An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (94 page)

‘Yes, Chrissie, I am,’ Stella said quietly.

She put a piece of paper down on the dressing table.

‘There is the address of François’ home. It is in the old town of Monaco and I’m going there now. I think we’ll be married early tomorrow morning. Afterwards he’s taking me somewhere where we can be alone. We’re going on a honeymoon, Chrissie, before François looks for another job.’

Her eyes were shining again, then she crossed the room a little nearer the bed.

‘Please, Chrissie, wish me happiness and don’t let us part in anger. I know I’ve got a lot to thank you for – and I’m grateful, really I am, for all you’ve done for me, but I’ve got to live my own life now. I’ve always dreamt that I should find someone somewhere, some day, whom I could love and who’d love me. And I’ve found him, so don’t grudge me my happiness.’

‘You’re not going, I tell you,’ Chrissie said stubbornly.

‘I’ve got to go! François is waiting for me. I’ve packed all my things and the boxes are already downstairs. The jewellery is in the drawer of my dressing table. Good bye, Chrissie.’

Her words of farewell seemed to galvanise Chrissie into action. The numbed horror with which she had heard Stella’s announcement left her. She sprang from the bed to stand in front of the door, her lank hair falling round her wizened face. With her lips curved back from her yellow teeth she defied Stella furiously. For a moment the two women faced each other, then Stella said quietly,

‘If you don’t let me pass, Chrissie, I shall send for the Rajah and tell him I’m leaving this house. I’ve left him a letter, but if, instead, I have to give him the news myself, I shall also return to him all the presents he has given me, including the jewellery which at the moment I’m leaving for you.’

Stella’s voice was firm and her eyes were steady. Chrissie had never known her speak like this before. There was something resolute about her, a strength in her bearing which had never been hers before. For the first time in her life Stella was fighting for something which really mattered.

Chrissie drew a deep breath. She was defeated and she knew it. In answer she moved from the door and flung herself face downwards on the bed, her hands clenched, the nails digging into the palms, her humped back ugly and monstrous as she lay there.

For a moment Stella hesitated. Her eyes were soft with pity, and then she glanced away from Chrissie towards the door. She was free to go, free to join the man she loved, to live decently for the first time in her life. And yet she must take her happiness at someone else’s expense, she must leave Chrissie defeated and unhappy.

There was something terrifying in that she had managed to silence the voice that had nagged her for so many years. Armoured by her love, within a few seconds she had destroyed the power that her elder sister had always had over her. But she had not wanted to wound Chrissie, and for a moment Stella contemplated going to her, putting her arms round her and telling her to forget it all.

They would get along together somehow and she would do what Chrissie wanted, as she had always done in the past. After all, they were flesh and blood. Wasn’t that what counted more than anything else?

Then she thought of François. He was so kind, so understanding. There was nothing she could not tell him, nothing that he would not understand. He loved her really and sincerely. She had seen enough of men in her life to know the truth when she met it.

François loved her, and she loved him. She felt her heart throb at the thought, and then her eyes rested once more on Chrissie, on the piteously deformed back, at the prematurely aged and wrinkled neck, at the legs that were too short, at the arms which were too long. Poor, poor Chrissie, how could she leave her? How could she believe François when he said Chrissie was a bad influence? He was wrong, he did not understand how stupid and tiresome she had always been, how lazy and incompetent. She could not go! She must not!

And then, as she wavered, it seemed to Stella that she saw Mistral, saw her wide eyes, honest and truthful, looking into hers and her voice, clear and sweet, saying,

‘In doing what is right we are doing the work of God, and that comes first. We must do what is right, however great the cost to ourselves or to other people.’

It was right to marry François. Stella was certain of that as she had never been certain of anything in her life before. She walked slowly towards the door. Chrissie had neither moved nor made a sound, but Stella knew that she was waiting, waiting for her to capitulate, to surrender both her will and her new found freedom.

‘I’m sorry, Chrissie,’ she said softly. ‘Good bye!’

