back the General’s note, glanced through it frowning and clipped it into the file of correspondence; when he raised his head his eyes were clouded in an expression characteristic to him, insolent, sulky and curiously childish. “But as a mat-ter of fact,” he added, “I shouldn’t mind a show-down with Connolly. It’s nearly time for one.”
“They are saying that the General is in love with Madame Ballon.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I am convinced,” said Mr. Youkoumian. “It was told me on very igh authority by the barber who visits the French Legation. Every one in the town is speaking of it. Even Madame Youkoumian has heard. I tell you ow it is,” he added complacently. “Madame Ballon drinks. That is ow Connolly first ad er.”
Quarter of an hour later both Basil and Mr. Youkoumian were engaged in what seemed more important business.
A morning’s routine at the Ministry of Modernisation.
“Now, look, Mister, I tell you exactly how we are fixed. We have His Majesty’s interests to safeguard. See what I mean. You think there is tin in the Ngumo mountains in workable quantities. So do we. So do other companies. They want concession too.
Only to-day two gentlemen come to ask me to fix it for them. What do I do? I say, we can only give concession to company we have confidence in. Look. How about if on your board of directors you had a man of financial status in the country; some one who His Majesty trusts… see what I mean… some one with a fair little block of share allocated to him. He would protect His Majesty’s interests and interests of company too… see?”
“That’s all very well, Mr. Youkoumian, but it isn’t so easy to find any one like that. I can’t think of any one at the moment.”
“No, can’t you? Can’t you think?”
“Unless, of course, you yourself? But I can hardly suggest that. You are far too busy?”
“Mister, I have learned how to be busy and still have time for things that please me…”
Next door: Basil and the American commercial attache: “The situation is this, Walker. I’m—the Emperor is spending quarter of a million sterling on road construction this year. It can’t come out of the ordinary revenue. I’m floating a loan to raise the money. You’re acting over here for Cosmopolitan Oil Trust and for Stetson cars. Every mile of road we make is worth five hundred cars a year and God knows how many gallons of oil. If your com-I62 panies like to take up the loan I’m prepared to give them a ten years monopoly…”
Later, the editor of the Courier d’Azanie.
M. Bertrand did not look a man of any importance—nor, in fact, was he. The Courier consisted of a single sheet, folded quarto, which was issued weekly to rather less than a thousand subscribers in Debra-Dowa and Matodi. It retailed in French the chief local events of the week—the diplomatic entertainments, official appointments, court circular, the programmes of the cinemas, and such few items of foreign news as came through on the wireless. It occupied one day a week of M. Bertrand’s time, the remainder of which was employed in printing menus, invitation cards, funeral and wedding announcements, in acting as local correspondent for a European news-agency, and in selling stationery over the counter of his little office. It was in the hope of a fat order for crested note-paper that he presented himself in answer to Basil’s invitation at the offices of the new Ministry.
“Good-morning, Monsieur Bertrand. It’s good of you to come. We may as well get to business at once. I want to buy your paper.”
“Why, certainly, Monsieur Seal. I have a very nice cream laid line suitable for office use or a slightly more expensive quality azure tinted with a linen I63 surface. I suppose you would want the name of the Ministry embossed at the head?”
“I don’t think you understand me. I mean the Courier d’Azanie”
M. Bertrand’s face showed disappointment and some vexation. It was really unpardonably high-handed of this young man to demand a personal call from the proprietor and editor-in-chief whenever he bought a copy of his journal.
“I will tell my clerk. You wish to subscribe regularly?”
“No, no, you don’t understand. I wish to become the proprietor—to own the entire concern. What is your price?”
Slowly the idea took root, budded and blossomed; then M. Bertrand said: “Oh, no, that would be quite impossible. I don’t want to sell.”
“Come, come. It can’t be worth much to you and I am willing to pay a generous price.”
“It is not that, sir, it is a question of prestige, you understand,” he spoke very earnestly. “You see as the proprietor and editor of the Courier I am some one. Twice a year Madame Bertrand and I dine at the French Legation; once we go to the garden party, we go to the Court and the polo club. That is something. But if I become Bertrand, job-printer, who will regard me then? Madame Bertrand would not forgive it.”
“I see,” said Basil. To be some one in Debra-Dowa… it seemed a modest ambition; it would be a shame to deprive M. Bertrand. “I see. Well, suppose that you retained the position of editor and were nominally proprietor. That would fulfil my purpose. You see I am anxious to enlarge the scope of your paper. I wish it to publish leading articles explaining the political changes. Listen…” and for a quarter of an hour Basil outlined his intentions for the Courier’s development… three sheets, advertisements of European firms and government services to meet increased cost of production; enlarged circulation; features in Sakuyu and Arabic; intelligent support of government policy… At the end of the interview M. Bertrand left, slightly bewildered, carrying with him a fair-sized cheque and the notes for a leading article forecasting possible changes in the penal code… convict settlements to replace local prisons… What extraordinary subjects to mention in the Courier!
At eleven the Anglican Bishop came to protest against the introduction of State Lotteries.
At quarter past, William came from Sir Samson Courteney to discuss the possibility of making a road out to the Legation. William and Basil did not like each other.
At half past, the Lord Chamberlain came to consult about cookery. A banquet was due to some Wanda notables next week. Seth had forbidden raw beef. What was he to give them? “Raw beef,” said Basil. “Call it steak tartare.”
