The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford

skirt and settled herself comfortably with cushions. ‘But not, as anyone can see, a society woman. Of good family, yes perhaps, but perfectly green in worldly matters. She told me, at luncheon, that she has hardly been out in society since the war, but spent all those years looking after goats. Of course the English are very eccentric, you don’t know that, Sosthène, you have never crossed the Channel, but you can take it from me that they are all half mad, a country of enormous, fair, mad atheists. Why did she look after goats? We shall never know. But looking after goats can hardly be considered as a good preparation for life with Charles-Edouard, and I am bound to say I feel uneasy for her. They are not married religiously, by the way.’

‘Oh! How do you know?’

‘I asked her.’

‘What an extraordinary question to ask.’

‘After all, I am Charles-Edouard’s aunt.’

‘I meant what an extraordinary idea. It would never have occurred to me that they might not be.’

‘It occurred to me. I know England, Sosthène. We went every year for the Horse Show, don’t forget.’

‘Shall you tell Françoise?’

‘Of course not, on no account, and nor must you. It would upset her dreadfully.’

‘Speaking frankly then, nothing matters very much?’

‘I don’t agree at all. It’s true that they can easily be divorced, and that Charles-Edouard will be able to marry again without waiting for an annulment, but before that happens he will have made her totally miserable. Charles-Edouard is a good, warm-hearted boy, he won’t be able to help making her miserable, but he will suffer too. Oh dear, what could have induced him to marry an Englishwoman – these English with their terrible jealousy – it will be the story of Priscilla all over again, you’ll see.’

‘But the English husbands then, how do they manage?’

‘English husbands? They go to their clubs, their boat race, their Royal Academy – they don’t care for making love a bit. So they are always perfectly faithful to their wives.’

‘What about the Gaiety Girls?’

‘I don’t think they exist any more. You are behind the times, my poor Sosthène, it is the gaiety boys now, if anything. But they have no temperament. Now Charles-Edouard cannot – he really cannot – see a pretty woman without immediately wanting to sleep with her. What foolishness, then, to go and marry an Anglo-Saxon.’

‘You talk as if Latins are never jealous.’

‘It is quite different for a Frenchwoman, she has ways and means of defending herself. First of all she is on her own ground, and then she has all the interest, the satisfaction, of making life impossible for her rival. Instead of sad repining her thoughts are concentrated on plot and counterplot, the laying of traps and the springing of mines. Paris divides into two camps, she has to consider most carefully what forces she can put in the field, she must sum up the enemy strength, and prepare her stratagem. Whom can she enlist on her side? There is all society to be won over, the hostesses, the old men who go to tea parties, and the families of those concerned. Then there is the elegance, the manicurists, the masseuses, the vendeuses, the modistes, the bottiers, and the lingères. A foothold among the tradesmen who serve her rival’s kitchen may prove very useful; we must not, of course, forget the fortune-tellers, while a concierge can play a cardinal role. The day is not long enough for all the contrivances to be put on foot, for the consultations with her women friends, the telephoning, the messages, the sifting and deep consideration of all news and all fresh evidence. Finally, and not the least important, she has her own lover to comfort and advise her. Ah! Things are very different for a Frenchwoman. But these poor English roses just hang their lovely heads and droop and die. Did Priscilla ever defend herself for a single moment? Don’t you remember how painful it was to us, for years, to see how terribly she suffered? And now I suppose we are condemned to live through it all over again with this Grace.’

M. de la Bourlie thought how much he would have liked to appropriate to himself one of these loving, faithful and defenceless goddesses. When Madame de la Bourlie finally succumbed to a liver attack, he thought, why should he not take a little trip to London? But then he remembered his age.

‘So hard to believe that we are all over eighty now,’ he said, peevishly.

‘Yes, it must be, but what has that to do with Charles-Edouard? Poor boy, he has certainly made an unwise marriage. All the same I rather like this Grace, I can’t help it, she is so lovely, and there is something direct about her which I find charming. I also think her tougher, a tougher proposition than poor Priscilla was, more of a personality. There was never any hope for Priscilla, and I’m not quite so sure about Grace. If I can help her I will. Should I try to prepare her a little while she is here? Warn her about Albertine, for instance? What do you advise?’

‘I don’t think it ever does much good, to warn,’ said M. de la Bourlie, thinking how furious he would be, in Charles-Edouard’s place, if somebody were to warn his exquisite new wife about his intoxicating old mistress.

‘No good at all,’ agreed Madame Rocher, ‘you are quite right. And then it’s not as if it were only Albertine. I’d have to warn against every pretty woman and every jolie-laide at every dinner and every luncheon that they go to. I’d have to warn against Rastaquouères and Ranees, Israelites and Infantas, Danes and Duchesses, Greeks and Cherokee Indians. I’d have to give her a white list and a black list, and now, I suppose, since he has just come back from Indo-China, a yellow list as well. No, it would really be too exhausting, the young people must work it out for themselves – everybody