Barbara Cartland - Love at The Ritz

The Earl belonged to a very old family going back to pre-Tudor times.

‘Crawshaw’ was one of the titles his forebears had collected over the centuries.

He regularly used it when he went abroad, especially when he did not wish to be made a fuss of by the British Embassy or pursued by title-seeking foreigners.

But he had never been more eager to be incognito than he was at this moment.

He thought with a shudder how the Duke of Marlborough, who had a somewhat spiteful sense of humour, would make the most of his humiliating condition.

Because he was looking depressed, Vilma went up to his bed and, bending down, kissed his cheek.

“Cheer up, Papa,” she urged. “I am sure that this man will work miracles on you and you will soon be back riding, as you always do well, to the delight and envy of everyone who sees you.”

“You are a good girl, Vilma,” the Earl said, “and I will break in that damned stallion if it kills me.”

Vilma knew only too well that it was no use arguing with him.

She therefore continued reading about the opening of the Ritz Hotel.

The newspapers reported how amazed everybody was at what they had found there.

Because César Ritz had caused such a sensation, the newspapers carried many columns concerning his career.

They described how he had been determined to build a hotel that was different from all the others.

Reading on, she learned that César Ritz had been born in the Swiss village of Niederwald in 1850.

He was the thirteenth child of a peasant couple whose family line was long if humble and the stone stove in their living room bore a unique crest that had been reproduced on the hotel writing paper.

César had looked after goats and cows belonging to his father, who was the Mayor of the village.

It had a population of about two hundred and the boy went to a local school, although his father was of the opinion that it was a waste of time.

His mother, however, was ambitious for her children to make a success of their lives.

But César, when he was very young, knew exactly what he wished to do.

When he reached the age of twelve, he was sent to Sion in Switzerland to learn French and Mathematics. He was impatient to get on and became an apprentice wine waiter.

When she read this, Vilma looked up at her father and suggested,

“This is a fascinating account of César Ritz’s life in Le Jour , Papa. I just know that you would like to read it.”

“I am not interested in waiters,” the Earl replied sullenly.

“He is much more important than that now,” Vilma replied, “although he did spend some time polishing floors, scrubbing and running up and down stairs with luggage and trays.”

“I cannot think why you don’t read something intelligent,” the Earl said as if he wanted to find fault. “Here we are in Paris, the most civilised City in the world, and you spend your time drooling over some obscure hotel proprietor.”

Vilma laughed.

She knew that her father always took the opposite view to herself, which was one of the reasons that always made their conversations sparkle and stimulate.

They were always antagonists, straining their brains to the utmost capacity to defeat each other in argument.

“Well, all I can say,” she said, “is that I would so love to visit the Ritz Hotel and see how different it is from anywhere else we may have stayed. Imagine it, Papa, no heavy tapestries, plushes or velvet because Monsieur Ritz says ‘they collect the dust’.”

“I should think the place looks like an Army Barracks!” the Earl growled.

His daughter did not answer as she was reading on.

Then she exclaimed,

“What do you think it says here?”

There was no reply from her father, but she continued,

“The comfortable dining room chairs were only just delivered the day before yesterday and when they were Monsieur Ritz found that the tables were too high.”

“They must go back to be cut down,” he cried.

“His wife agreed and he ran outside to see the van that had delivered the chairs moving away. He ran after it in the rain and shouted,

“‘Two centimetres off every table leg and they must be back in two hours’.”

“He was told that it was quite impossible, but he had his own way in the end and the tables came back. The waiters were finishing laying them as the first of the guests’ carriages arrived.”

“He should not have left it to the eleventh hour,” the Earl remarked.

“I think it is a fascinating story,” Vilma asserted. “Please, please, Papa, before we leave Paris, take me to see the Ritz Hotel.”

“And meet someone I might know there?” the Earl asked. “Certainly not! As soon as I am better, we will then go back to London and you shall dance at what balls are left in the Season.”

Vilma did not reply.

She was thinking that she must see a little of Paris before they did return to London.

She had already made a list of the places that she wanted to visit.

It started with the Louvre and ended with the Aquarium in the Bois de Boulogne.

The difficulty, of course, would be to find someone appropriate to accompany her. She knew very well that that she could not go out alone.

Because her father was determined that no one should gossip about his injuries, she had not been allowed to bring her lady’s maid with her.

She knew that it would be impossible to make Herbert leave his Master.

‘I will think of something,’ she told herself rather doubtfully and went on reading about the Ritz Hotel.

*

Later in the day the man who everybody had said was so successful with injured backs arrived at the house.

His name was Pierre Blanc.

Vilma saw him first, to explain what had happened and she spoke to him in her fluent French and made him understand how important it was that her father should be able to ride again as soon as possible.

“He is a famous rider in England,” she said, “and that is why he does not want anyone to know what has happened to him.”

“I can understand that, mademoiselle ,” Pierre Blanc said, “and I promise that Monsieur will soon be well again and he will find it difficult to remember that he was ever frustrated in such an unfortunate manner.”

He spoke so confidently that Vilma was delighted.

“I hope you will make my father feel that it will be only a short time before he is well. He very much dislikes being an invalid and it makes him feel useless.”

Pierre Blanc spread out his hands.

“What man hates being ill?” he asked. “Especially when he is in Paris.”

“Now I will take you upstairs,” Vilma proposed.

“But before we do so, mademoiselle ,” Pierre Blanc interrupted, “you must promise me that you will make your father follow my instructions to the letter.”

“I will try,” Vilma answered him a little doubtfully.

“The most important thing is for him to rest after I have given him a treatment,” Pierre Blanc said. “In nearly every case the patient goes straight to sleep. But if your father does not, he is to lie quietly on his back undisturbed and not be agitated by anything or anyone. Do you understand, mademoiselle ?”

“Of course I do, monsieur ,” Vilma replied, “and I promise you that Papa will be left very quiet with nobody and nothing to disturb him.”

“That is exactly what is required,” Pierre Blanc exclaimed. “And now, mademoiselle, I am ready to meet my patient.”

Vilma took him upstairs to the comfortable bedroom that her father was using. It was the largest in the house.

She knew, although her father would never admit it, that he had been counting the hours until Pierre Blanc arrived.