Quai d’Orsay
Friday afternoon, June 21, 1935. Dexter Jones walked up the majestic Grand Staircase of the Hôtel de Quai d’Orsay, home of the French foreign ministry, admiring the large tapestries hanging on the walls as he went. He reflected that these beautiful objets d’art dated from a prior century when France was the reigning power on the continent of Europe.
Reaching the second floor, Dexter continued up a less majestic stairway to the third floor. He turned and walked down a corridor in the administration centrale, the administrative offices of the secretary-general, the senior civil servant and permanent secretary of the ministry. He came to an open doorway and walked in. He asked the receptionist, “Is Madame Bardoux in?”
The receptionist smiled and said, “Yes.” She stood up and walked over to the inner door, looked in, and whispered a few words to the prim woman sitting behind the desk. The receptionist stepped back and with her palm ushered Dexter into the office. “This way, Monsieur Jones.”
Dexter walked into the office. The always-elegant Madame Bardoux rose to greet him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another woman sitting over in a wing chair, a pleasantly attractive lady wearing the tasteful clothes of a senior redactrice, or senior civil servant, the stylish black skirt, the dark stockings, the black pumps, and the starched white linen blouse of her caste. The dark hair was swept up in a chignon, elegant and functional, dark eyes glistened as she smiled at him in a professional manner. He could see that she was a woman who met men in a highly assured way—serene, and expert at creating a proper distance.
Dexter noticed the little black ribbon, the deuil, pinned to the woman’s blouse just below the left wing tip of the collar—the badge of a widow in mourning. The little black ribbons were as ubiquitous in France in the 1930s as the graves of dead French soldiers in the grassy fields of France’s eastern provinces, the epic killing grounds of the Western Front. Nevertheless, the woman, possibly in her late thirties, still seemed a little young for a war widow, he thought.
Madame Bardoux held out her hand and Dexter took it in his own, gallantly nodded and said, “Madame Bardoux.”
Madame Bardoux smiled and said, “May I present Madame Lambert.”
The woman stood up. Dexter could see that she was pleasingly slender and of medium height, possibly the same age as himself. Dexter silently brought his heels together, bowed slightly, and held out his hand, “Enchanté.”
“Enchantée,” replied Madame Lambert.
Dexter could see that behind the lustrous dark eyes was a deeper, more thoughtful gaze, one carefully appraising this new man standing in front of her. Dexter also saw that this woman quickly sized men up. Intriguing, thought Dexter. He idly wondered how he fared in this feminine, but highly professional, appraisal.
Madame Bardoux spoke to Madame Lambert, “Monsieur Jones is a political attaché at the American embassy.”
Madame Lambert smiled in acknowledgement.
Madame Bardoux swept her hand in front of her two visitors and said, “Please, sit down.” Dexter and Madame Lambert both sat down.
Madame Bardoux, speaking to Dexter, said, “Madame Lambert works at the Hôtel Matignon. She is part of the secrétariat général du gouvernement, what you Americans would call ‘the permanent administration’ that supports the office of the premier.
Madame Lambert silently nodded in agreement.
Madame Bardoux continued, “Premier Laval has served as foreign minister for the past six months. As you well know, we here at the Quai d’Orsay have supported his very imaginative ministry as he has re-fashioned France’s foreign policy, very much along the lines laid out by our late foreign minister, Louis Barthou.”
Dexter nodded in understanding; Barthou had been hugely energetic before being cut down in Marseilles by an assassin’s bullet just nine months before.
Madame Bardoux continued, “Monsieur Laval made Italy the centerpiece of his policy to contain German Nazism. He solidly linked France with Italy in his trip to Rome last January. That of course led to the Stresa Front, the alliance between Great Britain, France, and Italy, in April.” She paused and concluded, “The cornerstone of France’s foreign policy.”
Dexter smiled and said to Madame Lambert, “Madame Bardoux and I were both in Rome last January when Foreign Minister Laval had his historic meetings with Mussolini.”
Madame Lambert smiled in acknowledgement.
Dexter decided to interject a sharp edge to the conversation, “We at the embassy see that the British have chosen this week to announce the signing of a previously secret Naval Treaty with Germany. The accord negates another key provision of the Versailles Peace Treaty.” Dexter added, almost apologetically, “The Naval Treaty would seem to put a big dent in the Stresa Front.”
Madame Bardoux sighed, unable to contain her disappointment, “I cannot comment except to say that keeping Italy in the western alliance remains a keystone of French foreign policy.” Then she added, “There has been talk this was Anthony Eden’s doing,” referring to the handsomely debonair British minister to the League of Nations, the rising young star in the aging British cabinet.