RUPERTA AND LUDOVIC
She had not forbidden him. Even when reminded of it the suggestion
had not provoked a word of refusal. And yet she had gone without a
sign of leave-taking, but with all the air of being offended. What
was he to think? Turn it over as his mind would, it always came back
to the one conclusion that he would go to the chapel again. “We are
not allowed the feelings of ordinary people,” the Princess had said.
Did not that account for the way she had recollected herself, or at
least her station, and left him without another word? But she had
talked with him for some time before that bold speech of his--lucky or
unlucky, he would not own it either--she had assuredly shown no offence
at finding him there in the chapel, at his presumption in assisting
at her playing. Was that because he had done her a service at the
fortune-teller’s? It was not a palatable suggestion, still less was
it pleasant to think that his forwardness might be construed into a
presuming upon that service. At any rate he would put it to the touch.
For the next days he haunted the park near the chapel but without
hearing the music he listened for, or seeing the Princess except once
when he caught just a glimpse of her driving in at the royal gates.
But one afternoon, when he had begun to think that the organ was never
to speak to him again, his ear caught its notes, softly penetrating,
stealing out into the woodland. For a moment he hesitated. No; he had
resolved to venture boldly; diffidence would avail nothing; after all,
he knew his every feeling to be chivalrous; he would not hang back.
The door was opened. Ah, it might have been closed against him. He went
in quietly; Countess Minna was at the bellows; she laughed, and her
laugh told him that she, at least, had expected him. He returned her
silent greeting and without hesitation went up and took the lever which
she very readily relinquished. The music continued for a long hour,
ever sharpening his hunger for a sight of the player, for the thrill
of her voice again. Minna, as before, sat comfortably reading, with a
certain demure enjoyment on her face, but whether caused by the book
or the situation was not to be told. As each piece ended von Bertheim
looked for that radiant presence to stand before him, and at each fresh
swelling forth of the organ he felt a disappointment which, with his
love of music, might have been incredible.
At length with the dying vibrations of a voluntary’s last notes there
mingled the striking of a clock. Countess Minna jumped up hastily and
ran forward.
“Princess! It is time to go. There is five striking.”
A wave of disappointment passed over him. Should he lose his reward
like that? Was it a trick? As he wondered, the Princess came from
behind the keyboard screen and saw him. Their eyes met; he bowed.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “It was kind of you to relieve Gräfin
Minna.”
He had come near; she, preparing to turn away, held out her hand. He
pressed it to his lips. That was all, except for the word “Good-bye,”
which he scarcely heard, and the “thank you,” from Countess Minna which
he heard not at all. Before he could realise their departure he was
alone.
When he returned to his lodgings he found an official invitation to
a state concert to be held two days later. It meant the chance,
certainly of seeing, perhaps speaking to the Princess. That afternoon’s
luck had rewarded his days of disappointment. She had given him her
hand in token that in her eyes he was free from offence. “She has a
heart after all,” he said as he sat down to write an acceptance.
The concert was as rigidly classical as though the severity of the
Court’s forms and etiquette had infected the music, as, indeed, it had
drawn out the programme. Only in one piece was indulgence given to
mere beauty of melody, and in that he recognised a favourite of the
Princess’s doubtless, since she had played it both times he had been
in the chapel. Carried away by the sensuousness of the melody he sat
with eyes almost involuntarily fixed on the Princess. She was unlikely
to notice his gaze, but the inevitable Minna looked round towards the
side row where he sat, and he suddenly became aware of her scrutiny. He
wondered whether she would tell Princess Ruperta of his whereabouts,
but by no sign could he be certain of that. “Why should she care? What
a fool I am!” he told himself.
When the music was over the guests followed the royal party into the
great drawing-room, where they circulated and chatted in groups. With
his white face bent forward and hands clasped behind his back the
Chancellor strolled observantly through the rooms exchanging a remark
here and there, but ever on the watch, it seemed.
Ludovic von Bertheim stood looking after that fascinating, inscrutable
personality when he heard a well-remembered voice at his side.
“When you have finished studying our Chancellor, Herr von Bertheim, may
I ask you to give me a cup of coffee?”
