“There,” he told himself, with smug satisfaction. “That’s a beginning.”
The Channel crossing was a bit rough, but that only added to Nigel’s sense of having embarked upon an exciting adventure.
In Paris, he dined in a restaurant not far from the train station, and then he and Mornay went to catch the rapide for Marseilles. Near the station there was a bookstore. Idly perusing the window display, Nigel was startled to see copies of Une Femme sans Honte—that is, A Woman without Shame, already translated into French and offered for sale to the Parisian public, to remind them that French authors had no monopoly on sophistication or scandal.
Nigel flushed. It was as though, in some strange way, his mother was watching over him.
“Wait here,” he told Mornay.
Trying his best to ignore the presence of the volumes in the window, Nigel entered the bookstore and selected some newspapers to read on the train.
But curiosity got the better of him.
“I see that you have that book, Une Femme sans Honte, for sale,” he remarked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
The proprietor of the shop positively beamed. “Oh, yes, monsieur. It is the latest work by the infamous Mlle. Violet Vayle. What a sensational story! It is very popular. Would you like to purchase a copy?”
“Ah—no, thank you. You see, I already know how the story turns out. But now that you mention it—I would perhaps be interested in—”
“Yes?”
“A book or two of a similar nature, to keep beside my bed and read at night. To amuse myself, until I fall asleep.”
“An equally sensational book? Perhaps even a highly stimulating one?”
“Perhaps.”
“The kind of book which cannot be purchased in England? The kind of book which appeals to true connoisseurs of amorous fiction?”
“Perhaps,” Nigel repeated, striving in vain to overcome his embarrassment.
“I have a selection of such works of fiction in the back room. They are limited editions, privately printed. They are books in all of the major European languages—French, English, German, Italian, Spanish. If monsieur would care to step this way and examine them—?”
“I would.”
A few minutes later, Nigel emerged from the shop, trying to look nonchalant. He carried not only his folded newspapers, but a small parcel carefully wrapped up in plain brown paper and secured with string.
I must become a man of the world, he reminded himself.
From his vantage point on the sidewalk outside the bookstore’s window, Mornay had observed his master and the proprietor go into the back room. Mornay was not altogether lacking in worldliness, himself. Now, he glanced at the parcel.
“Shall I carry that for you, sir?” he inquired.
“No, thank you, Mornay. I’ll just slip it into my coat pocket.”
On the train, Nigel read his newspapers. He looked out the windows, watching the French countryside fly past. He speculated about what Algiers would be like, and what he might find there.
When night fell, Mornay brought him his dressing case, and the attendant came to make up the berth. When the train pulled into Marseilles the next morning, Nigel felt refreshed from sleep—and once again excited, now that the sea was within his sight.
He breakfasted, with a real appetite.
He and Mornay then took a cab to the harbor. Nigel glanced about, observing the bustle of traffic as people went to and from the ships. Near the wharf he saw two Arab men strolling along in the same direction in which he and Mornay were headed, carrying carpet bags and bundles, and moving along indolently, with swaying hips. No doubt they are also traveling to Algiers. Nigel thought they looked thoroughly disreputable, and he took out his notebook and pencil.
At Marseilles, near the quay. Saw two dirty Arab ruffians, he scrawled, with bare arms and legs. They looked capable of anything. I would not be at all surprised to learn that they are in the habit of—
But then he paused. That they were in the habit of doing what, exactly? Something immoral or illegal, of course. Something—preferably—that was truly shocking. But his imagination could not come up with anything specific. He had flirted with vice while he was at Eton, of course. All schoolboys did. But his familiarity with sin was still really limited—a severe handicap, given the task his mother had entrusted to him. Nigel felt almost ashamed of his comparative innocence, and he began to wish that he had entered the military after all. He comforted himself with the thought that before the next two or three weeks had passed, he would probably be as depraved as any hardened common soldier. He might even begin to swear!
“May I ask what you are writing, sir?” Mornay inquired.
“I’m keeping a sort of travel journal.”
“Oh, that should make for interesting reading, back home.”
“I hope it will.”
They came to the quay.
The ship, a steamer which sailed under French colors, seemed a hubbub of activity. Nigel was pleased to see that his fellow passengers included not only tourists like himself, of various nationalities, but native Algerians—unmistakable by their look, dress, and manner—evidently returning home after a sojourn in France. He also saw a large contingent of French soldiers—officers as well as enlisted men. He made further notes, detailing the Algerians’ attire and the uniforms and kit of the soldiers.
As he put away his notebook, the steward came to show him to his cabin.
For a man who had grown up in a landlocked country, Mornay was a good sailor. No sooner had he finished unpacking for his master, than he asked his permission to go up on deck.
“It is so exciting to be at sea, sir,” the valet said. “I should like to breathe in the salt air, and talk to the sailors, and to look for other ships.”
“Go and do so, Mornay. I won’t need you again until after luncheon.”
