They drew up in front of the Grand Café, which is on the plateau at the other end of the big square; and they went into the fashionable bar, which, as it runs around a corner, is most inconvenient, but smart enough; and which, at this hour, was nearly filled with well-dressed Swiss. Madame Blaise no longer wore her pretty hat, she had had to change it; and she looked dowdy, for she was wearing on top of her jacket and short coat a third covering, a worn mink coat. The Princess also wore a mink coat and for the moment did not look out of place, though underneath dressed as for the opera; and Mrs Trollope, in her modest clothes, looked like a good serious little bourgeoise trotting along behind two pretentious friends.
They sat down in a corner near the café door and ordered drinks. At this moment they were joined by the Pallintosts, who had come in their car behind. Dr Blaise then told the waiter that they had a table reserved for seven—a little odd that he mentioned it first, for it was Mr Wilkins’s table; but as Mr Wilkins made a show of not speaking French (he spoke it rather well but slowly and precisely), the guests thought it perhaps a clumsy courtesy of Dr Blaise. Another waiter came up with a tablet and menu and asked them what they would take for hors d’œuvre. Oh, no hors d’œuvre, said the Pallintosts, who had also talked over between themselves the propriety of their being asked at all; and going ahead, pressed by the doctor, they ordered two cheap dishes of different sorts, just as they had decided beforehand; Aline took one a little dearer, Tony one a little cheaper, just above the cheapest of all.
‘Have you smoked salmon, some real caviar Malossol, some Douarnenez sardines? I had them last time I was here,’ said the doctor.
The waiter went off to bring the maître d’hôtel. The doctor passed the menu to the Pallintosts. They refused. ‘Nothing, really nothing, but the main dish.’
Out of politeness, then, Mr Wilkins said he would take a sardine too. He insisted on more drinks. The maître d’hôtel arrived to show a fine piece of smoked Rhine salmon; and as it pleased the doctor he also suggested pâté de foie gras from Périgord. The doctor assented; ‘Certainly, I always have it when I come here.’ Dr Blaise went on at once to order fish, meat, salad for himself and his wife; and asked for the wine-waiter. The table, noses in drinks, was a little confused and intimidated. The Pallintosts stuck to their plan, the wife ordering sweetbreads, and the husband a veal cutlet. Mr Wilkins, seeing what was happening, then insisted upon Pallintost ordering an entrecôte which was about the middle of the bill in price, and the rest took roast chicken, except for the Blaises, who had ordered partridge and tournedos Rossini.
The little meal had taken on another air. When the wine-waiter came, the doctor made a hasty canvass. The Pallintosts refused wine, Mrs Trollope said she hated it, Mr Wilkins said he would have some, but rather-pointedly consulted Mrs Pallintost’s taste; and she, pressed, said she preferred red, though she knew white was correct for sweetbreads. After Mr Wilkins had ordered a bottle of local rosé wine, Dr Blaise impatiently handed the card to the wine-waiter and ordered two bottles of an excellent Alsatian wine called Dambacher for the others, and a bottle, for himself, of the Swiss white wine known as Johannisberger, vintage 1945. Nevertheless, there was no question of Dr and Madame Blaise fancying that they were part hosts; for they knew something that the Pallintosts did not, that this was the anniversary of the day, twenty-seven years before, when Mrs Trollope, a beautiful innocent young wife with Egyptian eyes and a fine skin, an elegant little creature, had met Mr Wilkins, a goodlooking strong little Englishman, with yellow hair, a high colour and red lips. He was a business acquaintance of her husband. They had danced together that evening and fallen in love, as it seemed to them later, at once. Mr Trollope, a tall, thin faced but agreeable Englishman, already rich, was at the time courting two or three other women and had a passion for an Indian dancer. Several years later, Mrs Trollope left her husband, the scandal being too public; and from that time on, she and Robert Wilkins had been close friends. This early part of their history was unknown to most people; and Mr Wilkins had always been called ‘our father’s friend’ by the children of Mrs Trollope. About five years before this evening, Mr Trollope, after a long series of romances, found he wished to marry a local woman with money and allowed Mrs Trollope to divorce him; couching his offer in these words:
‘You may divorce me for infidelity, Lilia; for I have no complaint against you.’
