Meanwhile half the shops in London were engaged on the wedding preparations. Paul asked Potts to be his best man, but a letter from Geneva declined the invitation. In other circumstances this might have caused him embarrassment, but during the past fortnight Paul had received so many letters and invitations from people he barely remembered meeting that his only difficulty in filling his place was the fear of offending any of his affectionate new friends. Eventually he chose Sir Alastair Digby‑Vane‑Trumpington, because he felt that, how ever indirectly, he owed him a great deal of his present good fortune. Sir Alastair readily accepted, at the same time borrowing the money for a new tall hat, his only one having come to grief a few nights earlier.
A letter from Onslow Square, which Paul left unanswered, plainly intimated that Paul's guardian's daughter would take it as a personal slight, and as a severe blow to her social advancement, if she were not chosen as one of the bridesmaids.
For some reason or other, Paul's marriage seemed to inspire the public as being particularly romantic. Perhaps they admired the enterprise and gallantry with which Margot, after ten years of widowhood, voluntarily exposed herself to a repetition of the hundred and one horrors of a fashionable wedding, or perhaps Paul's sudden elevation from schoolmaster to millionaire struck a still vibrant chord of optimism in each of them, so that they said to themselves over their ledgers and typewriters: 'It may be me next time. Whatever the reason, the wedding was certainly an unparalleled success among the lower orders. Inflamed by the popular Press, a large crowd assembled outside St Margaret's on the eve of the ceremony equipped, as for a first night, with collapsible chairs, sandwiches, and spirit stoves, while by half past two, in spite of heavy rain, it had swollen to such dimensions that the police were forced to make several batoncharges and many guests were crushed almost to death in their attempts to reach the doors, and the route down which Margot had to drive was lined as for a funeral with weeping and hysterical women.
Society was less certain in its approval, and Lady Circumference, for one, sighed for the early nineties, when Edward Prince of Wales, at the head of ton, might have given authoritative condemnation to this ostentatious second marriage.
'It's maddenin' Tangent having died just at this time, she said. 'People may think that that's my reason for refusin'. I can't imagine that anyone will go.
'I hear your nephew Alastair Trumpington is the best man, said Lady Vanburgh.
'You seem to be as well informed as my chiropodist, said Lady Circumference with unusual felicity, and all Lowndes Square shook at her departure.
In the unconverted mewses of Mayfair and the upper rooms of Shepherd's Market and North Audley Street, where fashionable bachelors lurk disconsolately on their evenings at home, there was open lamentation at the prey that had been allowed to slip through their elegantly gloved fingers, while more than one popular dancing man inquired anxiously at his bank to learn whether his month's remittance had been paid in as usual. But Margot remained loyal to all her old obligations, and invitations to her wedding‑reception were accepted by whole bevies of young men who made it their boast that they never went out except to a square meal, while little Davy Lennox, who for three years had never been known to give anyone a 'complimentary sitting', took two eloquent photographs of the back of her head and one of the reflection of her hands in a bowl of ink.
Ten days before the wedding Paul moved into rooms at the Ritz, and Margot devoted herself seriously to shopping. Five or six times a day messengers appeared at his suite bringing little by‑products of her activity ‑ now a platinum cigarette‑case, now a dressing‑gown, now a tie-pin or a pair of links ‑ while Paul, with unaccustomed prodigality, bought two new ties, three pairs of shoes, an umbrella, and a set of Proust. Margot had fixed his personal allowance at two thousand a year.
Far away in the Adriatic feverish preparations were being made to make Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde's villa at Corfu ready for the first weeks of her honeymoon, and the great bed, carved with pineapples, that had once belonged to Napoleon III, was laid out for her reception with fragrant linen and pillows of unexampled softness. All this the newspapers retailed with uncontrolled profusion, and many a young reporter was handsomely commended for the luxuriance of his adjectives.
However, there was a hitch.
Three days before the date fixed for the wedding Paul was sitting in the Ritz opening his morning's post, when Margot rang him up.
'Darling, rather a tiresome thing's happened, she said. 'You know those girls we sent to Rio the other day? Well, they're stuck at Marseilles, for some reason or other. I can't quite make out why. I think it's something to do with their passports. I've just had a very odd cable from my agent there. He's giving up the job. It's such a bore all this happening just now. I do so want to get everything fixed before Thursday. I wonder if you could be an angel and go over and see to it for me? It's probably only a matter of giving the right man a few hundred francs. If you fly you'll be back in plenty of time. I'd go myself, only you know, don't you, darling, I simply haven't one minute to spare.
Paul did not have to travel alone. Potts was at Croydon, enveloped in an ulster and carrying in his hand a little attaché case.
'Leaguc of Nations business, he said, and was twice sick during the flight.
At Paris Paul was obliged to charter a special aeroplane. Potts saw him off.
'Why are you going to Marseilles, he asked. 'I thought you were going to be married.
'I'm only going there for an hour or two, to see some people on business, said Paul.
