The Passion and the Flower Read online

  Of course, she told herself, it was only a conventional phrase and yet she had the feeling that she would have liked to make him happy.

  There was something about him that she could not explain that had appealed to her, as his flowers had done. Even the butterfly brooch that Andy considered an insult had been in exquisite taste.

  ‘I suppose I shall never talk to him,’ she told herself with a little sigh.

  But something inside her rebelled fiercely at the thought.

  As usual they drove to the theatre in the hired fiacre, which Serge fetched for them when it was time to leave their little house.

  Lokita thought that Miss Anderson would have liked to take Serge with them as a bodyguard, but considered it might cause unnecessary comment and seem ostentatious.

  This was another reason why she did not hire a carriage to take them to the theatre and wait to take them back again.

  The other performers took fiacres from the rank outside the theatre and only the ladies who had wealthy protectors had their own carriages or were collected by the gentlemen who wished to show them off at one of the many fashionable places for supper.

  Tonight, as Lokita waited in the wings, instead of concentrating on her dance and what she intended to express, she peeped through the curtains at the audience.

  The theatre was packed as usual and there had been a big round of applause for the Azure Lake and the nymphs swimming in it.

  As she looked at the long rows of people sitting in the stalls, the women glittering with jewellery, the men with their stiff white shirts, Lokita was conscious almost for the first time that her audience consisted of people – real people – flesh and blood that moved, thought and felt as she did herself.

  Before, because she had thought only of her dance while the footlights made everything beyond them seem nothing but a blue haze, the audience had been only a noise without substance.

  She raised her eyes from the stalls to the boxes and now she saw him on the other side of the theatre in the big box with its red velvet curtains and gold ornamentation.

  He was alone, there was nobody with him, and he was sitting not looking at the stage where the comedians were performing, but glancing around the auditorium, his fingers tapping the edge of the box as if he was impatient.

  “Lokita!”

  Miss Anderson’s voice was sharp and Lokita let the curtain through she had been peeping through fall back into place.

  “Concentrate and think only of your dance,” Andy said in a tone that made Lokita feel guilty.

  She drew in her breath slowly and rhythmically as Madame Albertini taught her to do.

  Then the comedians were bouncing off the stage to waves of applause and the lights were going down.

  Lokita knew then that tonight she would dance for the Prince as she had danced for her father.

  As usual the music swept her away so that she felt rather than thought what she portrayed.

  Within her, almost like a secret she held in her breast, was the knowledge that everything she did and every movement she made was for the man who was watching her.

  It was almost as if they were alone and no one else was present.

  Because of her desire to please him every movement seemed even more real and more compelling than it had ever been before.

  When she left the stage after her second dance, the other performers standing in the wings and even the stage hands were applauding her.

  “Magnifique!”

  “Bravo!”

  “Vous êtes superbe!”

  Their complimentary exclamations followed her as Andy hurried her up the iron stairs to the dressing room.

  “Hurry, hurry!” she was saying.

  Pushing the flowers on one side, she came behind the curtain to help Lokita out of her Grecian robe into her ordinary clothes.

  She was obviously in such a fever to leave the theatre that Lokita knew quite well that she too was aware that Prince Ivan had been in the Royal Box.

  As she fastened the last button at the back of Lokita’s gown, Miss Anderson put her cloak over her shoulders and had the door of the dressing room open before Lokita had pulled the hood over her head.

  They hurried down the iron staircase and Lokita thought that Andy gave a sigh of relief that there was no one waiting for them at the stage door.

  They climbed into the nearest fiacre and the cocher whipped up his horses.

  As usual the carriage smelt of decaying leather and of hay and dirt.

  Lokita lay back not exhausted but feeling depleted, as if she had given out so much of herself that she was almost empty inside.

  Had he received what she was trying to give him? she wondered and, because her feelings had been so intense, she was glad that Andy did not wish to speak to her.

  They had passed along the boulevards and were now in quieter, more residential streets that led towards the Bois de Boulogne.

  Suddenly there was the sound of men’s voices and the cocher drew his horses to a standstill.

  Even as Miss Anderson bent forward to ask, “what is happening?” the door was flung open and a man climbed into the carriage.

  He wore a black mask and carried a pistol in his hand.

  Lokita gave a little cry and Miss Anderson, putting an arm round her protectively, asked angrily,

  “Who are you and what do you want?"

  “There is nothing to be frightened of, mesdames,” the man said. “You will not be hurt if you come with me quietly.”

  “Come where?” Miss Anderson demanded.

  “That you will learn later.”

  “This is an outrage! You have no right to behave in such a manner!”

  “There is nothing you can do about it,” the man said, “so sit quietly.”

  He spoke with an accent that proclaimed that he was not an educated person but a servant.

  A superior servant, Lokita thought, but in that class.

  There was still the sound of voices outside and she had the idea that another man had climbed onto the box and taken the reins from the cocher.

  Certainly the horse was moving quicker.

