A Question of Upbringing - Anthony Powell [62]
“But how astonishing – I have met him.”
As a matter of fact, I had thought of Farebrother almost as soon as Monsieur Dubuisson had mentioned his own war record, because it had immediately occurred to me how much Jimmy Stripling would have loathed Monsieur Dubuisson, with his wounds and citations. Besides, Monsieur Dubuisson’s treatment of the circumstances of his war career made Farebrother’s references to his own military past seem infinitely fastidious.
“But why should you think it astonishing?” asked Monsieur Dubuisson, with one of his withering smiles, which spread over the whole of his face, crinkling the features into the shape of a formal mask of comedy, crowned with greyish-mauve locks. “Captain Farebrother is a man I know to go about a great deal in society. What could be more natural than that you should have met him?”
I did not know in those days that it was impossible to convince egoists of Monsieur Dubuisson’s calibre that everyone does not look on the world as if it were arranged with them – in this case Monsieur Dubuisson – at its centre; and, not realising that, in his eyes, the only possible justification for my turning up at La Grenadière would be the fact that I had once met someone already known to him, I tried to explain that this acquaintanceship with Farebrother seemed to me an extraordinary coincidence. In addition to this, if I had been old enough to have experienced something of the world of conferences and semi-political affairs, in effect a comparatively small one, it would have seemed less unexpected that their meeting had taken place.
“He was a good fellow,” said Monsieur Dubuisson. “There was, as a matter of fact, a small question in which Captain Farebrother had shown himself interested, and of which I later heard nothing. Perhaps you know his address?”
“I am afraid not.”
“It is of no consequence,” said Monsieur Dubuisson. “I can easily trace him.”
All the same he cleared his throat again, rather crossly. I felt that all this talk about the war, by reviving old memories, had put him out of his stride. He pulled at his pipe for a time, and then returned to the subject of Monsieur Örn and Monsieur Lundquist.
“Now you were present when this falling-out took place,” he said. “Can you recite to me the pertinent facts?”
I told him how matters had looked to me as a witness of them. He listened carefully to the story, which sounded – I had to admit to myself – fairly silly when told in cold blood. When I came to the end he knocked out his pipe against the leg of the seat, and, turning towards me, said quite tolerantly: “Now look here, Jenkins, you know you and I cannot believe eyewash of that sort. Grown-up men do not quarrel about such things.”
“What were they quarrelling about, then?”
‘Monsieur Dubuisson gave his slow, sceptical smile. He shook his head several times.
“You are no longer a child, Jenkins,” he said. “I know that in England such matters are not – not stressed. But you have no doubt noticed at La Grenadière the presence of two charming young ladies. You have?”
I conceded this.
“Very good,” said Monsieur Dubuisson. “Very good.”
He rose from the seat, and stood looking down at me, holding his hands behind his back.. I felt rather embarrassed, thinking that he had perhaps guessed my own feelings for Suzette.
“Then what is there to be done about it?” I asked, to break the silence.
“Ah, mon vieux,” said Monsieur Dubuisson. “Well may you ask what is to be done about it. To me – troubled as I am with a mind that leaps to political parallels – the affair seems to me as the problems of Europe in miniature. Two young girls – two gentlemen. Which gentleman is to have which young girl? Your Government wishes mine to devalue the franc. We say the solution lies in your own policy of export.”
He shrugged his shoulders.