How like Potts, he thought, to suppose that a little journey like this was going to upset his marriage. Paul was beginning to feel cosmopolitan, the Ritz to‑day, Marseilles to‑morrow, Corfu next day, and afterwards the whole world stood open to him like one great hotel, his way lined for him with bows and orchids. How pathetically insular poor Potts was, he thought, for all his talk of internationalism.
It was late evening when Paul arrived at Marseilles. He dined at Basso's in the covered balcony off bouillabaisse and Meursault at a table from which he could see a thousand lights reflected in the still water. Paul felt very much of a man of the world as he paid his bill, calculated the correct tip, and sat back in the open cab on his way to the old part of the town.
'They'll probably be at Alice's, in the Rue de Reynarde, Margot had said. 'Anyway, you oughtn't to have any difficulty in finding them if you mention my name.
At the corner of the Rue Ventomargy the carriage stopped. The way was too narrow and too crowded for traffic. Paul paid the driver. 'Merci, Monsieur! Gardez bien votre chapeau, he said as he drove off. Wondering what the expression could mean, Paul set off with less certain steps down the cobbled alley. The houses overhung perilously on each side, gaily alight from cellar to garret; between them swung lanterns; a shallow gutter ran down the centre of the path. The scene could scarcely have been more sinister had it been built at Hollywood itself for some orgiastic incident of the Reign of Terror. Such a street in England, Paul reflected, would have been saved long ago by Mr Spire and preserved under a public trust for the sale of brass toasting forks, picture postcards, and 'Devonshire teas'. Here the trade was of a different sort. It did not require very much wordly wisdom to inform him of the character of the quarter he was now in. Had he not, guide‑book in hand, traversed the forsaken streets of Pompeii?
No wonder, Paul reflected, that Margot had been so anxious to rescue her protégées from this place of temptation and danger.
A Negro sailor, hideously drunk, addressed Paul in no language known to man, and invited him to have a drink. He hurried on. How typical of Margot that, in all her whirl of luxury, she should still have time to care for the poor girls she had unwittingly exposed to such perils.
Deaf to the polyglot invitations that arose on all sides, Paul pressed on his way. A young lady snatched his hat from his head; he caught a glimpse of her bare leg in a lighted doorway; then she appeared at a window, beckoning him to come in and retrieve it.
All the street seemed to be laughing at him. He hesitated; and then, forsaking, in a moment of panic, both his black hat and his self‑possession, he turned and fled for the broad streets and the tram lines where, he knew at heart, was his spiritual home.
* * *
By daylight the old town had lost most of its terrors. Washing hung out between the houses, the gutters ran with fresh water and the streets were crowded with old women carrying baskets of fish. Chez Alice showed no sign of life, and Paul was forced to ring and ring before a tousled old concierge presented himself.
'Avez‑vous les jeunes filles de Madame Beste‑Chetwynde? Paul asked, acutely conscious of the absurdity of the question.
'Sure, step right along, Mister, said the concierge; 'she wired us you was coming.
Mrs Grimes and her two friends were not yet dressed, but they received Paul with enthusiasm in dressing‑gowns which might have satisfied the taste for colour of the elder Miss Fagan. They explained the difficulty of the passports, which, Paul thought, was clearly due to some misapprehension by the authorities of their jobs in Rio. They didn't know any French, and of course they had explained things wrong.
He spent an arduous morning at consulates and police bureaux. Things were more difficult than he had thought, and the officials received him either with marked coldness or with incomprehensible winks and innuendo.
Things had been easier six months ago, they said, but now, with the League of Nations ‑ And they shrugged their shoulders despairingly. Perhaps it might be arranged once more, but Madame Beste‑Chetwynde must really understand that there were forms that must be respected. Eventually the young ladies were signed on as stewardesses.
'And if they should not go farther with me than Rio, said the captain, 'well, I have a sufficient staff already. You say there are posts waiting for them there? No doubt their employers will be able to arrange things there with the authorities.
But it cost Paul several thousand francs to complete the arrangements. 'What an absurd thing the League of Nations seems to be! said Paul. 'They seem to make it harder to get about instead of easier. And this, to his surprise, the officials took to be a capital joke.
Paul saw the young ladies to their ship, and all three kissed him good‑bye. As he walked back along the quay he met Potts.
'Just arrived by the morning train, he said. Paul felt strongly inclined to tell him his opinion of the League of Nations, but remembering Potts' prolixity in argument and the urgency of his own departure, he decided to leave his criticisms for another time. He stopped long enough in Marseilles to cable to Margot, 'Everything arranged satisfactorily. Returning this afternoon. All my love, and then left for Paris by air, feeling that at last he had done something to help.
* * *
At ten o'clock on his wedding morning Paul returned to the Ritz. It was raining hard, and he felt tired, unshaven and generally woebegone. A number of newspaper reporters were waiting for him outside his suite, but he told them that he could see no one. Inside he found Peter Beste‑Chetwynde, incredibly smart in his first morning‑coat.
'They've let me come up from Llanabba for the day, he said. 'To tell you the truth, I'm rather pleased with myself in these clothes. I bought you a buttonhole in case you'd forgotten. I say, Paul, you're looking tired.
