‘You would know how true it is,’ she said to me, ‘but I am told the boys and girls nowadays are against birth?’
‘Against birth?’
‘Against being born.’
‘My aunt means they don’t care whether they belong to good families or not, any more.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I had supposed she meant something to do with birth control. ‘But do you think young people ever cared about such things?’
‘When I was young we did. In any case it is shocking to be against. The grandchildren of a friend of mine actually started a newspaper against birth – horrible, I find, and so of course one of the girls married somebody who wasn’t born –’
‘Yes,’ said Valhubert, with a quizzical look in my direction, ‘it won’t do. We can’t have these goings-on in society, though I must say the unborn young man is rather solid for a disembodied spirit.’
‘You laugh now, Charles-Edouard, but when your daughters are grown up you will see these things in a very different light. Tell me more about your boys, Madame l’Ambassadrice, I hear that one of them is called Fabrice?’
‘He is the child of my cousin who is dead. I have adopted him.’
Suddenly we both found that we could not go on with this conversation. We looked at Valhubert who came to the rescue. ‘When all three of them come over for the Christmas holidays I’ll bring them here for a few days.’
‘Yes, you must. Old Oudineau can teach them to ride bicycles – children like that very much, I find. Do you heat the Embassy with coal or mazout?’
16
When we got back to the Embassy Philip was crossing the courtyard. Charles-Edouard refused a cup of tea; he said Grace would be longing to hear about our day and he thought he had better get back. He drove straight off. Philip came into the house with me. I said, ‘I like Valhubert very much.’
‘The thing about lady-killers is that they kill ladies,’ he replied, grumpily. ‘That ass of a Northey is dining with him again tonight.’
‘Oh, Philip – alone?’
‘I’ve no idea. Did you see the papers this morning?’
‘Hardly. I was in a rush.’
‘Didn’t see Mockbar?’
I stood still. We were half-way up the stairs. ‘Now what?’
‘He has found out that the famous Frenchman who won your mother in a lottery is none other than poor old Bouche-Bontemps. He says he is able to reveal that the French premier is one of the ex-stepfathers of Ambassadress Lady Wincham.’ Philip pulled a newspaper cutting from his pocket. ‘Here we are – able to reveal, yes – Her sixty-three-year-old mother, he goes on – yes, listen to this, it’s stirring stuff – ex-Lady Logan, ex-Mrs Chaddesley-Corbett, ex-Viscountess Tring, ex-Madame Bouche-Bontemps, ex-Mrs Rawle, ex-Mrs Plugge, ex-Señora Lopez, ex-Mrs Chrisolithe, is now married to Pimlico man “Grandad” Markson, 22, organizer of Grandad’s Tours. Interviewed in London, Mrs Markson said she had lost touch with husband number four. “We were madly in love,” she said. Asked if it was true that M. Bouche-Bontemps won her in a lottery, she said, “I think it was a tombola.”’
‘So?’
‘Bouche-Bontemps is frantic, I’ve had him on the telephone a dozen times. He says he remembers keenly living with this lady, out of her head, but pretty and funny, and he thinks they were together for two or three months but he certainly never married her.’
‘Goodness!’ I said, ‘that seems to put him in an awkward position, doesn’t it? Like when are you going to stop beating your wife? If he married the Bolter it’s bad but if he didn’t marry her it’s worse?’
‘No, no. You don’t understand the French, as Davey would say. If he married her that’s the end of his career but if he only lived with her nobody here would think anything of it. Can’t you ring her up and find out?’
‘Dear me! But I’m afraid she says [I was looking at Mockbar’s piece] husband number four. Come on, we’ll put a call through now.’
It was not necessary, however. In the Salon Vert there was a telegram on top of my afternoon letters. ‘Never married him darling it was deed-pollers gave no interview have taken it up with Grumpy who promises denial tomorrow in Daily Post Bolter.’
‘Oh well,’ said Philip when I handed him this. ‘That will make it much better. If they really deny it in the Daily Post the French papers won’t copy it. They are far keener on accuracy than ours.’
‘Don’t you think Mockbar has gone too far? Might he not get the sack?’
‘Not he! Much more likely to get a rise so that he can fatten his brats until the next jump in the cost of living forces him to make another scoop.’ He lifted up the receiver. ‘Katie, get the Président du Conseil for Lady Wincham, will you?’
‘Is that my stepfather?’ I said and was nearly blown over by a burst of laughter. ‘Listen – I’ve had a telegram from my mother which Philip thinks will make everything all right. She says the paper is denying a marriage. It was only deed-poll she says.’
‘Deed-poll,’ said Bouche-Bontemps suspiciously, ‘what is this?’
‘What’s deed-poll in French?’ I asked Philip and repeated after him. ‘Acte unilatéral but you don’t have it here like we do. You know – it means she took your name.’
‘Did she? There was certainly no acte. But why should she take my name?’
‘For the neighbours, I expect.’
‘But, chère Madame l’Ambassadrice, it was at Harrar! The neighbours were Abyssinians – never mind, go on.’
‘Anyhow, the point is there will be a denial tomorrow. Oh dear, I’m so sorry – though it’s not exactly my fault.’
‘But nothing matters as long as I am not supposed to be bigame – what is it in English? – bigamous. That would be very annoying – the Hautes-Pyrénées would not like it and nor would my late wife’s family les Pucelards (textiles Pucelard) from Lille. The only person who would be delighted is my daughter-in-law who hates me, it would quite
