‘Look out! Be careful' he said, and because he was taken by surprise and his thoughts were far away at Cheveron, instinctively he spoke in English. The woman gave a little gasp.
‘Pardon, Monsieur,’ she said, and then, after he had spoken, she added in English, ‘Oh, but you are English.’
‘Yes, I am English,’ Sir Robert replied. ‘Is anything the matter?’
It was difficult to see her clearly for they were in the shadow of an aloe tree, but he was aware that her breath was coming quickly as if she had been running, and also that she was frightened.
No, no, it is all right now that you are here,’ the woman answered. ‘It was just that – that a man spoke to me. I think, perhaps, he had taken too much – to drink. For a moment I did not understand what he said – and stupidly I stopped to listen. Then when I realised what – what he was saying, I – I ran away.’
‘I will go and deal with him,’ Sir Robert said grimly, but even as he said the words, it occurred to him that this might be a trap of some sort. Nice women who minded being accosted by strange men did not walk alone in the gardens of Monte Carlo at dawn. He hesitated, and as if instinctively she sensed both the change in his attitude and what he was thinking, the woman drew away from him.
‘It is all right now – thank you,’ she said. ‘It – it was my fault, of course, for coming out – alone. It was wrong of me, I know – but I was awake and I did so want to see the sunrise over the sea.’
There was something so childlike both in her explanation and in her voice, that instantly Sir Robert’s suspicions vanished. This was not a trap, and the woman – or girl, for he guessed her to be very young – was genuine, he was certain of that.
‘You will not have long to wait,’ he said. ‘I think you will see best from here.’
He pointed a little to the left where the path widened to the edge of a deep defile and was bounded only by an iron railing.
‘Oh, thank you.’
The woman walked away from him out of the shadow of the trees, and now at last Sir Robert could see that she was really no more than a girl. She was wearing a grey cloak of some soft material which fell from her shoulders to the ground, the hood shadowed her hair, and in the pale light he could just see the outline of her face – delicate features, wide eyes, dark lashes, and beautifully moulded lips which were parted excitedly as she looked out to sea.
‘It was here that St. Dévote landed,’ she said softly.
Hardly conscious that he had done so, Sir Robert had followed her and now he asked,
‘What did you say?’ She looked up at him.
‘I was really speaking to myself. I – I must not keep you, Sir.’
‘I think I should stay by you a few minutes in case the man who frightened you reappears.’
She glanced over her shoulder a little apprehensively. From where they stood she could see the path leading down through the gardens towards the town. It was empty.
‘He has gone,’ she said.
Then you can enjoy the sunrise in peace! But I would still like you to repeat what you said just now.’
‘I said, “This was where St. Dévote landed.” ‘
‘I thought that is what you said, and yet I had the idea that I must have been mistaken. There are not many Saints in Monte Carlo.’
She laughed at that, a little soft musical laugh.
‘Not now, perhaps, but St. Dévote came here in A.D. 300.’
‘Indeed! And became the Patron Saint of the Rock.’
‘Yes, she did, but I thought you did not know about her.’ ‘I don’t – I guessed. Tell me more.’
‘St. Dévote lived in Corsica and was assassinated after she became a Christian. The Priest who had converted her planned to take her body to Africa, but the ship was blown off its course. In a dream the Priest saw a white dove fly from the breast of the dead girl and settle in a narrow ravine. When he awoke, behold, the ship had landed on the beach of Monaco and before them, perched in a narrow ravine, was a white dove.’
The girl’s voice was low, sweet and mystical as she recounted the legend.
‘Who told you all this?’ Sir Robert asked.
‘A Nun at the Convent. She came from Monaco and always she talked about her home and the loveliness of the orange groves, of Mont Agel, of villages in the mountains and of St. Dévote who had inspired her to take her vows.’
‘And so it was because of this Nun that you wanted to see the sunrise over Monte Carlo?’
