‘There are certain women who go through life in a cloud of apparent innocence under cover of which they are extremely unchaste.’
‘Yes. My mother for one. But if Northey’s like that I don’t see what we can do about it. I did scold her for talking half the night to Valhubert on the telephone – she replied that if there was anything wrong between them she would have been in bed with him, not just chatting. Very true I should think.’
‘Yes, there’s something in that. How much does she remind you of Linda?’
‘On the face of it, very much indeed. But there are differences. She’s not nearly so concentrated. When Linda was in love she never bothered about followers – they only cropped up when she was out of love with one man and not yet in with another.’
‘But is Northey in love?’
‘Oh yes, hasn’t she told you? She’s meant to be madly in love with Philip – I suppose she is, but sometimes I can’t help wondering. She never moons about as Linda used to (do you remember the games of patience, the long staring out of the window, the total distraction from real life?). Northey lives in an absolute rush, with at least twenty different admirers. When she has half an hour to spare I think she does go and have a word with St Expédite about Philip.’
‘St Expédite,’ said Davey, ‘how that takes me back! He’s a good saint, if ever there was one – I must go and see him again, but only for old sake’s sake, alas! At my age one doesn’t have these desperately hopeless desires. So she’s in love with Philip – how perfect that would be. Doesn’t he fancy her – why not?’
‘He adores Grace, unfortunately. But I’ve begun to think, just lately, that he’s getting fonder than he knows of Northey and that finally it may all come right.’
‘That makes it important to scotch the Valhubert business now at once. Remember, being in love with Prince André didn’t stop Natasha from making a fool of herself.’
‘I know. Cressida too. Young women are very silly.’
‘I think you ought to have a word with him.’
‘What, with Valhubert? Davey, the terror! I really don’t think you can ask me to do that!’
‘Alfred then? It might be easier for him?’
‘Oh no, no! Don’t tell Alfred – he has enough to worry him. The children are my affair – I never allow him to be bothered by them if I can possibly help it. How late he is, by the way. What can he be doing?’
‘Philip told me he had gone to a football match, but surely that must be over by now?’
When at last Alfred appeared he seemed quite worn out. ‘I’m sorry to be late – I had to get quickly into a bath – I was simply soaked with rotten eggs at the France versus England. Lord, how I do hate sport. Then I had an endless visit from the Irish Ambassador about those wretched cows.’
15
For a long time now Charles-Edouard de Valhubert had been urging me to go with him and visit the old Duchesse de Sauveterre at her country house, the Château de Boisdormant. He said she wanted to talk about her grandchild, little Fabrice. We had twice made plans to do this; for one reason or another they had come to nothing; at last a day was fixed which suited all of us. Grace, who was expecting a baby and felt rather sick, decided to stay at home. I had always felt nervous at the idea of a long motor drive alone with Valhubert, who intimidated me, but since my talk with Davey I positively dreaded it. If it was really my duty to speak about Northey, now would be the time. However, sitting in the front seat of a new Jaguar, with Valhubert at the wheel, I soon found that the physical terror far outweighed the moral.
‘Have I not a style of my own, in driving?’ he said, weaving up the rue Lafayette. ‘I don’t take the outer boulevards, they are too ugly.’
The style consisted in never slowing down. I began to pray for the traffic lights to go red and stop him; my foot was clamped to an imaginary brake until the muscles hurt. The terror increased when he began to imitate the style of other drivers; the young chauffeur of a Marshal of France, the old chauffeur of an American hostess, the driver of a police car (hands never on the wheel) and M. Bouche-Bontemps. He kept looking at me to see if I were laughing, which, indeed, I was; finally his eyes never seemed to be on the road at all. ‘Oh please, do be yourself!’ I said, and wished I had not as he spurted forward.
Once outside Paris and past Le Bourget I calmed down. He was in full control of the machine, though he went much too fast. We chatted away enjoyably and I realized that he was not at all frightening, much less than he seemed to be when one met him at a Parisian party. When we passed the cross-roads at Gonesse he recited the names of all the people he knew who had been killed there in motor car accidents, after which silence fell, because of my inability, since I had not known any of them, to aliment the conversation. Thinking that now was my chance, I bravely forced myself to say, ‘I worry about Northey.’
‘I love this little girl.’
‘Yes. That’s exactly why I worry.’ I was astounded at my own courage.
‘Ah – no!’ He looked vastly amused and not at all embarrassed. ‘I don’t love her – I mean I like her very much.’
‘It’s not you I worry about. She might love. She tells me she thinks of being a concubine.’
He roared with laughter. ‘Not
