturally, he’ll be my guest,” stipulated Mr. Bolham grandly.

  He hoped that the cost of the lunch, which would be quite expensive, might somehow discount, amongst other things, the spirit of scornful disgust in which he had, on the previous evening, received Denis’s meek pretence of intending to go for a walk after dinner.

 
; “The one thing that I cannot stand,” said Mr. Bolham to himself, “is humbug.”

  He was inaccurate. There were quite a large number of things that he could not stand, and only too many of them seemed to be concentrated in the personality of Denis.

  It was only for the sake of his own self-respect, and because he was proposing to go back to England in a fortnight, that Mr. Bolham did not dismiss his secretary at a day’s notice. But he felt that if he did so, prejudice would have won the day over reasonable humanity — (for Denis’s work was not wholly bad) — and that such a victory would damage Mr. Bolham even more than it would Denis Waller.

  “Twelve o’clock, on the plage?” said Mary Morgan. “We thought we’d go by boat. It takes about half an hour.”

  At ten minutes past eleven, Mr. Bolham informed his secretary, with a fair imitation of cordiality, of the expedition in store for them both.

  He had already noticed, and mercilessly condemned, Denis Waller’s indiscriminating eagerness to take advantage of every opportunity of making social contacts.

  With surprise, he heard his secretary reply with great hesitation: “Thank you so much, sir. It’s very kind of you indeed. May I ask when — about what time — you expect to be back?”

  “I really don’t know. Three or four o’clock, I suppose. No one wants to hurry in this heat.”

  Denis, looking suddenly wretched, muttered inarticulately and turned pale. Intuition told Mr. Bolham that, for some reason, his secretary did not want to go to the Réserve, and was afraid of saying so.

  Mr. Bolham allowed him two seconds — short ones — in which to speak out like a man, and then said curtly:

  “We shall go from the plage, at twelve o’clock. Find out if Captain and Mrs. Morgan, or their children, would like a lift down, and tell Anatole to bring the car round at ten minutes to twelve. I shan’t want you till then.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bolham, you are kind. I’m so glad Mr. Waller’s coming too,” cried Dulcie, who was sitting on the steps.

  Mr. Bolham received this tribute in silence. His kindness, although it was still there in the letter, had undergone a mysterious reversal in the spirit, and could no longer afford him a vestige of self-satisfaction.

  He experienced a profound indignation that this should be so.

  (5)

  Denis, in whom the secretiveness common to the over-sensitive was abnormally developed, was in despair.

  How could he tell Mr. Bolham, to whom his very existence appeared to be cause for exasperation, that he already had an appointment for the afternoon? Imagination leapt wildly into the breach and enquired, in Mr. Bolham’s most chilling accents: “With whom is this appointment?”

  Denis’s exaltation of the night before had been slowly ebbing all the morning, and the reaction was now complete. He knew that it would be impossible to answer that enquiry, or to endure the thought of the implications that the answer would carry. Once more, uncontrolled imagination had him in its grip. Mr. Bolham, in brief sardonic phrases, would tell the others.... Buckland would chaff him coarsely and publicly.... Mrs. Romayne would pass on the joke to her friend Mrs. Wolverton-Gush.... Chrissie would think that he....

  Denis writhed.

  In spite of passionate endeavours to forestall disillusionment by telling himself that it would be different when they met again, by daylight, Denis had been more or less at high tension ever since awakening that morning, living only for the time of his next meeting with Chrissie Challoner.

  He felt sick with dismay and disappointment.

  And now how was he to let her know that he couldn’t come?

  He stood helplessly and wretchedly, in the middle of the hall, the revulsion of feeling seeming to have drained him of all initiative.

  David Morgan, with a lemon-yellow bathing wrap carefully folded over his arm, came down the stairs.

  “Are you ever sick in a boat?” he enquired abruptly.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “That’s a good thing, because Dulcie says there’s sometimes quite a rough bit between here and the Réserve. Mummie’s a very bad sailor,” said David hopefully. “I’m going round to the garage to help Anatole bring round Mr. Bolham’s car. He’s a very kind man, isn’t he?”

  “Anatole likes boys. He has one of his own.”

  “I meant Mr. Bolham,” explained David. “Though Anatole is kind, too. But I meant Mr. Bolham. He’s invited you to lunch too, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, David, he has.”

  “Are you quite ready?” David enquired politely. “It’s nearly twelve, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is. I shall have to get a hat to wear on the water, but I — I think I’d better telephone first — —”

  David nodded, and trotted out into the sunshine.

  Denis, feeling desperate, approached the concierge’s desk and tried to ignore the presence of Mr. Muller, earnestly examining a stand of postcards representing cobalt seas and vermillion rocks, and — still worse — that of young Mr. Moon, drinking whiskey at a small table near the door.

