Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 780
Penthièvre was inclined to agree with that... And then Penkethman had suggested that Monsieur could set most of his doubts at rest by feigning an illness and sending for Walter late at night. In that way he would assure himself that the two young people occupied one cabin and that Walter certainly was a doctor with inclinations towards research. He could also keep Walter long enough to let the ship’s detective go carefully through the young man’s things in his unoccupied cabin. Penthièvre had demurred a little at the thought of spying on the privacy of the young couple but at last, considering the greatness of the interests at stake, he had accepted the idea.... It had made it all the better that when the valet had come to Cassie’s cabin Walter had really been engaged in reading to her from the detective story. Cassie had been anxious to perfect her French.... Mr Penkethman paused at that point to drink a whole schooner of beer, and Cassie took up the tale:... Walter, she said, had recognised at once that Penthièvre had managed to get up a temperature by the simple device of drinking some pretty hot water just before Walter’s arrival and had simulated certain internal symptoms by taking what was probably some sort of mercuric pill which, in any case was a good thing to take on your first night on a ship.... And Walter had simulated, as skilfully, the manner of a physician diagnosing a digestive derangement attended by slight fever and the other symptoms.
And then the French statesman had broached the topic of the pituitary gland.... Walter did not have to simulate enthusiasm about that subject and the Frenchman had sufficient medical knowledge to convince himself that Walter’s enthusiasm was quite genuine. It appeared that M. de la Penthièvre in his youth had inclined to the study of medicine and had then given that up for the Law, a profession that in France usually leads to a political career. He had nevertheless continued to take an interest in the subject of his first studies and he appears to have listened to Walter’s excursions on the topic of the gland with real interest. And Walter, as was proper, really considered that investigations of that organ would eventually lead to the cure of most mortal ills, whether physical or mental. He certainly seemed to have impressed Penthièvre with the idea that his enthusiasm for his studies might well exclude all political divagations from his mind. So that Penthièvre had seemed really cordial when Walter left him.
The next day, Cassie said, had been, as Penkethman would remember, sufficiently rough more or less to keep them all in their separate classes on the ship; on the next Walter had had the idea of feigning sea-sickness so that he might leave the ill-fated detective story in his berth and yet sit near the door. Cassie had shown her pictures to the two elder gentlemen in her still rather rolling cabin. Penkethman would remember that M. de la Penthièvre had displayed a great deal of liking for the pictures; nevertheless his enthusiasm had not gone beyond the bounds of polite hyperbole such as any Frenchman is expected at any moment to put up. On leaving the cabin M. de la Penthièvre had paid what wasn’t much more than a sick-room visit to Walter, talking at first of sea-sickness in general and then going off onto the topic of French Canadian genealogy.
As far as Cassie could remember Walter’s people had been settled in Quebec already in the days of Montcalm, in some sort of legal official position. And M. de la Penthièvre had expressed unusual pleasure at discovering that amongst his collateral ancestors had been someone with a name like Boussole de la Tissandière — though that wasn’t exactly it — an ancestor of a family with whom his son had been intimately allied.
“The name,” Mr. Penkethman said, “his mother’s correct name was Boulaye de la Tissanderie.” He spoke rather quickly for him and, Cassie could not help thinking, with a certain agitation. “His mother, Berthe de la Boulaye de la Tissanderie,” he said more slowly, “was not, rightly speaking, a Canadian but a Miquelonnaise... From the fragment of Canada that still belongs to France — so that her blood is more purely French and her family’s contact with France more intimate.... Leroy, the husband, was of quite respectable, originally Canadian blood... But not like the Tissanderies who certainly had some royal blood about them...
“Then,” Cassie exclaimed accusingly, “you do know Walter.... But he appeared not to know you. That’s rather odd, isn’t it?”
Mr Penkethman waved his head slowly from side to side. “In my profession,” he said sadly, “we have the habit of keeping little things up our sleeves.... Little bits of knowledge.” He thought again and then went on. “I could not be said to know Walter Leroy....”
“But since he’s called Leroy,” Cassie interrupted, “wouldn’t you think that it was the father’s family that would be the more distinguished of the two?”
Mr Penkethman said with a touch of frostiness:
“If you would accept my information without question it would save time. I repeat that the husband was of no particular account though he was a very keen leather-goods salesman when he was not mentally indisposed. Berthe de la Boulaye on the other hand was of almost illustrious descent. And a charming woman, though poor until she was married....”
Cassie maintained a slightly offended silence — having the conviction that that would make the old gentleman continue his revelations.
“I knew Walter’s family,” he accordingly went on, “years ago in Paris. I knew them even before his birth — at first professionally and then... almost intimately.... The husband had allowed himself to be swindled by what in England they call ‘long-firm’ crooks. The crooks were English, so I, as being a detective-interpreter was sent over to help the French in their investigations.... The... the husband had had the first of his mental breakdowns. So that....”
He broke off and remained silent for quite a time, looking unseeingly in front of him. Finally he said:
“It was a long time ago... I was almost slim in those days.... But Berthe de la Boulaye....”
