The Spy Net (22 page)

W
HAT WAS MORE
natural than that I should stop off at Brussels on my way back to London?

I was crossing the Place de la Monnaie when I met her.
Yvonne
. Months before, Mlle L., a friend of mine who was a star in the
corps de ballet
at the Brussels opera, had introduced me to her. ‘This is Yvonne,' she had said, ‘my charming little understudy.' And then later, when we were all dining together at the Chapon Fin, she had whispered: ‘Don't look at her so intently. You haven't got a dog's chance; she's Z's protégée.' I had opened my eyes wide in astonishment, for Z was one of the great men in Belgium, one of her most prominent statesmen, a man whose name was a household word throughout Europe. I was astonished that he should be the captive of this small vivacious bloom of loveliness.

Now here she was. This time there was no one to sidetrack me. I looked at her and smiled. ‘You don't remember me, I am sure,' I said, as I stood facing her, hat in hand.

‘Yes, I do,
mon capitaine
,' she sparkled amiably. ‘I met you at the Chapon Fin. You are a friend of L.' Thus encouraged, I suggested an apéritif at a neighbouring bodega.

It was all very well for L. to have told me not to look at her. I couldn't help it. Her lustrous violet eyes, which languished and glowed beneath her long lashes, her strikingly beautiful head, crowned with smooth waves of soft gold hair, her delicate subtle grace and her happy contagious smile, overwhelmed me. I actually trembled as I sat opposite her. It was the
coup de foudre
. I knew that I was blindly in love with her, and intuitively I sensed that she reciprocated my feeling. Gone were my thoughts of London; my uncompleted ticket remained in my pocket. I met her every day for a week.

She was twenty-one, fresh and unaffected, renowned for her beauty, already an acclaimed artist. Her sparkling wit and laughter had charmed not only Z, but also some of the leading people in Europe, whom she had met through him. She had dined with a Lord Mayor of London, the Shah of Persia had awarded her a decoration, she wore the Palmes Académiques, presented by a premier of France, and she had danced at special request before royalty. And Z, her patron, was one of the most powerful men in Belgium, who could assist her in furthering a brilliant career at the opera.

Both her father and her mother objected strongly to our infatuation. He was a
maître de ballet
, and she a dancer who had had many a triumph in her day at the opera at Paris. They knew what
the cost of our idyll would be, since both of them were steeped in the unromantic traditions of advancement in the European theatre. They called on me at my hotel. ‘You must leave her alone. We have trained her since she was four years old. She needs Z; he wouldn't do anything for her, if you were in the picture. No artist in France or Belgium can arrive without someone backing her. You will ruin her career.' How often was I to hear that word career during the next four years?

We were both foolish; we both had our careers to consider and each of us was inimical to the welfare of the other. Yet we were in love, and for the moment that was all that mattered.

I was wrong. I should have packed my bags and gone on my way. It would have been better, both for her and for me. I was the older and more intelligent; I should have done the thinking for both of us. But loneliness had eaten into my heart. From my boyhood days up, I really had had no home. I stood alone in Europe, with no relatives and no intimate friends. I had worked intensively both at the university, and during the last six years in the army, without encouragement. And here was all the tenderness, all the love, companionship and beauty in life that I had missed. Besides, there was the setting of the ballet which had always exerted on me a romantic appeal. Pavlova, Karsavina, Lopokova, Nijinsky, Mordkin, and the many members of Diaghileff's troupe, I had seen over and over again. Apart from the technique of their art, I loved their imagery; who has seen
Le Spectre de la Rose, or La Boutique Fantasque
and not gone away charmed? Most potent influence of all, I was just at that time like a diver who had come too quickly to the surface; at one stroke I had released myself from the
tremendous tension of my war and post-war responsibilities, and the effect was heady.

I promised Yvonne's parents to think things over, but as I sat and watched her dance with exquisite grace and execution, in the Walpurgis scene in the last act of
Faust
, I realised that here was something stronger than I. I could not give her up. Surely I could solve the problem, as I had solved the many other problems of my life. I would remain on in Brussels and work out a scheme of things which would permit us to hold on to this great happiness which we had found. I had numbers of influential friends. I would build up a career here. Why not?

