Part 3 chapter 3

ON THE first of January the diplomatic corps went to present its respects to the King of Greece. The ceremony was very simple: His Majesty, standing in the middle of a long gallery, received, one by one, the heads of missions, accompanied by their principal colleagues. The King was in admiral’s uniform, covered with decorations, including the Grand Order of the Saviour. He held his bird-like head rigidly on his small body, with a monocle fixed in his left eye. The interviews were naturally short. M. Laurent presented his two secretaries and his various attachés---an indispensable ceremony even for those who had already had the honour of being presented. It was obviously one of the Ambassador’s great days: he was face to face with a king of his own height. There was another point of resemblance between them: both were sporting a large azure ribbon. M. Laurent, in fact, was wearing his Benin for the first time, as Georges was wearing his Cambodge.

The King did not fail to ask what was this order which was so like that of the Saviour. Explaining that it was the highest of the French colonial orders, the Ambassador added that it was often mistaken for the highest of the Greek.

Leaving the palace, he invited his escort to come and drink champagne at the Embassy. He was delighted with the effect his Benin had produced.

“Something tells me that I shall not have to wait long for the Saviour,” he said.

“Does that mean that you are going to be recalled?” asked the colonel, who had been back some days and was resuming the attack.

“I hope not, unless you have been intriguing against me. But there will be an exchange of decorations at the arrival of the fleet in July. Metaxas is burning to have the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour. He has been made to wait for it, as a reminder of his former friendship for Germany, but he will be given it this time and I count on getting paid for it.”

The colonel spoke gravely:

“Today, the first of January, 1938 . . .”

“Well? What of it?” said the Ambassador.

“Today, when Japan is dictating peace terms to China, when the Spanish Nationalists are entering Teruel, when Hitler is announcing that German military power is to be increased, the Ambassador of France in Greece has nothing better to think of than whether he will get a ribbon.”

It was an understood thing that one never took offence at the colonel’s words. This dig made M. Laurent smile in a mysterious fashion, and he contented himself with replying:

“You will never understand the virtues which are masked by diplomatic frivolity. It is a way of defying destiny, and even of exorcizing it. In July 1914, when the Austrian Embassy in St. Petersburg was hourly expecting the declaration of war, Count Berchtold telegraphed to it to have some chocolates sent to his wife. In the aristocratic Europe which finally vanished at that time, ambassadors and ministers were not afraid of being frivolous. Do you remember what the Abbé Bernis, Ambassador at Venice, wrote to his Minister? ‘You may be sure that I am very pleased to have no more important preoccupations.’ Europe is happy only when ambassadors have nothing to do.”

“It would be better off still, if they did nothing.”

“You may say what you like, but, as I have mentioned Bernis, what better example could there be to support my thesis? No man was more frivolous, yet he was one of our greatest ambassadors.”

The colonel bowed before this argument. He had presumably nothing to say to it. But his bad temper sought an outlet. He saw Redouté looking at Georges’s new cross.

“I admit,” he said, “that the Ambassador is entitled to all his orders, because he represents the Republic, but I should very much like to know by what right Sarre has the Cambodge order without having been in Cambodia?”

Georges was about to remind him that one could be a member of the National Federation of Cuirassiers of France without having been a cuirassier, But it was the Ambassador who replied instead.

“I seem to remember, my dear Colonel, that your name is inscribed along with ours in the register of some colonial orders.”

“I have the Tunisian order and the Moroccan order, but I have served in Morocco and Tunisia. The only justifiable decorations of all those which you diplomats wear seem to me to be those given to you when you leave the countries you have been accredited to. And I should like humbly to observe to the Ambassador that what he calls an ‘exchange of decorations’ is a scandalous practice. Give me the Legion of Honour: I will give you the Saviour. Pass me the rhubarb and I will pass you the senna. But for us soldiers decorations symbolize the shedding of blood, and those who fall in battle---not a cigar offered at the end of a banquet. I haven’t got the Agricultural Medal, but I successfully farm six thousand acres. I have only academic palms, though I am the author of a history of the Conquest of Algeria and a Life of Damremont. But no doubt the Ministry of Education’s rosette has been given to M. Redouté in anticipation of the work he is preparing on the rose-painter.”

“Bless my soul!” said the Ambassador, “‘with six thousand acres one would expect to hear ‘I, Flambeau, said the Flambard . . . Such language is hardly suitable to a baron of the Empire.”

“I can’t help it, if diplomats make me burst into flames so often.”

To put out this fire the Ambassador had another bottle of champagne opened.

“Let us drink to peace,” said the cultural attaché.

“To France!” said the colonel.

“To Cambodia!” said Georges.

“To Neptune!” said the naval attaché.

