preoccupation with himself, the count had other equally objectionable characteristics. He drenched himself in a scent so thick it was almost visible and he had only to spend a second in a room to permeate the whole atmosphere, while the cushions he leaned against and the chairs he sat in reeked for days afterwards. His English was limited, but this did not prevent him from expounding on any subject with a sort of sneering dogmatism that made everyone’s hackles rise. His philosophy, if any, could be summed up in the phrase “We do it better in France,” which he used repeatedly about everything. He had such a thoroughly Gallic interest in the edibility of everything he came in contact with that one could have been pardoned for thinking him the reincarnation of a goat.
He arrived, unfortunately, in time for lunch, and by the end of the meal, without really trying, he had succeeded in alienating everybody including the dogs. It was in its way quite a tour de force to be able to irritate and insult five people of such different character with such ease and, apparently, without even being aware of doing it, inside two hours of arrival at a new locale. During the course of lunch, he said, having just eaten a soufflé as delicate as a cloud in which were embedded the pale pink bodies of freshly caught shrimps, that it was quite obvious that Mother’s chef was not French. Having discovered that Mother was the chef, he showed no embarrassment but merely said that she would then be glad of his presence for it would enable him to give her some guidance in the culinary arts. Leaving her speechless with rage at his audacity, he turned his attention to Larry, to whom he vouchsafed the information that the only good writers were French. At the mention of Shakespeare, he merely shrugged; “le petit poseur,” he said. To Leslie he offered the information that anyone who was interested in hunting must assuredly have the instincts of a criminal and, in any case, it was well known that the French produced the best guns, swords and other weapons of offense. To Margo he gave the advice that it was a woman’s job to keep beautiful for men and, in particular, not to be greedy and eat too many things that would ruin the figure. As Margo was suffering from a certain amount of puppy fat at that time and was on a rigid diet in consequence, this information was not at all well received. He merely condemned himself in my eyes by calling the dogs village curs and comparing them unfavorably to his selection of Labradors, setters, retrievers and spaniels, all French-bred, of course. Furthermore, he was puzzled as to why I kept so many pets, all of which were uneatable. “In French we only shoot zis kind of thing,” he said.
Small wonder, then, that after lunch when he went upstairs to change, the family were quivering like a suppressed volcano, and only Mother’s golden rule that a guest must not be insulted on the first day kept us in check. But such was the state of our nerves that if anyone had started to whistle the “Marseillaise,” we would have torn him limb from limb.
“You see,” said Mother accusingly to Larry, “this is what comes of letting people you don’t know send people you don’t know to stay. The man’s insufferable!”
“Well … he’s not so bad,” said Larry feebly, trying to argue against an attitude that he agreed with. “I thought some of his comments were valid.”
“What?” asked Mother ominously.
“Yes, what?” asked Margo, quivering.
“Well,” said Larry vaguely, “I thought that soufflé was a bit on the rich side, and Margo is beginning to look a bit circular.”
“Beast!” said Margo, and burst into tears.
“Now that’s quite enough, Larry,” said Mother. “How we’re going to endure this … this … scented lounge lizard of yours for another week I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ve got to put up with him too, don’t forget,” said Larry, irritated.
“Well, he’s your friend … I mean, your friend’s friend … I mean, well, whatever he is, he’s yours,” said Mother, “and it’s up to you to keep him out of the way as much as possible.”
“Or I’ll pepper his arse for him,” said Leslie, “the smelly little – ”
“Leslie,” said Mother, “that’s quite enough.”
“Well, he is,” said Leslie doggedly.
“I know he is, dear, but you shouldn’t say so,” Mother explained.
“Well, I’ll try,” said Larry, “but don’t blame me if he comes down to the kitchen to give you a cookery lesson.”
“I’m warning you,” said Mother mutinously, “if that man sets foot in my kitchen, I shall walk out … I shall go … I shall go and….”
“Be a hermit?” suggested Larry.
“No, I shall go and stay in an hotel until he’s gone,” said Mother, uttering her favorite threat, “and this time I really mean it.”
To give Larry his due, he did strive manfully with Count Rossignol for the next few days. He took him to the library and museum in town, he showed him the kaiser’s summer palace with all its repulsive statuary, he even took him to the top of the highest point in Corfu, Mount Pantocrator, and showed him the view. The count compared the library unfavorably with the Bibliothèque Nationale, said that the museum was not a patch on the Louvre, said the kaiser’s palace was inferior in size, design and furnishings to the cottage he had for his head gardener, and said that the view from Pantocrator was not to be mentioned in the same breath with any view to be seen from any high spot in France.
“The man’s intolerable,” said Larry, refreshing himself with brandy in Mother’s bedroom, where we had all repaired to escape the count’s company. “He’s got an obsession with France; I can’t think why he ever left the place. He even thinks their telephone service is the best in the world! And he’s so humorless about everything, one would think he were a Swede.”
“Never mind, dear,” said Mother, “it’s not for long now.”
“I’m not sure I shall last the course,” said Larry. “So far about the only thing he hasn’t claimed for France is God.”
“Ah, but they probably believe in Him better in France,” Leslie pointed out.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could do something really nasty to him?” said Margo wistfully. “Something really horrible.”
“No, Margo,” said Mother firmly, “we’ve never done anything nasty to anyone that’s stayed with us – I mean, except as a joke or by accident – and we’re not going to start. We’ll just have to put up with him; after all, it’s only for a few more days. It’ll soon pass.”
“Dear God!” said Larry suddenly. “I’ve just remembered. It’s the bloody christening on Monday!”
“I do wish you wouldn’t swear so much,” said Mother. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Can you imagine taking him to a christening?” asked Larry. “No, he’ll just have to go off somewhere on his own.”
“I don’t think we ought to let him go wandering off on his own,” said Mother, as if she were talking about a dangerous animal. “I mean, he might meet one of our friends.”
We all sat and thought about the problem.
“Why doesn’t Gerry take him somewhere?”