For the next two years my life was a feverish struggle to find my footing in the hurly-burly of post-war commerce and finance. Financially I was often very successful, but my chief reward was the snatches of weeks or hours in the company of the loveliest and kindest creature I have ever known. Her engagements dictated my arrangements, her friends were my friends, her life my life.

On the evenings when she had to dance in Brussels, I took her to the opera and then slipped in to watch the ballet.
Faust, Marouf, Lakmé, Manon, Carmen, Traviata
– these were the principal operas she danced in. How often have I seen them presented! I became well known in the coulisses of the opera. I met the other members of the ballet and became acquainted with
régisseurs, maîtres de ballet
, mistresses of the wardrobe, wardrobe women and the back stage personnel. I heard all the scandal, all their joys and all their sorrows. I acquired a new vocabulary of technical terms; I learned to discourse learnedly on
fouettés
, and where to buy the best
chaussons
; everyone agreed that those Z used to get from Italy for Yvonne were the best.

In summer, when the opera season was over, she danced at one or another of the fashionable seaside resorts. When time permitted, I made a flying trip there for a few days.

During the first summer I knew her, she had an engagement at the Kursaal in Ostend. This was the first season at Ostend since the war. In spite of the enormous damage done to almost every large building in the town by Allied bombardments from the sea and air, the Digue was now repaired, and so were the Kursaal and the large hotels such as the ‘Splendide' and the Hôtel de la Plage. Wonders had been worked; no one could distinguish it from the Ostend of pre-war days.

The resort was crowded not only with Belgians, but with a number of English and Dutch, with whom it had always been a favourite. Most of the summer resorts had been closed during the war, and this season those who could afford it were determined to play. Old
habitués
flocked to Ostend not only to have a thoroughly good time, but also out of curiosity to see the results of German occupation and Belgian restoration. During the day the beach was a blaze of colour with beach umbrellas, and with the latest bathing suits, often worn by mannequins sent by the best Parisian establishments, such as Lanvin, Poiret, and Patou. In the afternoon, there were races at the Wellington Hippodrome, where Horatio Bottomley, that chequered British Member of Parliament, newspaper owner, and sportsman, was an outstanding figure.

In the evening, it was the Kursaal for gambling, dancing, the concert and the ballet. Here evening dress was
de rigueur
, and beautiful women with expensive jewels and gorgeous costumes were everywhere. It was in the gambling-rooms, however, that
the scene was the most brilliant. Bankers, members of Europe's aristocracy, stage favourites, and expensive mistresses all rubbed shoulders with each other, some all intent on gambling, others merely parading themselves, or making a critical appraisal of each other's clothes and companions. That season the gambling was very high; one night I saw a well-known Londoner, a great tobacco importer, lose £20,000 at the big table at baccarat.

I spent profoundly happy days with Yvonne. Often I spoke of marriage. She only laughed her quick bubble of laughter.

‘You Englishmen are funny; don't you know that very few artists in Belgium or France ever marry? It would ruin my career. What's wrong? Aren't we happy as things are?' She lived, as far as her own affairs were concerned, for the day, the hour – and brilliantly sufficient she made them. I learned not to fret her by attempts to make her see my notion of established life, so different from hers, and as time went on and my business affairs became more pressing, I learned her way of enjoying pleasure without trying to make it last.

In Brussels and Paris, in her company, I met many artists in the theatrical world. There was Régina Badet, now a great dramatic actress, somewhat stout, quite a contrast to her days in 1910 at the Marigny Theatre in Paris. Who would then have thought that in later years she would be interpreting Ibsen's plays? I found her very witty and amusing. Accompanied by one of her friends, I took her to the Savoy one night, where she attracted attention not only by her famous jewels, but also by a cigarette-holder at least eight inches long, which she insisted on using while we danced.