‘Not over Monte Carlo, but over the Bay of Hercules and over Monaco, and look, down there is where I am sure the Chapel of St. Dévote lies.’
She pointed. But Sir Robert looked not in the direction her fingers indicated but at the fingers themselves. They were long and thin, exquisitely graceful in their gesture.
‘Oh, look!’
The words seemed to come with a kind of ecstasy from between her lips. The first rays of the golden sun were creeping up the sky and swiftly, as the dawn comes in the south, a sudden transformation took place. One moment all was grey and colourless, the next there was the blue of the sea, the glory of the sky, the majesty of the snow-capped mountains, while around them lay a riot of purple and crimson, violet and heliotrope.
The dawn! The wonder of that moment when day meets night, the first song of the birds serenading the sun!
‘Lovely! Lovely!’ the girl cried, and now at last Sir Robert could see her face clearly, and he almost echoed her words aloud.
She was lovely, yes, lovely. He had never seen a more strange, more arresting face. And how young she was! She was as young as the day just beginning before their very eyes, as young as the buds on the mimosa trees, as the spring shoots of pale green amongst the olives, as the blossom in the orange groves.
‘I feel your name ought to be Dawn,’ he said.
As if with an effort she took her eyes from the landscape and looked up at him.
‘Dawn!’ she repeated. ‘Oh no, it is Mistral.’
‘Mistral!’ he repeated. ‘What a strange name for a girl! It is the name of a very unpleasant wind in this part of the world.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ Mistral replied.
There was something in her tone which told him it would not be wise to question her further on this subject. Instead he asked,
‘And what is your other name?’
She was an the point of telling him, for her lips moved to frame the word, but then quickly, as if she suddenly remembered something, a shadow appeared to pass over her face.
‘I – I had best not tell you that,’ she replied. ‘As you know, I have no right to be here. My aunt would be very angry with me. It was wrong, very wrong of me to come without permission, but I was awake and Sister Heloise told me so often how beautiful the dawn was. And she was right –absolutely right.’
‘I think you, too, were right to come and see for yourself,’ Sir Robert said. ‘I have found in my life that it is always wiser to do what one wants and ask permission afterwards.’
Mistral smiled.
‘The Nuns would say that was a prevarication of right and wrong.’
‘And do you always do what the Nuns taught you?’
‘Always up to now. I have never had the opportunity of doing anything else. You see, I only left the Convent a little over a week ago.’
‘You have been there a long time?’
‘Since I was six.’
‘Six!’ Sir Robert repeated. But your home? You live in France?’
‘Please, you must not ask me so many questions,’ Mistral replied.
‘I am sorry.’ Sir Robert spoke seriously. ‘You must think me extremely gauche and ill bred, but it is just that you are so very different from anyone I have ever met before, and there is something very intriguing at having encountered each other at dawn, neither of us knowing who we are or when we may meet again. Will you permit me, Mademoiselle, to introduce myself?’
‘As there is no one else to do it, I suppose you must,’ Mistral replied.
S
he smiled again and Sir Robert thought that it was like the sun touching the blue of the sea.
‘My name is Stanford,’ he said. ‘Sir Robert Stanford.’
He watched her face as he spoke and knew that she had never heard of him. Suddenly he had an insane desire to add
‘I am a very rich, important and influential Englishman.’
It was ridiculous, of course, but he wanted to shine in this strange child’s eyes. Why, he could not explain even to himself.
‘How do you do, Sir Robert?’
Mistral swept him a little curtsey, and now she had turned once again towards the sea.
‘Look at the colour of it,’ she said. ‘I never believed that it could be so blue. I thought it was one of those stories that people tell you. But, it is blue – blue as the Madonna’s robes in the Lady Chapel.’
She had forgotten him and Sir Robert felt curiously piqued that the Mediterranean should have more appeal than he. Somewhere afar off a clock struck. It struck six times. Mistral counted the strokes.
