The Wings of Ecstacy

by Barbara Cartland

  There was a large sitting room, three bedrooms and to Zena’s surprise a small kitchen.

  “Why should the owner want a kitchen?” she asked. “Surely he would go out for his meals?”

  “I expect he thinks sometimes it is more convenient to dine at home,” Kendric answered, “and, if the caretaker is not prepared to cook for him, I am quite certain he would have a delightful Chère Amie who would be only too willing to oblige.”

  His eyes were twinkling as he spoke and Zena replied,

  “You know as well as I do that I am a good cook, but I have no intention of cooking while we are in Paris! I want to visit all the restaurants, if for no other reason because Mama says Royalty can never be seen in one!”

  “You shall eat in all the most famous of them,” Kendric promised. “I have a list.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Zena asked.

  “For you to change your clothes,” Kendric replied, “and there is no hurry. Nobody eats early in Paris, so you can forget your provincial ways!”

  Zena made a grimace at him and went to the bedroom she had chosen for herself which was the largest and most attractive, where she found a young girl who she assumed was the caretaker’s daughter unpacking her trunk.

  “M’mselle’s gowns are very beautiful!” the girl said. “Are you going to the Artists’ Ball?”

  “Is it taking place tonight?” Zena enquired.

  “Oui, oui, m’mselle and all Paris enjoys the gayest and most noisy ball of the year. Everybody will be there, except perhaps the Empress who does not approve.”

  She paused to note that Zena was listening intently and went on,

  “The Emperor is sure to attend. He enjoys seeing the pretty women who make each ball more successful than the last.”

  Zena ran from the bedroom and across the sitting room.”

  “Kendric!” she cried as she opened her brother’s bedroom door. “Did you know that the Artists’ Ball is taking place tonight? Please, let’s go!”

  “Of course we are going,” Kendric replied. “I have not told you because I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  Zena looked at her twin who had just taken off his coat and tie. Then she flung her arms around his neck.

  “Oh, Kendric, you are wonderful!” she sighed. “Who could have a more fabulous brother than you?”

  Kendric smiled. Then he saw that the door was open and frowned.

  “Hush,” he said. “Have you forgotten I am not your brother? Even when we are here by ourselves, we must be careful.”

  “I am sorry. It was stupid of me.” Zena spoke in a contrite tone.

  “I don’t suppose any harm has been done,” Kendric said, “but do be on your guard. We must not arouse the slightest suspicion. Looking at you, I am quite certain a number of men will be very curious.”

  Zena kissed his cheek as she said,

  “And, as you are so handsome, I am equally certain a large number of women will be curious about you.”

  “That is the sort of thing I expect to hear,” Kendric said complacently.

  “You are abominably conceited,” Zena teased.

  Then because she was in a hurry to get ready she went back to her own room.

  As Kendric had said, there was no hurry, but by the time Zena had unpacked, had a bath, arranged her hair and made up her face in what seemed to her to be a very lurid fashion, nearly three hours had passed.

  She put on a gown which the Arch-Duchess had complained when she bought it was far too elaborate for a young girl.

  It was in fact a copy of one of Mr. Worth’s creations which the dressmaker in Wiedenstein had seen when she was in Paris and she had actually brought back the same material which Mr. Worth had used.

  It was of blue shot with silver, which accentuated the red-gold of Zena’s hair and made her blue eyes seem even larger and more brilliant than usual.

  It was not surprising that she should have blue eyes considering that her father’s eyes were blue and so were her mother’s.

  But Zena’s were the colour of the gentians she had seen growing in the mountains when they had visited Switzerland and the combination of them with her white skin and her hair was positively sensational or, as the Arch-Duchess had said, ‘regrettably theatrical’.

  Zena had mascaraed her eyelashes to make them appear even longer than they were already, and reddened her lips.

  Having done so she felt as if the Princess Marie-Therese had really ceased to exist and that she really was now a demi-mondaine, a word she was sure would never soil her mother’s lips.

  She was still not certain why the demi-mondaines of Paris were considered so outrageous.

  She supposed they were like actresses, remembering her mother had always said firmly that no decent woman would parade herself in public so that anybody could pay to watch her.

  When she and Kendric entered the Café Anglais which her brother told her was the most fashionable and the most acclaimed restaurant in all Paris, Zena felt as if she stepped onto a stage.

  It was very large which she had not expected and she gathered there were a number of different rooms in it though she did not quite understand what that involved.

  Le Grand Seize in which they were dining and which was downstairs was not full when they had entered, but now began to fill up minute by minute until there was not an empty table in the whole place.

  It was then that Zena was aware why Kendric had told her she must doll herself up and try to look her best.

  Never had she imagined that women could be so fantastically gowned or bedecked with so many jewels.

  She found herself staring at them one after another as they came sweeping in from the vestibule, their bustles moving behind them like the wake of a ship at sea.

