105. an Angel In Hell Page 7
The Marchioness was looking up at him, her lovely face quite dazzlingly beautiful under the lights and her lips seemed to be appealing to the Prince as if she was asking a favour of him.
As Ancella reached their side, she felt shy and a little embarrassed because she must interrupt their conversation.
At the same time, she told herself, she must do as the Princess had ordered her to do.
She stopped still a little behind the Prince.
The Marchioness saw her and there was no mistaking the hard look that came into her eyes or the sharpness of her voice as she asked,
“What do you want, Miss Winton?”
“I have a message for His Highness Prince Vladimer,” Ancella replied.
She had not been mistaken. The man talking to the Marchioness turned round.
“For me?” he asked.
He was undoubtedly the best-looking and the most attractive man Ancella had ever seen!
Never had she imagined that any man could be so handsome and look so un-English.
She did not know what she had expected of a Russian Prince, but certainly not a man who looked like Prince Vladimer.
It was difficult to know why she should be so sure that he was a foreigner; he was not in fact particularly dark and his eyes, like her own, were grey except that they had a touch of green in them.
It was perhaps the way his hair grew back from his oval forehead or perhaps the straightness of his perfectly proportioned nose and the squareness of his chin.
Perhaps more than anything else his face was so expressive and his lips had a slight twist as if they were amused by life and yet cynical about it.
Ancella looked at him wide-eyed, unaware that she was staring and that he too was staring at her.
It seemed for the moment as if they met across eternity and that she had always known that somewhere in the world there would be a man like him.
She could not explain to herself what she felt. She just knew that he was different from what she had expected and from any other man she had ever seen before.
She felt as if the Casino was not there and the Marchioness was not beside them and they were alone and speaking to each other without words.
Then she heard the Prince say in the deep attractive voice that she had listened to as she crouched on the rocks beneath the balustrade,
“Who are you?”
“This is your mother’s new nurse from England,” the Marchioness interposed and it appeared to Ancella that she spoke from a long way away.
“What is your name?” the Prince enquired, his eyes still on Ancella.
“Ancella Win – ton, Your Highness!”
She stammered a little over the second syllable of Winton, feeling somehow that she wanted to tell him the truth.
“Then I must welcome you to my household, Miss Winton.”
The Prince’s smile seemed to illumine his face and Ancella realised that he smiled not only with his lips but also with his eyes.
“Thank you,” she said in a low voice and she curtseyed, thinking it was something she should have done before.
“You have a message for me?” the Prince asked gently, as if he were prompting a nervous child.
“Yes – Her Highness asked me to tell you that she is in the salon next door with a friend. She thought that – you might miss her at her usual table.”
“I was just going to look for her,” he remarked.
“Your mother obviously does not need you,” the Marchioness said before Ancella could speak. “Let’s play Baccarat together. I am sure I shall bring you luck!”
“My mother may need me,” the Prince replied.
He was still looking at Ancella and, as if she realised that his attention was not entirely hers, the Marchioness said angrily,
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Vladimer. If she is with a friend, she will not require you. Come along I want to see you break the Bank!”
Reluctantly, it seemed to Ancella, the Prince allowed himself to be drawn away by the Marchioness, who had slipped her arm through his.
They moved towards the other side of the room and Ancella stood for a moment watching them go and then turned to walk back towards the Princess.
She did not know why, but she felt as if she had experienced a kind of shock, something that had shaken her in a manner that she could not explain to herself.
She moved automatically across the room through the throng of people. She could see the Princess still deep in conversation with the Comte and felt that if she joined them she would certainly be de trop.
It was then she saw an open window, the curtains blowing a little from the breeze that came from outside and, parting them, she walked out onto a terrace.
Instantly she was conscious of the magic of the night, the stars brilliant above her, the branches of the palm trees silhouetted against the darkness and below there was the sea.
She moved forward and saw the bowl of the harbour with its illuminated yachts as she had seen them when they entered the town.
On the other side of it was a huge rock on which there was the outline of the Royal Palace where the Ruler of Monaco, Prince Charles, was guarded by an Army of ninety Carabiniers wearing, Ancella had learnt from her guide book, a uniform of blue and scarlet under a white helmet ornamented with a plume.
The sea air was very soft and not in the least cold and, mixed with the salt in it, Ancella could smell the fragrance of night-scented stocks and lilies.
Somewhere, far away in the distance, there was the music of a band and she thought how romantic it was – a Fairytale Capital made for happiness and yet it seemed impossible that the people struggling, striving and straining to win money at the tables could ever find it.
She walked a little further out into the garden, still gazing at the sea, which seemed to gleam almost luminous in the reflection of the stars.