They strolled off together to the Saal where refreshments were served.
“It is delightful to meet you here again,” Ludovic said; “after----”
“Where there are no organ-bellows to blow?” Minna suggested roguishly.
“Oh! Hush!” She made a gesture of caution and raised her cup to her
lips. Rollmar was passing them.
“I did not know he was so near,” she observed, in a low tone. “He has
ears for whispers and eyes that see all round him. I warn you, Herr von
Bertheim.”
“I will be careful,” he laughed.
“Yes. Not only for your own sake, but----” she checked herself with
a shrug. “You see that young officer with red hair and eyes to
match, like a ferret? You will never guess who he is. Our wonderful
Chancellor’s son. Yes, you may well open your eyes. Captain von
Rollmar; he is as sharp as his face, and----shall I tell you?--a great
admirer of our Princess.”
She took a roguish delight in watching the effect of her whisper,
laughing and sipping her coffee.
“The admiration is hardly returned, I should think,” he could not help
saying.
“You should hope so, eh?” she corrected. “What do you think? The
Princess is a girl of taste. I have--not exactly a message for you, but
I know the lady we speak of is anxious to hear about your country. You
know, perhaps she is to marry your future King?”
“I have heard the rumour.”
“Poor girl! It is a shame.”
“Why a shame?”
“Because she hates him.”
“Has she ever seen him?”
“No. Is that a necessary preliminary in royal betrothals?”
“Perhaps not. But surely to hate.”
“Hates the idea, then.”
“Ah, that is conceivable.”
“The comfort, or the absurdity, of it is that he seems to be, if
possible, as indifferent to her as she to him.”
“That can be only accounted for by his never having seen her.”
“Whose fault is that? He has never even asked for her portrait. He is
away, no one knows where, on a hunting expedition. To ignore, no doubt,
the disagreeable fate in store for him, and to try to forget while he
can that there is such an annoying thing on earth as woman in general
and our Princess in particular.”
Their talk had taken them through the picture gallery and out upon the
terrace, for on that warm autumn night the long windows stood open.
They had gone but a few steps when a well-known voice said:
“Minna, I have been looking for you. I was stifled in these hot rooms.”
As Ludovic bowed to the Princess a casual onlooker would have said it
was a first and formal introduction; and perhaps with the Chancellor’s
many eyes everywhere, that was as well. A court official came
sauntering along, evidently getting a little relief from the boredom of
his duties. Countess Minna threw him a laughing remark to that effect.
He stopped and they stood chatting within two or three paces of the
Princess and von Bertheim.
“I hear, Highness,” Ludovic said presently, “that you are interested in
the country I come from.”
“I cannot help being interested,” she replied. Then as the equivocal
meaning of the words struck her, she added hastily, “It is not my fault
if it is so.”
“I have heard a rumour, Princess,” he said quietly.
“Ah, yes; a rumour. It is only a rumour as yet.” It was impossible to
gather from her tone what meaning lay behind her words. “Tell me of
your country,” she went on. She was looking away over the black screen
of trees at the star-lit sky, and the words seemed forced mechanically
through the dreamy preoccupation that held her.
“It is a pleasant one?”
“A fair land enough,” he answered, “with great vine-covered plains
and rounded hills with lovely broad valleys and nestling towns. Yes,
it is a land too pleasant and favoured to lie longer in obscurity. Our
King----”
“Never mind your king,” she broke in almost haughtily; “he does not
interest me. Tell me of your country. Has it rocks and dashing rivers,
and great forests, like ours?”
“A few only. Scenery like yours is not general.”
“Scenery!” she repeated, with an inflection of something like scorn.
“You speak of that as though it were of no account. It is everything.
It is nature. It makes all the difference between romance and a
dull, sordid reality. Your king”--there was scorn now in her voice
unmistakably--“is, I suppose, intent upon making his country of
commercial importance. The grapes from your vines are to be transferred
to the taverns and shops of London and Paris, and as the drunkards
of the world increase so will your country’s prosperity. Prosperity?
