A prig in Paris

SYLVIA LYON

An American girl explains how she happened to spend the week-end with a happily unmarried French couple

My telephone rang.

"William?"

"Bianca! Where have you been?"

"In Biarritz."

"And you didn't even send me a . . ." we chanted together.

"A post-card," Bianca continued, "because if I had you would have said coldly, upon my return, 'I never reply to post-cards.' That is win I like you, William, you never take post-cards literally, like Humphrey Stuart."

"Humph?"

"Exactly, and stop right there. We won't talk about him. How are you William, and what are you doing?"

"I am in bed with a . . ."

"William! I know by your complaining instead of boastful voice that it's only a cold. Is it a bad one?"

"Well, if I say it's a bad one you will be afraid to come to see me, and what good is a bad cold if it will do me no good?"

As Bianca entered my room I sneezed guardedly, not a very convincing sneeze, for my cold was located solely in my right shoulder. Bianca waved a restrained "Yoo-Hoo" from across the room, and I tried to wave back with my right hand, politely, as my mother had taught me.

"That's a pretty face of welcome," Bianca remarked, and turned to admire a cloudy Florentine mirror with an air of critical objectivity, but not too detachedly to prevent her from admiring her own face. Then she sat down gingerly, delicately caressing the arms of a Louis XV bergere.

"Don't be afraid to sit on the velvet," I said hospitably. "It hasn't a cane bottom."

"So I feel," she answered, "but I have a stiff one. I am doing exercises on the floor everv morning that I remember to. Pour étrc belle il faut souffrir, or is it il font souffrir pour étre belle? But what does it matter, for the suffering will show on my face, and where I ma turn out to be beautiful nobody will be able to see. The girl is becoming loose in her talk, but so would you if you had been in the company of a prig like Humphrey Stuart. Humphrey Stuart, what a divine name! And I may add he is utterly handsome and a perfect pill, intelligent but stupid, just the kind of man my family would like me to marry.

"Humphrey is the type of American who is convinced that there is something just a little bit shady about every European, an idea that will help him a great deal in his career, I don't think. He imagines that all the world needs today is a man like himself in the diplomatic service. He is studying here in Paris at the £cole des Sciences Politiques. but I told him that if he wants to become an American diplomat, all he has to do is to study the roles of all stage characters who say and do the wrong thing.

"He simply tore through Europe this summer, disapproving of everybody until lie came to me. Of course, he would not admit that he approves of me. After all, why should he? He knew me when I was a child. The climax to his horror of Europe's decadence and immorality was reached one night at the Baeuf sur le Toit. 'Is that the kitchen?' he suddenly asked with an uncomfortable expression. Yes,' I replied, 'the drinks come from that door, and,' I indicated, 'they go out of that one.' "Thank you,' Humphrey said, rising, 'you are a little mind-reader, that's what you are!' And he laughed in that self-conscious tone that, according to Aldous Huxley, clergymen employ to show you that they are human beings after all. While he was gone Arthur Rubinstein, the pianist, came over to speak to me, and was about to leave when Humphrey returned. I introduced them, and Rubinstein left but immediately returned to us with another man whom he presented as Monsieur Bernstein. Then Arthur left but M. Bernstein remained and promptly ordered veal cutlets. As M. Bernstein was already leaning over and talking to a woman at the next table, Humphrey remarked in a voice intended for my ear alone, but as the music stopped at that instant he sounded like a train-announcer: 'Rubinstein! Bernstein! What kind of people do you associate with?'

"'Be quiet," I whispered intensely, "1 think it's Henry Bernstein, the playwright.' 'Oh you do, do you,' scoffed Humphrey. "You are always imagining that people are celebrities. It is part of your idealist's nature,' and he fatuously patted my hand. Just then Bernstein turned his attention to me and asked, 'Have you seen my play, Melo? No? I will send you tickets tomorrow.' (Footnote: that was months ago and I haven't received the tickets yet, and that's what I think of you, Henry Bernstein.)"

Bianca carelessly saluted the dramatist's envisioned image.

" 'I want to find an American girl to dance around the world with me—je suis for de la danse,' Bernstein went on, half to me and half to his veal cutlets, 'but she must pay her own expenses.'

"With that Humphrey called for the check. I am sure Bernstein was delighted, but I thought Humphrey had been entirely too abrupt. 'Let me take you out of all this,' Humphrey said, standing in the street with his hat solemnly in his hand, and it was raining, William, it was raining.

"It was the next day, and no wonder, that I went to Biarritz to stay with the Les RocheAmbert, whom I adore. In my room I found some snapshot post-cards of their villa. I sent one to Humphrey saying, 'X marks my room. Wish you was here.' Now, William, I am sure that millions of people all over the world have sent post-cards to their friends saying 'X marks my room. Wish YOU was here. But it had to be a post-card written by me to a jackass like Humphrey Stuart that would cause the telephone to ring within forty-eight hours and an ecstatic voice to say, 'Bianca, I am here.' What could I say? After all. what could Lafayette say when Pershing announced, 'We are here'?