Nigel was an indulgent employer, which was why Mornay served him so loyally. And the firm distinction between master and servant, which was maintained back at Park Lane under Mrs. Cheney’s strict supervision, was already becoming a bit blurred. Mornay was behaving like a young lad on a spree, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Nigel now found himself to be in an open-minded frame of mind, ready to embrace any and all new experiences.
When the luncheon gong sounded, Nigel responded to the summons at his leisure. The crossing promised to be uneventful. The waters were calm, and the skies were unclouded.
He lingered on deck for a few moments, enjoying the view, before he went into the dining hall.
The head waiter asked him if he would mind sharing his table with another gentleman.
“I shall be delighted,” Nigel replied at once—although secretly he hoped that he would not be burdened with some traveling businessman who could talk only of his own immediate, banal, commercial concerns.
Thus Nigel was pleasantly surprised when the head waiter escorted one of the French officers, a lieutenant, to his table. The lieutenant, Nigel guessed, was about ten years his senior, in his mid-thirties. Immaculate in his uniform, he made a striking figure. Lean and sun-bronzed, with close-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed “imperial” style mustache and goatee, he was the sort of military man whom France could take pride in.
“I am Pascal Daumier, at your service,” the officer said in French, with great formality, as the two men shook hands.
“My name is Nigel Cheney. Please sit down.”
“It is so good of you to allow me to join you.”
“I am glad to have the company.”
“You are an Englishman, I presume. Shall we continue to speak in French, or shall I try my English—which I must warn you is not good.”
“I think we had better speak in French, although mine is not good, either.” Nigel thought about his deficient nasal dipthongs, which he hoped the lieutenant would overlook. “I need to practice your language, because I shall surely have occasion to use it when we arrive in Algiers.”
The waiter came to
take their order.
“You will share a bottle of wine with me, Mr. Cheney, will you not?”
“I will be delighted to. You choose it, please.”
They ordered. After the waiter left, the lieutenant leaned back in his chair.
“May I ask whether you are traveling on business, or for pleasure?” he inquired.
For a moment Nigel did not know how to answer the question. The writing and publication of novels was, after all, a commercial transaction, and he was traveling in order to facilitate that.
“I am traveling to enlarge my experience of the world,” he said—which was true.
“Excellent. At your age, there is nothing so pleasant.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I am returning to Algiers, where my regiment is stationed. I have been on furlough. This was the first time I have been home in two years. My father and mother were so happy to see me, as you can no doubt imagine. They still live on our farm in Normandy. They are no longer young, but I am grateful that they are still in good health. Nevertheless, when one is a soldier, and one serves in foreign lands—!” The lieutenant shrugged, in a fatalistic manner. “Who knows what may happen? I may never see them again. And so our parting was a sad one.”
“And how long have you served in the army?”
“All my life, it seems. It has been fifteen years. I have served in Algeria for most of that time.”
“Then you must know the region and its people well.”
“It is almost a second home to me. Sometimes I feel more Algerian than French. Living in a foreign place can have that effect upon one.”
The sommelier brought and poured out their wine. Daumier tasted it, and he indicated with a nod of his head that it was satisfactory.
During this delay, Nigel had a moment in which to reflect, and to tally up his initial impressions of the other man.
Nigel could scarcely believe his good luck. He had encountered a genuine French officer—and a lieutenant, no less. And his mother would need to look no farther for a model for her fictional lieutenant, at least in outward appearance. This man was handsome, dashing, and refined—a true man of the world. And yet, under his suave exterior, there lurked a certain self-confidence which did not fall short of arrogance. There was, Nigel suspected, much of the selfish male animal in him.
He must be irresistible to women, Nigel thought. I wonder whether he is married? No—I should think not. He mentioned visiting his parents. He said nothing about a wife, or children, either living in France or waiting for him in Algiers.
I suspect he has a mistress. More than one, perhaps! I wonder whether they are women of an abandoned and sensual nature? Perhaps he makes use of them, callously, to satisfy his base male desires. They submit to him. They satisfy him, like beasts. Yes, bestial sexuality, without decency, without shame—!
Nigel was trying to think of some diplomatic way to raise these issues, when the Frenchman once again spoke.
“But I keep talking about myself,” he said. “You have told me little about yourself.”
“Compared to your life, Lieutenant Daumier, mine is uninteresting.”
“You think so? I find that everyone’s life is interesting, in one way or another. Perhaps, Mr. Cheney, you underestimate yourself. But let me think for a moment. Cheney—where have I heard that name before?” the officer mused.
“It is a common enough surname in England.”
“No, wait. Could you possibly be related to Mrs. Hermione Cheney, the famous authoress?”
Nigel had hoped to preserve a certain incognito while on his journey; but honesty now compelled him to admit, “I am her son.”
“Now I see the resemblance. I have seen a photograph of the charming lady, in a magazine. What a beauty, if I may say so without offense. But surely she is too young to have a full-grown son, such as yourself?”
“I am in fact the youngest. I have two older sisters.”
“Also great beauties, like their mother, no doubt.”
Nigel laughed. “No girl is a beauty to her brother, if he remembers what a brat she was when they were children growing up together.”
“And the brother—again, if I may so without offense—he is a beautiful young man. A veritable English Adonis.”