Their three children, now adult, and two married, were in the British Isles. Mrs Trollope then went to Europe with Mr Wilkins, expecting to marry him at once. But all love-affairs hold surprises, including those of such long standing that they resemble marriages. Mr Wilkins remained her lover, lived beside her, but made her engage their lodgings wherever they lived and pay their rent. She had never before engaged rooms or paid rent. She said, deeply shocked:
‘But people will think you are my gigolo.’
‘That is most flattering for a man of my age.’
All the details of this affair, unknown to her children, Mrs Trollope, in her agony of mind, had confided not only to the Princess in Nice, but now to Madame Blaise.
The company, because of the embarrassment and the unusual amount of alcohol, became slightly fogged. Mrs Trollope and Mr Wilkins presently led the way into and through the large café, asking for their table at the other end of the restaurant. It was a very large place, modern, cheerful, with a high gilded and carved roof; and divided into several sorts of cafés and eating-places. At the far end was a more expensive section, arranged in a series of alcoves, with a heavy carved canopy in which hung lamps. In the alcoves were mirrors, candle-brackets, coloured steel engravings.
Dr Blaise, at one end, sat next to the Princess, then Madame Blaise, then Tony Pallintost, his wife, Mrs Trollope and, last, Mr Wilkins.
The Princess sat under a hunting print with her dog beside her.
They began to eat their hors d’œuvre. Dr Blaise poured out the Johannisberger for himself and his wife, the Dambacher for the others and told the wine-waiter to fetch another bottle of Johannisberger, a dear wine. Madame Blaise remarked with satisfaction:
‘It’s my husband’s favourite wine; he always drinks it when he has a chance. He has a caseful at home, which he locks away; but I am not so fond of it.’ At this she raised her full glass and took a mouthful, swilled it round her mouth, gulped it down and set her glass down empty. The waiter filled it again.
Dr Blaise told him to fill the other glasses; they protested but thanked Mr Wilkins, while the doctor smiled, and they drank. Mr Wilkins insisted upon his soup, and after seven or eight remarks, the doctor persuaded the Pallintosts and the Princess, who were tired of looking at their empty plates, to have some pâté de foie, exceptionally fine. Eventually he induced Mrs Pallintost and the Princess to have some caviar also; though the others refused. Madame Blaise seconded her husband in what was now quite clearly an attempt to pile on the expense and had her plate heaped with various delicacies. She ate soup, on second thoughts ordered some fera, a fine salmon-coloured lake-fish, and others joined her. In the meantime a third bottle of Johannisberger had been ordered by the doctor; and when Mr Wilkins said, ‘Oh, there is some other white wine there not opened yet,’ the doctor laughed in a noisy hostile way: ‘Johannisberger is my favourite wine and I am going to have a good time; as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’
‘We are not going to be hung, I hope,’ said Mrs Trollope.
The Princess said: ‘We will be, if the Russians get us. If they saw us having a dinner like this, we should at once be stood up against a wall and shot, not even a drumhead court-martial.’
Mr Wilkins laughed. ‘But Bili, civilians do not get a drumhead court-martial.’
‘Well, a committee of public safety.’
‘No, it is called the Politburo,’ said Mr Pallintost.
They discussed, over the fish, the kind of committee, if any, to be instituted by the Russians when they came to Switzerland to take their money and their lives, and Mrs Trollope said sadly:
/> ‘Oh, I wonder where we will all be next year. We don’t have a home any more, do we? In the old days you were at least safe in your own country. Now the Russians and their friends are everywhere. Would you believe it, Mrs Pallintost, there are communists in the British Civil Service. They have found them and are going to root them out. Oh, I could never have believed such a thing of Englishmen. I saw it in the papers or I should never have believed the story. What can be the matter? I am distracted with worry.’
The Princess said: ‘I know where I shall be. I shall be in the Argentine. It is nice there. They have plenty of food and it is safe for us.’
Madame Blaise said: ‘And they have plenty of gigolos.’