Then, as she thought that she should return to the Princess, she saw a man come through the window, as she had done, and fling himself down on one of the seats.
He gave a groan that Ancella could hear quite clearly.
Then he doubled up as if in pain with his hands covering his face and his head bent forward until it almost touched his knees.
She watched him for a moment thinking that he must be ill and, when he groaned again, she felt that she must do something to help him.
She moved to his side and stood there for a second or two thinking that he might speak to her, but his face was still hidden.
At length she said gently and a little nervously,
“C-can I – help you?”
She spoke, without thinking, in English, and the man was still.
Then he answered, his voice muffled,
“No! There is nothing you can do!”
“But you are ill,” Ancella insisted.
She thought that he would reply, until he raised his head and she saw in consternation by the light of the Casino behind them that tears were running down his cheeks.
“I am not ill,” he said in a voice that seemed dull with pain. “I am dead! Or at least I soon shall be!”
The memory of what she had read about suicides in Monte Carlo rushed into Ancella’s mind.
“What do you – mean? “ she asked.
“I mean what I say,” he replied. “I have to kill myself. I have no alternative!”
Ancella’s eyes widened and then she said quickly,
“You must not talk like that! It is wicked!”
“It is more wicked,” he replied savagely, “to have killed my wife! For that is what I have done! I have killed her, do you hear?”
Ancella was stunned into silence and, as she looked at him apprehensively, he said more quietly,
“I am sorry. You are a stranger and I should not burden you with this. But you asked me and I have told you the truth.”
Ancella could see that he was an Englishman of about thirty-five and obviously a gentleman. At the same time she had never heard such suffering in a man’s
voice and she had never seen a man cry before.
“Let me – help you,” she asked softly.
There was a bitter twist to his lips as he replied,
“You are very kind, but there is nothing you can do. I have been a damned fool. It is what one expects here, is it not? That human beings should make fools of themselves!”
“Have you lost all your money?” Ancella asked sympathetically.
As she spoke, she sat down beside the man on the bench and he drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his eyes.
“I have lost everything that could have kept my wife living for at least a little longer.”
He straightened himself and Ancella knew that he was fighting for self-control as she asked,
“Is it really as bad as that? ”
“It could not be worse!” he answered.
He gave the same bitter smile as he said,
“I suppose you are curious? It is to be expected. Well, I will tell you the truth. The doctors have given my wife a month or two to live unless I can take her to Switzerland to see a specialist who operates on her unusual complaint with about a fifty-fifty chance of success.”
He ceased speaking.
“And you were gambling – to obtain the money for this particular operation?” Ancella asked.
“It is naturally very expensive,” he replied, “and we had already sold everything we had to come here thinking that the sunshine might work miracles.”
He paused and then added violently,
“But God knows there were no miracles and now I have thrown away the last chance we had of being together.”
He gave a deep sigh.
“I suppose really a month this side of Eternity is not important.”
“But of course it is!” Ancella said. “Is there nothing you can do? ”
“Nothing,” he answered, “except, I hope, to die like a gentleman without making the fuss I was doing just now when you spoke to me.”
“I did not want to embarrass you. I thought you were ill.”
“You have been very kind,” the man replied, “and now I must go back to my wife and tell her what a mess I have made of everything. She will understand because she is that kind of person.”
There was a warmth in his voice that had not been there before and Ancella suddenly saw the tragedy of what had happened.
They must have agreed, because they loved each other, to take the risk, to chance everything they possessed, knowing that if the money was lost there was nothing left but death for both of them.
The man rose to his feet.
“Thank you for listening to me.”
He turned to walk away and suddenly Ancella made up her mind.
“Wait!” she said.
He already had his back to her and now he turned round and she could see that he was very pale. Yet he was completely self-controlled and there was something almost heroic about it.
“What I am going to suggest to you may sound very strange,” Ancella said, “but I want you to come back with me into the Casino and let me make one effort to help you.”
“How could you do that?” he asked dully without much interest in his voice.
“Will you trust me?” Ancella asked.
“If you ask me to do so,” he replied. “But I don’t understand.”
“Let me try what I have in mind without explanations,” Ancella pleaded.
He looked at her and she felt that he saw her for the first time.
“Very well,” he said quietly, “and let me thank you once again for being so sympathetic.”
“I would like to be more practical than that,” Ancella replied, “so trust me as you have promised to do.”
She walked ahead of him back into the gambling rooms and he followed her.
She went to the table where she had played with the Princess.
She drew from her handbag fifty francs that she had left over from the money she had changed at Calais and changed them for one chip.
