manor at Azincourt.
It's by train that our two protagonists go first to Arras.
"In days of old," says Amaury's companion in a nostalgic drawl,
"if you had an inclination, say, or an obligation, to go to Dinard
or Pornic, Arras or Cambrai, your only option was to climb into
a mail coach, usually a wobbly old jalopy. As your trip would
last from four to six days, you would try to ward off monotony
by chatting to your coachman, taking an occasional sip of brandy
from a flask, skimming through a radical tract, airing your
opinion on this, that and virtually anything you could think of,
talking shop, narrating an amusing play by Sardou and holding
forth on a cutthroat's trial that had all Paris in its grip (notwith-
standing his prodigious oratorical skills, you'd attack this
cutthroat's QC, who, disparaging all his antagonist's accusations,
alibis and affidavits as a put-up job, sought to disclaim, in toto,
what was almost cast-iron proof of guilt and also vilify a poor,
law-abiding pharmacist from whom our assassin had bought his
poison, laudanum; you'd find fault with this or that juror; nor
had that shifty procurator struck you as wholly trustworthy). You
would gratify your company with ironic bon mots on political
topics, wittily puncturing Du Paty du Clam's corruption, as also
8 1
Cassagnac's, Drumont's and Mac-Mahon's. You would sing that
"Chanson du Tourlouru" that Paulin or Bach was immortalising
in Paris's most modish nightclubs and music halls. You would
vigorously affirm your unconditional admiration for Rostand's
Cyrano or Sarah as I'Aiglon. Finally, you'd trot out a dirty story or two, about a maharajah and a cancan girl, or a vicar and a
choirboy, giving your auditors a good laugh whilst your mail
coach would roll on and on till dusk. At nightfall you would sup
in a charming rural inn. For a paltry six francs you'd tuck into
fish or crab, lamb or mutton, washing it all down with a good
strong Burgundy or a Latour-Marcillac, a Musigny or a Pom-
mard, gorging and carousing away till you'd had a skinful! Upon
which you would go for a long walk or, as you'd no doubt
call it in your hoity-toity fashion, a postprandial constitutional,
through a public park with stout oaks and spindly acacias and
tall, thin pawlonias, with marbly malls and lush and languid
lawns. You'd sip a Curasao, a maraschino or a boiling hot toddy.
You'd play a hand of whist or pharaoh. Or you might play a
round of billiards and win a franc or two from a local rustic.
And, gradually, you'd yawn and start to think about shambling
upstairs to your room. First, though, you'd drift into a chintzy
front room, in which you might obtain, gratis, a chocolat au kirsch,
a dainty bit of ribbon or a tiny flask of Armagnac. You'd find a
buxom maid to carry off with you up to your room and, having
had your filthy fun with this bit of crackling, you'd nod off at
last, all in."
"Uh huh," sighs Amaury, "nowadays you go by train. It's rapid,
but totally lacking in chic."
Concurring with this opinion, his companion draws out of
a bag on his lap a curious cardboard box full of oblong
cigars.
"A brazza?"
"I won't say no," says Amaury. "A propos , I still don't know what I'm to call you."
"Arthur Wilburg Savorgnan," says his companion.
8 2
"Is that so?" murmurs Amaury, caught short, but instantly
adding, "I'm Amaury Conson."
"Amaury Conson! Hadn't you a son who . .
Amaury abruptly cuts in. "I had six sons. All now, alas, food
for worms. All, that is, b u t - "
"Yvon!"
"That's right! But how do you know?"
Savorgnan grins. "Don't worry. You'll soon know my story.
What you should know now is that I too was a confidant of
Anton Vowl. But as I'm British, living at Oakwood, not far from
Oxford, I hardly saw him from month to month. That said,
though, Vowl was willing to talk about his condition, claiming,
as all of you know, that his dying day was at hand. Nobody took
him at his word — no, not Olga, not
It's by train that our two protagonists go first to Arras.
"In days of old," says Amaury's companion in a nostalgic drawl,
"if you had an inclination, say, or an obligation, to go to Dinard
or Pornic, Arras or Cambrai, your only option was to climb into
a mail coach, usually a wobbly old jalopy. As your trip would
last from four to six days, you would try to ward off monotony
by chatting to your coachman, taking an occasional sip of brandy
from a flask, skimming through a radical tract, airing your
opinion on this, that and virtually anything you could think of,
talking shop, narrating an amusing play by Sardou and holding
forth on a cutthroat's trial that had all Paris in its grip (notwith-
standing his prodigious oratorical skills, you'd attack this
cutthroat's QC, who, disparaging all his antagonist's accusations,
alibis and affidavits as a put-up job, sought to disclaim, in toto,
what was almost cast-iron proof of guilt and also vilify a poor,
law-abiding pharmacist from whom our assassin had bought his
poison, laudanum; you'd find fault with this or that juror; nor
had that shifty procurator struck you as wholly trustworthy). You
would gratify your company with ironic bon mots on political
topics, wittily puncturing Du Paty du Clam's corruption, as also
8 1
Cassagnac's, Drumont's and Mac-Mahon's. You would sing that
"Chanson du Tourlouru" that Paulin or Bach was immortalising
in Paris's most modish nightclubs and music halls. You would
vigorously affirm your unconditional admiration for Rostand's
Cyrano or Sarah as I'Aiglon. Finally, you'd trot out a dirty story or two, about a maharajah and a cancan girl, or a vicar and a
choirboy, giving your auditors a good laugh whilst your mail
coach would roll on and on till dusk. At nightfall you would sup
in a charming rural inn. For a paltry six francs you'd tuck into
fish or crab, lamb or mutton, washing it all down with a good
strong Burgundy or a Latour-Marcillac, a Musigny or a Pom-
mard, gorging and carousing away till you'd had a skinful! Upon
which you would go for a long walk or, as you'd no doubt
call it in your hoity-toity fashion, a postprandial constitutional,
through a public park with stout oaks and spindly acacias and
tall, thin pawlonias, with marbly malls and lush and languid
lawns. You'd sip a Curasao, a maraschino or a boiling hot toddy.
You'd play a hand of whist or pharaoh. Or you might play a
round of billiards and win a franc or two from a local rustic.
And, gradually, you'd yawn and start to think about shambling
upstairs to your room. First, though, you'd drift into a chintzy
front room, in which you might obtain, gratis, a chocolat au kirsch,
a dainty bit of ribbon or a tiny flask of Armagnac. You'd find a
buxom maid to carry off with you up to your room and, having
had your filthy fun with this bit of crackling, you'd nod off at
last, all in."
"Uh huh," sighs Amaury, "nowadays you go by train. It's rapid,
but totally lacking in chic."
Concurring with this opinion, his companion draws out of
a bag on his lap a curious cardboard box full of oblong
cigars.
"A brazza?"
"I won't say no," says Amaury. "A propos , I still don't know what I'm to call you."
"Arthur Wilburg Savorgnan," says his companion.
8 2
"Is that so?" murmurs Amaury, caught short, but instantly
adding, "I'm Amaury Conson."
"Amaury Conson! Hadn't you a son who . .
Amaury abruptly cuts in. "I had six sons. All now, alas, food
for worms. All, that is, b u t - "
"Yvon!"
"That's right! But how do you know?"
Savorgnan grins. "Don't worry. You'll soon know my story.
What you should know now is that I too was a confidant of
Anton Vowl. But as I'm British, living at Oakwood, not far from
Oxford, I hardly saw him from month to month. That said,
though, Vowl was willing to talk about his condition, claiming,
as all of you know, that his dying day was at hand. Nobody took
him at his word — no, not Olga, not
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