╘THAT must be the mistress,╙ a Swiss journalist murmured as a chic woman in black signed the mourners╒ register outside the church of Saint Jean.
A quick peek at the register, which was open under a blossoming cherry tree ╤ and, no, it was the irreproachable wife of the British ambassador, Chris Long.
Graham Greene╒s widow, Vivien, was already in church. And so, it emerged later, was his mistress, Yvonne Cloetta, an equally chic woman in black.
It was just that so many journalists were peeking at the register yesterday that she had been unable to get through to sign it. There was no friction in church. ╥A peculiar lot, we Greenes,╙ the clan spokesman, Graham Carleton Greene, murmured in clarification.
The novelist╒s funeral and burial in the coniferous dignity of a hillside looking across Lake Geneva to the Alps was an affair as happily complaisant, in his sense of the word, as it was comradely and loving.
It was led by a bevy of Greenes, right down to his grandson, Andrew Bourget. Its supporting cast included one of the world╒s great leprosy specialists, Michel Lachat, whom the author met while working on A Burnt Out Case, and the resonantly silver-haired real-life Honorary Consul for Nice and Antibes, Ronnie Challenor, a friend for 20 years but not, he hastened to add, the original of the maritally tortured consul of the book.
Most of all, there was Father Leopoldo Duran, Spanish original of M Quixote in one of his old
theological sparring partner╒s last novels. ╥Farewell sweet prince and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,╙ the father chanted exuberantly while splashing ╤ sprinkling is not Father Durand╒s way ╤ the coffin with holy water.
In the pulpit earlier he acknowledged briefly that Thomas the Doubter had been one of Greene╒s lifelong names for himself. But the priest went on to leave no single hairline of doubt in his sermon. He told the congregation that to avoid misinterpretation it was important to make clear the 86- year-old novelist, who died last Wednesday, had taken the initiative in calling him to his bedside: ╥His physician said he had never seen such an extraordinary character in the presence of death. He had been unwell for about 15 months. I told him most directly, ╥Graham, God is waiting for you just now ╤ pray for us where you will be for ever in God╒s blessing. I now give the last absolution.╙
╥This I did. He passed away in the most peaceful manner. Without a gesture, he fell asleep. My faith tells me that he is now with God or on the way there. He was a loyal friend who would risk his life if truth or justice demanded it. His work remains as our legacy.╙
Mr Carleton Greene, the author╒s nephew, said afterwards that he did not think anybody in the family would mind the certitude of Father Durand╒s remarks. ╥After all it was Graham, who knew what kind of priest he was, who asked him to come.╙
When Greene developed leukaemia, he moved here to an apartment in the parish of Courseaux from Antibes, where he had hoped to die. It brought him to the town where Charlie Chaplin is buried, and close to Greene╒s daughter, Caroline Bourget.
But it also brought him to a neat landscape of hypermarkets, sensible houses and tiered vineyards, to the country which, as his Harry Lime said, enjoyed 500 years of democracy and peace, ╥and what did it produce: The cuckoo clock.╙
His grave near that of a town doctor is in the posher part of a small cemetery built in steps up a hill. The only section of this view which broods like his books is the Alps, their high snow lines hidden in cloud even in yesterday╒s sunshine.
╥He liked it here,╙ Mr Carleton Greene said. ╥He╒d visited most of the turbulent places of the world. Maybe one needs peace.╙
