We followed our porter ashore and were whisked through customs to a special platform where the Train Bleu was waiting. Even on this dark and gloomy day those Pullman coaches seemed to glow with opulence. The porter found my compartment, which had a small berth connecting for Queenie. Really, it was most civilized.

Queenie came through to join me, looking slightly less damp and wild. “I was soaked right down to me knickers, miss. I’ve put them to dry on the radiator.”

It was no use admonishing her.

“And you know what I’ve been thinking, miss?” she went on, taking a place opposite me without being asked. “I know I speak real common, so I’ve decided to better myself. When I get home I’m going to save up and take them ‘hellocution’ lessons. People are going to think I’m a proper toff, just like you.”

Oh, golly, I’d got Eliza Doolittle on my hands now. “Good idea, Queenie,” I said.

At that moment there was a toot and a slamming of doors, and we glided out of the station. A big grin spread across my face. I was really on my way to the south of France and adventure. About two small annoying facts I chose not to think: one, that I was to share a villa with Fig and her sister, and the other, that I was supposed to commit a robbery for the queen.

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

January 21, 1933
On the Blue Train. Heading for the Riviera. Hooray!

The gray, rain-splashed French countryside flashed past us, with rows of leafless poplars between brown fields of stubble. Darkness was falling as we reached the outskirts of Paris. Instead of going into the Gare du Nord, as other trains from the Channel did, this train skirted the perimeter of the city, moving through dingy suburbs and going over lots of points until at last it stopped at the Gare de Lyon on the southern side of the city. The attendant knocked on my door. “Does your ladyship require anything while we are in the station?” he asked in French, assuming, I suppose, that anyone who traveled on this train spoke the language. “Should I arrange for a dinner box for your maid? There is only the first-class dining car for people like yourself.”

“Thank you, that would be most kind,” I replied in the same language.

“And dinner will be served as soon as we leave the city,” he went on. “The dining car is to your left.”

A box was delivered for Queenie, who wasted no time in tucking into it. “Funny bread,” she said, “and this ham tastes of garlic, but it ain’t bad. My friend Nellie ’uxtable, what works down the Three Bells, said we’d have to eat frog legs and little birds. I told her not to be so ruddy daft. Just’cos she went on the day trip to Boulogne once, she thinks she knows about France.”