“To the colonel’s next commandery!” said the Ambassador.

“Yes, I was reserving as a surprise for our friend the news that in June he will be taking part in our exchange of decorations: he is to get the Order of the Phoenix with plaque.” The colonel reddened with pleasure. His naivety was so charming that everyone laughed. But he started up and declared nobly: “I refuse.”

“You will offend the Greeks,” said the Ambassador.

“Ah, well, in that case. . .”

There was renewed laughter.

“There now, our colonel is a reasonable man, a frivolous man, a diplomat!” declared M. Laurent.

“I owe it to myself for the honour of the Army.”

“Well, then, you cannot reproach us with our desire to honour the Diplomatic Service.”

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“By order of His Majesty the King of the Hellenes, the Marshal of the Court has the honour to request the company of le Comte de Sarre, secretary of the Embassy of the French Republic, at the reception at the Royal Palace at nine o’clock p.m. on the ninth of January, on the occasion of the marriage of His Royal Highness the Diadochus, the Crown Prince Paul, to Her Serene Highness the Princess Frederika of Brunswick-Luneburg.” As Georges contemplated this invitation, he could not repress a feeling of satisfaction: he was being invited by the King of Greece. True, the royal court formula was more grandiloquent than those used by republics: the King did not deign to address himself in person to his guests. But were not these ceremonial fictions the last defence of royalty, even more than the fictions of the cipher were the last defences of diplomacy.

However that might be, a French diplomat could not but be touched to see this invitation drawn up in French. As for the Princess’s name, it reminded him of the care which had been taken to spread the story that, entirely German as she was, she belonged none the less to the English royal family.

The marriage was celebrated in the cathedral. Entry was by a simple pass-card: the King invited by name to his home only. Here a new fiction was to be seen: the fiction of religions. The Protestant Prince and Princess, by being united according to the Orthodox rite, attested the conventional character of the laws to which they paid formal honour. This was all the more flagrant in that immediately after the Orthodox marriage, they were to be married by a chaplain according to the Protestant rite. The gold and silver of the ikons, the dalmatics and mitres of the bishops, the beauty of the canticles, the pomp of the Byzantine liturgy, did not succeed in creating a religious atmosphere. The ritual of the pages who held the crowns over the heads of bride and bridegroom, the ceremonial walk round the altar, the rice and flowers which were thrown over the couple, were nothing more than trappings of a picturesque spectacle.

Finally, the pair themselves were the symbol of a fiction, the dynastic fiction of these Balkan monarchies which had no links with the people they ruled. Here, it was the Glucksburgs from Denmark: elsewhere the Coburgs or the Hohenzollerns, those “little kings of right and left”, as Alexander III used to say: modern analogues of the monarchies of the Crusades.

On the other hand, it was generally agreed that they were a charming couple. The Prince was tall and well built, and had a good presence. The Princess was the very embodiment of grace: her brilliant colouring seemed to outshine the glitter of her diamonds. The presence of her brothers accentuated her youth: one of them was barely fifteen, though he was wearing two orders.

The German Ambassador was triumphant. But the French Ambassador partook of his triumph: he felt that, thanks to Prince von Erbach, he was more in the limelight than his other colleagues. Also, he was wearing a uniform, whereas the German had none---he would be wearing it a lot that month. But whether triumphant or passive, the whole congregation greeted the end of the service with relief. For Orthodox churches, less generous than Catholic, offer neither chairs nor benches for the comfort of the faithful.

In the evening, “By order of his Majesty,” they reassembled at the Royal Palace. M. Laurent was anxious to cut a good figure in this brilliant company, where the protocol did not give him any privileges. Mme. Laurent was generously decolletée both fore and aft. And, more delicious than ever, out-princessing any princess, Francoise was like the fairy Viviane beside Carabosse.

The guests were directed towards the gallery, where rows of arm-chairs faced a dais. The evening was to begin with a concert. As Rudolf, like his chief, was busy dancing attendance on German Highnesses, Georges joined forces with the Lebanese and the Armenian. He had not been to the Club for some time, and the two friends had plenty to tell him, which they did as the guests were taking their places.

One of them, in spite of the stick he carried, had been robbed in the woods of Lycabettus. They had even taken his stick from him and nearly broken his head with it. The other had had his door besieged by so many of his casual friends that he had had to telephone the police. His story was that he was being threatened by young communists because he had refused to arrange for their repatriation. Hunting communists was the order of the day and the government’s hand was heavy upon them. A quarter of an hour afterwards the Armenian had seen two cars draw up and his molesters roughly bundled into them. He admitted that as he watched this scene from his window it had wrung his heart.

