An Innocent In Paris. Barbara Cartland

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      Original title, A VIRGIN IN PARIS

      CHAPTER ONE ~ 1903

      “Is this one the house?” Gardenia asked nervously in French as the ancient fiacre slowed down outside the porticoed door of a large mansion standing in a side road that ran parallel with the Champs-Élysées.

      “Oui, mamselle,” the cabman answered. “This is the place, it would be hard to mistake it.”

      He pulled his horse to a stop as he spoke and then spat forcibly onto the other side of his cab.

      Gardenia felt herself shiver. There was something frightening both in the man’s insolent manner and in the fact that the house was a blaze of light and that there was quite obviously a large party in progress.

      It was indeed difficult to get near to the front door. There were a number of shining automobiles on the gravel drive as well as elegant broughams with silver-bridled horses. In charge of them there seemed to be an army of attendant chauffeurs in their smart leggings and double-breasted uniform coats, their goggles lifted onto the peaks of their caps, coachmen with cockades and tiered capes to their driving coats, linkmen wearing a claret uniform which to Gardenia’s unsophisticated eyes seemed theatrically flamboyant.

      The cabman climbed down from the front of his ancient vehicle, making little effort to hitch up the reins because his horse, whose bones were showing pitifully, was far too tired to move without compulsion.

      “This is the place you asked for, mamselle,” he said, “unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind.”

      Again there was that gleam in his eyes and something in his voice that made Gardenia stiffen instinctively.

      “No, I am sure you have brought me to the right address,” she replied stiffly, “Please tell me what I owe you.”

      The cabman named a sum that she knew was exorbitant. She hesitated, but it was just too embarrassing to argue with so many people within earshot. Also she realised that many of the chauffeurs and coachmen were staring at her with undisguised curiosity. She saw thankfully that she actually had enough money in her purse and, although it took practically everything she possessed, she added a small pourboire, more as a gesture than because she felt that the man deserved it.

      “Kindly bring in my trunk,” she said in a quiet ladylike voice, which made the man obey her without any further comment and she stepped ahead of him up the wide stone steps.

      The front door was ajar, and now she could hear music, gay and exquisite music, from a number of violins. It was, however, almost drowned by the chatter of voices and shrill rather ugly laughter that had something abandoned in it.

      There was, however, little time for many impressions. The door was swung wide open by a resplendent footman wearing the same claret-coloured livery as the linkmen with his coat ornamented with bands of gold lace and what appeared to be an inordinate number of gold buttons. He stood stiffly at attention, his chin up, his eyes looking over Gardenia’s head.

      She found that her voice was unexpectedly tremulous as she said,

      “I wish to see the Duchesse de Mabillon.”

      The footman did not reply. Another individual, even more resplendent, with a staff of office, which proclaimed him a Major Domo or some very superior servant, stepped forward.

      “Her Grace is expecting you, mamselle?” he asked in a tone that showed only too clearly that he would be very surprised if that was indeed the truth.

      Gardenia shook her head.

      “I am afraid not, but if you will give Her Grace my name I know that she will see me.”

      “Her Grace is engaged this evening,” the Major Domo said loftily. “If you were to return tomorrow – ”

      He broke off and turned scandalised eyes to the cabman who was struggling up the steps with a shabby leather portmanteau on his back. He watched as the man put it down with a crash on the marble floor and then stepped toward.

      “Imbecile!” he spat in a patois that was difficult for Gardenia to understand. “Do you. imagine you can bring that kind of trash in here? Take it out at once! Take it away.”

      “I have done what I was told,” the cabman replied surlily. “Bring in the portmanteau, the lady says, and bring it I have.”

      “Then take it out again!” the Major Domo said furiously. “You’re now blocking up the doorway, getting in the way of guests! Do you think we countenance canaille like you?”

      The cabman let out an oath that seemed to reverberate round the hall.

      Gardenia stepped forward.

      “The man obeyed my instructions,” she said. “Don’t speak to him like that and kindly take my name immediately to my aunt.”

      There was a stupefied silence.

      “Votre tante, mamselle,”

      The Major Domo’s voice was lower now as he spoke with an air of incredulity mingled with a slight note of respect

      “I am her Grace’s niece,” Gardenia said. “Will you please tell her that I have arrived and send the cabman away? I have no further need of him.”

      The cabman needed no further bidding.

      “Mamselle,” he said, touching his battered top hat.

      With a grin on his face he shuffled towards his cab.

      The Major Domo hesitated.

      “Her Grace has a party, as you see, mamselle.”

      “As I can both see and hear,” Gardenia said. “But I am quite certain when I explain why I am here, Her Grace will understand.”

      The Major Domo turned away towards the broad thick-carpeted staircase that led to the first floor from where the music was coming.

      Gardenia felt somewhat embarrassed being left alone in the hall. The Major Domo had not suggested that she should wait elsewhere nor had he offered her a chair. For a moment the hall itself was empty save for the one footman standing stiffly by the now partially opened door. She might have sounded brave in dealing with what promised to be a row between the Major Domo and the cabman, but the effort had made her heart beat quickly and her lips were dry.

      Why, she asked herself again had she not waited for a letter to reach her aunt before she arrived or sent a telegram? Even as she posed the question she knew the answer, it was just because she could not afford to wait and she had no money to spare for a telegram.

      She had not eaten since she had left Dover very early that morning and now the music and noise made her feel dizzy.

      Because she was afraid of disgracing herself in this strange and frightening house, she sat down on the edge of her trunk, conscious as she did so of the shabby scratched leather and its bare corners.

      She knew also that she herself, after travelling for over twenty-four hours, was badly in need of a bath. She had done her best to wash on the train, but the toilet facilities were almost non-existent and she had not liked to wait at the Station in case she lost her trunk after it had been disgorged from the guard’s van.

      She had chosen what had looked the cheapest and most dilapidated fiacre simply because she thought that it would be cheaper than a better-equipped Hackney carriage.

      There were sudden shrieks of laughter from upstairs and Gardenia was aroused from the contemplation of her own troubles to stare with astonishment as a woman, elegantly dressed and with diamonds glittering on her bare neck, came running down the stairs lifting her frothy skirts high above her ankles.

      She was pursued by three young men in stiff white shirts and high collars, the tails of their evening coats seeming to dance behind them as they followed her. They caught her at the bottom of the stairs amid a turmoil of gruff laughter and high almost hysterical protests.

      It