Chrissie did not move nor cry out. She had lost the last battle, and she knew it. Stella had gone and she would never return. How long she lay on the bed she did not know, but when at length she raised her head, it was to look at the clock. The Rajah might by this time have read Stella’s note. When he had done so there was a chance that he might come to the Villa Mimosa, but before he came, there was something Chrissie must do.

Quickly, as if impelled by a sudden fear, she went to Stella’s room. All her things had gone, the dressing table was bare, cupboard doors stood open to reveal their emptiness. It was a room impersonal and without individuality, as it had been on the day of their arrival, a vacant room, Chrissie thought suddenly, waiting for the next occupant.

She wrenched open the drawer of the dressing table. The jewellery was there as Stella had said it would be. There was the diamond necklace in its velvet lined case and the other articles of jewellery, each shining and glittering as Chrissie opened their boxes to look at them. For a moment she only stared at the gems, then suddenly she hugged them against her narrow breast. They were hers – hers to convert into money, to hoard or to spend as she wished.

She chuckled to herself and the sound was eerie in the empty silence of the room.

*

As Chrissie had anticipated, the Rajah was at that moment reading Stella’s note in the Villa Shalimar. He had come in late, having been delayed by a man who wished to sell him some polo ponies. He had done a big deal and driven a shrewd bargain, and he was feeling exceedingly pleased with himself.

As he drove up to the Villa, he had pictured himself telling Stella how clever he had been. The Rajah invariably wished to spread his tail like a peacock and it was not often that he had such a clever stroke of business to boast about.

As he thought that Stella would appreciate how intelligent he had been, he decided that she should also have the chance to appreciate yet another example of his generosity. He would give her the sapphire ring. After the way
Mademoiselle Fântóme
had behaved to him last night he might have some difficulty in obtaining the pearls, despite his assertion to Stella that nothing could prevent him from getting them. The ring would keep things sweet between them and give him breathing space in which to make his plans.

Perhaps it would be wiser to tackle the old lady next. She might be more amenable. But the girl had been pretty, very pretty. He had always admired fair-haired women. Unlike Stella’s colour her hair was natural, he was sure of that. Her beauty was delicate and exquisite where Stella’s was flamboyant. But that was how he liked his women, the Rajah decided almost defiantly. There was little fun to be got out of them when they looked at you with cool disdain. That was how the girl with the pearls had looked at him last night, and there was something about her which made him feel small and insignificant.

It was ridiculous, of course, besides being insulting. Was he not rich and powerful? Was he not absolute ruler over a State fifty thousand times as big as this tiny Principality? Yet he, the Rajah of Jehangar, could be rebuffed by a girl and made to feel inferior by the look in her eyes, by the way some magic, which he had not expected her to possess, had defeated his own dark powers.

Why did he keep thinking about her, he asked himself angrily, and why compare her with Stella? Stella was pretty enough in all conscience, and she should have the ring. He would give it to her tonight when they went out to dinner. She would thank him with a little cry of pleasure and he would slip it on her finger. When he came to thank of it, he had not given her nearly so much jewellery as he had given some of his other favourites. She was not greedy and not always asking for things like other women he had known.

Lola, the Spanish dancer, for instance, had cost him half a million francs in furs and clothes alone, and even now it annoyed him to think of the diamonds he had given her. He had been young in those days, but he had grown more cautious as he grew older. If it came to that, he had very nearly saved the price of it over the polo ponies.

The Rajah had been smiling as he entered the Villa Shalimar. The servants in the hall bowed low as they always did at his appearance, but something in the expression on their faces, in the grovelling obeisance made him suspicious that something was wrong. Invariably his oriental instinct made him scent trouble almost before it was upon him. Sharply he glanced at one of his
Aides-de-Camp
who had come hurrying from a sitting room at the sound of his arrival.

‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.

The
Aide-de-Camp
looked surprised. He was new to the job and had not yet gained the confidence of the Rajah’s servants who had been with him for many years.

‘No, Your Highness, nothing. Why do you ask?’

The Rajah made no reply. It was then that another servant approached with a note on a silver tray. The Rajah glanced down at it, but did not recognise the writing.

‘From Miss Style, Your Highness.’