That means money. I hate that. Why cannot this king of yours leave his
people happy as they are? Does money mean content? I would rather be a
mother to the poor than to the rich, rather reign over my country as
Heaven made it, with its crags and torrents and forests, than over a
land of wine-vats and offices where legends and traditions are ousted
by account-books and bills, and the people in their insolence of wealth
acknowledge in their hearts but one king--money. Here, at least, we are
free, or nearly all of us,” she added, a little bitterly.
“But, Princess,” he began to argue, “if the two countries were joined,
would not the best characteristics of both be united?”
“Never,” she returned impatiently; “it is impossible. Romance and
business can never agree.” She gave a little shiver. “We catch the wind
here,” she said, returning to her cold, indifferent tone. “Minna, it is
cold. We will walk to the end of the terrace.”
The moments were precious, yet to von Bertheim it seemed difficult to
make the most of them. The change in his companion’s tone showed him
that she considered at an end the subject on which she had spoken so
warmly. In her fascinating complexity, in the manifest struggle between
constraint and inclination, between the yearning for freedom and the
sense of coercion, in short between the Princess and the woman, there
was something bewilderingly captivating and yet deterrent.
“You cannot think,” she resumed, breaking the silence, “what it is
for those who are born to high places to be condemned to see most of
the pleasures of life from a distance. They are all round us, but out
of reach. We are like poor ragged children gazing into the toy-shop
windows. Yes; we are supposed to have everything, and we have--almost
nothing.” She spoke with a suppression of the feeling which prompted
the words. Ludovic could guess why she was inclined to unburden herself
to him.
“You think I must look upon our first meeting as a strange one,” he
said. “But I have seen too much of the world, have speculated too much
over the problems of our mysterious existence to wonder at that. Ah,
Princess--forgive me if your confidence makes me too bold--I wish it
might fall to my lot to free you from the grip of the world’s custom,
as it was my unspeakable privilege to stand between you and that
thieving ruffian.”
The end of the terrace walk had been reached, and as with the last
words they turned, it brought them face to face. Had he offended her?
He could not tell. The cold, proud look in her face made it seem almost
incredible that it could have been she who had spoken with such feeling
and unburdening of the heart a moment before. Just for a few instants
she made no reply; perhaps the mere expression of his wish scarcely
called for one. The silence left him in exquisite suspense. So intent
was he on her next words that he did not realise she lingered, almost
stopped. Countess Minna and her companion had turned at the same time
and were walking now in front. At last the reply came.
“You are bold,”--the voice was exquisitely low--“but in you I cannot
blame boldness. It is,” here by an effort she lightened her tone, “it
is perhaps as well we can both realise that beyond boldness it is
madness, boldness to me, and madness to aught beside.”
“Not madness,” he protested, “to dream of fighting for happiness,
for----”
“Yes,” she interrupted quickly, almost peremptorily; “madness to
imagine and cruelty to suggest it. Ah!” she gave a shudder, “why are
right things so easily forgotten, wrong ones never? It is late; I must
go in. The dear Chancellor,” she laughed, “will be scandalised--or
worse. You are leaving Waldenthor?”
“I never said so, Princess.”
“But you are going?”
“Not unless your highness orders me.”
“Or somebody more powerful than I. Yes; you had better go. The romance,
the episode is over; would you wait for the anti-climax?”
“Is it over, Princess?” His voice vibrated with tenderness now, since
he might be bold.
“We have arrived at the best ending,” she answered. “Do not wait for an
unpleasant one.”
“Give me a better reason for banishment.”
“Than yourself? Is not the only other reason obvious?”
He bowed his head. That reason was all powerful. “I understand,
Princess,” he replied. “Then I go. Is this the last time we shall meet?”
There was sadness in the proud eyes, he could be sure of that. But with
characteristic self-control she forced it away. “Who can tell?” she
laughed. “We may meet again before very long--in your country. There,
Minna is signing to me. I know what that means. Good-bye, my friend,
good-bye, and thank you.”
She was moving off, but he took a quick step after her. “Princess,”
he pleaded, “give me one day’s respite. Let me hear the music in the
chapel again.”
But she would not stop or turn to give him an answer. He thought he
caught the murmur of one word “Madness!” as she hurried away.