  Their hair fell in long ringlets behind their swan-like necks and their bare chests and arms literally blazed with gems.

  Kendric had ordered some of the specialities that were more delicious than any food Zena had ever tasted before, but it was difficult to appreciate such cuisine when all she could do was stare around her at the other diners.

  “I wish we knew who all these people are,” she said to Kendric.

  “We will soon be told,” he replied. “I found quite a number of invitations waiting for me at the apartment, and Philippe’s friends seem glad to entertain us to luncheon, dinner, and naturally, supper.”

  The way he said the last word made Zena look at him enquiringly.

  “Is there something special about supper?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Kendric replied. “That is when we shall see the bright lights of Paris and visit the places where no ‘nice girls’ would go.”

  “It sounds thrilling,” Zena said, “but tonight we are going to the ball.”

  “We are joining some of Philippe’s friends in a box,” Kendric said, “ but I warn you it may be rowdy, so don’t be surprised.”

  It was so exciting that Zena could not make up her mind whether to stay on at the Café Anglais where there was so much to see, or whether they should hurry to the ball.

  Finally, when she felt it was growing late, although Kendric had laughed at her for thinking so, they set off for the ball, and she thought that nobody could be more fortunate than she was, and that whatever happened in the future with the dull and doubtless incredibly boring Duke, she would have this to remember.

  When they reached the Artists’ Ball, the lights, the music and the wild dancing of hundreds of guests were dazzling.

  They were shown up to the second tier of boxes and Kendric soon found the box where they were to meet Philippe’s friends.

  They were obviously expecting him and he was greeted with an exuberance which Zena thought was rather overdone until she realised that the gentlemen in the box had all imbibed a great deal from the innumerable bottles of champagne stacked on a table just inside the door.

  “Come in! Come in!” they shouted. “Philippe has asked us to look after you and that is what we are delighted
to do.”

  Kendric shook them by the hand and was introduced to four young women who were with them.

  Then he introduced Zena.

  She thought that the women were over-painted and underdressed. In fact she felt embarrassed at the lowness of their décolletage and the way when they were sitting they exposed their silk-stockinged legs.

  Two of them on being introduced to Kendric kissed him effusively and when he had sat down one of them put her arm around his neck.

  “You are very handsome, mon cher,” Zena heard her say to him, “and I adore handsome men!”

  She thought this was a strange way to behave, then told herself she must not be critical. This was the world she wanted to see, and whatever happened she must not appear embarrassed.

  One of the gentlemen put a glass of champagne into her hand, then filled up everybody else’s glass to the brim.

  Down below them on the dance floor Zena could see that a lot of the dancers were wearing fancy dress and she guessed those were the students who would later in the evening produce tableaux and floats which they had constructed in the different Art Centres to which they belonged.

  She had often read about this ball in newspapers and magazines but although she had tried to visualise it, she found now that her imagination had fallen far short of the reality.

  It was certainly very gay and, as the band played louder and faster and everybody swung round and round the floor in a waltz, Zena felt almost dizzy as she watched.

  One of their hosts, whose name Zena gathered was Paul although she had no idea what else he was called, said he wanted to dance and his friends agreed that they should go down below and join in the general mélée on the dance floor.

  Kendric would have stayed behind, but the lady who had already attached herself to him pouted provocatively and said she had every intention of dancing with him.

  “I want your arms around me,” she said, “and what could be a better excuse?”

  “I assure you I do not need one,” Zena heard her brother say.

  They disappeared together from the box with the rest of the party leaving Zena alone with a young man who she realised was looking ill.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, as he sat down gingerly on the edge of a chair.

  “I – will be all right,” he answered slurring his words. “ I – will go and get – some fresh air. It is too – hot in here.”

  He went from the box to leave her alone.

  Zena was quite content to sit leaning over the edge of it so that she could watch without interruption the dancers down below. She could see Kendric with both his partner’s arms round his neck moving amongst the throng.

  There were men dressed in ancient armour or in nothing but an animal’s skin, women in indecently transparent Grecian robes, an innumerable number of Pierrots and some very dubious nuns.

  It was all fascinating and she did not want to miss anything, even the scuffles that seemed to break out in various parts of the dance floor when a man wished to dance with a woman who was dancing with another man who had no intention of relinquishing her.

  One man, who was more importunate than the rest, received a blow on the chin that sent him sprawling on the polished floor and Zena gave a little chuckle to herself.

  Then a voice beside her said,

  “I see you are amused, mademoiselle, and I am not surprised. I always think there is no spectacle as extraordinary as this.”

  Zena turned her head in surprise and realised that she had been spoken to by a gentleman in the box next to the one she was sitting in.

  There was only a thin partition between them and the red velvet ledges of their box formed one piece.

  The gentleman in question was dark and from where she was sitting she felt because he was so broad-shouldered that he must be tall. He was also extremely handsome, but in a different way from her brother or her father.

