welfare of the establishment at heart as well as his own, and of an
evening often he would flit, garbed in his long gandourah, through the
chief Cafés and Dancings’ of the city, a vast pannier heaped high with
flowers upon his head, which he would dispose of to dazzled clients for
an often exorbitant sum. But for these excursions of his (which ended
on occasion in adventure) he had received no authority at all.
“Not so bad,” the Duchess commented: “And, as there’s to be a Court
again soon, many orders for bouquets are sure to come in!”
“I call in outside hands to assist me: I summon Ouardi! He an Armenian
boy. Sympathetic. My friend. More attached to him am I than a branch of
Jessamine is about a Vine.”
“I suppose he’s capable?” the Duchess murmured, pinning a green-ribbed
orchid to her dress.
“The garlands of Ouardi would make even a jackal look bewitching!”
“Ah: he has taste?”
“I engage my friend. Much work always in the month of Redjeb!”
“Engage nobody,” the Duchess answered as she left the shop, “until I
come again.”
Hailing one of the little shuttered cabs of the city in the square she
directed the driver to drop her at the palace gates, and pursued by an
obstreperous newsboy with an evening paper, yelling: “Chedorlahomor!
Sodom! Extra Special!” the cab clattered off at a languid trot. Under
the plane-trees, near the Houses of Parliament, she was overtaken by
the large easy-stepping horses of the Ambassadress of England, and
acknowledged with a winning movement of the wrist, Lady Something’s
passing acceuil. It was yet not quite the correct hour for the
Promenade, where beneath the great acacias Society liked best to ride
or drive, but, notwithstanding, that zealous reporter of social deeds,
the irrepressible Eva Schnerb, was already on the prowl and able with
satisfaction to note: “I saw the Duchess of Varna early driving in the
Park, all alone in a little one-horse shay, that really looked more
elegant than any Delaunay-Belleville!”
Arriving before the palace gates, the Duchess perceived an array of
empty carriages waiting in the drive, which made her apprehensive of a
function. She had anticipated an intimate chat with the Queen alone,
but this it seemed was not to be.
Following a youthful page with a _resigned_ face, down a long black rug
woven with green and violet flowers, who left her with a sigh (as if
disappointed of a tip) in charge of a couple of giggling colleagues,
and who, in turn, propelled her towards a band of sophisticated-looking
footmen and grim officials, she was shewn at last into a vast white
drawing-room whose ceiling formed a dome.
Knowing the Queen’s interest in the Chedorlahomor Excavation Bill, a
number of representative folk, such as the wives of certain Politicians
or Diplomats, as well as a few of her own more immediate circle, had
called to felicitate her upon its success. Parliament had declared
itself willing to do the unlimited graceful by all those concerned,
and this in a great measure was due to the brilliant wire pulling of
the Queen.
She was looking singularly French in a gold helmet and a violet
Vortniansky gown, and wore a rope of faultless pearls, clasped very
high beneath the chin.
“I hope the Archbishop will bless the Excavators’ tools!” she was
saying to the wife of the Premier, as the Duchess entered. “The _picks_
at any rate....”
That lady made no reply: In presence of royalty she would usually sit
and smile at her knees, raising her eyes from time to time to throw,
beneath her lashes, an ineffable expiring glance.
“God speed them safe home again!” the Archduchess Elizabeth who was
busy knitting said. An ardent philanthropist she had begun already
making “comforts” for the men, as the nights in the East are cold.
The most philanthropic perhaps of all the Royal Family, her hobby was
designing, for the use of the public, sanitary, but artistic, places
of Necessity on a novel system of ventilation. The King had consented
to open (and it was expected appropriately) one of these in course of
construction in the Opera Square.
“Amen,” the Queen answered, signalling amiably to the Duchess of Varna,
whose infrequent visits to court disposed her always to make a fuss of
her.
