Nicholas John Kilmuir, Duke of Culloden, turned his letter about.
Presently he fell into a reverie.
He was a quiet, good-looking man a short thirty-six years old. As luck
would have it, he looked an aristocrat and perhaps because of this, was
seldom recognized. His features were fine and clean-cut, his shoulders
square, his head well set on. He was tall, moved perfectly, rode as
though he were part of his horse. His gentle brown eyes and pleasant
voice, above all, his steady, grave smile, made many friends. In France,
his men had reverenced him as a god. His tenantry did not reverence him,
because reverence was not among their faculties, but the bluntest
crofter would have died for him as a matter of course. Culloden
understood this devotion and valued it as it deserved. He spent ten
months of the year at Ruth Castle and full four-fifths of his income
upon his estate. And since in this world much is expected of a duke, the
remaining fifth had to be gingerly expended. Thanks to his loyalty to
his own, Culloden was a comparatively poor man. He could not, for
instance, afford to keep a car. . . .
At the present moment he was rather awkwardly placed.
His operation had been an expensive business. To judge by the surgeon’s
fee-book, dukes’ appendices were twice as refractory as those of
commoners. Again, his bill at the nursing-home had been worthy of his
rank. More. He was to have convalesced upon an old friend’s steam-yacht:
then at the last moment his host had fallen sick and the cruise had been
cancelled.
Staying at his Club in St. James’s, Culloden, who was really hard up and
had been medically forbidden to return to the isolation of Ruth for at
least six weeks, did not know what to do.
It is not surprising that an invitation which in the ordinary way he
would not have cared to accept seemed to have fallen from heaven. . . .
_c/o Comte Boschetto,_
_Château Chiennile_
_Cannes._
_Dear Nick,_
_I know it’s not your practice to batten on people you’ve never
seen in your life, but I really think for once you’ll have to
climb down. My dear fellow, you MUST. You’re going spare: to
judge by your blasphemous incoherence, the weather in England is
foul: the vacuum within you demands consolation in the shape of
complete relaxation appropriately leavened with nice, gentle
exercise. Very well, then. Join me._
_Listen._
_The Boschettos are mad to have you, of course, but don’t let
that stop you. They mayn’t be pre-war, but they’re insanely
kind. Their one idea is to do their guests about fifteen times
as well as they’ve ever been done before—in an inoffensive way.
What’s more, they actually bring it off._
_First, they leave you alone. We make up our own parties, go as
we please. I get up when I like. I retire when I like. I eat and
drink what I like, when I like. I do what I like. I come and go
as I happen to feel inclined. In fact, so long as you sleep in,
they don’t care what you do if only you’re happy. I’m one of the
few who make a point of seeing the Countess about every other
day just to tell her how much I’m enjoying myself. Whereupon she
almost weeps upon my neck and wails that there are always
sandwiches and champagne in the_ salon bleu _from eleven a.m.
on, but that if I prefer port I’ve only to ask for it_.
_Secondly, I thought I knew a thing or two about the contents of
the top-drawer, but I didn’t. My son, I’m a blinkin’ tenderfoot.
Luxury? I tell you, before I came here I couldn’t spell the
word. Of course the château’s palatial—you never saw such a
place. Over thirty bathrooms. My bedroom faces south and is
about forty feet square. Fifteen cars all going all day long and
half the night, and the stables full of ripping good ponies and
hacks. Three motor-boats. As for the servants, I didn’t know
there were so many in France. They literally swarm. I have a
valet to myself, and so, I believe, has everyone. And the women
have maids. Two private bands—three, I think. Dancing all
night—if you like. If I want a car or a cocktail or a Corona or
any imaginable thing, I just call the nearest wallah, and there
it is. God knows what it costs—I should think about two
thousand a day—pounds, not francs, pounds. But apparently that
doesn’t matter. I tell you, it’s indescribable. . . ._
_Hospitality like this seems to be proof against abuse. Short of
larceny, you can’t abuse it. Your duty towards your hostess and
your duty towards yourself are synonymous terms. The most
dutiful guest is the most self-indulgent. Naturally, such an
establishment has attracted a motley crowd: still, there are no
flagrant undesirables, and most of us mean well. Bertram Scarlet
has just left—amid lamentations. The Pemburys are coming. So
you see. . . ._
_I play golf all day, have a rubber of bridge before
dinner—small tables, of course—and do a little dancing
afterwards. Eleven o’clock usually sees me out. I ran into the
Fairies the other day on the links and after a lot of bickering
persuaded them to come along after dinner. They and Bertram and
I and one or two others made up our own party and had a good
evening. When they said ‘Good-night’ to the Countess, she
thanked them effusively for coming and begged them to leave the
Carlton and stay here instead. She’d no idea who they were. They
left dazedly in a Hispano limousine with two chauffeurs,
wondering whether it was all a dream, I tell you, the whole
thing is incredible—has to be seen to be believed._
_So COME._
_Yours,_
_Teddy Mandeville._
Culloden lowered the letter and gazed into the street.
It did seem an obvious way out. But for his title, he would not have
thought twice . . . but for his title.
The man could not endure to traffic with his name. In spite of golden
opportunities, he was not a director of a single company: and, as he
steadfastly refused to rent his style, so he declined to exchange it for
board and lodging. If he was invited for himself, he was delighted to
accept; but every new invitation was carefully weighed, and nine out of
ten of them were found wanting. He need not have spent ten months of the
year at Ruth Castle. In point of fact, had he pleased, he need not have
spent ten days of the year at home. Bachelor dukes are apt to be in
demand. . . .
The present offer of hospitality was slightly different. It seemed that
commoners were welcome—not so welcome, of course. ‘They’re mad to have
you.’ Still, Bertram Scarlet and the Fairies—Teddy Mandeville himself
seemed to be _personæ gratæ_ at Chiennile. Besides, no one, apparently,
was wanted for himself. The Boschettos were purely beneficent. All was
fish that came to their net. All they were wanting was a thundering
catch. If this included turtle, so much the better: but that was all.
There was no doubt about it. Not to avail himself of such a timely
chance would be the act of a fool.