He went off into a long, genealogical disquisition. It appeared that Walter had been named for a certain Gaultier de Mornay who had figured heroically in the fifteenth century amongst the ancestors of Walter’s mother.
But gradually his unusual garrulousness faded into remembering that they had been discussing M. de la Penthièvre and the voyage of the Bourgogne. He had asked how much Walter had been able to talk about his ancestors to the Grand Chamberlain and when Cassie said that it had seemed to be quite a lot Mr Penkethman said with conviction that, as he had had reason to think at the time, that had certainly provided the finishing note for Penthièvre’s belief that Walter could not be a Communist. Frenchmen of good family are apt to be unreasonably credulous as to what good blood will do for you. “Bon sang,” as the saying is amongst them, “ne ment pas.” And M. de la Penthièvre had gone so far as, before Penkethman, to laugh gently at himself for having imagined that anyone who had in his veins the blood of a Boussole, a Tissandière and of half a dozen aristocratic families whose name Penkethman could not now recall — that a man so descended could be led into subscribing to the plebeian errors of communism however fashionable it might have become....
But even at that, Cassie said, the bearded statesman had not gone further than expressing for Walter the cordiality that a very distant relative might show and towards herself a rather aloof gallantry such as a great man might vouchsafe to a young woman whom he took to be the agreeable mistress of a young but distant connection.
“You understand,” she said now, “that he didn’t show any signs of desiring to see us after the voyage was over — except in such little things as saying that if we wished to visit the Loire castles that were not usually open to the public he’d be happy to give us letters to the owners....” She stopped and sat looking down at her hands on the table. Suddenly she asked:
“What did he say to you? It’s your turn to contribute to this inquiry. What did he say about my pictures?”
Mr Penkethman held his head on one side so that he seemed to be inspecting the ceiling with his right eye.
“He made,” he said at last, “an illuminating generalisation. He said that you would repay encouragement. But I think he made it plain that he didn’t himself intend to be the encourager.” Mr Penkethman could not remember the statesman’s exact words. He had been talking about people who bought works of art with the idea of profit. Talking about them with the contempt of a nobleman for the profiteer. They had started talking about their collections. Penkethman’s pictures were nearly all works by modem artists from the Impressionists onwards. He had started buying them after the supporters of Mr Hitler had expelled the works of French modem pictures from the German museums. He had in consequence got them at very moderate prices... a pretty good small Corot for frs 20,000, two quite good Renoirs for 15,000 apiece — which had meant in those days $1,000. And so on.
M. de la Penthièvre’s collection, of course, had been larger — and considerably older. He had inherited three Poussins, a Rigaudin, three portraits of Ingres’, four Courbets.... His ancestors had bought pictures moderately and intelligently ever since the eighteenth century.... But both gentlemen agreed in saying that they bought and held their pictures for enjoyment. They liked to sit looking at them, for the pleasure of it. With no idea of sales.
And then M. de la Penthièvre had made the remark that Cassie was the sort of painter who would repay encouragement. Supposing he had been the sort of fellow who wanted to make a bit by picture dealing on the side he might buy a picture or so of hers to encourage her and to make her keep on working.... He hadn’t said in so many words that, as it was, he wouldn’t buy her. He had merely left it at that. That had been on the third evening.
Cassie said that that was very interesting. It wasn’t often that the corpse heard the ghouls discussing their principles of consumption.
“But,” she went on, “if that was all you said about me it bears out what I said about his not having really taken us two to his bosom until almost the last moment of the voyage.... After we had heard that the King-elect had been assassinated.”
Or she thought that. They must have had the news about half past seven. Wasn’t that it? She had been walking with Walter and Penthièvre. Along the sun deck, towards the bar in the rear. Penthièvre had been going to stand them cocktails. He had excused himself. Very calmly, considering the interests he must have had at stake. And had gone to the upper deck, presumably to the wireless station.
They had gone to the bar and had heard the details. The king had got out of his car on the Place de l’Opéra and, followed by an immense crowd, had gone afoot down the Boulevard des Capucines. In that way the boulevard behind him had been packed with humanity and cars but the sidewalk ahead had been fairly empty and normal. He had got safely as far as the rue Vignon — nearly to the Madeleine. Then a man had come out of a tobacconist’s and had stabbed him twice near the right shoulderblade. In the bar they had not heard more than that but during dinner various contradictory reports had come in. The king was dead. The king was not very seriously injured. The king had been wearing a coat of mail. No, the king was dead. And so on.... She asked Penkethman how Penthièvre had taken it.
Penkethman said that that Frenchman had managed to maintain an air of almost icy calm. If he had had nerves he had only betrayed them by pinching his lower lip through his beard. He had done that three or four times. He had sat in the little writing-room — the little one on the port side — and had written despatch after despatch, some in cypher which went to his own private operator, some in plain language which had gone to the ship’s wireless man. Two long ones in cypher he had begged Penkethman to carry to the operator in closed envelopes. Apparently they had been of so secret a nature that that royalist did not care to give them to the ship’s bell-boys. “Apparently, too,” Penkethman concluded with one of his rare, pawky, inward smiles, “he had insight enough to see that, of all the people on the ship, including his own personal attendants, the only one he could absolutely trust was a collector who did not buy pictures for profit. And,” he added, “it’s a pretty good test.”