But no fuss the Queen could make of the Duchess of Varna, could exceed
that being made by Queen Thleeanouhee, in a far-off corner, of her
Excellency, Lady Something. The sympathy, the _entente_ indeed that had
arisen between these two ladies was exercising considerably the minds
of certain members of the diplomatic corps, although had anyone wished
to eavesdrop, their conversation upon the whole must have been found to
be anything but esoteric.
“What I want,” Queen Thleeanouhee was saying, resting her hand
confidentially on her Excellency’s knee: “what I want is an English
maid with Frenchified fingers---- Is there such a thing to be had?”
“But surely----” Lady Something smiled: for the servant-topic was one
she felt at home on.
“In Dateland, my dear, servant girls are nothing but sluts.”
“Life is like _that_, ma’am, I regret indeed, to have to say: I once
had a housemaid who had lived with Sarah Bernhardt, and oh, wasn’t
she a terror!” Lady Something declared, warding off a little black
bat-eared dog who was endeavouring to scramble on to her lap.
“Teddywegs, Teddywegs!” the Archduchess exclaimed jumping up and
advancing to capture her pet: “He arrived from London not later than
this morning,” she said: “from the Princess Elsie of England.”
“He looks like some special litter,” Lady Something remarked.
“How the dear girl loves animals!”
“The rumour of her betrothal it seems is quite without foundation?”
“To my nephew: ah alas....”
“Prince Yousef and she are of an equal age!”
“She is interested in Yousef I’m inclined to believe; but the worst of
life is, nearly everyone marches to a different tune,” the Archduchess
replied.
“One hears of her nothing that isn’t agreeable.”
“Like her good mother, Queen Glory,” the Archduchess said, “one feels,
of course, she’s all she should be.”
Lady Something sighed.
“Yes ... and even _more_!” she murmured, letting fall a curtsy to King
William who had entered. He had been lunching at the Headquarters of
the Girl Guides, and wore the uniform of a general.
“What is the acme of nastiness?” he paused of the English Ambassadress
to enquire.
Lady Something turned paler than the white candytuft that is found on
ruins. “Oh _la_, sir,” she stammered, “how should I know!”
The King looked the shrinking matron slowly up and down: “The supreme
disgust----”
“Oh _la_, sir!” Lady Something stammered again.
But the King took pity on her evident confusion: “Tepid potatoes,” he
answered, “on a stone-cold plate.”
The Ambassadress beamed.
“I trust the warmth of the girls, sir, compensated you for the coldness
of the plates?” she ventured.
“The inspection, in the main, was satisfactory! Although I noticed that
one or two of the guides, seemed inclined to lead astray,” the King
replied, regarding Teddywegs, who was inquisitively sniffing his spurs.
“He’s strange yet to everything,” the Archduchess commented.
“What’s this--a new dog?”
“From Princess Elsie....”
“They say she’s stupid, but I do not know that intellect is always a
blessing!” the King declared, drooping his eyes to his abdomen, with an
air of pensive modesty.
“Poor child, she writes she is tied to the shore, so that I suppose she
is unable to leave dear England.”
“Tied to it?”
“And bound till goodness knows.”
“As was Andromeda!” the King sententiously exclaimed.... “She would
have little, or maybe nothing, to wear,” he clairvoyantly went on: “I
see her standing shivering, waiting for Yousef.... Chained by the leg,
perhaps, exposed to the howling winds.”[3]
“Nonsense. She means to say she can’t get away yet on account of her
engagements: that’s all.”
“After Cowes-week,” Lady Something put in, “she is due to pay a round
of visits before joining her parents in the North.”
“How I envy her,” the Archduchess sighed, “amid that entrancing
scene....”
Lady Something looked _attendrie_.
“Your royal highness is attached to England?” she asked.
“I fear I was never there.... But I shall always remember I put my hair
up when I was twelve years old because of the Prince of Wales.”
“Oh? And ... which of the Georges?” Lady Something gasped.
“It’s so long ago now that I really forget.”
“And pray, ma’am, what was the point of it?”
The Archduchess chuckled:
“Why, so as to look eligible of course!” she replied, returning to her
knitting.