  While she knew that Andy was seething with anger and was at the same time apprehensive, she herself was not really afraid.

  It had been a shock to see the man with the mask climb into the carriage, but it was so like a burlesque or part of a pantomime that it did not seem real.

  If they were being kidnapped, if that was what was happening, what could be the reason for it? They certainly had very little money to pay a ransom.

  Then Lokita thought that because she had an important role at the theatre perhaps this man and his accomplices thought that they could extort a large sum from the Producers of Cinderella who would not wish to lose her act.

  She was well aware that the newspapers had acclaimed her as the one artiste who was original and unusual in the whole production.

  Theophile Gautier, the author and poet, who had reviewed Cinderella in Le Rire had done so with admiration and weariness, but about her he had been unprecedentedly enthusiastic.

  ‘That must be the reason for this hold-up,’ Lokita told herself.

  She only hoped that the little nest egg of her earnings which Andy had deposited in the Bank every Friday would not be swept away when they needed it so badly.

  They drove on in silence, the masked man continually glancing out of the window as if he was in a hurry to arrive somewhere.

  Then the gas lights seemed to increase and the road was wider and more impressive and Lokita had the idea, although she was not sure, that they were near the Champs-Élysées.

  They drove on past some iron railings and came to a standstill outside the portico of what appeared to be a large house.

  The man sitting with them opened the door and stepped out.

  “Will you please alight, mesdames?” he said.

  “I wish to know where you have brought us and what this place is,” Miss Anderson demanded.

  “Everything w
ill be explained later,” the masked man replied. “Kindly alight without further argument.”

  It was obvious that they must obey him and Miss Anderson stepped out first followed by Lokita.

  She saw that there were two other men besides the one who had sat with them inside the carriage and she thought that it must have been a considerable crush on the box and was sorry for the cocher.

  But there was no time to consider anything.

  The door of the house was opened and they were hurried inside.

  There were a few candles standing strangely enough on the floor and Lokita soon realised that the house was empty and unfurnished and they were now walking along a passage thick with dust.

  A door was opened and they were ushered into what must have once been a salon. It too was empty with the exception of two hard chairs.

  On the mantelpiece there were three candles, which made the shadows in the large room seem dark and eerie.

  “Will you kindly tell us why we have been brought here?” Miss Anderson asked and her voice seemed to ring round the empty salon.

  “When my Master arrives, he will explain everything to you,” the masked man replied.

  He had walked ahead of them still holding his pistol in his right hand. He indicated the chairs.

  “Be seated, mesdames,” he said. “You will not be bound if you don’t attempt to escape and you will not be gagged if you don’t scream.”

  Proudly, as if she was walking to the guillotine. Miss Anderson swept towards one of the chairs and sat down on it.

  Lokita, who had followed her, occupied the other.

  The man then closed the door and leant against the wall watching them.

  “You must not be frightened,” Miss Anderson said to Lokita in English, “I don’t think that they mean to hurt us, but I am afraid we may have to pay for our release.”

  “I have been thinking that too,” Lokita replied. “How much do you think they will ask?”

  “They cannot have more than we have in the Bank,” Miss Anderson replied.

  Her lips tightened and Lokita knew how much it would hurt her to give away the money that they had accumulated after so much argument.

  Andy had fought so fiercely against her going on the stage and only when she was persuaded that there was nothing else they could do did she capitulate to Madame Albertini’s insistence.

  Now the money was all to be swept away by these robbers – these bandits.

  “I imagine,” Miss Anderson said speaking in a different tone, “that the real owner of this house would be somewhat surprised if he knew use it was being put to.”

  “It must be someone important,” Lokita said. “It is very large and impressive.”

  “I only hope the Police will apprehend these villains and they are transported.”

  Lokita was about to reply when suddenly there was a tremendous commotion outside the room.

  Men were shouting and it sounded as if a pitched battle was taking place.

  Two pistol shots rang out!

  It was so intimidating that almost before they realised what they were doing Miss Anderson and Lokita had risen to their feet to hold onto each other.

  The man in the room who had been watching them exclaimed,

  “Sacré nom! We must have been betrayed!”

  He pulled open the door and joined in the mêlée outside.

  “What can be – happening?” Lokita asked in a whisper.

  “Perhaps we can escape,” Miss Anderson suggested.

  Even as she turned towards the window, the door opened again and a man came into the room.

  As Lokita looked at him her heart leapt and turned over.

  It was the Prince!

  He had a pistol in his right hand.

  As he advanced towards them, he transferred it to his left one and said in English,

  “It is all right, ladies. You are safe! I am Prince Ivan Volkonski and my servants are dealing with the canaille who abducted you.”

  “Who are they? What did – they want?” Lokita asked.

  Her eyes were shining as she looked up at him, and she wanted to put out her hands towards him because she was so glad that he had rescued them.