  “Téléphone, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Vous désirez le téléphone?”

  “Oui,” said Denis, wondering if the French telephone system was different from the English one, and much more complicated.

  Suddenly he realised that he had not the least idea of the number he required. He tried, incoherently, to explain that he wanted a telephone-book.

  “Spik Ingliss,” suggested the concierge wearily.

  “I don’t know the number. The book ...”

  “Vous ne savez pas le numéro? Quel nom, alors?”

  “Miss Challoner. C-H-A- Oh, wait a minute — I don’t suppose it’s under her name at all — Villa Mimosa — vous savez?”

  The concierge shrugged his shoulders.

  “Oui, mais Villa Mimosa — voyons donc! Comment voulez-vous — —”

  “Je ne comprendre pas. Could you speak more slowly?” Denis said, feeling the sweat break out on his forehead.

  Far from speaking slowly, the concierge, with an air of ineffable insolence, spoke — or rather muttered — a long speech of which Denis understood the intention, although not the words. Furiously humiliated, he looked wildly round, afraid of witnesses to his discomfiture.

  The Morgan family were assembling at the foot of the stairs, and Mrs. Romayne was emerging from the lift with Buckland, who was carrying her parasol. They were ready to start. In another moment the car would arrive....

  “Can I help you at all, Mr. Waller?” said the compassionate voice of the American financier beside him, unexpectedly.

  The concierge sprang to attention, simultaneously dropping his newspaper and his scornful expression.

  He tendered to Mr. Muller a brief and respectfully-worded explanation of Denis’s predicament, and added that it would no doubt be possible to obtain the required number by an enquiry to the Exchange.

  Mr. Muller, like Jupiter, nodded.

  The concierge leapt upon the telephone.

  “Thank you so much,” stammered Denis. “I’m so very grateful to you — it was so kind of you. Thank you so much.”

  “Why, Mr. Waller, don’t say another word about it. That’s nothing at all. It’s too bad, that fellow not having a word of English. I guess you’ll get put through in a minute now.”

  Mr. Muller moved away. Denis reflected bitterly that all servants were snobs. They didn’t understand that a man might be in a subordinate position, and yet really a gentleman ... they treated one like mud, because one was poor....

  “Voilà, m’sieur.”

  Suddenly beginning to tremble, Denis took the receiver.

  “Allo-allo,” said a strange voice violently.

  “Miss Challoner?”

  The voice said something rapidly in French and there was a sound as if the receiver at the other end were being hung up again. The heart of Denis sank still further within him. He did not know what to do.

  Another voice, harsh, but English, spoke imperativ
ely in his ear.

  “Are you there? Who is it speaking, please?”

  “Mr. Denis Waller. Is — could I have a word with Miss Challoner, if you please?”

  “I’m afraid not. Kindly give me any message. Miss Challoner’s secretary speaking.”

  “On vous attend, là-bas,” suddenly and coldly broke in the concierge, indicating the steps of the Hotel with his head.

  Denis waved the telephone cord at him.

  “Will you tell her, please, I’m very sorry, I shan’t be able to meet her this afternoon as she so kindly suggested.... I — the fact is — —”

  He stopped.

  “You won’t be able to meet her this afternoon,” repeated the voice cheerfully. “Anything else?”

  “I’m most terribly disappointed — if you’d kindly tell her — I’m required for — for something else. By the gentleman I’m with.”

  “You won’t be able to meet her this afternoon, and you’re terribly disappointed, but the gentleman with whom you are,” said the voice, very correctly, “requires you. I quite understand. Good-bye.”

  “C’est fini?” said the concierge. “Eh bien, on vous attend.”

  He had the air of dismissing a thoroughly tiresome subordinate, and with exactly the air of a thoroughly tiresome subordinate being dismissed, Denis crawled away.

  Quite a number of people were gathered on the steps. Mr. Bolham’s French chauffeur sat at the wheel of the Sunbeam with David Morgan beaming beside him.

  Morgan was already walking down the winding path with Olwen, Gwennie, Patrick, and Buckland.

  Mr. Bolham, considerable reluctance in his manner, was assuring Mrs. Romayne that there was plenty of room for her in the car — which was indeed evident.

  Dulcie Courteney, roaming wildly up and down the steps, was asking everyone’s advice.

  “I quite thought Pops would have arrived by now, from St. Raphael. The ‘bus went ages ago. Only of course one can’t ever tell with French trains, can one? I don’t know what to do.”

  “You’d better come with us,” said Mary Morgan.

  “I suppose I had, hadn’t I? But you see, I’m so afraid Pops will be disappointed not to find his little girlie to welcome him. He always says — —”