La Duchesse
Wednesday afternoon, November 27, Paris. Dexter Jones walked through the high double doors into the foyer of the elegant townhouse, the soft cream colored walls trimmed with gold gilt, dark oil paintings hanging in the spaces between tall windows, the wide interior walls resplendent with dark brown or forest green tapestries. He handed his card to a butler, who announced his name to the guests talking in small groups across the drawing room. A beautiful young woman, the hostess, glided across the carpet towards him, her hand outstretched in greeting. “Dexter, how nice of you to come.”
Dexter took her hand and brought it up and made a light kiss. “Duchesse, you look younger each time I see you. What is your secret?”
“Mine? Well, many,” and she pursed her lips in a light smile while her eyes took on a sly glimmer giving her a vixen-like look, a look Dexter knew she could use to devastating effect. He lingered for a moment in the embrace of a warm memory.
She watched, amusement dancing in her eyes, and then turned like a schoolgirl, her expression suddenly winsome and gay, and said to the other guests, “Look, we have an American.”
Several laughed and all smiled. Many already knew Dexter. They remembered whose arm he had been on then. More smiles.
The duchesse turned back to Dexter. “Your friend Geneviève is here,” and she nodded in a direction towards the windows.
Dexter’s eyes followed and he saw Geneviève Tabouis holding forth with a small circle around her. Dexter smiled at the duchesse and said, “I better turn you loose to your admirers or they will plot against me.” She gave a little laugh and gestured that he was free to go. Dexter walked over to the circle around Geneviève and stood at the edge.
She saw him, gave a smile, and kept right on talking to the men and women around her. “Laval is pursuing a two-faced policy. The scene we are now witnessing at Geneva is a mere comedy between Rome, Paris and London. Laval puts on a pretense about sanctions on Italy, but behind the scenes he maneuvers for the benefit of Mussolini.”
Dexter knew the group: a vicomte, a comte, and a vicomtesse and several other titled persons of privileged status and comfortable means.
The vicomte argued strongly, “Laval is taking the only sensible course here.”
Geneviève looked down her long aquiline nose at him quite skeptically. She was always the best actress at diplomatic gatherings, thought Dexter. Even real actresses deferred to her.
The vicomte continued, “France has great need of the Italian alliance.” Yes, Dexter agreed with that, more or less; he understood that was the key point of Laval’s overall foreign policy.
The comtesse entered the fray. “France can do without the League of Nations and certainly without Ethiopia.” Dexter smiled inwardly; the comtesse had thrown the baby out with the bath water; her argument crossed into the realm of absurdity.
Geneviève countered, “My dear comtesse, I believe the League of Nations is the center of France’s foreign policy. The keystone of the arch, so to speak.”
The comtesse stood momentarily stupefied. Geneviève nodded politely, if not dismissively, at her and then stepped away towards Dexter. “Let’s take a glass of champagne.”
Dexter swept his arm towards a table set out with glasses and ice buckets. They walked over. A servant handed him a flute of champagne, which he handed to Geneviève. He took the next flute offered. Geneviève looked back at the aristocrats darkly and murmured to Dexter, “They are always one or two republics behind.”
Dexter laughed. “Yes, an elegant carriage awaits to carry away their arguments.”
Geneviève scowled. “I would prefer a tumbrel for their reactionary mush,” referring to the heavy wooden-wheeled carts used to trundle the nobility to the guillotine during the Terror of the Revolution.
Dexter tsked, tsked. “A traitor to your own class?”
Geneviève looked up with flashing good humor in her eyes and smiled at his remark. As her smile receded, she said, “But I must tell you,” a weary tone coming over her voice, “even on my own paper I find myself talking to deaf ears. The pacifists are solidly lined up behind Laval. So idealistic, so wrong.”
Dexter turned his expression into a question mark.
“To think that I attached so much value to the freedom of my pen. Of what use is it—if my clear-headed colleagues…”
“Pertinax?” Dexter said in reference to the other great diplomatic columnist in Paris.
“Yes, of course,” she said absently and continued, “If we are unable to incite among our compatriots protests strong enough to compel Laval to return to the true traditions of the country, then what?”
Dexter said, “You and Pertinax have great influence.”
“Maybe. My own editor chides me ‘You must remember Tabouis that there are many Italophiles among our readers.’” She looked at Dexter, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “And I said, ‘You mean among our stockholders.’”
Dexter laughed. “He shouldn’t cross pencils with you.”
Geneviève became reflective. “I believe, that if the occasion arose and I could prove Laval’s duplicity, I would have public opinion with me, that I could arouse French public opinion. We could stop having these ‘understandings’ with dictators.”
Dexter replied, “For now, Geneviève, let’s see where he goes with the British. They seem the key to bringing an effective conciliation with Italy into effect.”
Geneviève said, “Yes, the rumor is that Hoare and Laval are to meet in Paris with conciliation in mind. At Geneva, people asked me—‘What are they up to?’” She shrugged her shoulders.
Dexter concluded, “For now, Laval faces a vote of confidence in the Chamber of Deputies Friday night on the finance program. Will I see you there?”
“Yes.”