‘Six o’clock!’ she said. ‘I must go back. My aunt wakens early and I know she would be very angry if she knew where I had been.’
‘And would the Nuns approve of your deceiving your aunt?’ Sir Robert asked teasingly.
Her little face was serious as she shook her head.
‘No, they would say it was very wrong,’ she replied, ‘and I, too, think it is wrong and I shall do penance for it. But just for once I wanted to do something by myself. I wanted to forget all the rules and regulations that I have always obeyed. There is always someone giving them to me.’
She glanced to where she had told him the Chapel of St. Dévote stood and he felt she was praying. It was easy to watch her face when she was unaware of his scrutiny.
He thought he had never seen such amazing eyes. They were not English, yet the girl spoke English like an Englishwoman, while many of her gestures appeared to be French. It was strange how she appeared anxious to be secretive, but it should not be hard to find out who she was. It would be difficult, even in Monte Carlo, for such beauty to remain hidden for long.
‘And now I must go.’
Mistral turned. There was something in her expression which made him certain that she had been praying. She put out her hand.
‘Thank you, Sir Robert, for your kindness. I am very grateful.’
He took her hand in his.
‘We will meet again, little Mistral?’ he asked. ‘I do not expect so,’ she replied.
‘But why not? May I not call upon your aunt?’
‘No, please!’ There was a touch of panic in her voice. ‘My Aunt would be very angry if she thought I had spoken to a stranger. She has given me strict instructions about what I am to do and what not to do. She would also be horrified and shocked if she thought I had come here alone. Please, Sir Robert, do not let anyone know that we have met. Promise me?’
‘I will promise on one condition,’ Sir Robert replied.
‘A condition?’
Her voice was troubled, and she tried to draw her hand from his grasp, but he would not let it go.
‘Yes, a condition,’ he said firmly. ‘It is this, that if you are in any trouble, if you find yourself upset or perturbed by anything that happens in Monte Carlo, you will tell me. I am staying at the Hôtel Hermitage. You have but to send a note or a message and I will come to you at once. If we cannot meet where you live, then we can meet here. Is it a promise?’
The anxiety on Mistral’s face cleared away.
‘Yes, I will promise that. It is kind of you.’
In return I promise to tell no one that we have met and, if we meet again in public, to pretend that we are strangers. But I shall not forget this morning.’
‘And I shall not forget it either,’ Mistral replied. ‘The dawn was just as Sister Heloise described it, lovely – lovely beyond words.’
‘Yes, lovely beyond words,’ Sir Robert repeated slowly and insistently, looking down into her face.
For a moment her eyes were held by his, then as if he frightened her, she turned from him and went running down the path between the brilliant flowers with her grey cloak flying out a little behind her. She moved swiftly and with a grace which reminded him of some woodland nymph, until a turn in the gardens took her from his sight.
He did not attempt to follow her. Instead he put his elbows on the railings and stared out to sea.
‘Lovely – lovely beyond words,’ was how she had described it. And it was true. Slowly the sun rose and everything was intensified in brilliance. Now the last shadows of the night had disappeared from the sky, the sea was blindingly blue, and far away in the distance the island of Corsica was dimly discernible like a lilac cloud.
‘Lovely beyond words!’ Sir Robert repeated, then slowly, so slowly that it took him quite a time, he walked back to his hotel.
There was no need for the night porter to let him in. Already the chambermaids were astir, the marble doorsteps were being scrubbed.
Sir Robert took his key from the desk and went up to his suite. It was empty and shrouded in darkness, for he had told his valet not to wait up for him. The air in the big sitting room seemed stale and stifling until he had pulled back the curtains and flung open the windows. Then as the light streamed into the room, he saw his mother’s letter waiting for him, lying in the centre of the big writing table. He stood looking at it for a long time until without touching it he walked across the room to where on the mantelpiece stood a photograph of Violet.
She had placed it there herself the day before, giving it to him as a present, already enclosed in a wide silver frame.