The Rajah took the note in his hand. Impatiently he tore open the envelope. Stella’s large, untidy, almost illiterate writing covered two sheets of paper. The Rajah read it through with some difficulty for the spelling was erratic, then without saying a word he walked into the sitting room, followed by his
Aide-de-Camp
.

As the door closed behind them, the servants exchanged glances. They were well aware that Stella’s and Francois’ action in leaving the villa would mean trouble for them. When the Rajah was angry, he could be very unpleasant.

The Rajah walked across to the writing desk and laid Stella’s letter down. He turned to his
Aide-de-Camp
.

‘When did she leave?’ he asked.

‘Who, Your Highness?’ he asked.

‘Miss Style!’

‘Leave? But I did not know that she had left,’ the
Aide-de-Camp
replied uncomfortably.

‘You are a fool!’ the Rajah said rudely.

‘If Your Highness says so.’

‘I do say so, and you are dismissed. It is part of your job to know what is going on in this household, and if it does not meet with my approval, to prevent it.’

‘But, Your Highness – ’ the young man began.

‘Go, I tell you, and at once!’

Humiliated and crestfallen, his dark eyes filling with tears, the
Aide-de-Camp
walked towards the door. As he reached it, the Rajah said,

‘Send Khusru to me!’

Khusru, who had been expecting this very summons, was waiting in the hall. He was a big, bearded Sikh who, since the Rajah’s birth, had been his personal attendant. In a few minutes the Rajah was in possession of all the facts. Khusru knew the workings of the Rajah’s mind better than anybody else, and he was well aware that a scapegoat must be found. Humiliation and ‘loss of face’ could not be endured by a despot, and the Rajah was that among his own people.

Khusru let the Rajah rage uncontrollably and with the petulant fury of a spoilt child against Stella until the worst of his anger gave place to an ugly and dangerous self pity. This was Khusru’s moment.

‘If I may presume to express an opinion, Your Highness, I do not think it was entirely the lady’s fault,’ he said softly. ‘Francois is a very persuasive man. The French are like that, eloquent, full of soft words and sweet sayings, but François would never have succeeded in his seduction had the lady been happy – ’

‘What do you mean?’ the Rajah asked sharply.

‘Your Highness knows full well that I do not mean she was unhappy when she was with Your Highness. Then she was in a paradise of delight, as are all those on whom Your Highness is gracious enough to smile. But when she was not in the sunlight of Your Highness’s company, it was a very different matter.’

‘Explain yourself,’ the Rajah commanded.

‘It was the sister of the lady, the ugly cripple, who caused her much unhappiness. Often I heard her voice raised in anger, often I heard her say cruel, hurtful things to the lady that Your Highness honoured. It was not right, I thought, but who am I, a humble servant, to carry tales?’

‘You should have told me,’ the Rajah said.

‘Yes, yes, Your Highness – I am guilty of great stupidity. Your unfortunate servant sees that now, but at the time I thought it of no consequence. Now it is obvious that the lady has been forced to escape the cruelty of the hunchback, from which even Your Highness’s kindness and generosity could not save her.’

The suggestion salved the Rajah’s pride, his eyes were less sullen.

‘I see what you mean, Khusru,’ he said. ‘The hunchback has not gone with her?’

‘No, no, Your Highness. She is alone in the Villa Mimosa.’

‘Turn her out at once,’ the Rajah said sharply. ‘I will not have her there.’

‘Tonight, Your Highness?’

‘You heard me! I said at once! I always disliked her! She has brought bad luck on the place.’

‘Your Highness has great wisdom! Your Highness’s instinct could never be at fault.’

‘Turn her out then.’

‘And if she has no money with which to return to her own country – to England?’

‘Is that my concern?’ the Rajah asked. ‘Let her starve! Why should I care!’

‘Let it be as Your Highness commands.’

Khusru bowed himself to the door. As he reached it, another servant entered the room. He carried a card on a silver salver which he handed to the Rajah. The Rajah looked at the card.
Monsieur Gutier, Chef de la Sûreté!
What does he want?’