THE PRINCESS’S KISS
“Fair lady,” said Wilfrid, bowing as he spoke, “you are alone, though
it be the unwritten law of a masquerade that every one must have a
companion.”
“Then are you breaking that law,” replied the lady; “for you, too, seem
alone.”
“A Courtenay is ambitious, you see; he will have for his companion none
but the fairest.”
“And have you not found her in Pauline de Vaucluse?”
Her tone was slightly satirical. Had she seen him in the ballroom, he
wondered, and recognised with whom he was dancing?
“Your highness, it was not for Pauline de Vaucluse that I wrought for
three months in a solitary attic.”
“No; it was for a wronged and widowed empress,” replied the Duchess,
feigning not to see his meaning. “Lord Courtenay, the Empress is
unspeakably grateful for your good work. The one desire of her heart was
to see the fall of the wicked Ministry, and, thanks to you, she has been
enabled to see it. You wanted no reward, but the Empress prays you to
name one.”
“Why, I thought I _had_ named one.”
“Foolish Englishman,” she murmured, averting her head, “have you not
forgotten _that_?”
And then, as if wishful to divert his thoughts from herself, she said,
with her eyes set upon the river:—
“Have you any scene like this in England?”
Patriotic as he was, Wilfrid was fain to confess that his own land could
never at any time show a scene so fairy-like as that presented by St.
Petersburg on a midsummer night.
It was now on the stroke of twelve, and though the glow of the setting
sun had scarcely faded from the western sky, yet the eastern horizon was
already becoming shot with golden streaks. This intermingling of dusk and
dawn illumined by the glory of a full moon, produced a light soft and
clear, poetic and dreamlike.
The river flowed, silent and majestic, breaking here and there into
silver ripples. Its long line of quays and palaces, fading away in dim
perspective, seemed like the fabrics of a vision too lovely to be real.
Enchanting as was the scene, it was made still more so to Wilfrid by the
presence of the young Duchess, attractive both by her beauty and by the
romantic air of mystery surrounding her.
It filled him with pleasure to learn that while he had been seeking
_her_, she had been seeking _him_.
“I saw you leave the ballroom,” she observed, “and as soon as I could
conveniently do so, I stole away. Not finding you in——”
She paused. They were no longer alone. Merely a gallant and his inamorata
in close conversation, and apparently so enwrapped in each other, as to
be oblivious of everybody else. Nevertheless, the Duchess turned her face
riverward again; and, evidently fearing lest her voice, if overheard,
should lead to her recognition, she refrained from speaking till the two
had fairly passed by.
“I fear a spy in every one I see to-night,” she murmured.
“Is our meeting, then, a crime?”
“My enemies would endeavour to make it such.”
“Let me know who these enemies are, that I may make them mine, too.”
“Shall I take you at your word?” she said gravely. “Yes? Then mark. The
one whose enmity I have most cause to dread is the woman with whom you
have danced to-night.”
“Pauline de Vaucluse.”
“None other.”
“That is a hard saying.”
“But a true one.”
“That Pauline de Vaucluse would use this meeting to your hurt, and to
mine? Nay, I cannot so think of the Baroness. I would that I could bring
your highness face to face with her for a few minutes. I feel certain
that such interview would end in your becoming the best of friends.”
“Having full proof of her guilt, I have no desire for such an interview,”
she answered coldly.
It seemed clear from this that the Duchess must be known to Pauline. What
act had Pauline committed against the Duchess that it should be called by
the strong term “guilt”?
“That your Highness _has_ enemies,” he said, after an interval of
silence, “is, alas! but too true. They, or rather their agents, are here
to-night.”
“How do you know this?”
“Concealed behind some shrubbery I overheard four men talking.”
“Of me? But not knowing my name how could you tell I was the person
meant?”
“Because they spoke of a lady wearing a grey mask and a grey serge domino
trimmed with silver cord, such as I see yours to be. One question will
show whether you are the lady meant by them. Tell me, are you not seeking
to present a letter to the Czarina?”
The Duchess looked a little oddly at Wilfrid, as if surprised at this
knowledge on his part.
“It is true. I have upon me a letter addressed to the Czarina,” she
murmured, speaking with a certain hesitancy.
“At this very moment these four men are looking for you, determined to
prevent you, by means fair or otherwise, from giving that letter to the
Czarina.”
“Lord Courtenay, you must not leave me till I am safe in the ballroom
again. This letter must not be taken from us.”—The “us” thrilled
Wilfrid.—“I say us,” she continued, with a smile, as pleasant as it was
mysterious, “because the letter is of vital consequence to you as well as
to me.”
“Your Highness is safe with me; have no fear. But since you seem to live
in an atmosphere of peril, why not seek to escape from it?”
“How?”
“There is a way open to you,” said Wilfrid, with a sudden and bold
inspiration. “The British Embassy is about to be re-established at St.
Petersburg. Let that be your asylum. Come with me this night. Tell the
Ambassador your secret history. Make him the guardian of your person.
Under the protection of England you will be safe.”
“Lord Courtenay,” she said decisively, “yours is an impossible remedy.”
“I will believe so only when you have proved it to be such.”
“Were I to take refuge there, the Czar would demand my surrender.”
“Very likely; and my good uncle, the Ambassador, would meet the demand
with a refusal.”
“I think not. Let the refusal be given, however; that would not prevent
the Czar from entering with his troops.”
“Not so. Such an act were an outrage upon the law of nations. The Czar
would have to face an immediate renewal of the war with England.”
“And he would be ready to face it, were I to act as you suggest.”