  He had spoken to her in French, but he looked different from the three young men who were Philippe’s friends.

  She thought it was because he was older and more distinguished-looking.

  Realising he was waiting for an answer to his remark, she said,

  “Thus is the first time I have seen the Ball, so I find it fascinating.”

  “And is it also your first visit to Paris?”

  She was just about to reply that she had not been there for many years when she thought it a strange question to ask.

  After all, as she spoke French, why should he think she was anything but French?

  Then she remembered that Kendric had said,

  “It is always wise when you are in disguise to tell the truth as near as it is possible to do so.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Zena had questioned.

  “If you are asked, you must say you have a French friend, but that you yourself come from Wiedenstein.”

  Zena had looked at him apprehensively.

  “Why should I do that? Would it not be dangerous?”

  “You do not look French,” Kendric had said simply, “having far too much of Papa in you. At the same time you do not look Bavarian either and after all there are a lot of women, one way or another, in Wiedenstein.”

  Zena laughed.

  “Yes, of course,” she had said, “I am just nervous of being denounced as an imposter and I would much prefer to say I am from Wiedenstein.”

  “On that at least we agree,” Kendric had replied and they had both laughed.

  Zena now realised there had been quite a considerable pause before she said,

  “I feel I should be insulted that you think I do not look smart enough to be French!”

  The gentleman smiled.

  “I assure you, I have no thought of insulting you. In fact, if you are looking for compliments, may I tell you you are very lovely, the loveliest woman here this evening.”

  “Thank you,” Zena replied.

  She told herself she must not look embarrassed but behave as if she received such compliments every day of her life.

  “Let me continue by saying,” the gentleman went on, "that your hair is the most unusual and ravishing colour I could possibly imagine. How can you be so original in the City of Originality?”

  Zena laughed.

  “I am not certain that is not another insult in that you are suggesting that I have created the colour of my hair.”

  “No, I know that would be impossible,” the gentleman said. “Only a great artist could have done that, and who could be greater than God.”

  Zena looked at him wide-eyed.

  “I adore your hair and also your straight little nose and your incredibly beautiful blue eyes,” the gentleman continued.

  “Quickly Zena remembered that as a Chère Amie she could not expect men to treat her with the respect and formality she had always received in the past.

  Then, when she looked into the dark eyes of the man to whom she was talking, she suddenly felt shy in a way she could not understand. She wanted to go away from him, and yet at the same time she wanted to stay.

  “Shall we introduce ourselves?” the gentleman asked, “and perhaps to do so it would be more convenient if instead of talking with this barrier between us either I join you, or you join me.”

  Zena found his invitation somewhat startling. At the same time she thought it was a common sense suggestion that she should not query.

  After all, she had learned that the Artists’ Ball was a place of licence, gaiety and good comradeship, and without a chaperone there was nobody to introduce her to this stranger.

  “Perhaps,” she said after a moment, “you should come into – this box, although my friend and I are only – guests and I have no authority to invite anybody else to join us.”

  “Then, as I am alone in my box and it belongs exclusively to me,” the gentleman answered, “may I suggest that we should be more comfortable and less overcrowded here.”

  This seemed even more sensible, Zena thought, and she was also aware that if the youn
g man who felt ill returned she might have to talk to him or worse still to dance with him.

  She was not so foolish as not to realise that he was ill because he had drunk far too much and she had no wish to see any more of him.

  “When your friend returns,” the gentleman said, “it will be quite easy for you to see him over the partition, and he will not have to look far to find you.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Zena rose from the chair and moved towards the door of the box, having to negotiate not only some chairs to do so, but also a number of empty champagne bottles that had been thrown down on the floor.

  Before she reached the door it opened and the gentleman from the next box was standing there.

  She had been right, she thought, in thinking that he was tall and broad-shouldered and his eyes, seeming darker than they had before, looked at her in a way that she felt was slightly embarrassing.

  At the same time, because it was undoubtedly a look of admiration she could not help feeling pleased.

  It was only a few steps to the next box and as Zena went into it, because it was empty and tidy, it seemed infinitely preferable to the confusion she had just left behind.

  The gentleman held an armchair for her to seat herself and she thought it was tactful of him to offer her the one in which he had been sitting and which was next to the partition which divided the boxes.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He pulled up a chair next to hers to say,

  “Now tell me about yourself. I was feeling lonely and a little bored until I saw you, but now my evening is beginning to sparkle and I can feel the enchantment of Offenbach’s music, which was missing before.”

  “I heard somebody say that it typified the spirit of Paris.”

  “I would say that so do you, except that I am convinced you are not French even though your accent is perfect.”

  Zena thought with a little smile that this, if nothing else, would please her father who was always so insistent that she should speak with a Parisian accent.

  “Are you prepared to guess the country I belong to?” she asked.

  The gentleman shook his head.

  “No, because I have been trying to puzzle it out for myself ever since I saw you and have failed dismally to find an answer.”