‘There is a word for somebody who does all those things – ambassador. Why should you not, in fact, become an ambassador?’
‘Me? Albertine, you must be mad!’
‘So mad, my love? After all, you have been in the foreign service – there are still broken hearts in Copenhagen I believe.’
‘Oh that Copenhagen – dinner at 6.30 – never shall I forget it. But if you remember, I resigned because I can’t bear to be away from Paris. I was away seven years during and after the war, and that is enough for my lifetime, thank you very much.’
‘I don’t believe it. I believe you would like to serve your country once more, to put this time at her disposal, as well as your great courage, your charm and eloquence, and gift for languages. You have extraordinary gifts, Charles-Edouard.’
‘Well, but who is going to make me an ambassador all of a sudden?’ he said, rather more favourably.
‘I could help you there. I am on very good terms with the Foreign Minister, and, even more important, with Madame Salleté. I am practically certain it would be arranged. And that brings us back to the cards. You understand that you would need to be married for such an assignment; an unmarried ambassador (and especially if that ambassador were you, dear Charles-Edouard) is in a position to be gravely compromised. It wouldn’t do at all. Salleté wouldn’t consider it for a single moment. Now the cards, ever since they have taken on this new direction, as you might call it, have been pointing to re-marriage. An older wife, not only nearer your own age but older, mentally, than our poor dear Grace. A Frenchwoman, of course, who would be able to play her part; a widow, whom you could marry in church. Above all,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘somebody who would be able to help you with the education of our beloved little Sigismond.’
Charles-Edouard saw just what she meant. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘but the fact is that I am obliged to remain in Paris precisely on Sigi’s account. Presently he must go to the Condorcet as I did, while living here with me.’
‘You don’t feel that a cosmopolitan education is more precious for a boy of today?’
‘Sigi will be bilingual whatever happens. I think he ought to go to school in France. And besides, I don’t, I really don’t, think I could accept any favour from Salleté.’
Albertine was much too clever to press her point. ‘Think it over,’ she said, calmly, ‘and now, cut three times.’
Charles-Edouard did think it over, and soon began to feel that marriage with Albertine was perhaps not such a bad idea. He got on very well with her, old friend of all his life; she never failed to amuse him, they talked the same language, understood the fine shades of each other’s character and behaviour; they knew the same people and had identical tastes. Albertine owned several pictures that Charles-Edouard had always coveted; he would give a great deal to see her big Claud Lorraine on his own walls, not to mention her Louis XIV commode in solid silver. No need for a quick decision, his divorce was not yet absolute, but some time, he thought, he might find out how Sigismond felt about it.
Juliette’s approach was more direct. She rolled lazily over in Madame de Hauteserre’s bed (the door now bolted as well as locked), her eyes, which always became as big as saucers after making love, upon the erotic ceiling, and said, ‘So I hear you have your divorce at last. What now, Charles-Edouard?’
‘I’m tired. Perhaps I’ll sleep for a few minutes.’
‘No. Don’t sleep. I want to talk. What are your plans?’
‘No plans.’
‘Charles-Edouard! But you must marry again.’
‘No more marriage.’
‘But my dearest, you’ll be lonely.’
‘I’m never lonely. It’s people who can’t amuse themselves who feel lonely, another word for bored. I am never bored, either.’
‘Shall I tell you what I think?’
‘No. Tell me a story, to amuse me.’
‘Presently. I think you and I ought to go and see M. le Maire together.’
‘And what about poor Jean?’
‘I’m perfectly sick of poor Jean. He’s the dullest boy in Paris.’
‘I thought you wanted to be a duchess?’
‘I will renounce it for your sake. I will be divorced and give up being a duchess, Charles-Edouard, and all for you.’
‘How would you get an annulment?’
‘There may be grounds for that.’
‘It would take years and years.’
‘But I thought we might be married by M. le Maire, as you were with Grace.’
‘Yes, and a terrible mistake too. I will never be married again, except in church. No,’ he said sleepily, ‘of all the women in the world you are the one I would soonest marry, but, alas, it cannot be.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of Sigismond. From now on my life must be dedicated to him.’
‘But the poor child needs a mother. And little sisters, Charles-Edouard, darling, pretty little girls, surely you’d like that?’
‘Well now, perhaps I would,’ said Charles-Edouard. He turned over, laid his head between Juliette’s breasts and went to sleep.
As it became increasingly obvious that the key to Charles-Edouard’s heart was held by his little boy both Albertine and Juliette now proceeded to pay their court to Sigismond. Juliette employed exactly the same technique of seduction and cajolery as with his father; Albertine’s approach, while she never neglected the uses of sex, was rather more subtle.
Juliette gave the little boy treat after treat. She took him to all the various circuses, to musical plays, to the cinema, and even to see the clothes at Christian Dior. Greatest treat of all, and a tremendous secret, she would drive him out of Paris in her pretty little open motor, and when they came to the straight, empty, poplar-bordered roads which lead to the east she would change places with him and let him take over the controls.
‘Look, look, Madame Novembre, cent à l’heure,’ he would cry in ecstasy as the speedometer went up and up. She bore it unflinchingly, though sometimes very
