An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Emilie passed by several tables and came at last to one at the far end of the room. She watched the play for some minutes and then suddenly a woman who had been seated rose and, gathering up what remained of a pile of gold louis, left the table. The Croupier glanced at Emilie who was standing just behind the empty chair. For a moment she hesitated, but almost as if she were hypnotised against her will she sat down at the table.

  She passed a bank note, for what seemed to Mistral a large sum, towards the Croupier and changed it for gold.

  With fascinated eyes Mistral watched her Aunt place several Louis on impair. Emilie lost her first stake and the second, the third time she won. Mistral wanted to give a little cry of joy, but she was too frightened of being snubbed and could only stand silent with wide, excited eyes behind her aunt’s chair.

  A woman on the other side of Emilie rose. She was small and very old and she seemed to stumble a little so that instinctively Mistral put out a hand to help her.

  Thank you, my dear, you are very kind,’ she said, speaking French with a foreign accent. ‘Let me take your arm – I would be grateful if you will help me to the door. It is difficult for me to see.’

  Mistral offered her arm and, as she did so, she was aware that the little woman was almost blinded by the tears in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, you are unhappy!’ Mistral exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, I am unhappy,’ the woman answered, ‘because I have lost! I have lost all my money! Always it is the same, I lose, yes, lose everything.’

  But that is terrible,’ Mistral said. ‘What will you do?’ ‘I will go home, my dear. You are kind to help me.’

  The tone of the old lady’s voice was piteous and Mistral felt her heart contract at so much suffering.

  Slowly, with the blue veined, withered hand trembling on Mistral’s arm, they reached the outside door. By now the tears were running down the wrinkled cheeks, though the old lady made no attempt to wipe them away.

  But I cannot let you go like this, Madame,’ Mistral said. ‘It is so terrible for you to lose everything. What will you do?’

  But before she was answered, a liveried footman who was waiting outside the open door of the Casino came forward.

  ‘The carriage is here, Madame,’ he said.

  There is someone to take you home then?’ Mistral said in relief.

  She had half expected that, having no money, the poor old lady would have to walk destitute in the street.

  ‘Yes, but I have to go home,’ the old lady said. ‘I have lost everything! How unhappy I am!’

  ‘Please do not cry!’ Mistral pleaded, wondering if she dared wipe the tears from the old woman’s face.

  But before she could do so, there was the sound of horses’ hoofs outside, a carriage drew up at the door, a footman hurried forward to offer the old lady his arm.

  ‘Thank you, my dear, thank you,’ she said to Mistral. ‘You have been very kind.’

  She let the footman help her down the steps, the tears still filling her eyes, and then, as she watched her go, Mistral was startled by a voice from behind her.

  ‘Surely you are not leaving?’ someone asked.

  Mistral turned swiftly to find Sir Robert at her side.

  ‘No, I am not leaving, but that poor old woman, she has lost everything. What can one do to help her?’

  Sir Robert smiled.

  ‘You need not distress yourself unduly. That is Countess Kisselev. She is an habitué here. She comes regularly for the winter months. She gambles so unrestrainedly that her grandsons allow her only so many louis a day and when she has lost them she has to go home.’

  But she was crying,’ Mistral said in astonishment.

  ‘She always cries when she loses,’ Sir Robert said, ‘I assure you she is a very wealthy woman, but she cannot resist the lure of the Casino.’

  Mistral laughed.

  ‘She deceived me completely. She looked so miserable that if I had any money I would have given it to her. It is lucky that I am penniless.’

  ‘Have you lost it already?’ Sir Robert asked.

  As he spoke, a carriage drove up at the doorway. He put his hand on Mistral’s arm.

  ‘Come this way quickly,’ he said insistently.

  She let him lead her a little way down a passage into a small reading room which was deserted.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ she asked.

  ‘I was afraid someone might come and interrupt us,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘But I must not stay,’ Mistral said quickly. ‘I must go back to my aunt. She is playing at one of the tables.’

  ‘Then she won’t miss you for a moment or two.’

