“She is also undoubtedly a lady,” Lord Marston added, “in which case why all this secrecy? Why has she never been to a party? Why is she allowed to speak to no one at the theatre?”
He paused before he said,
“I am also prepared to bet, Ivan, that Lawrence is not her real name.”
“Why should you think that?” the Prince queried.
“Because like you I am being intuitive,” Lord Marston answered. “Dammit all, the whole set up is mysterious and in fact very un-English.”
“I don’t think we shall get anywhere by asking questions.”
“I am quite certain of that,” Lord Marston agreed. “That woman, who I imagine was Lokita’s Governess, is I am sure as close as a clam. We shall get nothing out of her.”
“Leave it to me,” the Prince said confidently.
“I know exactly what you are thinking, Ivan, you are convinced in your usual modest way that there is not a woman born, whatever her age, whatever her nationality, whom you cannot eventually twist around your little finger.”
“How well you know me, Hugo,” the Prince said mockingly and then he spurred his horse and there was no time for further conversation.
As Lord Marston had half-expected, they did not meet Lokita again in the Bois de Boulogne.
Every morning they went to the spot where they had encountered her before and, when she did not turn up, they looked for her in every other possible place only to be frustrated.
By Friday the Prince could stand it no more and called at the house.
The door was opened by an elderly French woman who dropped a curtsey at the sight of the two gentlemen.
“Is Miss Anderson at home?” the Prince asked her.
“Non, monsieur, Miss Anderson and Miss Lokita are out driving.”
“They are both well?”
“Very well, monsieur.”
“Will you tell Miss Anderson that I am greatly looking forward to seeing them both tomorrow evening at my party and that as arranged the costumes will be sent to the theatre and my carriage will be waiting for them after the performance.”
“I will give the ladies your message. monsieur,” the maid replied.
There seemed nothing else the Prince could say, but just as he was turning away he asked,
“I hope both ladies received the flowers I sent them.”
“Beautiful flowers have arrived every day. monsieur,” the maid answered.
“And they pleased the ladies?”
“M’mselle Lokita loves flowers, monsieur. She was thrilled with the bowl of orchids that arrived yesterday.”
“I am extremely gratified that she liked them,” the Prince said.
“Are you wise?” Lord Marston asked as they rode away. “You will frighten the dragon if you try to tempt them with expensive gifts as you did before.”
“I have learnt my lesson,” the Prince answered. “The orchids were merely in a crystal bowl arranged by a Master hand and for every flower that Lokita has received Miss Anderson’s have equalled if not surpassed hers.”
“You are beginning to have a little common sense,” Lord Marston commented approvingly.
“Those I sent to Lokita conveyed a message that only she could understand,” the Prince added.
He said no more, but as soon as they returned home he busied himself with preparing for the party which Lord Marston realised was to be as fantastic and extravagant as those he had seen in Russia.
He could understand that, if it was anything like the parties in the Royal Palaces of St. Petersburg, Lokita would find it astounding.
To him as a young man the colours of the Palaces alone had seemed fantastic.
The Yusupov Palace of yellow was reflected in the Fontanka canal, the Voronzov Palace overlooking the Neva was crimson and white and the Tauride Palace was a rich blue. Others were in lilac or salmon pink.
When he had been in St. Petersburg, the Winter Palace of the Czar, which had originally been coloured pistachio green with white and gold pillars, had been re-painted maroon red.
When the City with the first heavy snows in November was transformed into a white and sparkling world, the brilliant colours of the Palaces had brought a Fairytale-like appearance to the whole place.
Then there had been the jingling and tinkling of silver bells as people in their sleighs sped over the snows and ice from Palace to Palace to enjoy the fantastic parties that were given night after night.
Thirty thousand candles shone in huge crystal chandeliers in the Winter Palace or were arranged spirally round the jasper pillars bordering the ballroom.
Everywhere gigantic mirrors reflected the jewels that sparkled and shimmered as ladies who wore them danced to the music of innumerable violins.
Resplendent aides-de-camp swung round the polished floors with beautiful women who wore necklaces down to their waists, rivières of diamonds, yards of pearls and brooches of rubies and emeralds as big as pigeons’ eggs.
The supper tables were set with gold dishes festooned with garlands of hothouse flowers and delicacies travelled thousands of miles from other parts of the world to tempt the jaded palates of the guests.
At the balls that Lord Marston had attended, the Ladies-in-Waiting, following the example of the Empress, wore their traditional Court dresses of richly-coloured velvets with ermine trimming and splendid jewels to match the velvet.
Parures of rubies for crimson velvet, sapphires for blue, emeralds for green and the variety of brilliant uniforms worn by the Russian Officers ranged the whole spectrum of colour including even pink and violet.
There were gypsies to sing and play and their music grew wilder and wilder as the night wore on.
No one gave a thought, Lord Marston knew, to the poor, who watched outside in the bitter freezing cold, their feet wrapped in birch bark and rags.