"At half-past twelve we met in the Bar Basque. "Are you having a very gay time?' he asked. 'Oh no,' I answered, 'we are just having a nice quiet time.' 'But I thought Biarritz was quite gay all the year round,' said Humphrey, looking at me doubtfully. 'So it is.' I agreed, "but we don't go out at all. Gabrielle and Raymond lead a very retired life.' Which was true at the moment because Raymond's very rich uncle was practically dying,—that is. he had a temperature of 99.6 but Raymond had hopes, and thought it best not to be seen out anywhere.

"I could see that I would have to do something fairly drastic to get rid of Humphrey. While meditating, I ordered a bacardi, which I rarely do. T fear you are going to the dogs, Bianca,' he said lightly. So I answered, 'Yes,

I feel that I must in order to maintain my social position." Humphrey coughed impressively and inquired, 'Who are these people with whom you are staying, Bianca?' 'A perfectly delightful unmarried couple,' I answered. "What!' he screamed.

"'Oh yes, of course,' I resumed while Humphrey's mouth was still open, 'they are known here as the Comte and Comtesse de la Roche-Ambert, but they aren't married. It is very touching: she left her wealthy husband and is living with Raymond in seduced circumstances. The villa, of course, is hers, but her legal husband does not care. They all meet now and then. The last time I happened to be on a motor trip with the three of them' (you should have seen Humphrey's face, William) "there was a blow-out and the husband said, "You owe it to me, Raymond, mon vieux, to change the tire, for after all I have given you the best years of my wife." Oh I say, Humphrey, Gabrielle wants you to dine with us tonight. Half past eight; don't dress!' Humphrey looked resignedly brave. As we left the bar Gabrielle's car drove up and the chauffeur said, 'Madame Ta Comtesse asks if Mademoiselle would fetch her beret Basque from Reboux and stop in at the market to see if the camembert is good.' This symbol of luxurious domesticated sin drove Humphrey back into the bar.

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(Continued from page 45)

"I will never forget that evening at dinner: Gabrielle, charming and brilliant, and her chic little blond bead and laughing green eyes. She was quarrelling a little with Raymond just like a married couple. Then afterwards: there is nothing like sitting down before a roaring fire, when the lights are very low, is there, William, and telling dirty stories?

"Of course I can never really tell them. I get just as far as 'Have you heard this,' when I explode with laughter. I got as far as the third 'Have you heard this,' when Gabrielle rose and said, 'Alors, mais tu m'embetes.' I thought she was going to bed, but she came over to me and gave me a terrible swat with a book. The idea of my being chastised for not telling a story scandalized Humphrey. Like all prigs who have no manner, but too many manners, he bent over to pick up the book that had rebounded from my girlish body. The book happened to be not only Baudelaire's Fleurs du Mid, but a limited edition containing the suppressed poems, violently and precisely illustrated.

"Twenty-four hours later I received a cable saying: 'This month's allowance your last stop use it to buy ticket home winter rates stop Mother.'

"I stood at my open window and across an intervening hill the sea was very blue, and soaring above the villa were the loveliest pines (I think they are pines) that I have ever seen. Gabrielle and Raymond I knew were in the vegetable garden back of the house. Up the curving drive a taxi was crawling noisily. I went downstairs and of course there was Humphrey. 'I felt it my duty,' he announced, 'to cable your family that you are going with charming, well-bred, but not exactly respectable people. Of course, I am still willing to marry you.'

"I was silent in deeply thoughtful rage when Gabrielle and Raymond entered. 'I did so enjoy myself last evening,' Humphrey thanked them with pale grace. 'Oh did you?' I asked, interestedly. 'Where were you?' T was here, of course,' he said, 'don't be nonsensical, Bianca.' 'Here?' I echoed in astonishment, squeezing Gabrielle's arm and gently kicking Raymond at the same time, 'Why, we were dining at Raymond's mother's house.' Gabrielle said, 'You are looking rather pale, Mr. Stuart.' 'Do have something to drink,' urged Raymond. 'Yes, do' I said. 'Humphry has been looking a bit off lately, and rather acting it too,' I added with concern.

" 'Gabrielle,' I observed suddenly, 'what a perfectly beautiful poudriere.' 'It is lovely, isn't it?' she agreed. 'It was a cigarette box that belonged to Raymond's father. He had Cartier make it into a powder box for me for our last wedding anniversary.'"

"And so they were married all the time?" I asked.

"William! Of course. Ten years ago, and at Notre Dame at that."

I asked Bianca how that day ended.

"Most of it was taken up with my telephoning to my parents in California, and explaining that Humphrey Stuart was crazy. That part was momentarily true, because it took quite a long time to explain, and I made him pay for the long-distance call.

"Just think, William. I really owe getting rid of Humphrey to Henry Bernstein, who inspired me to tell Humphrey those lies. His Heroines are such gorgeous liars!"