Amid the general flutter following the King’s appearance, it was easy
enough for the Duchess of Varna to slip away. Knowing the palace inside
out it was unnecessary to make any fuss. Passing through a long room,
where a hundred holland-covered chairs stood grouped, Congresswise,
around a vast table, she attained the Orangery, that gave access to
the drive. The mellay of vehicles had considerably increased, and
the Duchess paused a moment to consider which she should borrow,
when recollecting she wished to question one of the royal gardeners
on a little matter of mixing manure, she decided to return through
the castle grounds instead. Taking a path that descended between
rhododendrons and grim old cannons towards the town, she was comparing
the capriciousness of certain bulbs to that of certain people, when she
heard her name called from behind, and glancing round perceived the
charming silhouette of the Countess of Tolga.
“I couldn’t stand it inside: Could you?”
“My _dear_, what a honeymoon hat!”
“It was made by me!”
“Oh, Violet....” the Duchess murmured, her face taking on a look of
wonder.
“Don’t forget, dear, Sunday.”
“Is it a party?”
“I’ve asked Grim-lips and Ladybird, Hairy and Fluffy, Hardylegs and
Bluewings, Spindleshanks, and Our Lady of Furs.”
“Not Nanny-goat?”
“Luckily ...” the Countess replied, raising to her nose the heliotropes
in her hand.
“Is he no better?”
“You little know, dear, what it is to be all alone with him chez soi
when he thinks and sneers into the woodwork.”
“_Into the woodwork?_”
“He addresses the ceiling, the walls, the floor--me never!”
“Dear dove.”
“All I can I’m plastic.”
“Can one be plastic ever enough, dear?”
“Often but for Olga ...” the Countess murmured, considering a little
rosy ladybird on her arm.
“I consider her ever so compelling, ever so wistful--” the Duchess of
Varna averred.
“Sweet girl--! She’s just my consolation.”
“She reminds me, does she you, of that _Miss Hobart_ in de Grammont’s
_Memoirs_.”
“C’est une ame exquise!”
“Well au revoir, dear: We shall meet again at the Princess Leucippe’s
later on,” the duchess said, detecting her gardener in the offing.
By the time she had obtained her recipe and cajoled a few special
shoots from various exotic plants, the sun had begun to decline.
Emerging from the palace by a postern-gate, where lounged a sentry,
she found herself almost directly beneath the great acacias on the
Promenade. Under the lofty leafage of the trees, as usual towards this
hour, society, in its varying grades had congregated to be gazed upon.
Mounted on an eager-headed little horse his Weariness (who loved being
seen) was plying up and down, while in his wake a “_screen artiste_,”
on an Arabian mare with powdered withers and eyes made up with kohl,
was creating a sensation. Every time she used her whip the powder rose
in clouds. Wending her way through the throng the duchess recognised
the rose-harnessed horses of Countess Medusa Rappa--the Countess bolt
upright, her head carried stiffly staring with a pathetic expression
of dead _joie-de-vie_ between her coachman’s and footman’s waists. But
the intention of calling at the Café Cleopatra caused the duchess to
hasten. The possibility of learning something beneficial to herself
was a lure not to be resisted. Pausing to allow the marvellous blue
automobile of Count Ann-Jules to pass (with the dancer Kalpurnia
inside), she crossed the Avenue, where there seemed, on the whole, to
be fewer people. Here she remarked a little ahead of her the masculine
form of the Countess Yvorra, taking a quiet stroll before _Salut_ in
the company of her Confessor. In the street she usually walked with
her hands clasped behind her back, huddled up like a statesman: “_Des
choses abominables!... Des choses hors nature!_” she was saying, in
tones of evident relish, as the duchess passed.
Meanwhile Madame Wetme was seated anxiously by the samovar in her
drawing-room. To receive the duchess, she had assumed a mashlak à la
mode, whitened her face and rouged her ears, and set a small, but
costly aigrette at an insinuating angle in the edifice of her hair.