That at least was one thing that would be missing in Paris, Lord Marston told himself as he watched with amusement the Prince’s plans for what he thought of as ‘Lokita’s Russian party’.
The whole of the huge garden at the château was to be covered in white, the artificial snow having an advantage over the real thing in that it did not freeze the feet.
Fir trees were planted in the ground to imitate the dark impenetrable background of the Russian woods, and pools were constructed of mirrors to look like ice, while real troikas were there for those who wished to drive in them.
Gypsies, many of them genuine Russian gypsies, were sent for from all parts of France and Russian choirs were paid to break engagements so that they could sing the haunting love songs that were so essentially a part of Russian festivities.
Lord Marston knew that here the Prince was bound to deviate a little from reality, for nearly all Russian songs were sad and melancholy, the songs of those who had lost their love and who would in consequence suffer and die.
They were part of the suffering endured by the Russians for generations and were sung accompanied by the balalaika and an accordion.
They echoed over the rolling wheat fields and the steppes, across the sunflower plantations of the Ukraine and in the snow-bound winter darkness of the North.
As always when the Prince was occupied, he concentrated on what he was doing to the exclusion of all else.
Lord Marston found it difficult to tempt him out even to luncheon or dinner in one of the fashionable restaurants and, when they talked on subjects that had always interested them, the Prince’s mind kept returning to the party and, of course, Lokita.
“I want to see her face as she steps into the garden and sees the picture of Russia as she must always have imagined it,”
“Perhaps she will want to dance,” Lord Marston suggested.
The Prince turned on him violently.
“The people I have engaged will dance for her,” he reflected. “She will not give anything of herself to them. I will not allow it!”
Every night the Prince and Lord Marston went to the theatre to watch Lokita and, when they ca
me away, Lord Marston was aware that each time he saw her the Prince grew deeper and deeper in love.
It seemed to consume him like a burning fire so that at times Lord Marston felt that it might break every restraint and the last vestige of civilisation would fall away from him.
It was inevitable that it should make him look more handsome, more compelling and at the same time more authoritative.
He was like a man who was fighting a hard battle, but believed that victory was in sight.
He spoke of himself as a supplicant at Lokita’s feet, but Lord Marston knew that really he was a conqueror who would gain the height of his ambition and the zenith of his desires.
Because of the Prince’s impatience he too felt as if it took unusually long for the days to pass until Saturday.
When it came, the morning was dear and sunny and the Prince went into his room early to say,
“It’s a good omen, the sun is in the sky and there is not a cloud to be seen. Come and look at the garden.”
Dozens of men were spreading the artificial snow on the ground and on the trees. There were others erecting false bonfires that glowed beneath great logs of wood with crimson rags which fluttered between them as if they were flames.
It was all amazingly and unbelievably lovely and Lord Marston thought that no woman who appreciated beauty, especially Lokita, could fail to be thrilled by it.
The Prince supervised every detail. Then, before they were packed up to be taken to the theatre, he showed Lord Marston the Russian gowns that he had chosen for Lokita and Mss Anderson to wear.
They were the colourful and attractive traditional costumes that had been a part of Russian history since the first Romanovs in the seventeenth century, who realising that their people expected pomp and circumstance had bedecked themselves with jewels until they appeared to be covered with them.
The headdress for Miss Anderson was made of pearls and there were strings of them, which would fall from round her chin to below her waist.
Lokita’s was more delicate and only as he looked at the jewels worked into the embroidery on the skirt and bodice of her gown did Lord Marston exclaim,
“Surely, Ivan, those are real emeralds and diamonds?”
“But of course!” the Prince replied. “Do you think I would offer Lokita anything that was imitation?”
“But diamonds, just for a party!” Lord Marston expostulated. “Besides they may be dropped or stolen.”
“Nothing will be stolen from Lokita while she is with me,” the Prince asserted firmly.
The guests had all been asked to come in Russian costume and, as there was nothing that Parisians enjoyed more than dressing up, Lord Marston knew that everyone would be only too delighted to oblige their host.
“Do you intend to invite the Emperor and Empress?” Lord Marston enquired as the invitations were despatched by hand.
“I could not stand the boredom of their presence,” the Prince replied, “but I have asked the Prince Napoleon.”
The Prince was the most controversial and at the same time the most popular man in all France.
He disliked the Empress and assumed a frank independence of the Emperor.
His private life was as controversial as his public. His behaviour towards his mistresses was legendary and he flaunted them in full view of all Paris.
The Prince had married seven years ago, but it was a purely political arrangement intended to unite France and Italy and no two people could have been more unsuited to each other.
It was therefore not surprising that marriage did not modify the Prince’s immorality.
It was said openly that there was always some petticoat lying about his bedroom in the morning. However, because he was so witty, such an excellent host and had charm par excellence, no party in Paris was complete without him.
