The first few feet she climbed downwards were not as difficult as she had anticipated. Then she came to the roses and creepers and they made everything far more difficult. It seemed almost as if they defied her to find a foothold amongst them. They caught at the delicate gauze of her dress, ripping and tearing it as she tried to move, scratched her bare neck and arms, and more than once her foot slipped on a leafy shoot and she thought she must fall.
She had almost reached the ground when she heard a sound above her. It was a voice raised first in astonishment, then in anger. It grew louder and it seemed to her to have the frustrated snarl of a savage animal deprived of its prey.
She knew it was the Rajah who shouted and guessed that he was summoning his servants to go in search of her.
Desperately, knowing that even now she might lose her chance of freedom, Mistral tried no longer for a foothold, but jumped.
She did not fall far, but she struck the ground with a sickening thud, heard a frill of her dress tear with a sound something like a scream as it caught on the thorns of a rose. She wrenched herself free. Then without waiting to wonder if she were hurt she jumped to her feet and started to run. She made for the wall which surrounded the Villa, feeling through the thin soles of her evening slippers first the soft soil of the flower beds then the hardness of the paved path.
As she ran, she heard behind her the sound of many chattering voices and the Rajah shouting a command. She reached the wall and, as she did so, a carriage came dashing up the hill, the horses managing to travel at a good pace even against the steep incline. The carriage drew up at the gate of the Villa and before the horses were even at a standstill, a man flung open the door and jumped out. Mistral, scrambling over the wall, could see him very clearly.
It was the Prince.
With her last remaining breath she managed to scream, to attract his attention.
‘Help, Your Serene Highness! Help!’
He heard her and turned back in the very act of opening the iron gates.
‘Mistral!’
He called out her name in astonishment and then came running towards her. She ran too and, as they met, she threw herself at him, clutching the lapels of his coat and raising a white, terrified face to his.
‘Take me away! Quickly, quickly! Please take me away!’
The Prince took a quick look at her and swept her up into his arms. He carried her to the carriage, lifted her inside and gave an order to the coachman. Then he jumped in himself and slammed the door. As they drove away, Mistral saw that the door of the Villa was open and that the light was streaming out. Servants were running into the garden, spreading out down the labyrinth of paths, peering among the bushes and flowering shrubs. But it was too late! She had escaped!
She gave a gasp of utter relief and would have put her hands up to her face, but as she moved them, she became aware that the first finger of her left hand was bleeding. She must have caught it on a nail.
The interior of the carriage was lit by a candle lantern and by its light the Prince could see the red blood running down the palm of Mistral’s hand and on to the front of her torn grey dress.
‘You have hurt yourself,’ he exclaimed and drew a handkerchief from his pocket.
‘It – does not – matter,’ Mistral replied, catching her breath and conscious of a strange constriction in her throat. ‘You have saved me – you have taken me – away. They would – have caught me – otherwise.’
‘You should have let me deal with that swine,’ the Prince said angrily.
‘No! No!’ Mistral said quickly in terror lest he might go back. ‘Only take me – away. Nothing matters now – If you had not come – ’
She could not complete the sentence. All too clearly she was aware of what would have happened if the Prince had not arrived at that very moment.
The Prince had wrapped her hand in his handkerchief, but already the blood was seeping through the white lawn.
‘I am afraid you have hurt yourself badly,’ he said. ‘You must not go on bleeding like this. My own Villa is not a hundred yards away. Would you mind if we stopped there and bandaged your hand properly?’
He spoke anxiously, for Mistral’s face was so white and it seemed as if she had already gone through so much that it would be dangerous for her to lose much blood.
‘Perhaps that would be best – if it is no – trouble,’ Mistral said, a little alarmed herself at the way the crimson patch on the handkerchief was growing larger every second.
The Prince rose, opened a small shutter near the roof of the carriage and shouted an order through it. He spoke in Russian and the coachman replied in the same language. Then he sat down again.
‘It won’t take us more than a few seconds,’ he said, ‘and then I will take you back to the Hotel. What happened?’
‘It was the – Rajah,’ Mistral murmured faintly.
‘I knew that,’ the Prince said. ‘I came out to the steps of the Restaurant des Fleurs with one of my guests. She wished to leave early and I had ordered my carriage for her. As we came through the door, I heard your aunt say angrily, “Do you think I will allow him to abduct my niece?” I saw a carriage driving away and I saw, too, who stood beside your aunt – one of the Rajah’s Aides-de-Camp. The man said something, I don’t know what, for I didn’t wait to hear. I ran down the steps, jumped into the carriage which was just coming up for my guest. I didn’t even offer her an explanation or make my apologies but just drove away to try to find you. I would have been at the Villa sooner, only my fool of a coachman did not know where the Rajah lived. We had to stop and ask someone. Thank God, I arrived in time.’
‘Yes, thank God!’ Mistral answered fervently.
As she spoke, the horses were drawn to a standstill.
‘Here is my Villa,’ the Prince said. ‘Be careful how you move that hand.’
‘Strangely enough it does not hurt me,’ Mistral said.