She stood looking at the Roulette wheel and, as a chair was vacated by a woman playing at the table, a flunkey suggested that she should sit in it, but Ancella shook her head.
She wanted to stand exactly as she had stood when she had been placing bets for the Princess.
The croupier spun the wheel and now as the white ball whirled round Ancella knew once again that number eleven would come up.
She put the chip into the hand of the man who stood beside her.
“Eleven!” she said.
As if he suddenly understood what she was trying to do, he bent forward and placed it on the table just as the croupier said,
“Rien ne va plus.”
The ball spun round twice again and Ancella held her breath.
“Onze, noir, impair et manque.”
She turned to smile at the man beside her and saw him looking at her with a strange expression of incredulity in his eyes.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
“I cannot explain,” Ancella answered him.
The croupier was taking the money from all the numbers except eleven and then he pushed eighteen hundred francs onto number eleven and looked enquiringly at Ancella.
She was calculating exactly what she had gained. It would not, she thought, be enough for the operation or for a patient to stay for any length of time in an expensive clinic.
They also had to travel there and that would not be cheap.
The man beside her would have reached out towards the money, but she stopped him.
“Leave it!” she said.
“Are you wise?” he asked in a low voice and she knew how tense he was.
“Leave it!” Ancella repeated.
It seemed an interminable length of time before everyone had staked their bets.
Ancella knew while they waited that the man beside her thought that she was crazy not to take the money from the table.
She was certain that had it been his francs they had staked he would have defied her and been content with what they had won rather than try for more.
“Well, at least,” he said urgently, “let’s put a few francs on rouge or noir. It might be a saver.”
Ancella shook her head.
“I asked you to trust me.”
He took his eyes from the table and looked at her face.
“I think anyone would trust you,” he said quietly.
She smiled at him but did not answer.
She heard the croupier saying,
“Rien ne va plus.”
And a moment later the Roulette wheel was spinning.
Ancella was very still and yet in some extraordinary way she was not apprehensive. She just knew with one of those strange convictions that she could not explain to herself that the number eleven would turn up.
“Onze, noir, impair et manque.”
As the croupier said the words, the man beside her gave a little sound that was indescribable.
“How can you have done it?” he asked.
“I have no idea!” Ancella answered him and it was the truth.
There was only one other person who had staked on number eleven.
The croupier pushed a great pile of winnings towards the number.
‘Well over two thousand pounds Ancella calculated to herself.
It would be enough – she was sure it would be enough – for everything that was required to save the woman’s life.
“Shall I pick it up now?” the man beside her asked in an unsteady voice.
“Yes.”
Ancella signalled the croupier, who pushed the money towards him and he threw some chips down onto the table for the employees and, picking up the rest in both hands, held it out towards Ancella.
“Will you take half?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“It is yours,” she replied, “or rather your wife’s. Now she can have her operation and I have a feeling, just as strong as the feeling I had about winning, that it will be successful!”
They had now turned a little aside from the table and he said,
“I did not believe there was such kindness or such goodness left in the world.”
He looked down at the money in his hands.
“Are you quite sure?” he asked unsteadily, “and what about your original stake?”
“Buy some flowers with it for your wife from me,” she answered, “and tell her that I shall be praying that you will both find happiness.”
She turned and walked away from him as she spoke.
Because he was so moved by what she had said and bemused by what had happened, she was out of sight before he could find any words with which to speak to her again.
Ancella found the Princess still talking to the Comte.
She did not join them, but sat on a chair against the wall where she could wait until she was wanted.
She suddenly felt strangely exhausted as if she had passed through an emotional experience.
Then she found herself praying that the money she had won would, of all the wins that were taking place in the Casino that night, really bring about good instead of evil.
Chapter Four
Dr. Groves arrived to visit the Princess the following morning and, having been with her for about a quarter of an hour, he asked to speak to Ancella.
They moved downstairs into a sitting room that was not as grand as the salon, but was still very attractive with windows looking out towards Eza.
“The Princess speaks very highly of you, Miss Winton,” Dr. Groves began.
“I am glad,” Ancella replied. “I had hoped that I would justify Sir Felix’s trust in me.”
“I am sure you will do that.”
Dr. Groves was not unlike Sir Felix Johnson in appearance, being about the same age and having the same charming manner.
Like Sir Felix he wore a conventional frock coat and top hat to visit his patients and also a cravat expertly tied in the centre of which was a tiepin in the shape of a horseshoe.
Everything in Monte Carlo, Ancella thought, was invariably an emblem of good luck.
“I will, however, be frank,” Dr. Groves went on, “and say that I was expecting someone older. But, as the Princess is satisfied, that is all that matters.”