‘I would hate you to forget me when I am not with you,’ she had said in one of her moments of tenderness.
‘As if I could do that,’ Sir Robert protested.
‘I find it very easy to forget people,’ Violet smiled.
He had felt a wave of jealousy sweep over him.
‘Will you forget me easily?’ he asked, and he caught her in his arms and kissed her savagely until she cried out for mercy. But he would not let her go.
‘Will you forget this? – and this? – and this?’ he asked, kissing her again and again. Yet even as he did so, even as he was incensed by jealousy sweeping over him in a red flood tide, he had been aware that she had roused him deliberately, and some logical part of his brain had chid him for being a fool, at allowing himself to play the part which was expected of him.
Now Sir Robert looked at Violet’s photograph. She was attractive, there was no denying that. The dark chestnut hair drawn back from her low forehead, the faint smile in her eyes, the enticing twist of her lips. She was not a beauty by classical standards and yet when she entered a room no one could ignore her presence. His Mother thought she was a bad woman, and yet was Violet really bad?
Sir Robert was surprised at the question. How had it ever come into his mind? He had never asked it before.
‘I suppose it must be the effect of that funny little girl I met in the gardens,’ he thought.
She had said that she was going to do penance for having done something of which her aunt would not approve. Penance for watching the dawn! He wondered what sort of penance she would do if she did something really wrong. One day he would ask her, and then he wondered if she could answer such a question. Her knowledge of what was wrong would be very limited. She would obviously be lamentably ignorant of the world, having been brought up by Nuns from the age of six.
Poor little thing! He wondered what life held for her in the future. It was unlikely that she would remain so innocent for long with a face like that. Well, at any rate it had nothing to do with him. He wondered now why he had asked her to come to him if she was in any trouble. If she took him at his word, it might be a difficult situation to explain to Violet. And yet even Violet had no right to question his actions yet. He had not asked her to marry him, but he had no doubt she would accept him if he did so.
Still his mother’s letter waited for him. Well,
he was not going to open it now. He would pretend to himself that it had only arrived the following morning and he would read it at breakfast.
Almost as if she were in the room he heard a quiet voice say, ‘The Nuns would call that a prevarication.’
Quite suddenly Sir Robert felt annoyed.
Damn the girl with her conscience and her prayers, and damn the letter lying there, white and accusing. Why couldn’t his mother leave him alone? If he wished to go the devil, he would go his own way without so much weeping and wailing about it.
He was tired, he would go to bed. It was too late at night or too early in the morning, whichever way one liked to put it, for a man to be confronted with the ethics of good and evil, right and wrong.
Sir Robert crossed the room, walked into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. The wind coming in from the open windows stirred the papers on the writing desk. The letter from Lady Stanford did not move. It lay in the centre of the desk, the sunshine enveloping it with a golden warmth.
3
Emilie glanced around the sitting room with an air of satisfaction. The breakfast laid on a spotless white cloth in the window was appetising and elegantly served. So far things had gone exactly as she had planned them and she felt the thrill that a General might feel when his troops have been successful in some carefully prepared manoeuvre.
She and Mistral had arrived at the Hôtel de Paris the night before. They had travelled in what appeared to Emilie to be astonishing comfort on the railway which now connected Monaco with Nice. Inevitably she must compare every step of the journey with the one she had taken nineteen years earlier with Alice. Then they had travelled slowly and in much discomfort, and when finally they reached Nice, they had been confronted with the choice of an uncomfortable antediluvian vehicle, which carried eleven passengers daily between Nice and Monaco, or an extremely unsafe-looking steamer which put out to sea erratically and was known at times to lie in harbour for a week on end without attempting the journey.
They had chosen on that occasion to go by land and had been bumped for what seemed like four months rather than four hours over a half-finished road, being regaled as they went with tales of robbers and bandits who often found it well worthwhile to hold up the few carriages which dared the journey.
An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition Page 58