“I wonder what the Prince Napoleon will think of Lokita when he meets her.” Lord Marston commented. “I heard that he invited her out to supper, but his invitations were refused.”
“As mine were,” the Prince said, “which is why I had to employ other tactics.”
“And very reprehensible ones,” Lord Marston added with severity. “I wonder what Lokita will say when she learns the truth.”
“That depends on whether I ever tell her,” the Prince replied and then added almost angrily,
“But she would forgive me! She would forgive me because she loves me. Don’t forget that, she loves me!”
Lord Marston thought that was true and yet inevitably his mind went to Miss Anderson.
Surely she would have something to say about this liaison, because it could be nothing more between the charge she had guarded so assiduously and the Prince? Because he was so excited and so anxious about the evening, the Prince was dressed far earlier than was necessary and came into Lord Marston’s bedroom to hurry him.
He was arrayed in his Regimental uniform and looked so impressive and at the same time so fantastically attractive that Lord Marston thought that it would be hard for any girl, let alone one as inexperienced as Lokita, not to fall head over heels in love with him.
“Do hurry, Hugo!” the Prince admonished.
“You are very impatient, Ivan,” Lord Marston replied good-humouredly.
“I want to be quite certain that dinner is finished and everyone is out in the garden by the time Lokita arrives.”
“There is no likelihood of her being here until nearly twelve o’clock,” Lord Marston pointed out soothingly.
“You know how long these meals take,” the Prince replied.
That was true since over two hundred people were being entertained in what was usually used as the ballroom.
Because it was to be a Russian evening, Tokay, which was the fashionable drink in St. Petersburg, was to be offered to the guests as well as the best French champagne.
The Prince’s chefs were determined to produce a menu that would be the envy of every other host in Paris, besides which there was to be a completely Russian supper after Lokita arrived for those who were still hungry after a gargantuan dinner.
Looking at the brilliant scene in the dining room a few hours later Lord Marston thought that the Prince had achieved his object and really had rivalled the splendour of the Winter Palace.
Outside the garden was an enchantment.
It was Fairytale Russia as everybody imagined it to be without the cruelty, the starvation, the poor and the oppressed.
Russia as she existed only in the hearts of those who loved her and yet because it had a mystery and beauty of its own it was inescapably lovely.
Lord Marston enjoyed himself.
He had a great many friends amongst the Prince’s guests and a number of women who were so attractive that he thought they might well encourage him to prolong his visit to Paris.
It was only later in the garden when the Prince came to stand beside him that he realised the time.
“She has not arrived!” the Prince said in a low voice.
Lord Marston drew his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. The hands pointed almost to one o’clock.
“Perhaps the performance ran late,” he suggested.
“She does not wait for the end, as you well know,” the Prince replied.
Lord Marston with a muttered apology left the lady he had been talking to and walked with the Prince towards the house, their feet crunching on the artificial snow.
“Something has happened, something has prevented her from coming,” the Prince said in a tortured voice. “It must be the doing of that damned woman!”
“She agreed to the party.”
“Then why is Lokita not here? I told the carriage to be outside the stage door at eleven o’clock. One of my most trusted men was on the box.”
“There must be some reasonable explanation,” Lord Marston said soothingly. “She should be here at any moment. Relax, Ivan, and have a drink.”
They entered the salon and he put a glass of champagne into the Prince’s hand as he spoke.
“She is not coming. I know she is not coming!” he cried. “God, Hugo, if I should lose her!”
Lord Marston looked at his watch again. It did seem rather ominous.
They walked into the hall and as they did so one of the footmen standing at the doorway turned to exclaim,
“Here is the carriage!”
The Prince’s look of despair vanished and he hurried forward.
He was on the steps as the coachman drew the horses to a standstill.
The footmen ran down to open the carriage door, but, as they did so, Lord Marston saw that there was no one inside.
A Russian servant jumped down from the box and came towards the Prince.
“What has happened? Where are the ladies I sent you to collect?’’ the Prince asked furiously.
“They came out of the theatre, Your Highness, shortly after eleven-thirty.”
“And you were waiting for them?”
“Yes, Your Highness, but, as they climbed into the carriage, they asked if we would take them first to the Railway Station.”
“To the Railway Station?” the Prince repeated in a strangled voice.
“Yes, Your Highness. They said they had to say ‘goodbye’ to someone who was leaving by train.”
“And you did as they asked?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And when you got there?”
“The Ladies alighted, Your Highness, and went into the Station.”
“They had luggage with them?”
“No, Your Highness, only a hat box.”
Lord Marston drew in his breath.
Already he guessed what the hat box contained.
“Go on!” the Prince urged him testily.
“I asked if I should carry the hat box for the ladies, Your Highness, but they refused and I saw waiting for them just inside the Station a man and a woman with a pile of luggage.”
“A man and a woman,” the Prince repeated. “A tall man, a servant? A Russian?”
“I think so, Your Highness.”
The Prince did not speak and the man continued,
The Passion and the Flower Page 9