'I am, rather. Turn on the bath for me like an angel.
When he had had his bath and shaved he felt better. Peter had ordered a bottle of champagne and was a little tipsy. He walked round the room, glass in hand, talking gaily, and every now and then pausing to look at himself in the mirror. 'Pretty smart, he said, 'particularly the tie; don't you think so, Paul? I think I shall go back to the school like this. That would make them see what a superior person I am. I hope you notice that I gave you the grander buttonhole? I can't tell you what Llanabba is like this term, Paul. Do try and persuade Mamma to take me away. Clutterbuck has left, and Tangent is dead, and the three new masters are quite awful. One is like your friend Potts, only he stutters, and Brolly says he's got a glass eye. He's called Mr Makepeace. Then there's another one with red hair who keeps beating everyone all the time, and the other's rather sweet, really, only he has fits. I don't think the Doctor cares for any of them much. Flossie's been looking rather discouraged all the time. I wonder if Mamma could get her a job in South America? I'm glad you're wearing a waistcoat like that. I nearly did, but I thought perhaps I was a bit young. What do you think? We had a reporter down at the school the other day wanting to know particulars about you. Brolly told a splendid story about how you used to go out swimming in the evenings and swim for hours and hours in the dark composing elegiac verses, and then he spoilt it by saying you had webbed feet and a prehensile tail, which made the chap think he was having his leg pulled. I say, am I terribly in the way?
As Paul dressed his feelings of well‑being began to return. He could not help feeling that he too looked rather smart. Presently Alastair Digby‑Vane‑Trumpington came in, and drank some champagne.
'This wedding of ours is about the most advertised thing that's happened for a generation, he said. 'D'you know, the Sunday Mail has given me fifty pounds to put my name to an article describing my sensations as best man. I'm afraid every one will know it's not me, though; it's too jolly well written. I've had a marvellous letter from Aunt Greta about it, too. Have you seen the presents? The Argentine Chargé d'Affaires has given you the works of Longfellow bound in padded green leather, and the Master of Scone has sent those pewter plates he used to have in his hall.
Paul fastened the gardenia in his buttonhole, and they went down to luncheon. There were several people in the restaurant obviously dressed for a wedding, and it gave Paul some satisfaction to notice that he was the centre of interest of the whole room. The maître d'hôtel offered his graceful good wishes as he led them to their table. Peter, earlier in the morning, had ordered the luncheon.
'I doubt if we shall have time to eat it all, he said, 'but fortunately the best things all come at the beginning.
As he was peeling his second gull's egg, Paul was called away to the telephone.
'Darling, said Margot's voice, 'how are you? I've been so anxious all the time you were away. I had an awful feeling something was going to stop you coming back. Are you all right, dearest? Yes, I'm terribly well. I'm at home having luncheon in my bedroom and feeling, my dear, I can't tell you how virginal, really and truly completely débutante. I hope you'll like my frock. It's Boulanger, darling, do you mind? Good‑bye, my sweet. Don't let Peter get too drunk, will you?
Paul went back to the dining‑room.
'I've eaten your eggs, said Peter. 'I just couldn't help it.
By two o'clock they had finished their luncheon. Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde's second‑best Hispano Suiza was waiting in Arlington Street.
'You must just have one more drink with me before we go, said the best man; 'there's heaps of time.
'I think perhaps it would be a mistake if I did, said Peter.
Paul and his best man refilled their glasses with brandy.
'It is a funny thing, said Alastair Digby‑VaneTrumpington. 'No one could have guessed that when I had the Boller blind in my rooms it was going to end like this.
Paul turned the liqueur round in his glass, inhaled its rich bouquet for a second, and then held it before him.
'To Fortune, he said, 'a much‑rnaligned lady!
* * *
'Which of you gentlemen is Mr Paul Pennyfeather?
Paul put down his glass and turned to find an elderly rnan of military appearance standing beside him.
'I am, he said. 'But I'm afraid that, if you're from the Press, I really haven't time…
'I'm Inspector Bruce, of Scotland Yard, said the stranger. 'Will you be so good as to speak to me for a minute outside?
'Really, officer, said Paul, 'I'm in a great hurry. I suppose it's about the men to guard the presents. You should have come to me earlier.
'It's not about presents, and I couldn't have come earlier. The warrant for your arrest has only this minute been issued.
'Look here, said Alastair Digby‑Vane‑Trumpington, 'don't be an ass. You've got the wrong man. They'll laugh at you like blazes over this at Scotland Yard. This is the Mr Pennyfeather who's being married to‑day.
'I don't know anything about that, said Inspector Bruce. 'All I know is, there's a warrant out for his arrest, and that anything he says may be used as evidence against him. And as for you, young man, I shouldn't attempt to obstruct an officer of the law, not if I was you.
'It's all some ghastly mistake, said Paul. 'I suppose I must go with this man. Try and get on to Margot and explain to her.
Sir Alastair's amiable pink face gaped blank astonishment. 'Good God, he said, 'how damned funny! At least it would be at any other time. But Peter, deadly white, had left the restaurant.