  ‘If she saw us talking together, she might ask how we met,’ Mistral said anxiously.

  ‘She won’t see us,’ Robert said reassuringly. ‘I will keep you but a moment. Tell me how you are enjoying yourself.’

  ‘I saw you at dinner,’ Mistral replied. ‘You had friends with you. Everyone in the dining room seemed to be with friends. It made me feel a little lonely.’

  ‘I don’t think you need have felt envious of anyone tonight,’ Sir Robert said, ‘for everyone was envying you.’

  ‘Envying me?’ Mistral asked in astonishment. ‘But why?’ ‘For your youth and beauty,’ Sir Robert answered, ‘and the women were of course all envying you your necklace.’

  Mistral’s fingers went up to the peals round her neck. They were grey, Sir Robert noticed, a strange filmy grey like the inside of an oyster shell.

  He had never seen pearls like them, they were astounding.

  They were my mother’s,’ Mistral said quietly. ‘Aunt Emilie gave them to me tonight and said I might wear them. I have never had anything of my mother’s before, but – I wish they weren’t grey.’

  “They are unique, magnificent,’ Sir Robert said. ‘I should not think there is another necklace like it in the whole world. Your mother must have been a very wealthy woman to possess such wonderful jewels.’

  ‘No, she was – ’ Mistral began impulsively, then stopped, seeming to bite back the very words from her lips. ‘You must not ask me questions. Aunt Emilie would be very angry! And now – I must go.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ Sir Robert said. ‘I have told you that the women were envying you tonight, but wouldn’t you like to know what the men were thinking?’

  ‘About me?’ Mistral enquired innocently.

  ‘But of course! Everyone was talking about you, and they were both thinking and saying that you were the most beautiful person they had ever seen in the whole of their lives.’

  Mistral’s long lashes veiled her eyes and swept her cheeks, then she turned away.

  ‘But you are not going,’ Sir Robert said desperately when he saw that was her intention. ‘Have I said something to offend you?

  ‘I think you are laughing at me,’ Mistral said in a very small voice.

  ‘I promise I was doing nothing of the sort,’ Sir Robert answered. ‘I was speaking the truth. Don’t you realise, you ridiculous child, how lovely you are?’

  She looked up at him then and he saw the colour rise in her cheeks.

  ‘Nobody has ever told me so,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘But they must have done,’ Sir Robert protested. ‘You must have met men sometimes – even in your Convent.’

  Mistral smiled, and there was a hint of mischief in her eyes.

  ‘Yes, indeed, I have met men before, but they were either the Priests, who came to perform the services at the Convent, or the parents of the other pupils, who visited us once a year on prize giving day.’

  ‘And they did not tell you, you were beautiful?’ Sir Robert enquired.

  ‘They did not, and therefore I think you must be mistaken.’

  ‘On the contrary, I am merely in a better position to judge than they. Shall I tell you how beautiful you are?’

  His voice was low and unexpectedly deep.

  Mistral’s eyes dropped before his and once again she turned t
owards the door.

  ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Please, please do not keep me.’

  There was no mistaking her determination this time to escape him, but he reached out and caught her hand, drawing her flying feet to a standstill and holding her fingers in his.

  ‘Promise me one thing before you go – that I may see you again?’

  ‘I can promise nothing,’ Mistral replied. ‘You do not understand. Aunt Emilie would be very angry indeed if she found out that I had spoken to anyone.’

  ‘Don’t let her bully you,’ Sir Robert said.

  ‘But I must do what she wants,’ Mistral protested. ‘She is my aunt, besides I am – a little frightened of her, I think.’

  ‘If you want me, you know where to find me,’ Sir Robert said.

  He bent his head and kissed her hand. The skin was soft and cool. Then he had a quick impression of surprise in her eyes, of the colour rising once again in her cheeks, before with a sudden flurry and rustle of the flounces of her gown she was gone. Sir Robert made no attempt to follow her. Instead, for several moments he walked up and down the little reading room.

