# Pleased to Meet You/Chapter 4

But Nyla's confidence abated when she found that she had to pour the tea—a beverage little drunk in Ilyria—with two footmen standing attentively beside her. If they had not been there she could have studied and probably solved the complicated array of jugs, dishes, napkins, spirit lamps and other utensils; but those watchful figures frightened her. The obvious course was to use some of everything, and her father sat innocently drinking from a cup that contained both cream and lemon, unaware that this would have grieved the British foreign office. There was a generous assortment of rich but flimsy sandwiches and pastries, but the hungry President, conscious of scrutiny, was too uneasy to do them justice. He sat some distance from the source of supply, with an ​anxious feeling that it would be unseemly to shift his chair. Each tidbit was less than a square mouthful, so the alert flunkeys were busy offering him a constant succession of dishes. He sipped in silence until the lemon, gradually warring against the cream, became unbearable.
"George," he said, "take this away and drink it for me. Don't tell that Major or he'll get me into trouble with the British government."
It required both servants, apparently, to remove the offending cup. When they had left the room Guadeloupe hitched his chair nearer the table and seized several sandwiches at once.
"I'll bet they've got some grand food in the pantry," he said dismally, "if I could only get at it. You know, this won't do. If any of the Labour members saw us in a lay-out like this, I'd be impeached.—What do you suppose we'll get for supper?" He thought sadly of the old kitchen in their vacated home in the Hirschgasse, the shining copper pots ranged on the ​mantel above the tile stove, the larder that he always raided late at night.
"I wonder," he added, "if there's any chance of onion soup?"
For twenty years Herr Guadeloupe had had onion soup for supper almost every evening. In fact in his electoral campaign onion soup had become almost a political symbol. The cartoonists had seized upon it as an emblem of solid proletarian thrift and the traditional Illyrian simplicities. Drawings of Herr Guadeloupe dipping in his tureen and puffing his pipe, first intended for ridicule, had proved to be advantageous. The Labour Party had been borne to power, in a manner of speaking, on a tide of onion soup.
"We may as well find out," said Nyla. "And Daddy, you must remember they probably call it dinner, and it won't be until late, seven o'clock I dare say."
Summoned by the footmen, Romsteck appeared. He looked specially austere as he had not expected to be interrupted just then. He ​and Frau Innsbruck had just sat down to compare notes over a private glass of beer. The President put away his unlit pipe, which he had been fingering hopefully, and rose politely from his chair.
"Pardon me, Major, for disturbing you. I just wished to know, so I can make my calculations, what time will supper be?"
"Dinner is served, Herr President, at eight o'clock. The Grand Duke preferred it at that hour, which gave him plenty of time to dress."
The President was painfully startled. "Good God, did the man stay in bed all day long?"
Romsteck preserved an offended silence, which continued until Nyla came to the rescue.
"My father is accustomed to having onion soup for dinner. He counts on it very much. I suppose the chef—the chef would not mind, occasionally that is, preparing it for him?"
The butler seemed very much shocked.
"Onion soup, Fräulein?—— Did I understand you to say onion soup?"
​"Yes," said Guadeloupe. "You know, with toast in it, and plenty of cheese."
"Why, Herr President, I do not believe an onion has been served in the palace since the Reign of Terror."
Romsteck rang for the chef.
"Monsieur Pigalle," he said, "will you rehearse for the Herr President what dishes have been arranged for dinner this evening."
Pigalle, with a Frenchman's eye for a pretty girl, was in his element.
"With the greatest pleasure. To welcome the President and his daughter I have planned as follows. The menu is plain, in deference to a republican simplicity of taste, but I hope not displeasing. Hors d'œuvres varies, served in the Adriatic fashion. To follow, Homard Paprika. I thought that then a culotte de boeuf garnie, au vin de Madére; or if that seems a trifle rich we could substitute filets mignons piqués de truffes. Not to overload the stomach, Mademoiselle, I thought that some pancakes burning in raspberry brandy would be amusing; followed by a ​soufflé, an ice, and some fruit. I feel sure that the Herr President and Mademoiselle will have no cause for complaint."
Herr Guadeloupe, to whom French was not only unfamiliar but an uncongenial tongue for political reasons, had no very clear idea of just what these phrases represented in the way of actual victuals.
"Any soup?" he asked.
"If desired, I can add a nice julienne aux pointes d'asperges," said Pigalle. "But I believe if the Herr President always knows in advance just what dishes are to be served, he deprives himself of much of the artistry of the table."
I don't want artistry of the table, I just want some onion soup, thought the President, but refrained from saying it. With an air of dignity that seemed to make further discussion impossible, Romsteck and the chef withdrew.
"Well, I don't know any more than I did before," said Guadeloupe. "I told you this was going to be terrible." He began hunting about the room.
​"Marvellous old furniture," said Nyla.
"I'm not looking at the furniture. I'm hunting for a box of matches. I think I'll go out in the garden and have a smoke."
A stir in the hall caught Nyla's attention.
"Oh look, Daddy, our things have come." Through the tall glass doors she could see a troop of servants lined up respectfully to receive their very modest and shabby luggage, the portmanteaux and the battered tin trunk. She caught a glimpse of a familiar old brown satchel.
"I wish we had bought some new bags, it looks too absurd to see them all making such to-do over our poor old things. Your old satchel looks too awful."
"My satchel?" he said. "Is it there? Just what I need. There's a——"
"Now Daddy, what are you going to do? You mustn't——"
But he sped into the hall where he surprised the assembled flunkeys by seizing the bag. Muttering some unintelligible explanation, he ​rushed into the salon with it. Two agitated footmen attempted to help, but he clung to the thing with feverish earnestness, opened it, rummaged among some socks and collars, and finally produced a packet of tobacco, a box of matches, and a bottle of brandy.
"There," he said. "By heaven, I've earned it."
He uncorked the bottle and sniffed it affectionately. With difficulty Nyla restrained him until one of the footmen had brought a tray and glasses. "Well," he said, pouring some out, "Now we can feel a little more at home."
"Your pardon, Herr President," objected Romsteck who had suddenly appeared, "but those are not brandy glasses. They are champagne goblets."
"Major," retorted the harassed man, "I drink to your Grand Duke. I am beginning to understand why he fled." And he raised his glass. But before he could place it to his lips he was halted by a cry, courteous but peremptory.
​"Just a moment, Herr President!" exclaimed a young man, striding into the room. "It is my duty." He took the glass from the hand of the astonished President and drank off the contents himself.