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Updated: June 9, 2025
It flattered my vanity a little to be able to say that I had a corner table always reserved in the Salon des Palmiers, otherwise Salon Blanc, where the atmosphere was legitimist and extremely decorous besides—even in Carnival time. “Nine tenths of the people there,” I said, “would be of your political opinions, if that’s an inducement. Come along. Let’s be festive,” I encouraged them.
The Palmiers was a place where one met a merry cosmopolitan crowd, but where the cocotte in her bright plumage was absent an advantage which only the male habitue of Monte Carlo can fully realize.
There was really a marked contrast between the two consecutive evenings Kennedy and I had spent together. One of the ladies of the British Embassy in Petrograd inquired of a Court official what the cost of a "Bal des Palmiers" amounted to. The chamberlain replied that for 1,500 people the cost would be about 9,000 pounds, working out at 6 pounds per head.
We used, as good Episcopalians, to go every Sunday to the little English Church on the rue des Palmiers. Alas, I can remember only one thing about those services. The clergyman had a peculiar impediment in his speech which made him say his h's and s's, both as sh. Thus he always said shuman for human, and invariably prayed that God might be pleased to "shave the Queen."
I looked at this commonplace-looking individual with anything but favour. He lifted his hat. "Madame Sarah Bernhardt is here?" "What do you want with me, sir?" "Here is my card, Madame." I read, "Gambard, Nice, Villa des Palmiers." I looked at him with astonishment, and he was still more astonished to see that his name did not produce any impression on me. He had a foreign accent.
Now it came about that Captain Flanagan, who had not left the ship once during the journey, found his one foot aching for a touch and feel of the land. So he and Holleran, the chief-engineer, came ashore a little before noon and decided to have a bite of maccaroni under the shade of the palms in the Place des Palmiers. A bottle of warm beer was divided between them.
Just after seven o'clock that same evening young Henfrey and his friend Brock met in the small lounge of the Hotel des Palmiers, a rather obscure little establishment in the Avenue de la Costa, behind the Gardens, much frequented by the habitues of the Rooms who know Monte Carlo and prefer the little place to life at the Paris, the Hermitage, and the Riviera Palace, or the Gallia, up at Beausoleil.
And then, as they strolled on into the farther room, the conversation dropped. "So they've heard about Mademoiselle, it seems!" remarked Brock to his friend as they walked back to the Palmiers together in the moonlight after having seen Lady Ranscomb and her daughter to their hotel. "Yes," growled the other. "I wish we could get hold of that Monsieur Courtin. He might tell us a bit about her."
He wished he had left the women at Marseilles. "Say nothing to any one," he warned. "But if this man Picard comes aboard again, keep him there." "Yessir." "That'll be all." "What d' y' think?" asked Holleran, on the return to the Place des Palmiers, for the two were still hungry. "Think? There's a fight, bucko!" jubilantly. "These pleasure-boats sure become monotonous."
"Entre le ciel qui brûle et la mer qui moutonne, Au somnolent soleil d'un midi monotone, Tu songes, O guerrière, aux vieux conquistadors; Et dans l'énervement des nuits chaudes et calmes, Berçant ta gloire éteinte, O cité, tu t'endors Sous les palmiers, au long frémissement des palmes."
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