  When he looked up, it was to see Lord Drayton standing in the doorway.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here, Robert?’ he asked. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere. Come and have a drink. I have lost a packet. I shall try my luck again later.’

  ‘A drink is what I need,’ Sir Robert answered.

  ‘Has Violet gone home?’ Lord Drayton enquired.

  Sir Robert nodded.

  ‘She would listen to that damned opera singer and music always gives her a headache.’

  ‘It would be cheaper to have a headache than to lose what I have lost in the meantime,’ Lord Drayton remarked.

  He led the way across the gambling room to the bar.

  Mistral, standing beside Emilie’s chair, saw them go. She thought how tall Sir Robert looked, how he stood out amongst the other men in the Casino, then with a feeling of guilt she turned her attention to the pile of louis growing steadily bigger in front of Emilie.

  A man strolled up to the other side of the table. He stood watching the play.

  He was young, dark and exceedingly handsome, with eyes which seemed to be permanently amused at what they saw. After a moment he placed a pile of louis on number twenty one.

  ‘Rien ne va plus!’ the Croupier intoned.

  The ball spun round and round. There was no other sound. ‘Vingt-et-un, rouge et impair!’

  The young man laughed as his very considerable winnings were pushed towards him, then he flung down five louis for the Croupier.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur. Vous avez de la chance!’

  ‘J’ai toujours de la bonne fortune.’

  There was something irresistibly gay both in his bearing and his voice.

  He strolled away and Mistral suddenly realised that she was not the only person who had been watching the lucky stranger. Emilie’s eyes were on him, too.

  Suddenly she pushed back her chair a little and called an attendant.

  Who is the gentleman who won just now?’ she asked.

  ‘That is His Serene Highness Prince Nikolai, Madame.’

  ‘Prince Nikolai!’ Emilie repeated softly.

  ‘Oui, Madame.

  Emilie pushed the pile of louis she had won into her reticule and got to her feet.

  ‘Come along, Mistral,’ she said impatiently, and Mistral, wondering at her aunt’s air of determination and hurry, followed her.

  5

  A covered passageway had been added this year from the Villa Shalimar to the Villa Mimosa. Shalimar had been built three years previously and sold, as soon as it was finished, to the Rajah of Jehangar.

  It was an enormous, pretentious building, dazzling white, which commanded from its position high up on the hill above Monte Carlo a magnificent view of the town below and the sea beyond.

  Large though it was, the Rajah had found himself the previous year cramped for space when he had accommodated not only his official staff with its crowd of Aides-de-Camp, Secretaries, Major Domos and their personal attendants, but also the lady of his choice, who invariably accompanied him on his annual visits to Monte Carlo. And so at great expense the Rajah purchased the Villa Mimosa and with some architectural ingenuity, for the Villas were on different levels, had it joined to the Villa Shalimar.

  The Villa Mimosa this year housed Miss Stella Style.

  She was large, blonde, and extremely decorative. The Rajah had seen her in the chorus of one of the big London theatres and had lost his heart from the moment she swept on to the stage with her fair hair hanging loose over her naked shoulders.

  The Rajah had pursued his usual and invariably successful method of wooing.

  He sent Stella a basket of orchids which required two attendants to carry it into the already overcrowded dressing room she shared with a dozen other girls, and when she had recovered sufficiently from her astonishment to examine the basket more closely, she found a diamond bracelet concealed among the blooms and a note from the Rajah asking her out to supper.

  As Chrissie pointed out, the Rajah’s invitation could not have come at a better time. Stella agreed with her, of course, for she invariably agreed with Chrissie, but she did think it was unnecessary to have too much emphasis laid on the fact that her admirers were getting fewer and that she was finding it increasingly difficult to keep them interested.

  This, as Chrissie also told her not for the first time, was due entirely to her own laziness.

