*chapter Iv*
*RAYMOND OF THE S. AE. F.*
The Masculine Will had conquered. You had only to be firm with women—bless their hearts! and they caved directly… Couldn’t hold out… Not built that way… Franky’s sternly-clamped upper-lip relaxed. He beamed as he proposed a noonday stroll in the Bois. In the direction of the bigger Lake, by one of the narrower avenues, or if Margot preferred a look-in at the Polo Club, another avenue, intersecting the Allee de Longchamps and skirting the enclosure of the Gun Club, would take them there in a jiffy, via Bagatelle.
Margot assented to the latter proposition, and, with a little flutter of the lips Franky accepted as a smile, reached for her egret stole, a filmy feathery thing she had removed on entering Nadier’s, and drew on her long mousquetaire gloves and pulled down her veil of sunset chiffon, half shaded red, merging into jonquil yellow matching the shade of her marvellous gown. And Franky paid the bill in plump English sovereigns (invariably exchanged as good for louis of twenty francs by the suave and smiling waiter) and tipped the said waiter extravagantly, and took his hat from the second waiter (who invariably starts up by the side of the first when you are going) and tipped him, and got his stick from the third waiter (who came forward with this, and the en tout cas of Madame—a lovely thing in the latest dome-shape, of black net over jonquil colour, with a flounce, and an ivory stick, upon the top of which sat a green monkey in olivines, eating a ruby fruit), and lighted another cigarette, and returned the elaborate bow of the manager with a nod of the cheerful patronising order as he followed Margot through the Rambler-wreathed archway leading by a flight of shallow steps from Nadier’s terrace to the wide carriage-sweep that links the broad Allee de Longchamps with the narrower Route de Madrid. And the towering plume of her astonishing hat brought down a shower of red rose-petals as she passed out before him—and Franky, with some of these on his top-hat-brim and others nestling in the front of his waistcoat, was irresistibly reminded of their wedding-day.
Unconsciously, Franky and Margot quitted the broader, more frequented avenue, crowded with people in carriages, people in automobiles, people on motor-bicycles and bicyclettes, and followed narrower pathways, stretching between green lawns adorned with shrubberies and clumps of stately forest trees, and chiefly patronised by sweethearting couples, nursemaids in charge of children, children in domineering but affectionate charge of white-haired ladies, while venerable gentlemen dozed on rustic benches over the columns of Figaro or Paris Midi.
When even these figures became rare, it was borne in upon Franky that he and Margot were not upon a path that led to the Grounds of the Polo Club. Reluctantly, he admitted himself lost.
“Does it matter? …” Margot’s voice was weary. “If you’re absolutely set on it, we could ask one of those men in cocked hats and waxed moustaches and red-and-yellow shoulder-cords to give us the straight tip. But I don’t feel the least bit keen about the Polo Club any more than the Lakes. These alleys are quiet, and the grass is nice and green. I vote we go on.”
“Madame cannot pass this way. It is not open for strangers.”
A Republican Guard, a good-looking sous-officier, had spoken, comprehending the tone rather than the English words.
“Why not?” Margot’s eyes suddenly brightened. She eagerly sniffed the air of the forbidden avenue. The corporal, indicating with his white-gloved hand other Republican Guards posted at equal distances down the prohibited alley, and at its intersection with another some two hundred yards distant, brought his eyes back to Margot to answer:
“Madame, for the reason that certain military operations are taking place here to-day.”
“But my husband is an English officer—“ Margot was beginning, when Franky, reddening to his hat-brim, exhorted her to be quiet, and the Republican Guard, civilly saluting, stepped upon the grass and moved away.
“All the same, you are an English officer,” Margot persisted, “and what use is the Entente if that doesn’t count?”
“Best child, don’t be a giddy goose!” Franky implored her. “You don’t suppose the Authorities care a bad tomato for an English Loot—what they’d cotton to would have to be a British Brass Hat of the very biggest kind. Look there!—more to your left, little battums!” He indicated yet other Republican cocked hats strung at equal distances down the length of a neighbouring alley, precisely outlining the farther border of the sandwich-shaped halfacre of greensward by which their particular avenue ran. “And there!” His professional eye had noted a big, grey-painted military motor-lorry, numbered, and lettered “S. Ae. F.” Behind the driver’s seat towered the slender T-shaped steel mast of a Field wireless, whose spidery aerials, pegged to the turf, were in charge of men in kepis and blue overalls, while a non-commissioned officer, wearing the telephone head-band of the operator, leaned on the elbow-rest of the tripod supporting the apparatus, his finger on the buzzer-key. Near him his clerk squatted, pencil and pad in readiness, while at a respectful distance from two oblong patches of white in the middle of the green plat of turf, several active upright figures in dark uniforms stood conversing, or walking to and fro.
“Officiers Aviateurs, telegraphists and mechanics of the French Service Aeronautique”—you are listening to Franky—“tremendously well-organised compared with our little footling Flying Corps, tinkered fourteen months ago out of the old Air Battalion of the R. E. These chaps are Engineers—goin’ by the dark red double stripes on their overalls and their dark blue kepis. Some of their machines’ll be out for practice. Despatch-droppin’ or bombs. Here’s a man with brass on his hat, coming our way… Takes me for a German soger-orficer I shouldn’t wonder!—lots of ’em get their clothes cut in Bond Street. But though you can hide Allemand legs in English trousers”—Franky was recovering his customary cheeriness—“and some of ’em do it uncommon cleverly—you can’t deodorise an accent that hails from Berlin.”
The officer approaching—a youthful, upright figure walking quickly, with the short, springy steps of a man much in the saddle—proved to be grey-haired and grey-moustached. The double-winged badge of his Service was embroidered in gold upon the right sleeve of his tunic, and upon the collar, a single wing in this case, ending in a star. He carried binoculars suspended from his neck by a rolled-leather thong, and a revolver in a black-leather case was attached to the belt about his middle. There was thick white dust upon the legs and uppers of his high polished black boots, which the grass had scoured from the toes and soles. His bright blue-grey eyes ran over Franky as the slight soldierly salute was exchanged. He said, speaking in excellent English:
“If Monsieur, the English officer, will obligingly mention his name, rank, and regiment, it might be possible to allow him to continue his promenade with Madame, the invention we are testing being the patent of his countryman, and already familiar to the Authorities at the British War Office.”
Thus coerced, Franky produced his card, Margot dimpled into smiles, the polite officer saluted again, introduced himself as Raymond, Capitaine-Commandant pilot of the—th escadrille, wheeled and walked away. But he returned to say, this time directly addressing Margot:
“Should Madame la Vicomtesse desire to witness the test of her countryman’s—apparatus, there can be no objection to her doing so. But that Madame should keep clear of the vicinity of the”—he pointed to the two oblong strips of white canvas adorning the middle of the expanse of green,—“the signal, intended for the guidance of the aviator, is of absolute necessity, Madame must understand!”
“There won’t be any…?” Margot was beginning, nervously.
“Mais non, Madame. Pas d’explosion,” the officer assured her, and stiffened to attention facing eastwards, and scanning the sky with eyes that blinked in the dazzling glare of early noon. For the droning whirr of a plane just then reached them, drowning the sign of the hot south breeze that rustled in the tops of the acacias and oaks, ilexes and poplars, that rose about the arena of open ground…