‘All the same it must be seen to,’ the Prince replied.
Very gently he helped her out of the carriage and led her through a small, well laid out garden and in through a door painted scarlet to match the shutters.
The Prince’s Villa was very different from that of the Rajah. There was nothing pompous or ornate about the small, perfectly proportioned hall which they crossed into a big sitting room.
Here there were comfortable chairs and sofas covered in brown velvet, and the furniture, while being both attractive and valuable, contrived also to appear exclusively masculine.
There were sporting prints on the walls and the tables and mantelpiece were decorated with silver trophies which the Prince had won himself at various sports or which had been gained for him by his yachts and race horses.
But Mistral had little time to take in the details of her surroundings. She only knew that the atmosphere was peaceful and unfrightening and she could relax in the arm chair to which the Prince escorted her. At his command a servant knelt to set light to the fire already laid in the fireplace.
‘You will feel cold,’ the Prince said. ‘One always does when one has lost blood. And before we do anything else, we must wash that hand. If there is dirt in it, it may go septic.’
Mistral managed to smile at the seriousness of his voice.
‘How do you know all these things?’ she asked.
‘Mostly because I have hurt myself so often,’ the Prince replied. ‘I have had at least a dozen accidents while skiing and I would hate to count how many times I have come to grief out hunting. But before we talk I would like you to drink a glass of wine.’
Mistral shook her head.
‘I would much rather not,’ she said. ‘I have no liking for it and at the moment I feel that, if I ate or drank anything, it would choke me.’
‘It shall be as you wish, of course,’ the Prince replied, ‘but it would do you good.
‘I want nothing,’ Mistral said in a low voice. ‘I want only to be assured that I need never see the Rajah again.’
‘You need
not be afraid of that,’ the Prince said. ‘I shall tell my father tomorrow exactly what happened and he will speak to the Police. He has a great influence in the Principality, having always lived here, and I assure you that the authorities will not stand for behaviour of that sort.’
‘He was so extraordinary,’ Mistral said. ‘He seemed to think that I had been – trying to deceive him – or that my aunt had. I think he must be mad. He was unpleasant the other night when he spoke to me at the Casino – but tonight it was worse – far worse. He was different in some way I cannot explain…’
‘Don’t think about him,’ the Prince said firmly. ‘Here is Potoc with some warm water and cotton wool and bandages.’
The Russian servant with the strange face whom the Prince had called his keeper came into the room carrying a silver basin which contained warm water scented with the fresh fragrance of lemons.
Very gently, while Potoc held the basin, the Prince unwound his blood soaked handkerchief from Mistral’s hand. It was the first time he or Mistral had been able to see the wound in a proper light and now they both gave a sigh of relief.
It was a long jagged cut, ingrained with the soil of the flowerbed into which Mistral had fallen, but it was not deep or dangerous. In fact it was only a flesh wound and would heal without stitches. Mistral winced when the Prince put her hand into the basin of water, but after a moment the water was soothing anal she was glad to see the dirt come away.
The Prince took a little time to get the finger absolutely clean, but the bleeding stopped and when at last he had bandaged it expertly with a clean linen bandage, Mistral was able to say,
‘You have done it so well, Your Serene Highness, that there will be no need for me to visit a Doctor.’
‘Not tonight, perhaps,’ the Prince answered, ‘but you should see one tomorrow. There is no use in taking risks. Besides, you should get him to examine you properly. You may have hurt yourself in other ways although you are not aware of it at this moment.’
He glanced at the scratches on her arms as he spoke and for the first time since she had escaped from the Rajah’s Villa she had been so concerned at knowing that she was free and so numb with the shock she had experienced, combined with her fall, that she had not had time to think of anything else. Now, looking down at her torn dress, she gave a rueful laugh.
‘It will need more than a Doctor to mend my gown,’ she said. But otherwise I am sure there is nothing wrong with me.’
The firelight shone on her hair as she spoke and, shy at being so dishevelled, she had not the least idea how lovely she looked.
Her hair had become loosened in her descent down the wall of the Villa and now it fell in great golden coils over her white shoulders. Its waves made her face seem very small and delicate and gave her, too, the appearance of being little more than a child. Indeed, with her eyes downcast and her lips a little tremulous, she looked like a child who had got into trouble through no fault of her own.
But it would have been impossible for any man to have looked at her and not remembered that she was a woman. The colour had come back into her cheeks and she looked inexpressively desirable as she sat there, framed against the dark velvet of the Prince’s chair.
Potoc had withdrawn and they were alone. The Prince suddenly moved restlessly from Mistral’s side across the room and back again.
‘I want you to tell me something – ’ he said quietly as if he suddenly made up his mind to question her.
But before he could say more, the door of the sitting room was flung open abruptly.
Both Mistral and the Prince turned their heads, then Mistral gave an explanation of astonishment. Sir Robert stood there, looking peculiarly tall, stern and avenging, his eye ablaze with anger.
‘So this is where you have been brought!’ he said.
He slammed the door behind him and advanced into the room. As he did so, Mistral stood up. With one glance Sir Robert seemed to take in her torn dress and loosened hair.
