An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Then on the third day Emilie died.

  Mistral had left the darkened bedroom and gone into the sitting room next door because she had been told that the Grand Duke wished to speak to her. The room was bright with sunshine and yet Mistral felt as if she saw it through a grey fog. The Grand Duke was standing by the fireplace and she had just reached his side and her eyes, dark-rimmed with sleeplessness, were raised to his, when suddenly the door was pushed violently open and Jeanne came into the room.

  She was crying, the tears running down her withered cheeks.

  ‘She is dead!’ she said. ‘Madame is dead!’

  Jeanne looked as if she were about to collapse and Mistral moved swiftly to her side. But the old woman drew herself away, putting out her hands as if to ward her off.

  ‘Don’t touch me, Mademoiselle,’ she commanded. There is something I must say and I must say it now.’

  She looked at the Grand Duke as she spoke and he said quietly,

  ‘Sit down! You have been through a great deal!’

  Jeanne shook her head.

  ‘I will stand, Your Imperial Highness,’ she said obstinately.

  Then she began her story. It was as if everything had been bottled up in her for years and now at last it was released, to spurt out in a flood tide of verbosity, being shocking, horrifying, disgusting and infinitely pathetic all at the same time.

  She held both the Grand Duke and Mistral spellbound, for they could neither stop her nor do anything else but listen to the tale she unfolded.

  She told them how she had served Emilie for nineteen years, but she had known her before that when as children they had gone to school together in Brittany. She spoke of Emilie’s strange nature, of the burning hatred she had of her father and the fierce possessive love she bore her half sister, Alice. She told of Mistral’s birth, the revenge Emilie had planned, which she had nurtured and fed until it became the greatest and most important thing in her whole life. She told them how Emilie had set off for Paris, determined to make enough money to pay Mistral’s school fees, how she had married Monsieur Bleuet and sent to Brittany for Jeanne to come and keep his house with her.

  And as the tale of those years was unfolded in Jeanne’s weak, tearful voice, Mistral began to see how Emilie’s desire for revenge and retribution had gradually replaced all that was kindly and decent in her nature. It was a definite, positive evil which had poisoned her soul as some deadly poison might have destroyed her body. She had kept on Monsieur Bleuet’s notorious establishment because it brought her money and it was money she needed for her vengeance.

  She had worked fanatically hard for the same reason, never taking a holiday, never indulging herself in any way –saving, scraping, cheeseparing for the day of her reckoning with the Grand Duke.

  At last Jeanne came to the moment when Emilie’s plans had been threatened by Henry Dulton and rather than submit to being blackmailed she had murdered him in the Hôtel de Paris.

  Only then, as the full horror of what had been done came to her, did Mistral feel a sudden agony within herself as if a vast hand squeezed her heart. For the first time since her happiness in the Chapel of St. Dévote had been snatched from her, to leave her alone in an utter darkness, the tears came slowly and painfully into her eyes and began to trickle down her cheeks.

  And while Jeanne was still speaking, the full horror of her Aunt’s history burst over her. At last she understood why the Rajah had insulted her, why Robert’s love had turned to hatred and loathing. She saw it all too clearly, and because the abyss of evil through which she had walked unscathed appeared so horrifying in retrospect, she could only cry like a frightened child who still weeps after the real danger is past.

  It was all muddled and distorted in her mind. She was crying for herself, for Robert, for Jeanne and for Emilie. Yes, for Emilie too, who must have known the darkest unhappiness of all, that of having deliberately forsaken God.

  Blinded and shaken by the tempest of tears, Mistral would have sunk down on the ground, but instead she found herself caught up in strong arms and carried away to her own bedroom. There somebody administered to her, speaking soothing words which still had not the power to stop her crying.

  The Doctor came and she strove to do what he said, but she was past even obeying the dictates of her own common sense. She remembered drinking something, feeling the liquid smooth and rather bitter sink down her throat.

