3
I shall never forget my first impression of the Embassy. After the hurly-burly of our reception at the Gare du Nord, after the drive through Paris traffic which always unnerves those not accustomed to it, the large, beautiful, honey-coloured house, in its quiet courtyard, seemed a haven of delight. It has more the atmosphere of a country than a town house. For one thing, no town noises can be heard, only the rustle of leaves, the twittering of birds, an occasional mowing-machine, an owl. The French windows on the garden side fill the rooms with sunshine and air in amazing quantities. They open to a vista of trees; the only solid edifice in sight is the dome of the Invalides, a purple shadow on the horizon, hardly visible through summer leaves. Except for that and the Eiffel Tower, on the extreme right hand of this prospect, there is nothing to show that the house is situated in the centre of the most prosperous and busy capital on the continent of Europe. Philip took us straight up to the first floor. At the top of the fine staircase there is an antechamber leading to the yellow drawing-room, the white and gold drawing-room, the green drawing-room (to be our private sitting-room) and Pauline Borghese’s bedroom, so recently vacated by the other Pauline. These rooms all face south and open into each other. Behind them, looking north over the courtyard, are the Ambassador’s dressing-room and library and the social secretary’s office. Well-wishers had filled the house with flowers; they made it look very beautiful, glowing in the evening light, and also reassured me. Many people seemed prepared, at any rate, to like us.
I believe it would have been normal for me to have paid a visit to the outgoing ambassadress soon after our appointment was announced. However, the said ambassadress had set up such an uninhibited wail when she knew she was to leave, proclaiming her misery to all and sundry and refusing so furiously to look on the bright side (a happy and respected old age in a Kensington flat), that it was felt she might not be very nice to me. Her attitude seemed rather exaggerated until I saw what it was that we were usurping; then I understood. Lady Leone had reigned in this palace – the word reign is not too much, with her beauty, elegance and great funniness she had been like a queen here – for five whole years; no wonder she left it all with death in her heart.
As for me, my fears fell away and so did my middle-aged gloom. The house seemed to be on my side; from the very first moment I set foot in it I was stimulated, interested, amused and ready for anything. When I woke up next morning to find myself in Pauline’s bed, the bed of both the Paulines, opening my eyes on the dark red walls and mahogany furniture, a curious contrast to the light gaiety of the rest of the house, I thought, ‘This is the first day, the beginning.’ Then I wondered how I should feel on the last day, the end. I was deeply sorry for Lady Leone.
Alfred appeared, in high spirits. He was going to have breakfast in his library. ‘Philip will come and talk to you while you have yours. He says you must never get up too early. You’ll have a tiring life here; try and be quiet in the morning.’ He dumped a lot of papers on my bed and went off. There was nothing much about us in them – a small flashlight photograph in the Figaro – an announcement in The Times that we had arrived – until, at the bottom of the heap, I came to the Daily Post. The whole of the front page was covered with an enormous photograph of Alfred, mouth idiotically open, apparently giving the Hitler salute. My heart sank; horrified I read:
The mission of the former Pastoral Theologian, Sir Alfred Wincham, to Paris has begun with an unfortunate incident. As M. Bouche-Bontemps, who had interrupted his holiday to meet Sir Alfred at the Gare du Nord, came forward with a gesture of welcome, our envoy rudely brushed him aside and confabulated, at length, in GERMAN, with a tall fair young man in the crowd …
I looked up from the paper. Philip was standing by my bed, laughing.
‘Is this all right? One always used to see Pauline before she got up – it seemed a good moment.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘you’ll miss that lovely face under the baldaquin.’
‘This is different,’ he sat down on the end of the bed, ‘and in some ways nicer. So, I see you’ve got to the incident.’
‘Philip!’
‘Don’t say it has upset you. It’s nothing to what there will be – the Daily Post man here, Amyas Mockbar (you mustn’t forget that name), is preparing the full treatment for you; you’re on Old Grumpy’s black list.’
‘But why are we?’
‘The English Ambassador here always is; besides, Lord Grumpy personally dislikes Alfred, who seems unaware of his existence.’
‘He is unaware. There’s one blessing, Alfred only reads The Times and I shan’t mind what the Daily Post says.’
‘Don’t you be too sure. Mockbar has a wonderful knack of making people mind. I’ve had to give up seeing him and I mind that – he’s such a jolly old bird, there’s nothing more enjoyable than drinking whisky with old Amyas at the Pont Royal bar.’
‘But this incident,’ I said.
‘You see, you are minding already.’
‘Yes, because it’s entirely invented.’
‘Not entirely – he never entirely invents, that’s where he’s so devilish.’
‘Alfred talked to a German at the Gare du Nord?’
‘While you were being introduced