She had taken several glasses of wine. She opened her handbag and brought out a sheaf of photographs of all sizes. Looking at her husband with a roll of her handsome eyes, she laughed:
‘I must have gigolos, for these are the kind of gigolos my husband brings me home. My husband talks to me about nothing but diseases. He talks of different things to his men friends; but to me, only infection, vitiated blood, pus, syphilis, gonorrhoea, diabetes, psoriasis, scrofula, cancer. Look at the pretty pictures he is always giving me’; and laughing heartily, her big bosom wallowing, she handed Mr Pallintost a photograph of a naked boy of about sixteen, with face and entire body skin covered with a crepy red tissue. She said: ‘Show it to Mrs Pallintost. How would you like to have to look at that every evening?’
Mrs Pallintost diffidently took it and passed it on to the Princess.
‘What is it, a fishboy?’ said the Princess.
‘Oh, I think it’s the result of diabetes and may be cured with insulin,’ said the doctor carelessly.
Madame Blaise was now passing round the table pictures of children with blue patches, men with psoriasis, and a late stage of cancer in a woman. Mr Pallintost began rejecting them, but the Princess seized them one after the other, glanced and passed them on. The doctor in the end took them himself, scrutinized them and handed them back, very nicely at times and at other times with a grimace of horror; and once he hissed, once moaned. But it was hard to tell what he felt. When this batch of photographs had gone the rounds, three family photographs followed them, one of Dr Blaise and his son Hubert, a man of about twenty-four, fat, fair and smiling. (Madame Blaise said: ‘Do you see the likeness. Oh, he couldn’t accuse me then of gigolos!’) One was of Hubert stepping into the first car she had bought him and one of Hubert holding the head of a stallion his mother had recently bought him. These and others went round and passed back into the gaping crocodile skin of the huge bag, which had crocodile claws on both sides.
By this time the main dishes had begun to come in, and before each guest stood the silver chafing-dishes, heated by squat candles, which the Swiss use. The waiter and captain were about them, helping, offering, suggesting; the wines were poured, the rosé, the Dambacher and some more Johannisberger was brought for the doctor and his wife. Again Dr Blaise was making suggestions:
‘Why not a few french fries with that? Why not ask for some oyster-plant if you like it so much?’
In the course of conversation he had drawn out the special tastes of the guests. Mr Wilkins then politely repeated the suggestions and the waiters were kept busy. So they had various salads; many cheeses were brought. Afterwards the doctor and his wife took crêpes suzette, though no one else was hungry; and after this the coffee, and the doctor had already ordered another bottle of Johannisberger; though Mr Wilkins said, rather less mildly than before:
‘I thought we had enough wine; but I am not a wine-drinker and neither is my cousin.’
The doctor bluffly called the wine-waiter and ordered two more bottles, and not one.
The doctor was a strong short man, with dark hair partly grey, dyed perhaps; he was slightly bowed by age or by bending over patients’ beds, or by his own paunch, about sixty, brisk, clean, merry, malicious, with a firm chin. Madame Blaise next brought out of her crocodile bag her last letter from her son Hubert, now in the U.S.A. on a ranch, where she had bought him a small private plane. She and he kept telegraphing each other. He was looking after her affairs and wanted her advice on his joining a publicity firm. The doctor during this conversation became seedy and tired. He said suddenly to Mr Pallintost:
‘All marriage is hell, don’t you think? Aren’t you the slave of a woman? Don’t you agree, Mrs Pallintost, that marriage is a curse? But you like to have a man as your slave, I suppose.’
‘If there is any slave, I suppose we are both slaves, we are both the same,’ said she.
Madame Blaise liked this conversation. She said:
‘My son has only gone away from me because he was engaged to a girl and I could never allow that. I would rather he took his chance. Horses, cars and flying are dangerous and he may get killed; but it is not like losing my son to another woman. I prefer him to love men and on ranches I heard there are plenty in fancy boots. So I made him go; and once he is corrupted he will never turn back; he may marry but he will hate and torture the bitch. My daughter’s a clown. She married a fat young professor, a real capon; he couldn’t have a child, and they adopted one. I never wanted a daughter; they are all frumps; and she will get nothing from me. Now, the stupid sow has taken a lover. In this family they all flounder about; the only action in the family comes from me.’