  Then at last she was at peace. She slept, woke, ate, and slept again. She had no idea how long a time elapsed between her sleeping and her waking. She was aware of only one thing. She was no longer frightened and Jeanne was at her side whenever she woke. Perhaps her only coherent thought was a desire to sleep. There was an aching want within herself to return to that dreamless, inexhaustible oblivion.

  When Mistral finally awoke, it was with a feeling of happiness and a consciousness of being ready to take up the threads of life again. Someone had already drawn the blinds in her room. The sunshine was flooding in. Through the big open windows she could see a vast expanse of blue sky and against it the delicate branches of mimosa, golden as the sun itself.

  Mistral lay for a long time looking at them, letting the events of the past steep back slowly into her memory. Then at length she raised her head and was aware that she was hungry. She was wondering whether to ring the bell when the door opened softly and a maid came into the room. She was young and pretty, a white cap framing her dark hair, and she had a smiling, sunburnt face. She advanced to the bed and curtsied.

  ‘Would Your Serene Highness like some breakfast?’ she enquired.

  Mistral was startled by the title, and it was some seconds before she asked,

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Yvette, Your Serene Highness, and if it pleases you I am to be your maid and look after you.’

  Mistral smiled.

  ‘That sounds very pleasant! I would like some breakfast, please.’

  ‘I have already ordered it,’ Yvette replied. ‘The Doctor said that Your Serene Highness would awake this morning feeling well, and if one is feeling well, one is also hungry.’

  There was something gay and joyous in the girl’s voice and Mistral felt her spirits rise. She sat up in bed while Yvette brought more pillows which she placed behind her and draped a warm wrap over her shoulders. A knock on the door announced the approach of breakfast and Yvette brought it to Mistral’s side.

  She found that she was indeed hungry and the fresh rolls, yellow butter and the perfectly made coffee were undeniably tempting. Yvette slipped from the room while Mistral ate, and as soon as she had finished, the maid returned again to remove the tray.

  ‘How long have I been in bed?’ Mistral asked, half surprised at herself for asking the question, for she felt it must have been but yesterday since Emilie had died.

  To her astonishment Yvette answered,

  ‘Six days, Your Serene Highness.’

  ‘Six days!’

  Mistral stared at her as if she could hardly believe her ears.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Yvette replied. ‘But the Doctor assured us that we were not to worry. He said you needed sleep and that, if you could sleep, both your megrim and your unhappiness would pass. He promised that Your Serene Highness would awake refreshed, and see, he has spoken the truth.’

  ‘He has indeed,’ Mistral replied.

  She threw back the bedclothes.

  ‘I want to look at the garden,’ she said.

  She stepped out of bed and instantly Yvette hurried to drape over her shoulders an exquisite negligée of white velvet trimmed with ermine. Mistral stared down at it in astonishment.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ she asked. ‘It is not mine.’

  ‘But indeed it is, Your Serene Highness. Look!’

  Yvette ran across the room and pulled open the doors of a big wardrobe which covered the whole of one wall. With a dramatic little gesture of her hands she indicated the contents, and Mistral gasped.

  Never had she seen such
an array of lovely clothes. There were gowns of every colour and description, and their hues rivalled the very colours of the flowers in the garden. There were dresses of blue, pink, green, rose and yellow. Mistral stared at them with wide eyes.

  ‘For me?’ she asked in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Yvette said. ‘His Imperial Highness ordered them from Nice. There are others to come from Paris. These arrived last night and I crept into your room with them while you were still asleep, as I wanted them to be a surprise when Your Serene Highness awoke.’

  ‘They are certainly that,’ Mistral said.

  She was woman enough to feel excited and thrilled that these wonderful garments were hers. The one thing she had noticed immediately was that there was nothing grey amongst them. There was not even a pair of shoes of that colour. That too, had been relegated into the past, and yet there were some things which had happened that could never be forgotten and which Mistral knew would haunt her forever.

  But now was not the time to think of such things. Because she was afraid of her own thoughts, Mistral said hastily,

  ‘Where is Jeanne?’

  ‘She is packing, Your Serene Highness. She leaves this morning.’

  ‘She leaves?’ Mistral echoed quickly. But where is she going and why? Ask her to come to me at once.’