Then there was Jenny Golder, whom any theatrical
habitué 
in those days will remember; she was the star at the Casino de Paris for several years. I knew Jenny very well. I had first met her at the ‘Savoy' in Brussels, just after the Armistice, where I had been much attracted to this willowy girl with her large, somewhat sad brown eyes and auburn hair, which accentuated her ivory skin and chiselled features. She had intrigued me, too, for it was quite evident after hearing and seeing her sing and dance, that she was quite out of place in a cabaret, even though the ‘Savoy' was one of the best of its kind in Europe.

‘What are you doing here?' I had said to her, as she sat at our table conversing one night.

‘That is a long story,' was the answer, in excellent English. She was an Australian. It appeared that shortly after her arrival from Australia, she had contracted an unhappy marriage. At this time, she was glad of any kind of engagement. ‘You see,' I remember her saying rather wistfully, ‘it doesn't pay for a girl to marry when she is on the stage.'

I had helped her with a small loan to enable her to get on her feet. She first of all secured an engagement in a revue which was playing at the Alhambra in Brussels. There she attracted the attention of Volterra, the owner of the Casino de Paris, who promptly gave her an engagement in his theatre. Within a few months she was playing the stellar role, a worthy successor to Gaby Delys and Mistinguett, who had preceded her.

I met her often in Paris, and then later again in Berlin. How far she had climbed since those days at the ‘Savoy'! She was now a headliner at the Wintergarten in Berlin, drawing large crowds. She appeared in various numbers, but the greatest hit with her Berlin audience was ‘Mr Gallagher and Mr Shean', which she
sang as a male impersonator in evening dress and silk hat. As I sat one evening in her suite of rooms at the ‘Adlon', we laughed over her struggles in Brussels. But whatever success had come her way she thoroughly deserved. She worked incessantly. Even a torn ligament which she endured for a whole theatrical engagement, could not daunt her.

Poor Jenny! She committed suicide in Paris a few days after a certain banker disappeared from his plane over the English Channel. I knew she had known him intimately, but I could not help wondering why the two deaths followed each other in such close succession. There seemed no reason why she should take her own life, especially as I knew she adored her mother, who was dependent upon her. She was young, she had reached the peak; but apparently success was not enough – at least, success alone.

Although, of course, many of the older families were strict as to whom they invited to their houses, or with whom they were seen in public, yet society in Europe had become much mixed. At the fashionable Parisian restaurants, such as ‘Ciro's', the Café de Paris, ‘Fouquets', ‘Armenonville', ‘Pré-Catelan', and the Château de Madrid, one often saw a mixed group of actresses, high officials, leaders of society, and members of the various embassies, all dining together – sometimes accompanied by their wives, sometimes not. In this group, too, one occasionally saw the chic courtesan, when the wives were absent, though as a rule she swept in accompanied only by the man of her choice. At the big hotels, at the races at Longchamps and Auteuil, and at Deauville and other fashionable seaside resorts, she remained the arbiter of fashions.

Such a courtesan was La belle Sabine, the name by which everyone knew her. She merited the title, for she was a beautiful
blonde of striking appearance and personality. I first saw her in The Hague, where she came into prominence by marrying an English officer, who, after three years spent in a German prison camp, had been dispatched to Holland for internment in exchange for similar privileges which the British had granted to a certain number of German officers. Captain B. had not seen a woman during all these long years in Germany, and he fell an easy prey to Sabine's charms. Then he very considerately died a few months later, leaving her the whole of his fortune, the tidy sum of about £50,000. The indignant family contested the will, but the courts awarded her the money.

After the Armistice she turned up in Brussels, her blonde hair changed to auburn, and with nearly all her money changed into jewellery, chiefly bracelets which covered both arms
half-way
up to the elbow. She was promptly annexed by an Antwerp millionaire, who had a vast fortune in the Romanian oil wells. What pleasure he found in keeping her I do not know, for he was away half the year in Romania, and during the remaining time he was generally tied down by business in Antwerp. He probably never spent more than a month in the year with her, but I think it flattered his vanity to own this beautiful woman, as she flitted from one resort to another, apparelled in the ransom of a king, and with a dozen men dancing attendance.