Penthièvre had certainly taken precautions. His private wireless operator who had travelled with him had been an English sapper officer — who neither spoke nor read French. He kept no duplicates of the messages and, as soon as they had been sent, Penkethman had carried the originals back to Penthièvre. As far as Penkethman could guess the cypher had been founded on a text from some book that the Frenchman had memorised. Because all the while he was writing the messages at frequent intervals he had closed his eyes and fingered what Mr Penkethman called the small of his beard.
He had without doubt been terribly grief-stricken. He had apparently really loved the young man he called his sovereign. That is always possible. And that apart, it appeared that the cause for which he had worked for years must collapse at the very moment of his triumph. It must have been a desperate disillusionment. If the king could have reigned for another month — for another fortnight even! He had sat for a long time, silent in the little room, his lips moving; his eyes fixed in front of him; his face deathly pale and rigid. A cable had been brought to him... a very long cable. His face had grown more rigid; more pale, with the features peaked. He resembled a portrait of one of his ancestors, painted by some ancient Fleming, in sooty blacks and livid whites... And faded....
Then, suddenly he had struck the writing table in front of him with the ham of his hand. He had rung for his groom of the chamber, his valet and his chauffeur, all dark young men. He had exclaimed to them:
“My children. The news is good,” and he waved the long cable. He told those young men to hasten amongst the officers, the crew, the stewards, and to inform them on the authority of him, Gaston, Marquis de la Penthièvre, that the rumour that the king was dead had been no more than a stockbroker’s canard. He had the news in that cable, from the highest source. Let it be denied as soon as possible.
He sprang up from the table and exclaimed to Mr Penkethman that they must go and eat.... The nearly empty dining-room had thrilled to the news that he gave them.... Once more waving the cable. The king was well and whole. Never better or more whole. The dastardly attack had been absolutely abortive. He had called for the best wine from the ship’s cellar in which to toast their glorious and benevolent Prince! He had eaten a great meal. With zest and animation.... And later there had come not merely to him but to the whole ship by the public operator a message from the King himself. He thanked his faithful subjects for their sympathy; he announced that the attack had been abortive and begged his lieges to maintain the most profound peace through his dominions....
That had been about half past nine. He had walked the deck with Penkethman for some time, one person and another coming up and shaking him by the hand. To each one he had addressed a little flowery, carefully worded speech. Good times were coming. That had lasted for perhaps an hour....
Cassie commented:
“Yes, it was just half past ten that he came to us. With a copy of the royal cable.” He had seemed extremely calm
and quite unhurried. He had sat on a small chair whilst Cassie had finished her packing; he had enquired what tours they intended to make in France; had invited them to his château at Bar-le-Prince. He had told them that if they experienced any difficulties in moving about they must apply to him for assistance and then, as an afterthought, had asked Walter for his passport and had written in it the famous laisser passer. And suddenly he had said that he would buy Cassie’s New Hampshire picture if she would make a little alteration in it. He would call on her and tell her exactly what he proposed.... An hour later they had docked in Cherbourg, had been whisked off the ship, like Penkethman himself, with the aid of Penthièvre’s own attendants into Penthièvre’s own special train.... And that had been not twenty-four hours ago.... And out of that twenty-four Walter had been away already twelve. What were they to think?
Mr Penkethman remained silent for a long time and at last asked her what she made of the whole story.
“What leaps to my eye,” she said, “after recapitulating like that, is that M. de la Penthièvre was determined to keep an eye on us.... But with what motive? What possible motive? It could not be merely because of our youth and charm. Or our wealth. Or our social prestige. And you’ve pretty effectively ruled out the idea that he was after my person. Then what? What motives do people have for keeping their eyes on other people?... And then... what has become of Walter? What motives do young men have for leaving, without a word said, their... call it brides?”
Mr Penkethman heaved his mountainous body as if in preparation for rising.
“There seem to be at the moment two or three too many alternatives,” he said. “On the face of it you would say that the most evident solution is that M. de la Penthièvre suspected both of you of being dangerous Communists and that he has had Walter arrested. And that he has made the alteration of your picture a pretext for calling on you. That does not altogether fit”... Because why did he not have her arrested too? Or why, if Walter had been arrested had he been allowed to send the detective book to her? Walter might of course have left the book in a taxi before he had been arrested. But Cassie alleged that the fly-leaf of the book held a certain message for her. Were they then to think that he had suspected the arrest and whilst waiting for it had scribbled the message on the fly-leaf? That hardly seemed likely. They could hardly imagine that a detective had approached the young man and had said:
“In five minutes you will be arrested. Make your dispositions with that in view.”
He heaved himself into a half-standing position with his two hands supporting him on the table top.