  Yvette hurried from the room and Mistral was suddenly aware that her legs felt weak. She sat down in an armchair by the window. Now she could see the garden, and her eyes rested on the almond blossom and mimosa trees and beneath them beds filled with the radiant beauty of spring flowers. From the window she could see one of the fountains. Its crystal water sparkling in the sunshine created a rainbow, vivid and beautiful, against the sculptured grey stones. It had a fairylike loveliness, and Mistral had a sudden longing to share such beauty with someone she loved. Yet even as she formulated the thought she tried to prevent herself from thinking it, knowing that for the moment she dared not remember Robert too vividly.

  She was thankful when the door opened and Jeanne came in. She was wearing her quiet black travelling clothes, but her face was calm, her eyes at peace. At her entrance Mistral rose to her feet and crossed the room quickly towards her as a child runs to a beloved nurse.

  ‘Jeanne, I have been told you are going away,’ she said.

  ‘It is true, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘But why? How can you leave me?’ Mistral asked.

  Jeanne smiled.

  ‘You will not be forgotten, ma chére. You have a family now who are longing to look after you, to spoil you, to love you. You have come home, and I too am going home. I am going back to Brittany.’

  ‘You are glad of that?’ Mistral asked.

  ‘Glad indeed,’ Jeanne answered. ‘His Imperial Highness has been kindness itself. He has given me enough money to buy a cottage and to live there for the rest of my life without working. I shall be able to entertain my great-nephews and great nieces in my own house, and when I am gone, they will inherit all that I have to leave. Yes, I am glad to be going back, Mademoiselle. I never thought that such good fortune would come my way.’

  ‘Then I am glad too!’ Mistral said. ‘Dear Jeanne, you have been so kind to me!’

  At the words the tears came to Jeanne’s eyes, but they were tears of happiness and very different from the last ones Mistral had seen running down her unhappy face.

  ‘I shall miss you, Mademoiselle,’ she said, ‘and I shall never forget you. But it is best that I go away. His Imperial Highness wishes you to forget the past. He is right! The future lies ahead. You are young and lovely. Don’t think of what has happened, there are so many more and better things to come.’

  ‘I will try to forget,’ Mistral said solemnly, knowing that Jeanne spoke of Emilie.

  ‘It is not always easy,’ Jeanne said quietly, ‘but when one forgives even as le bon Dieu forgives us, then forgetfulness follows.’

  Mistral hesitated for a moment, then in utter sincerity she said simply,

  ‘I have forgiven Aunt Emilie.’

  As she said the words, she knew them for the truth even though it involved forgiving her aunt for the part she had played in driving Robert away and changing his love to disgust. Mistral knew the wound he had inflicted on her then was still unhealed, still raw and tender, and yet it would be unfair to blame Emilie for something that had occurred unbeknown to herself, and for an incident in which she had played no active part.

  Mistral knew now that she might be unhappy, she might be utterly bereft without Robert, but none the less because Emilie was dead, because she had gone defeated and unrepentant to the grave, she could bear her no grudge.

  Jeanne smiled, and Mistral thought that perhaps instinctively she guessed a little of the conflicting feelings in her heart. Jeanne’s words confirmed the impression.

  ‘We must pray for Madame,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You went to her funeral?’ Mistral asked.

  Jeanne nodded.

  ‘She was buried very quietly at dawn. There was no one there save myself, the Priest, and the pall bearers. His Imperial Highness wished there to be no talk.’

  ‘I understand,’ Mistral said. ‘I will never forget to pray for her.’

  ‘Nor I for you, Mademoiselle,’ Jean answered. ‘Sometimes when you have a moment perhaps you will write to me and tell me how you are and if you are happy.’

  ‘Of course I will do that,’ Mistral replied, and impulsively she lifted her face and kissed the older woman on the cheek.

  ‘Good bye, Jeanne, and thank you once again. I shall never forget you.’

  Jeanne bent and kissed her hand and then, blinded a little by her tears, went from the room.