As the hour of Angelus approached, the tension of waiting grew more
and more acute, and beneath the strain of expectation even the little
iced-sugar cakes upon the tea-table looked green with worry.
Suppose, after all, she shouldn’t come? Suppose she had already left?
Suppose she were in prison? Only the other day a woman of the highest
fashion, a leader of “society” with an _A_, had served six months as a
consequence of her extravagance....
In agitation Madame Wetme helped herself to a small glassful of
_Cointreau_, (her favourite liqueur) when, feeling calmer for the
consommation, she was moved to take a peep out of Antoine.
But nobody chic at all met her eye.
Between the oleanders upon the curb, that rose up darkly against a
flame-pink sky, two young men dressed “as Poets” were arguing and
gesticulating freely over a bottle of beer. Near them, a sailor with a
blue drooping collar and dusty boots (had he walked, poor wretch, to
see his mother?) was gazing stupidly at the large evening gnats that
revolved like things bewitched about the café lamps. While below the
window a lean soul in glasses, evidently an impresario, was loudly
exclaiming: “London has robbed me of my throat, sir!! It has deprived
me of my voice.”
No, an “off” night certainly!
Through a slow, sun-flower of a door (that kept on revolving long after
it had been pushed) a few military men bent on a game of billiards, or
an early _fille de joie_ (only the discreetest _des filles “serieuses”_
were supposed to be admitted)--came and went.
“To-night they’re fit for church,” Madame Wetme complacently smiled as
the door swung round again: “Navy-blue and silver-fox looks the goods,”
she reflected, “upon any occasion! It suggests something sly--like a
Nurse’s uniform.”
“A lady in the drawing-room, Madame, desires to speak to you,” a
chasseur tunefully announced, and fingering nervously her aigrette
Madame Wetme followed.
The Duchess of Varna was inspecting a portrait with her back to the
door as her hostess entered.
“I see you’re looking at my Murillo!” Madame Wetme began.
“Oh.... Is it o-ri-gi-nal?” the duchess drawled.
“No.”
“I _thought_ not.”
“To judge by the Bankruptcy-sales of late (and it’s curious how many
there’ve been ...) it would seem from the indifferent figure he makes,
that he is no longer accounted chic,” Madame Wetme observed as she drew
towards the duchess a chair.
“I consider the chic to be such a very false religion!...” the duchess
said, accepting the seat which was offered her.
“Well, I come of an old Huguenot family myself!”
“----...?”
“Ah my early home.... Now, I hear, it’s nothing but a weed-crowned
ruin.”
The duchess considered the ivory cat handle of her parasol: “You wrote
to me?” she asked.
“Yes: about the coming court.”
“About it?”
“Every woman has her dream, duchess! And mine’s to be presented.”
“The odd ambition!” the duchess crooned.
“I admit we live in the valley. Although _I_ have a great sense of the
hills!” Madame Wetme declared demurely.
“Indeed?”
“My husband you see ...”
“...............”
“Ah! well!”
“Of course.”
“If I’m not asked this time, I shall die of grief.”
“Have you made the request before?”
“I have attempted!”
“Well?”
“When the Lord Chamberlain refused me, I shed tears of blood,” Madame
Wetme wanly retailed.
“It would have been easier, no doubt, in the late king’s time!”
Madame Wetme took a long sighing breath.
“I only once saw him in my life,” she said, “and then he was standing
against a tree, in an attitude offensive to modesty.”
“Tell me ... as a public man, what has your husband done----”
“His money helped to avert, I always contend, the noisy misery of a
War!”
“He’s open-handed?”
“Ah ... as you would find....”
The duchess considered: “I _might_,” she said, “get you cards for a
State concert....”
“A State concert, duchess? That’s no good to me!”
“A drawing-room you know is a very dull affair.”
“I will liven it!”
“Or an invitation perhaps to begin with to one of the Embassies--the
English for instance might lead....”