His lips tightened ominously and he advanced quickly and purposefully towards the Prince. As he reached him, he put up his hand and slashed him across the face with the pair of gloves he carried.
‘You are a cad!’ he said harshly.
Mistral gave a little cry.
‘But, Sir Robert,’ she said. ‘Please – ’
‘One minute,’ Sir Robert replied. ‘I have not yet finished telling this so-called gentleman what I think of him.’
‘Do you think I would hear any more from you?’ the Prince asked furiously. ‘I will have satisfaction, sir, here and now. No man can insult me with impunity.’
‘Nor can I allow you to insult an English lady and my countrywoman,’ Sir Robert answered. ‘The choice of weapons is yours.’
If Sir Robert was angry, his emotion was equalled and surpassed by the Prince’s rage. He could hardly keep his temper within control and his face was white save where the mark of Sir Robert’s gloves burned crimson. He gave a quick glance round. Over the mantelpiece were two duelling swords, the épeés de combat much favoured by the French.
In a matter of seconds the Prince had taken them down and handed one to Sir Robert.
‘I can kill you with this as well as with anything else,’ the Prince said through his teeth.
‘On the contrary,’ Sir Robert replied. ‘It is you who will receive a lesson at my hands, young man, and one which will be richly deserved.’
Mistral looked from one to the other in utter bewilderment. She was not certain what all this was about, but from Sir Robert’s remark, about his countrywoman she felt that it concerned herself, though why and for what reason she could not guess.
‘Your Serene Highness! Sir Robert!’ she began. ‘Please – ’
But they paid no attention to her. The Prince thrust a chair to one side, kicked a footstool out of the way. The centre of the room was empty and the two men took up their positions.
Almost before Mistral could realise what was happening their swords had met, there was the clink of steel against steel, and they were fighting in desperate, grim-faced silence which was far more frightening than if they had shouted abuse at one another.
Feeling utterly powerless, Mistral could only stand and watch them – watch them feint, parry and riposte – think for a moment that Sir Robert had the Prince at his mercy, only to realise that the Prince had extricated himself with a display of brilliant swordsmanship. Now Sir Robert was on the defensive. However much Mistral wanted to stop the fight it was too late. There was nothing she could do. From sheer weakness and astonished she could only watch with horrified yet fascinated eyes.
An expert would have told her that the two combatants were well matched. Sir Robert was slightly the more experienced of the two, but he was also heavier on his feet, while the Prince had an agility and quickness which not only saved him when he was in a tight corner but was also a definite danger to his opponent.
After some minutes the ferocity of the fight began to tell on both men. Their breath came quickly and, though neither seemed in the least tired, an expression of strain could be observed in the tightness of their mouths and the wariness in their eyes. Still they fought on. There came a moment when it seemed as if the Prince would be the winner. He had driven Sir Robert up against a bookcase and the flickering blade like the evil tongue of a serpent was within an inch of his throat.
At that moment Mistral knew who she wanted to win.
She felt a sudden terror possess her that Sir Robert might be killed. The thought was almost a physical agony in the intensity of her fear. She wanted to rush to Sir Robert’s side, to receive the blow in her own breast rather than that he should be wounded. But she could not move, her very feet seemed rooted to the ground. She could not utter a sound although her lips moved.
Sir Robert was bending backwards and his face was livid. There was no hope, Mistral thought wildly, and she would see him killed before her very eyes. She knew then that if he were dead she would want to die beside him.
&n
bsp; She loved him! She had loved him from that very first moment when they met before the dawn. She loved him with an overwhelming emotion which seemed so utterly a part of her that she had not recognised it until this moment. She could not think how she had ever lived or ever imagined she could find happiness without him.
She loved him and she could do nothing to save him. She could only stand there, tense and terrified, every nerve in her body strained to breaking point.
Then, as it seemed to her that her very brain must give way under such emotional stress, Sir Robert extricated himself from his position and with a sudden lunge took the Prince unawares. The sword passed through the Prince’s shoulder. He gave a cry which was little more than a groan and his sword clattered from his right hand on to the floor.
He clapped his left hand to the wound and as he did so, Mistral fell. She felt as if the floor came up to hit her. She was conscious only of an overwhelming darkness which carried her down, down into a merciful oblivion from which she felt there could never be an awakening…
*
When she opened her eyes, it seemed to her that centuries must have passed. For a moment she could not remember what had happened, feeling only that she had been a long way away and that she was still travelling. Then she became aware that there were wheels moving beneath her, that something strange lay beneath her cheek.
She moved and was instantly aware that there was an arm which held her close and that her head rested against someone’s shoulder. In that moment of wakening she knew whose it was. An ecstasy of joy and wonder seemed to run through her brain like fire as she realised whose arm held her.
‘Are you all right now?’
Sir Robert’s voice was low and tender and his face was very close to hers. She could see him very clearly in the light from the lantern. They were in a carriage together and for a moment she could think of nothing save his closeness and that his arm encircled her. Then something moved and she realised that it was her own hand. She caught sight of the bandage and instantly everything came flooding back to her memory.
An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition Page 77