‘You’d like to see them both die,’ snarled the doctor.
‘I’d like to see him die, rather than see him tied to another woman. He is the only person I ever loved. Isn’t it my right, Lilia darling? Isn’t it my right, Mrs Pallintost? My husband never loved me. He married me for my money. He was a ragged student. When he married me he had never had a woman and he married me to see what a woman was like. I mean, a woman who had a very large dowry.’
‘To get you when you were only thirty-three and find you a virgin was very lucky,’ said the doctor, smiling horribly.
‘And you never had a woman and really it was the same always as if you had never had one,’ said Madame Blaise.
‘So you say, but how can you know?’ said the doctor. With a hearty misplaced laugh, he snapped his fingers for the wine-waiter. He ordered some brandy for himself and his wife and asked the others; but no one responded, until pressed by Mr Wilkins, when a glass each was brought for Mrs Trollope and the Princess. The doctor turned to Pallintost and said frankly and with some honesty:
‘I came from a hungry farm, I went bootless to school. I had to work my way through medical school. I had the good luck to marry an heiress. The rest is my own.’
The Princess had had Angel, her sealyham, on the geranium-coloured cushion beside her during dinner, feeding him titbits. The manager had brought him a plate of meat and some water, so that Angel had behaved very well up to now. But now the Princess said:
‘But we have not made Angel sing. You know, Mrs Pallintost, I am trying to sell Angel, for I must go away to South America. I do not know what restrictions there are. But I want him in good hands. I want someone who will see him as he is. I have advertised him and had plenty of offers for him, but unfortunately I have left his pedigree at home in Italy, I do not know where; and my Italian maids are darlings, they adore me, simply worship the ground I walk on, for it means nothing to us, but a great deal to them, poor dears, it really lightens their work, that they are working for a Princess; and I know they pray for me in church. Still, they can hardly read or write and I am sure they would not understand a document like Angel’s pedigree. So it is no use writing to them.’
‘But write to the General’s wife,’ said Mrs Trollope.
‘You and Robert really should go and stay in my apartment. It is so comfortable, warm, excluding the heating, it would only cost you 10,000 lire a month. You would save money and have a darling personal maid, Teresa, an unmarried mother with a boy at high school who will simply do anything, sewing and cutting out, and all you must pay her is 11,000 lire a month; and a little something extra for dresses if you wish it; and you don’t
pay the whole expenses but share with the General and his wife. And before they were married the General got on ideally with Teresa and Maria, that’s Teresa’s sister who comes in; you pay her about 10,000 lire, it depends; and it cost the General only 20,000 lire a month, all in. Of course, the poor man—’
‘Yes, Bili—’ Mrs Trollope tried to interrupt.
But the Princess went on with the General’s family history for a long time and accounted for all the General’s family expenses, which they could share.
‘How old was the General’s mother, the Countess?’ asked Mrs Trollope.
‘Ninety-six, but she had all her faculties and though she was so small, like a little child, I assure you he could have carried her in his pocket, I assure you she was very spry and did all the accounts and was carried off only by a cold: there was nothing the matter with her. The General did not know what to do. He had lived for her. He sent for my friend who was in Bogota because she was afraid of the Russians, she felt she could not go back to Columbus, Ohio; but when he told her about the big empty apartment she came and married him.ʼ
‘Oh, Bili, Robert and I are thinking of going to South America, but the idea makes me very unhappy,’ said Mrs Trollope.
‘That’s why I thought my apartment in Milan would be ideal for you. They are all so simple; they adore us.’
Said Lilia: ‘Well, it is a question of my pounds. I do not want to bring them all abroad. Robert thinks I am stupid; but I say to him, I don’t care if I lose some money. I cannot live for the exchanges, I want to live in peace. I want some money in my homeland, and if the pound is getting smaller and smaller as they say I still want some of it somewhere in the British Empire. Do you know, Robert has a chart; he will show it to you only too willingly. He works on it every day; all his business ability has come down to that; and it shows that all the exchanges are against the pound, as he expresses it. All over the world at a given moment, we, that is the pound, may be weak. It amuses him; and this chart is to be the chart of my life.’
The Little Hotel Page 11