“Diplomatic immunity is a grand thing,” said Georges.

“I need not tell you that we have resolved not to abuse it.”

“I congratulate you, but I am sorry for you: now you will have to behave yourselves.”

“You don’t know the resources of Athens!” said the Lebanese.

“We have discovered an oasis where we shall take up our quarters till the spring.”

‘Yes,” added the Armenian.

“It is really ideal for this period, which we hope will be quiet.”

“I see that risk no longer stimulates you.”

“There is a time for risk and a time for tranquillity. The latter shall henceforth be represented by an honest ruffian who uses his flat as a house of rendezvous. There we have no more to fear, especially as all the inmates are guaranteed to be well-born.”

“You make me blush,” said Georges, “talking like this in the King of Greece’s palace on the day of the Crown Prince’s wedding!”

The orchestra began to tune up, and presently Mozart imposed silence on Highnesses and libertines alike. But the spell of music did not hold the guests in anything but appearance. They had come to gossip, to admire one another, and not to waste their time listening to Mozart. The wedding of a Greek prince and a German princess was not an affair of such great moment, but this reception at least revived the traditions of royalty better than the church service had done. The floor-full of men in uniform and women in their finery was a reflection of the glories of Versailles or of Schoenbrunn. It was said that there were sixty princes. Some looked as though they had been dug up by one of the archaeological schools. It was surprising to see that the Prince of Wied, who had barely had time to sit down on his Albanian throne in 1914, was still in this world. His presence at the party had not prevented King Zog’s Minister from coming as well.

It was even more surprising to see Prince Demidoff, the Czar’s former Minister at Athens, who always made it a point of honour not to appear when the Soviet Ambassador was invited. He must have decided that a princely wedding was an exception, and that, after all, he fitted in better on such an occasion than his successor. Moreover, the latter seemed to have changed: his big moustache gave him a grand-ducal appearance. The general tone of the gathering must have infected him: lulled by the classic music, among the mirrors and vases of flowers, he rallied to the vanished régime. He thought no more of the class-war, of sabotage: he was dreaming of Tsarskoe-Seloe and the Romanoffs.

There was one diplomat who was clearly preoccupied with other things than music: the Minister who represented Mozart’s country. Events had not confirmed the reassuring news about Austria which M. Laurent had brought back with him. The country was in extreme disorder: Germany’s aims were becoming clear. While Athens was celebrating a princely wedding, Berlin was preparing the most tragic application of Felix Austria, nube!

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Redouté was furious. The New Year Honours List had been published in the Official Gazette, and his name was not in it. He suspected the Ambassador of having betrayed him.

“When a chief goes on leave,” he said to Georges, “funny things usually happen. To heighten their own importance, these gentry always complain that they are badly seconded. Laurent was so busy with his Grand Cross, he did nothing about my promotion. But a Grand Cross only satisfies vanity, where promotion involves money also. I didn’t make what I hoped to out of the time I was in charge, so I was counting all the more on my promotion.”

He brooded: over his grievance for a moment. Georges could see that it was urging him to further confidences.

“Would you like to hear the whole story?” he said suddenly. “Even though I’m a widower, I have two households to maintain. One in Athens, as you no doubt know, and one in Paris, which I would sooner you said nothing about---a friendship of long standing which I keep up as a matter of duty. But to be able to make both ends meet I simply must have my promotion. The Ambassador’s egotism and the negligence of the Personnel Section have upset all my calculations and I shall have to take drastic decisions.”

Although the Ambassador said that he had been let down himself, and offered to write a letter of protest, Redouté showed his disgust by asking for his annual leave. He had intended to go at Easter; he now declared he could not wait till then. The fact was he could not put up with the ironic condolences of all those to whom he had unwisely announced his promotion. His request was sent to Paris by air-mail, and the reply was no less prompt: he embarked immediately for Marseilles.

“It was the Steua Marina which sank him,” the Ambassador said to Georges, “but he is so sensitive that I didn’t say anything to him about it. If he had been frank enough to admit his mistake to me, I would have told him that it would cost him his promotion. The colonel made great play with the affair: his reports were passed on from the War Ministry to the Quai d’Orsay, and the most I could do---I happened to be passing through Paris at the time---was to save our poor Roland from getting a telegraphic reprimand. Nobody will say anything to him at the Ministry about his blunder. They will tell him that somebody else, who was recommended by another Minister, had to be promoted ahead of him. I fed him with hope for three months, and hope is the great support of administrative ambitions, Clement-Simon lived on it for two years, just because he had seen on Herriot’s desk a scrap of paper saying ‘Do something for Clement-Simon.’ Naturally, Herriot never did anything: but at least it brightened the end of Clement-Simon’s career.”