  Mistral sighed. It was like losing a friend to see Jeanne go. It was also the breaking of yet another link with the past. Yvette came hurrying into the room. Soon she had helped Mistral to bathe. Then laughing a little because in some ways it was so exciting, the two girls inspected the dresses in the big wardrobe. They chose a gown of pale green muslin trimmed with rose-pink ribbons. Mistral looked in the glass when she was dressed and hardly recognised herself. She was so used to her own ghost-like appearance in the grey garments which Aunt Emilie had given her that now she could hardly believe that this radiant, colourful creature who looked back at her from the mirror was really herself.

  Very slowly, feeling overwhelmingly shy, she went from her bedroom in search of her newly found family. She was not sure which way to go. But a wide arched corridor brought her to the big room overlooking the garden where she had first seen the Grand Duke.

  It was empty, the high-backed velvet chair in which he had sat unoccupied. Mistral stared about her, looking curiously at the tapestries on the walls, at the fine Persian carpets covering the floor, at the valuable inlaid French furniture and the ornaments of almost priceless antiquity.

  She had just crossed the room to look at a Grecian vase when she heard a voice behind her and started as two hands gripped her shoulders and swung her round.

  ‘My goodness, what a pretty sister I have got!’

  It was the Prince, and Mistral blushed as he bent forward and kissed her cheek.

  ‘So you are awake at last!’ he teased. ‘I began to think that you were Mrs. Rip Van Winkle and would sleep for at least a hundred years.’

  ‘You are making me feel I ought to apologise,’ Mistral said.

  ‘You need not do that,’ the Prince reassured her. Besides, I could not help forgiving anyone as pretty as you, whatever you did. You look different now.’

  He stood back as if considering her appearance, then he gave an exclamation.

  ‘I’ve got it. I know what was puzzling me. You are no longer a ghost!’

  ‘All my grey gowns have disappeared,’ Mistral answered.

  ‘And a good thing too,’ the Prince said. ‘That is Father’s doing, of course.’

  ‘He has bought me instead this dress and dozens of other perfectly lovely ones,’ Mistral said.

  ‘I thought h
e would do something like that,’ the Prince smiled. By the way, I think I am a little jealous of you. I have never seen my father so pleased about anything as at the fact that you are here.’

  Mistral’s expression was suddenly serious.

  ‘I am glad of that,’ she said. ‘I have been afraid that you might not want me.’

  ‘I personally am a little doubtful,’ the Prince said solemnly, but his eyes were twinkling. ‘You may be one of those interfering, bossy sort of sisters who will tell me what I should do and what I should not do.’

  ‘As though I would dare,’ Mistral replied half indignantly, then she met his eyes and began to laugh.

  It was so ridiculous somehow that this good looking, handsome young man should be her brother. And yet it was wonderful to think that she had one. Here at last was someone to whom she belonged.

  ‘May share the joke?’ a voice asked.

  They looked round to see the Grand Duke standing in the French window which led to the garden.

  Mistral crossed the room swiftly to his side. She looked up into his handsome, aristocratic face and said softly,

  ‘Thank you! Thank you so very much.’

  ‘For what in particular?’ the Grand Duke enquired.

  ‘For my lovely clothes – for having me here,’ Mistral said incoherently.

  The Grand Duke put out his hand and she laid hers in it. ‘We have got a lot to say to each other, you and I,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes, Your Imperial Highness.’

  His fingers tightened on hers.

  ‘Must we be so formal?’ he asked. ‘I have a very urgent desire to hear you address me in another way. Can you guess what it is?’

  ‘Yes – Father,’ Mistral faltered.

  He smiled down at her and bent to kiss her cheek. Impulsively she put her arms round his neck. The Grand Duke’s eyes were very gentle and his voice strangely moved as he said quietly,

  ‘Thank you, my daughter.’

  He led the way to two comfortable chairs set out on the balcony overlooking the garden. There was a canopy overhead to shade them from the sun, and the song of the birds flitting amongst the trees was like distant music. The Prince had disappeared and Mistral realised that he knew that his father wanted to be alone with her.