Nigel could feel the warm blood rising to his face at this unexpected compliment from another man. These Frenchmen! They were impulsive.
“Thank you,” he said. “But to return to my mother. Have you read any of her books?”
“I regret I have not had that pleasure. I must do so, at my earliest opportunity. But while I was at home on my furlough, I purchased a copy of Une Femme sans Honte for my mother. She was ashamed to go to the bookseller and ask for it herself, and my father refused to undertake the mission, which he said was frivolous and a waste of his time,” Daumier explained, with a relish which made Nigel’s blush deepen. “Oh, how she devoured that book! It was never out of her hands. In fact, this will amuse you. The priest had warned her that reading such exciting fictions could be considered a sin. And so, the whole time my mother read the novel, she kept her paper knife in one hand—and her rosary in the other, to ward off any supposedly evil influences.” Daumier laughed with an undisguised glee. “The book gave my mother a great deal of vicarious pleasure, which I am sure was quite harmless. As for myself—I must admit that I prefer to commit indiscretions myself, rather than read about the lapses of others.”
Nigel found this claim promising. “Are you often indiscreet?” he dared to ask.
“Invariably.” The Frenchman said that with such poise, and in such a matter of fact tone of voice, that Nigel could not tell whether he was joking.
The waiter served them. Daumier ate and drank with the undisguised gusto of a man who recognizes food and wine as among the pleasures of life, and Nigel strove to follow his example.
“Being stationed in Algeria, so far away from your home—it must be lonely, at times,” Nigel suggested.
“I have my friends among my brother officers. We are good comrades. And, although fraternization between officers and enlisted men is discouraged—well, some rules, as they say, are made to be broken. Perhaps I am not as strict a disciplinarian as I should be.”
“And have you also made friends among the native population?”
“Many. I have lived among them too long to think of them as my inferiors, as some of my countrymen, unfortunately, do.”
“Are their customs very different from ours?”
“Very. But they appreciate it when a European takes the trouble to try to learn about their culture, and to understand it. Just as they despise a foreigner who despises them. In that case, they often conceal their contempt beneath a veneer of cringing servility—which I must admit I do find repugnant. My feeling is that the men—and the women—of all nations are equals, and that we must all strive to get along together.”
“That is an enlightened and progressive attitude on your part.”
“It is no more than a realistic attitude,” Daumier insisted, “based upon long observation of human nature, and common sense.” He smiled at Nigel. “But now, please satisfy my curiosity and tell me about your mother. She must be a fascinating woman. And my own dear mother will be thrilled when I write to her, and tell her how I met the son of the infamous Violet Vayle.”
Chapter Three: Scheherazade’s French Cousin
Anyone who has traveled by sea knows how easy it is for friendships to develop on board a ship. Confined to their floating microcosm, surrounded by water, passengers can quickly become intimate.
That day, Nigel spent a great deal of time in Lieutenant Daumier’s company. Later on, after sunset, they dined together, and then the lieutenant suggested that they retire to the smoking room for a drink.
“Do you smoke?’ he asked Nigel.
“Only on occasion, in order to be sociable.”
The Frenchman smiled. “I hope you find my society agreeable.”
“Oh, very.”
The two men went to the smoking room, where they sipped cognac and Daumier offered Nigel one of his cigarettes.
Nigel steered their conversation, as discreetly as he could, toward the topic of intimate relationships between Europeans and Algerians.
“Oh! The stories I could tell you!” Daumier exclaimed. Relaxed and warmed by the liqueur, he spoke freely.
“Please share one or two of them with me.”
“Well, let me think. I must search my memory to find a tale which will not shock you.”
“There’s no need to censor yourself,” Nigel insisted, primly. “I’m no silly young boy.”
“No, mon cher enfant, I can see you are not that.” There was a teasing tone in Daumier’s voice, which Nigel found oddly pleasurable.
Daumier signaled to the waiter.
“We must have more cognac,” he said. “If I am to orate, I will need to keep my tongue well lubricated.”
When their refilled glasses were set before them, the Frenchman began his story.
“You have spent some time in Paris, Mr. Cheney, have you not?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been there many times.”
“Then you probably can understand me when I say that, to a Frenchman, all Frenchwomen are charming, even those who are elderly and homely—but a pretty young Parisienne can have a special appeal, a chic, which is all her own.”
“I think we can agree on that point.”
“Some years ago three Parisians—an affluent young man, his wife, and her unmarried sister, who was a girl of eighteen, with something both angelic and diabolical in her dark beauty—came to a momentous decision. They decided that they were tired of their life of leisure in Paris, and bored by high society. So they would travel, and to exotic climes. They wanted to see for themselves the French colonies which were always a topic of conversation in polite drawing rooms. And so they set off, along the same route which you and I are on—a train from Paris to Marseilles, a steamboat across the Mediterranean, and finally—on a typically hot and blindingly sunny afternoon—there they were in Algiers. Exotic Algiers, with its steep terraces, its whitewashed villas, its palm trees. And its natives, including the Spahis.”
Sin in Algiers Page 3