“Nowhere...! You can’t depend on that: people have asked me to
lunch, and left me to pay for them...! There is so much trickery in
Society....” Madame Wetme laughed.
The duchess smiled quizzically: “I forget if you know the Tolgas,” she
said.
“By ‘name’!”
“The Countess is more about the throne at present than I.”
“Possibly--but oh _you_ who do _everything_, duchess?” Madame Wetme
entreated.
“I suppose there are things still one wouldn’t do however----!” the
duchess took offence.
“The Tolgas are so hard.”
“You want a misfortune and they’re sweet to you. Successful persons
they’re positively hateful to!”
“These women of the Bedchamber are all alike, so glorified. You would
never credit they were Chambermaids at all! I often smile to myself
when I see one of them at a _première_ at the Opera, gorged with
pickings, and think that, most likely, but an hour before she was
stumbling along a corridor with a pailful of slops!”
“You’re fond of music, Madame?” the duchess asked.
“It’s my joy: I could go again and again to _The Blue Banana_!”
“I’ve not been.”
“Pom-pom, pompity-pom! We might go one night, perhaps, together.”
“...”
“Doudja Degdeg is always a draw, although naturally now she is getting
on!”
“And I fear so must I”--the duchess rose remarking.
“So soon?”
“I’m only so sorry I can’t stay longer----!”
“Then it’s all decided,” Madame Wetme murmured archly as she pressed
the bell.
“Oh I’d not say that.”
“If I’m not asked, remember this time, I shall die with grief.”
“To-night the duke and I are dining with the Leucippes, and possibly
...” the duchess broke off to listen to the orchestra in the café
below, which was playing the waltz-air from _Der Rosenkavalier_.
“They play well!” she commented.
“People often tell me so.”
“It must make one restless, dissatisfied, that yearning, yearning music
continually at the door?”
Madame Wetme sighed.
“It makes you often long,” she said, “to begin your life again!”
“Again?”
“Really it’s queer I came to yoke myself with a man so little fine....”
“Still----! If he’s open-handed,” the duchess murmured as she left the
room.
IV
One grey, unsettled morning (it was the first of June) the English
Colony of Kairoulla[4] awoke in arms. It usually did when the Embassy
entertained. But the omissions of the Ambassador, were, as old Mr
Ladboyson the longest-established member of the colony declared, “not
to be fathomed,” and many of those overlooked declared they should go
all the same. Why should Mrs Montgomery (who, when all was said and
done, was nothing but a governess) be invited and not Mrs Barleymoon
who was “nothing” (in the most distinguished sense of the word) at
all? Mrs Barleymoon’s position, as a captain’s widow with means,
unquestionably came before Mrs Montgomery’s, who drew a salary, and
hadn’t often an h.
Miss Grizel Hopkins, too--the cousin of an Earl, and Mrs Bedley the
“Mother” of the English Colony, both had been ignored. It was true
Ann Bedley kept a circulating library and a tea-room combined and gave
“Information” to tourists as well (a thing she had done these forty
years), but was that a sufficient reason why she should be totally
taboo? _No_, in old Lord Clanlubber’s time all had been made welcome,
and there had been none of these heartburnings at all. Even the Irish
coachman of the Archduchess was known to have been received--although
it had been outside of course upon the lawn. Only gross carelessness,
it was felt, on the part of those attachés could account for the
extraordinary present neglect.
“I don’t myself mind much,” Mrs Bedley said, who was seated over a
glass of morning milk and “a plate of fingers” in the _Circulating_
end of the shop: “going out at night upsets me. And the last time Dr
Babcock was in he warned me not.”
“What is the Embassy there for but to be hospitable?” Mrs Barleymoon
demanded from the summit of a ladder, from where she was choosing
herself a book.
“You’re shewing your petticoat, dear--excuse me telling you,” Mrs
Bedley observed.
“When will you have something new, Mrs Bedley?”
“Soon, dear ... soon.”
“It’s always ‘soon,’” Mrs Barleymoon complained.
