Call Me Sonja

It was a gorgeous day of early spring in Cannes, that most fashionable resort of Southern France. The season was at its height, and, as in every winter of the early 1900s, celebrities from every part of the world were gathering to worship at the shrine of fashion. It was a queer mingling of humanity; every walk of life was represented during that brief season, from royalty down the social ladder to the gay demimondaine.

Many years before, an English lord had brought his yacht to anchor in the quiet harbor of the then unknown fishing village. Before long, a colony of British had built their villas on the hills overlooking the sea. The French soon followed, and to make the setting complete, the pleasure-loving Russians, led by the Grand Ducal families, made Cannes their chief rendezvous. The rest of the world came to look on, filled with pride even to be near such splendor.

The Grand Duke Michael, the acknowledged leader of the social life, was to arrive on the following day. The Golf Club at La Napoule, around whose table for déjeuner gathered many of the best-known persons of the world, awaited the royal presence for its formal opening. The Cercle d’Union, that most exclusive club, where much of the inner social life took place, would also now become the animated scene of small and select groups.

So the current of gossip ran that afternoon as tout le monde walked or drove along the Boulevard de la Croisette, which wound its way along the shore of the Mediterranean.

The sun was hot, and men in white flannels and women lightly clad, carrying parasols of different hues, presented a lively, pretty picture. As usual, in the harbor were anchored the private yachts of American and English visitors. A few fishing craft with gaily colored sails were coming ashore to dry and mend their nets for the following day. Children were playing on the beach, their tin shovels and pails glistening in the brilliant sunshine. The little boat running to the Island of Saint Marguerite in the near distance was just putting out to sea. The bathing houses and tearooms bordering the sea were beginning to fill with their accustomed patrons.

Norman Carey, a good-looking American of middle age in golfing costume, his face and hands browned from outdoor life, paused for a moment at the entrance of the French Club. Then, changing his mind, he retraced his steps, determined to drop into Rumpelmeyer’s for a cup of tea.

As he approached the entrance to the teahouse, a car was drawing up and a woman of distinguished bearing was preparing to alight. The attendant opened the door and bowed.

“It is a pleasure to welcome the princess again.”

She smiled graciously. “And I am glad to see you also, Adolf. Are the children here?”

“Mais oui, madame. Louis has them seated as you have ordered.”

The Princess Samaroff of Russia moved into the well-filled tearoom, nodding on all sides to old friends and acquaintances. There was a buzz of excitement. All eyes were turned toward this beautiful woman as she was led by the maitre d’hotel to a small table next to a large one at which were seated a dozen or more children from eight to ten years of age.

Their table was decorated with a bright-colored paper centerpiece and napkins, a queer assortment of toy animals, horns, and dolls, and, in the center, a large cake, frosted to match the centerpiece, containing nine little wax candles.

All the children were fashionably dressed and sat very stiffly. They rose as the princess approached.

“Sit down, my dears, don’t let me interfere with your party,” and nodding pleasantly to them, she withdrew to her own table.

Norman Carey, entering a few minutes later, looked about for a vacant table. The tearoom was crowded, and he was about to leave when a waiter approached.

“Pardon, monsieur, but madame is trying to attract your attention.”

He glanced quickly about him, caught the eye of Princess Samaroff, and hurried toward her.

“How very nice to see you again!” Norman said as he kissed her hand and accepted readily her invitation to join her at tea. “I had no idea you were in Cannes.”

“That is not very flattering to me,” she replied, smiling. “As you see,” she pointed to the children’s table, “I am entertaining your son at my child’s birthday party.”

“There is Norman, to be sure,” he waved to his young son, “but I do not understand how my wife should have failed to tell me of your arrival,” he continued apologetically.

“We just chanced to meet in one of the shops on the Rue d’Antibes this morning, and you have probably been at the Golf Club all day, n’est-ce pas?

“Oh well, that accounts for it,” he said, much relieved. “As a matter of fact, I have just come from golf.”

“And are you as keen about golf as ever?” the princess asked with evident interest.

Norman laughed. “I’m afraid I am and always will be. It is certainly my favorite sport.”

“No wonder you are fond of it, and well you might be, you play so well. You will be very unpopular, however,” she warned “if you win the grand duke’s prize again this year.”

“No danger of that. I was in great luck to win it at all, said Norman, smiling. “It’s awfully kind of the grand duke to give such an unusual cigarette case like this one. I was most lucky to win it, though it has been embarrassing occasionally when I have used it on this side of the water. Strangers appear to think I must be a member of the royal family.”

“How amusing! It must be rather good fun for you.”

They sat and chatted, idly watching the people coming and going while waiting for the children to finish their tea. Visitors from other tables, stopping by to pay their respects to the princess, often interrupted their conversation.