I woke late, and in a frantic dialed room service to have them dash up nothing more than black coffee, as like always, my plans had changed faster than quickly. Which of course you well know darling, I always absolutely adore. As I simply do hate being chained to things you only pondered just the night before, you know?
Well, images of me riding in the Scottish Highlands lost its appeal the very second, if not before, I received a cablegram from Patrick Poiver d' Arvor regarding riding with him in the beautiful Loire Valley and staying at the Castle Chambord:
LADY JACQUELINE. SHALL ARRIVE AT HOTEL DE CRILLON AT 9A. WILL TRAVEL TO CHAMBORD. RIDE LOIRE VALLEY. KNOW OF YOUR INTERESTS AND NEW BREECHES. NATURE IS WELL REPRESENTED IN BIG FORESTS OF SOLOGNE. -PATRICK
Well, obvisously he wasn't aware of how I do so abject forests and it's trees. Truly darling, I only do nature for the outfits it allows me. But, that's beside the point, and not the subject of this letter.
Oh darling, Patrick is so much more than a news presenter, well, he's the heartthrob of many a French woman of a certain age. He's assured me that everything shall be primo!
Which, he says is his te los.
Let's us just say that I couldn't get the maid to pack my luggage, all 42 pieces, fast enough. House help can be so dreadfully slow at times, you know. It's as if they don't care that you have places to go and people to receive. And, of course I just had to have the most appropriate suits for castle evenings. So, I chose my best pieces from Marc Jacob, Prada and RL for dinners and Pucci for lunches. All that was equestrian from LV was packed as well. For simplicities sake I narrowed my accessories to only my Patek Phillipe wrist watch and tossed in 2 bottles of Chanel No. 5. The largest they make. As I wanted to bathe myself in it at after a beautiful day of riding, you know.
Patrick and I had the most splendid of times as HIS INTERESTS are wide and varied, if not much just the same as mine. During lunches he entertained me with his thoughts on Hugo's La Comedie Humaine. And wouldn't you know darling, I so truly could relate. I mean, it's as if we were commrades at once- in our discussions of the world's tragic state of affairs.
I looked more than spectacular each time I entered the dining area from the grand staircase for dinners and took possession of the room. Of course darling, I did this so humbly, as the other women seemed so terribly common in their frumps that I hadn't the heart to cause a commotion. Though I did!
And darling, you'd never suspect, but, Patrick's covering the story of American's desire to spill into the Spanish courts to bully their own, which they call seeking justice (whatever it takes to get you through the door), and quite frankly their roar just doesn't seem to carry the volume required to be newsworthy enough to find it's way into children's history books. I'm dreadfully afraid we'll be left for months on end, if not more, with yellow journalism and yawn endlessly while frantically searching for the fashion page. But, alas, I suppose, everyone's allowed their day in court.
Anyhow darling, once and if Spain proceeds in this 'theatre of the absurd', he's asked that I accompany him as a French correspondent of sort. I just simply can't wait. Oh darling, don't you understand? It means I get to go shopping for yet another spectacular court appearance. Oh, how I do wish I get asked to take the stand. Whatever for? Hell, if I know, and what would I care? But, I'm quite sure the PEOPLE of Spain would simply adore seeing me again. As they do so love the way I relate a good story, you know.
Oh, I've just the most wonderful thought: While in Spain, the Spainiards most assuredly will want a statement from me regarding that gawd awful bloody mess of the Baekelands and inquire if I've seen l 'enfant terrible Antony zipping about, as I hear he's still on the loose and free as a bird, which is allowed if you are able to skip past the law. And darling, you know as well as I, that freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose if your family and connections have more clout and money than a bankrupt justice system that hasn't a clue as how to keep documents from disappearing.
Anyhow, is that not the most marvelous gesture, inviting me to accompany him? Well darling, Patrick's just full of them, you know - grand gestures of which I certainly not only appreciate, but adore in a man, and most especially a man who's considered France's greatest news presenter.
Patrick empathized so sweetly with My Sleeping Africa, that one night he slipped under my chambre door a poem he'd written just for ME:
Have you seen My Sleeping Africa?
You surely weep with joy. There's more beauty here than any place. You feel it far before you walk upon the dead of its hateful landlords. There's laughter in each smiling face you'd not think. A BEAUTIFUL SPARK holds close its PEOPLE. It's independence in its grace. It's independent war each time you wake. It's girls at Boarfold. It's in your soul. Call it Zimbabwe, call it Rhodesia; it's a flower no matter her name. Go further north and find Zambia, then tell me what you see in Malawi. The dirt is hot. South is just the same. Do not cry, for you may wake my sleeping Africa.
-Patrick
Is that not the most, darling? I mean, truly the most! I believe him a romantic, but then he's French, you know. No matter. I let him steal my heart only for the moment, as I had so very much riding to do and outfits to wear, that I hadn't the time for Frenchmen falling at my feet.
-Jacqueline
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