‘What I think sad about modern buildings,’ Davey said, ‘is that when you’ve seen the outside you know exactly what the inside will be like.’
‘Northey said that, about Notre Dame. But I admit she was in a hurry to get to Lanvin.’
The rue de Saintonge itself is inhabited by artisans. Its seventeenth-century houses, built originally for aristocrats and well-to-do burgesses, have not been pulled down (except for one block where the Département de la Seine has perpetrated a horror) but they have been pulled about, chopped and rechopped, parcelled and reparcelled by the people who have lived and worked in them during the last two hundred years. Here are the trades which flourish in this street:
Workers in morocco, fur, india-rubber, gold, silver and jewels; makers of buttons, keys, ribbons, watches, wigs, shoes, artificial flowers and glass domes; importer of sponges; repairer of sewing-machines; great printer of letters; mender of motor cars; printer; midwife. There may be many more hidden away; these put out signs for the passer-by to read.
At the end of the street we came to Davey’s glassblower, still there, covered with smiles. He and Davey greeted each other as if it were only a week instead of forty years since they last met. The piece of glass, produced from Davey’s pocket, was examined. It could be copied, quite easily, but there would be a delay of perhaps two months.
‘That has no importance,’ said Davey, in his perfect, literary French, ‘my niece here is our Ambassadress – when it’s ready you will send it round to her.’
More smiles, compliments, protestations of love: ‘How we thought of you, when London was bombed.’
‘And how we thought of you, during the Occupation. Thousands of times worse to have them marching about the streets than flying about overhead.’
‘Yes, perhaps. My son deported – my son-in-law murdered – c’est la vie – !’
Back in the Tuileries Gardens we sat down in order to begin our, what statesmen call, discussions about David. I described the arrival of the Holy Family and their subsequent behaviour. Davey was very much interested. ‘My dear! The unkind French! So how did they take it?’
‘Sweet and polite as they always are, to me anyhow.’
‘I wish I could have heard what they said to each other, afterwards. Of course I saw Mockbar’s account of the Zen Buddhists and paid no attention, but for once there seems to have been a grain of truth in his ravings. I say, look at that statue of an ancient Gaul. What can he be doing?’
‘He seems to be eating a Pekinese – or perhaps he’s kissing it?’
‘No – it’s his own beard, but why is he holding it up like that with both hands?’
‘Most peculiar.’
‘You might have let me know that my godson was married.’
‘Nobody let anybody know. The Bishop of Bury saw it in the paper – Alfred rang him up and they mourned together. Oh, Dave, isn’t the modern world difficult!’
‘Ghastly. No standards of behaviour any more.’
We sat sadly looking at the Gaul.
Presently Davey said, ‘I expect I know what we shall have to do for David. It must be the old, old pattern of emotional unstability and absence of rationalism plus a serious defection of the glands. He will almost certainly have to have a series of injections and a course of psychotherapy. I count on the Jungfleisches to find us a good man – where there are Americans there are couches galore. Madness is their national industry. What’s the joke?’
‘In other words, send for the doctor. Davey, how like you – !’
‘No, Fanny. Did I order doctors for Pauline? Did I get rid of her?’
‘All right, I admit. And there may be something in what you say. But I’m wondering if he will cooperate. He’s become so difficult.’
‘He’ll be delighted to. He is evidently an exhibitionist – that is shown by the beard, the pipe, the strange clothes and Chinese baby. The more attention paid to him the better pleased he’ll be. Say what you like about the modern world, we must give three cheers for science. Look at me! If I’d been born fifty years sooner I’d have been pushing up the daisies by now.’
‘Very likely, since you would have been a hundred and sixteen. Uncle Matthew always says you are the strongest man he has ever met.’
‘It is too bad of Matthew when he knows quite well how delicate I am.’ Davey was seriously annoyed. He rose to his feet and said he must go home and have a rest before dinner.
‘We’ve asked some people to meet you.’
‘Oh dear! You always seem to dine alone, so I made a little plan with Mildred. One can count on interesting conversation there.’
As Davey and I came to the Place de la Concorde we saw that there was something going on. A mob of men in mackintoshes, armed with cameras, were jostling each other on the roadway outside the Hôtel Crillon. Mockbar leant against the wall by the revolving door of the hotel. I never can resist a crowd. ‘Do let’s find out who it is they are waiting for,’ I said.
‘It can only be some dreary film star. Nothing else attracts any interest nowadays.’
‘I know. Only, if we don’t wait we shall hear afterwards that something thrilling occurred and we shall be cross.’ I showed him Mockbar. ‘There’s the enemy. He looks more like a farmer than a gossip writer.’
‘Lady Wincham – how are you?’ It was the Times correspondent. There was