  “They are the scum of the back streets,” he answered. “This is not the first time that they have kidnapped a celebrity for ransom,”

  “That is what I suspected was happening,” Miss Anderson said in a calm voice.

  “As I do not wish you to see anything unpleasant,” the Prince said, “may I suggest that we leave this house in a somewhat unconventional manner?”

  He opened one of the large casements as he spoke.

  Then with a smile on his lips he said to Miss Anderson,

  “Shall I go first, madame, and assist you to the ground?”

  “I should imagine that would be best,” Miss Anderson replied.

  She spoke in such a severe tone that Lokita felt that she was being somewhat ungrateful considering that the Prince had come to their rescue.

  He stepped over the windowsill and assisted first Miss Anderson to the ground and then Lokita.

  She felt his arms go round her as he lifted her.

  It gave her a rather strange sensation, but, of course, she was not aware that his heart was thundering in his breast and the pulses were throbbing in his temples.

  He set her down gently and then, taking her by the hand, he said,

  “The garden of my house adjoins this. There is a door just ahead of us.”

  His fingers felt very strong and warm.

  Because it was dark Lokita was glad that he was helping her over the grass as it was difficult to see where she was going.

  But the Prince seemed to know his way and she fancied that on his other side he put his hand under Miss Anderson’s elbow.

  Vaguely she wondered what had happened to his pistol and thought that he must have thrown it down when he helped them from the window.

  ‘He may need it again,’ she thought apprehensively and looked back just in case the masked men were following them.

  “You need not be afraid,” the Prince said as if he sensed what she was thinking. “My servants will take those who are still alive and hand them over to the Police. The authorities deal very effectively with such malefactors I can assure you.”

  “Those who are alive – ” Lokita repeated beneath her breath and thought how heroic it was of him to have fought and killed to save her.

  They reached a gate in the wall and the Prince pushed it open.

  Then they were in a large garden filled with flowers and lit by lanterns hanging from the branches of many of the trees.

  It was so pretty that it might have been one of the scenes from Cinderella and Lokita looked at it with delight until she was aware that the Prince’s eyes were on her face.

  “We are extremely grateful to you,” Miss Anderson said sharply as if she drew attention to her presence, “but now we would ask Your Highness to call us another fiacre so that we can return home.”

  “There are reasons why you should not be in too much of a hurry,” the Prince cautioned quietly.

  “What reasons?” Miss Anderson queried.

  “The three men who kidnapped you will not be the instigators of this crime. Whoever instructed them was, I think, to have arrived later to inform you of the ransom that was expected and to ask you to sign a cheque for it.”

  Lokita drew in her breath.

  “And if we had refused?”

  “They would have kept you there until you paid,” the Prince replied, “As it is, I suspect that you would have had to wait in that empty room until the Banks open and the cheque could be cashed.”

  As he spoke, they were walking towards the house and now he led the way up some broad white marble steps and onto a terrace where there were long French windows glowing with a golden light.

  One of them was open and they entered a salon that was so enormous and so beautiful that Lokita gave an involuntary exclamation of delight.
/>   There were hundreds of candles burning in crystal chandeliers and their soft light revealed, far more effectively than gas lamps would have done, the superlative furniture, the fine pictures and the profusion of objets d’art that covered every side table.

  “May I welcome you to my house?” the Prince smiled, “and I can only regret, ladies, that you had to suffer so much discomfort before you could become my guests,”

  “Your Highness’s house is magnificent,” Lokita said in a low voice.

  The Prince did not answer, but he was looking at her in a manner that made her feel shy.

  A servant appeared at the door and the Prince gave him an order in Russian.

  “Will you sit down?” he asked courteously reverting to English.

  Miss Anderson seated herself in an armchair holding herself stiffly with a straight back as if she was impatient to be gone.

  Lokita undid her velvet cloak at the neck and the Prince took it from her and laid it on a chair at the side of the room.

  “May I look at some of your beautiful things?” she begged with the eagerness of a child.

  “I should be honoured,” he replied.

  She moved to a table covered with snuff boxes that she knew were not only of great value but also of historic interest.

  Some of them were set with miniatures of Catherine the Great and surrounded by diamonds, others portrayed the Czars and handsome men who she thought must be the Prince’s ancestors.

  The enamel work, the setting of the precious stones and the engraving were finer than anything that she had seen before even in museums.

  She touched them delicately with one finger, feeling that she must remember them when they were no longer in front of her eyes.

  The servants were bringing in a round table, which they covered with a cloth of Venetian lace, and then laid three places for supper.

  There was gold plate engraved with the Prince’s Coat of Arms, there were crystal glasses edged with gold and there was a wine cooler, also of gold, that held half-a-dozen bottles of wine.

  The Prince invited his guests to the table as the servants presented them with caviar set in a great block of blue-white ice.

  Miss Anderson was offered vodka, which she refused, and so did Lokita.

  “You must have a little champagne,” the Prince said. “I feel, ladies, you both need it after the shock you have just experienced.”