‘Does it?’ Philip spoke mechanically, his eyes on Grace.
‘A certain absence of rationalism here?’
‘To say the least of it.’
‘If there are no inhabitants, how does auto-determination apply?’
‘It can’t.’
‘But the modern concept of sovereignty is built up, surely, on auto-determination?’
‘That’s what we are told.’
‘Another query which comes to mind. Where there are no inhabitants how can one know whether the Eels are French- or English-speaking?’
‘One can’t.’
‘And yet language is a powerful determinant of the concept of sovereignty?’
‘It’s a question of law, not of language.’
‘The French say they will soon have a Bomb.’
‘Makes no odds. They won’t drop it on London because of the Îles Minquiers.’
‘I don’t believe I have a perfectly comprehensive grasp of this problem from the point of view of you Britishers. Could you brief me?’
‘I could. It would take hours. The whole thing is very complicated.’
I saw that Philip was longing for the party to break up so that he could drive Grace to the Chambre, having her alone with him for a few minutes in his motor. I was dying to go to bed. Although it was rather early I put on my gloves and said good night.
9
Bouche-Bontemps’ ministry was rejected by the Assembly. ‘L’homme des Hautes-Pyrénées’, as the French papers often called him, as if he were some abominable snowman lurking in those remote highlands, made his pathetic or rousing or moving oration to about three hundred and fifty pairs of dry eyes and flinty hearts. The two hundred and fifty who were sufficiently moved to vote for him were not enough to carry him to office. It was rather annoying for Alfred and me, because, shortly before M. Béguin fell, we had invited him and most of the members of his cabinet to a dinner party. Now it looked as if our first big dinner would be given to a lot of disgruntled ex-ministers.
The railway strike duly occurred. As always in France, the human and regional element played a part here. The northern workers came out to a man; their meridional colleagues, more whimsical, less disciplined, by no means as serious, brought quite a lot of trains into Paris. This caused a bottleneck; tourists on their way home from late holidays got as far as the capital and could get no further. Amyas Mockbar said:
STRANDED
Thousands of Britons are stranded in strike-torn Paris. They are camping round the idle stations, foodless, comfortless, hopeless. What is the British Embassy doing to alleviate their great distress? Organizing a lorry service to take them to the coast where British ships could rescue them? Arranging accommodation? Lending them francs with which to buy themselves food? Nothing whatever.
DINNER PARTY
Miss Northey Mackintosh, niece and social secretary to Ambassadress Lady Wincham, told me today: ‘My aunt is far too busy arranging a big dinner party to bother about the tourists.’ N.B. Estimated cost of such ambassadorial entertainments, £10 a head.
‘Did you tell him?’ I asked, handing her the Daily Post. I was having my breakfast and she was perched on the end of my bed. She came every morning at this time for orders – those orders which were carried out by anybody but herself.
‘Quelle horrible surprise! Of course I didn’t tell him – would I have said my aunt when you are my first cousin once removed?’
‘But do you see him, darling?’ I knew that she did. Philip had met them walking up the Faubourg hand in hand looking, he said, like Red Riding Hood and the grandmother.
‘Poor little Amy, he’s a good soul,’ said Northey, ‘you’d love him, Fanny.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Can I bring him here one day?’
‘Certainly you can’t. Whenever he sees Alfred or me he writes something utterly vile about us. You ought to be furious with him for this horrible invention. And now I must scold you, Northey. It’s partly your fault for mentioning a dinner party at all, though of course I know quite well you didn’t say those words. When one sees inverted commas in the paper these days it means speech invented by the writer. If you must go out with him, which I greatly deprecate, please remember never to tell him anything at all about what goes on here.’
‘Oh the pathos! It’s Lord Grumpy who forces the poor soul to write gossip. What interests him is political philosophy – he says he wants to concentrate on the Chambre but Lord Grumpy drags him back to the Chambre à coucher. You see, he’s a witty soul!’
‘I wonder if he’s really such a good political journalist? It’s rather a different talent from gossip writing, you know.’
‘Oh, don’t tell poor little Amy that – he might commit –’
‘I only wish he would commit –’
‘He’s a father, Fanny.’
‘Many revolting people are.’
‘And he has to feed his babies.’
‘So do tigers. One doesn’t want to be their dinner, all the same.’
‘Fanny,’ wheedling voice.
‘Mm?’
‘He wants to do a piece on Auntie Bolter. He says when she got married he had a thick week with the Dockers and the Duke of Something and couldn’t do her justice. He’d like to know when she’s coming to stay here so that he can link her up with you and Alfred.’
‘Yes, I expect he would love that. Just the very thing for a political philosopher to get his teeth into – now, Northey, please listen to me,’ I said, in a voice to which she was quite unaccustomed. ‘If we have trouble with Mockbar and if it turns out to be your fault I shall be obliged to send you back to Scotland. I am here to protect Alfred from this sort of indiscretion.’
Northey looked mutinous, her eyes brimmed and her mouth went down at the corners.
The door now burst open and a strange figure loomed into the room. Side whiskers, heavy fringe, trousers, apparently moulded to the legs, surmounted by a garment for which I find no word but which covered the torso, performing the function both of coat and of shirt, such