  Stella at twenty-seven was as pretty as she had been at seventeen. Her looks had never been anything but of the pink and white china doll variety, which in London was too commonplace to cause much comment, but which abroad proved almost sensational. Her figure was perfect although slightly on the large side, which fortunately appeared at the moment to be on the verge of becoming fashionable. And her hair, although it owed much of the brilliance of its colour to a skilful coiffeur in Wardour Street, was nevertheless long and luxuriant enough to ensure its being one of the assets which kept her on the pay roll of the more popular West End theatres.

  Stella was lazy, and if Chrissie bewailed the fact once, she bewailed it over a dozen times a day. Sometimes she felt as if she could strike Stella for her good humoured stupidity, for the smile which was her invariable response to the most acid criticism, for the carefree, unworried manner in which she invariably received the information that yet another admirer had departed or been filched away from her by a more assiduous rival.

  A conversation between the sisters a week before the Rajah appeared so providentially was typical of a hundred others.

  ‘You haven’t had a flower of any sort for over a fortnight,’ Chrissie had said. Not even a dead daisy has turned up with your name on it. What’s happened to young Lord Ripon? Is he out of town?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Stella replied. ‘Dilly said she was supping with him last night after the show.’

  So Dilly’s got him, has she?’ Chrissie said, her voice hard and bitter. ‘Why did you let her take him? She set her cap at him from the moment he set foot inside the Stage Door.’

  ‘She can have him,’ Stella answered, yawning a little. ‘He was a bore anyway, always talking about racing. I never did care for horses.’

  ‘But you could pretend, couldn’t you?’ Chrissie asked.

  Stella laughed.

  ‘I did try, but I got their anatomy all muddled up. Funny things, horses, they have different names from us for what appears to me to be a very similar part of the body – ’

  ‘Oh, damn the horses!’ Chrissie stamped her foot. ‘It’s his lordship I’m thinking about. He’s rich, Stella, rich and generous. But what have you got out of it I’d like to know! A brooch that won’t fetch more than ten pounds, gloves that you didn’t want and half a dozen boxes of chocolates. Chocolates, I ask you!’

  ‘They’re good ones at any rate,’ Stella remarked good humouredly. ‘Why don’t you have one?’

 
But Chrissie had stamped her foot and nagged at Stella until the latter fell asleep still with a smile on her lips.

  Nothing seemed to perturb Stella’s good humour and she had learned long ago not to listen to Chrissie when she was annoyed.

  Sometimes after one of these scenes Chrissie would look at herself in the mirror and wonder why Providence in the creating of herself and Stella had been so cruel. For cruel it was to give Chrissie a shrewd, quick brain with a deformed hunchbacked body and to dole out to Stella a beautiful body and no brain whatsoever.

  ‘If only I could look like Stella,’ Chrissie would think. ‘I could get anywhere – anywhere.’

  Instead the role she had to play was to propel, push and nag the lazy, unambitious Stella into taking advantage of her very obvious attractions.

  But time and time again Chrissie’s plans came to nothing simply through Stella’s natural inertia. If Chrissie had been born rapacious, Stella had been born happy.

  Whatever happened, however much they were up against it, Stella remained the same. She simply did not know the meaning of the word ‘envy’ and she had never been jealous of anyone in her life. She had no ambitions whatsoever, and when she was out of a job it was doubtful if she could have ever had the sense to find another had it not been for Chrissie.

  It was Chrissie who made her work, Chrissie who made her take trouble over her appearance, who reminded her to speak with a refined accent, who made her accept invitations. It was even Chrissie who forced Stella into keeping appointments with her various admirers who, having viewed her through their opera glasses from the front of the house, came hurrying round to the Stage Door when the performance was ended.

  It was Chrissie who answered their notes, who wrote and thanked them for their flowers, and when there were a number of them, it was Chrissie who remembered which was which.

  Not that Stella did not like having admirers, she did. She liked everybody!

  She liked the smart, well turned out gentlemen with their private hansoms who waited for her at the Stage Door, but she liked equally well the men who moved the scenery, the boys who carried up the bouquets of flowers, the members of the orchestra and even the disagreeable, wizened old door keeper for whom nobody else had a good word.