“Are you looking for anything, Bessie, in particular?” a girl, with
loose blue eyes that did not seem quite firm in her head, and a
literary face enquired.
“No, only something,” Mrs Barleymoon replied, “I’ve not had before and
before and before.”
“By the way, Miss Hopkins,” Mrs Bedley said, “I’ve to fine you for
pouring tea over _My Stormy Past_.”
“It was coffee, Mrs Bedley--not tea.”
“Never mind, dear, what it was the charge for a stain is the same as
you know,” Mrs Bedley remarked, turning to attend to Mrs Montgomery
who, with his Lankiness, Prince Olaf, had entered the Library.
“Is it in?” Mrs Montgomery mysteriously asked.
Mrs Bedley assumed her glasses.
“_Mmnops_,” she replied, peering with an air of secretiveness in her
private drawer where she would sometimes reserve or ‘hold back’ a
volume for a subscriber who happened to be in her special good graces.
“I’ve often said,” Mrs Barleymoon from her ladder sarcastically let
fall, “that Mrs Bedley has her pets!”
“You are all my pets, my dear,” Mrs Bedley softly cooed.
“Have you read _Men--my Delight_, Bessie?” Miss Hopkins asked, “by Cora
Velasquez.”
“No!”
“It’s not perhaps a very.... It’s about two dark, and three fair, men,”
she added vaguely.
“Most women’s novels seem to run off the rails before they reach the
end, and I’m not very fond of them,” Mrs Barleymoon said.
“And anyway, dear, it’s out,” Mrs Bedley asserted.
“_The Passing of Rose_ I read the other day,” Mrs Montgomery said, “and
_so_ enjoyed it.”
“Isn’t that one of Ronald Firbank’s books?”
“No, dear, I don’t think it is. But I never remember an author’s name
and I don’t think it matters!”
“I suppose I’m getting squeamish! But this Ronald Firbank I can’t take
to at all. _Valmouth!_ Was there ever a novel more coarse. I assure you
I hadn’t gone very far when I had to put it down.”
“It’s _out_,” Mrs Bedley suavely said, “as well,” she added, “as the
rest of them.”
“I once met him,” Miss Hopkins said, dilating slightly the _retinæ_ of
her eyes: “He told me writing books was by no means easy!”
Mrs Barleymoon shrugged.
“Have you nothing more enthralling, Mrs Bedley,” she persuasively
asked, “tucked away?”
“Try _The Call of the Stage_, dear,” Mrs Bedley suggested.
“You forget, Mrs Bedley,” Mrs Barleymoon replied, regarding solemnly
her _crêpe_.
“Or _Mary of the Manse_, dear.”
“I’ve read _Mary of the Manse_ twice, Mrs Bedley--and I don’t propose
to read it again.”
“..........?”
“..........!”
Mrs Bedley became abstruse.
“It’s dreadful how many poets take to drink,” she reflected.
A sentiment to which her subscribers unanimously assented.
“I’m taking _Men are Animals_, by the Hon. Mrs Victor Smythe, and _What
Every Soldier Ought to Know_, Mrs Bedley,” Miss Hopkins breathed.
“And I _The East is Whispering_,” Mrs Barleymoon in hopeless tones
affirmed.
“Robert Hitchinson! He’s a good author.”
“Do you think so? I feel his books are all written in hotels with the
bed unmade at the back of the chair.”
“And I daresay you’re right, my dear.”
“Well, Mrs Bedley, I must go--if I want to walk to my husband’s grave,”
Mrs Barleymoon declared.
“Poor Bessie Barleymoon,” Mrs Bedley sighed, after Mrs Barleymoon and
Miss Hopkins had gone: “I fear she frets!”
“We all have our trials, Mrs Bedley.”
“And some more than others.”
“Court life, Mrs Bedley, it’s a funny thing.”
“It looks as though we may have an English Queen, Mrs Montgomery.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Most of the daily prints I see are devoting leaders to the little dog
the Princess Elsie sent out the other day.”
“Odious, ill-mannered, horrid little beast....”