Was she really a person so great in the political world that her
detention at the British Embassy would be a sufficient cause for war
between two empires? It was an amazing statement, and yet her air, quiet
and grave, somehow carried conviction with it.
“Your Highness,” said Wilfrid, with a sort of reproachful despair,
“have you not mystified me long enough? May I not know who you are? You
promised at our last meeting to reveal to me your name and history.”
“Let me redeem my word, then.”
She sat down within a hemicycle that formed part of the parapet of the
terrace, and motioned Wilfrid to a place beside her.
At their back flowed the shining river; before them, and bordering the
whole length of the terrace, rose a grove of dark pines whose leaves
rippled to the night-breeze. From the far-off ballroom came the faint
sound of the orchestral music.
Though attentive to every word spoken by the Duchess, Wilfrid, mindful of
the four men in the chocolate-coloured liveries, kept a watchful eye upon
all sides, though he doubted very much whether the quartette would show
themselves so long as he was with her.
Now and again groups of laughing masqueraders would make their
appearance; and, at their approach, the Duchess either suspended her talk
or continued in a whisper till the revellers had gone by.
“I am at your service, Lord Courtenay. Question me.”
“First, then, explain the puzzling mystery of how I came to save your
life without retaining any remembrance of that event.”
“That is easily answered. More than eight years ago—I was then a girl
of fourteen—my sister and I were staying at the Castle of Silverstein
in Saxony. One evening, among other diversions, there happened to be a
series of _tableaux vivants_, in one of which my sister and I took part,
each clad in the garb of a forester; and,” added the Duchess, with a
touch of vanity, “if all that was said of us be true, we made a pair of
handsome lads.—The next morning, before breakfast, my sister, always
full of mischief, proposed an especial piece of daring. ‘Let us put
on the dress we wore in the _tableau vivant_, and take a walk outside
the castle grounds.’ I laughingly consented; and, escaping the eyes of
our elders, we two girls sallied forth in male garb. The keeper of the
lodge, past whom we boldly marched, failed to penetrate our disguise, and
doubtless wondered why we laughed so, when at a safe distance from the
gate. It was a sunny morning, and we turned our steps to the forest that
lay eastward of the castle. Forgetful of time, we wandered onward till
at last it began to dawn upon us that we were a long way from home, and
were, perhaps, doing a foolish thing, for we now suddenly remembered that
a bear had recently been seen in this wood.
“Scarcely had the thought seized us when we actually came upon two
little black cubs rolling over each other at the foot of a hollow tree.
The sight turned our blood cold, for one glance showed that this hollow
trunk was a bear’s den, and we did not doubt that its savage tenant was
not far off. Then came a heavy pattering upon the fallen leaves, and a
moment afterwards the mother bear appeared, growling and making directly
for us. Too terrified to move, my sister and I clung to each other,
uttering wild screams.”
Wilfrid himself could now have related the sequel, but preferred to hear
it from her lips. It was a pleasure to listen to her voice. The Duchess
saw his smile, and smiled in turn.
“Need I tell you what happened? The report of a musket rang out, and the
bear rolled over dead. The shot had been fired by a young man who came
forward with a smile in which I fancied there lurked a trace of contempt.
Of course, Lord Courtenay, you took us for what we seemed to be, namely,
two youths, and as such, we doubtless looked very silly, screaming and
making no attempt to save ourselves; and yet, perhaps, if you had been
without a musket, you might not have looked so brave as you did just
then.”
“Quite true, your Highness.”
“Naturally, we did not like to say that we were girls, and so, after
thanking you, we hastened off and reached Silverstein without our
escapade having become known.
“Now, in our confusion we had forgotten to ask the name of our deliverer.
“‘We must try to find out who he is,’ said my sister, ‘and show our
gratitude by something more than words.’
“So, later in the day, and this time dressed in a manner suitable to good
girls, we drove forth in our carriage accompanied by our duenna.
“Fortune favoured us, for as we were proceeding along the high road that
skirts one side of the forest, my sister pressed my arm with the words,
‘There he is.’
“Sure enough it was our rescuer coming out of the Kronprinz, a pretty
little hostelry by the roadside. He mounted a phaeton that had been
standing at the inn door, and drove off. The innkeeper was known to
us, and from him we learned that the stranger was an English nobleman,
Viscount Courtenay by name, who had been staying in the neighbourhood
during the previous fortnight. He had received the Prince’s permission to
shoot upon the castle lands and to fish in its waters.
“We hesitated to put further questions, lest our duenna should ask us the
reason for our interest in this stranger; but as soon as we returned to
the Schloss we got from the library a book on the British Peerage, and
learned what little we could concerning Lord Courtenay, his family, and
his ancestry.
“We went on the following day to take a look at the bear’s den; this time
armed foresters accompanied us. While I was walking round the spot, my
eye was caught by a sparkle amid the fallen leaves. I stooped, and picked
up a golden locket. We knew at once by whom it had been lost when we
found within a miniature of yourself.”
Wilfrid had often wondered what had become of that locket, a locket he
had ordered to be wrought after a special design, intending it as a gift
to his mother.
“‘The restoring of this locket,’ said my sister, ‘will give us an
opportunity of speaking with Lord Courtenay. We will take it to the
“Kronprinz,” and tell him that we are the two youths whom he saved from
the bear.’ But on coming to the inn we found you had that very day left
for England; so the locket remained with me.”
“And you have kept it ever since?”
For answer, she pointed to her throat, and Wilfrid saw the long lost
locket hanging from a slender gold chain.
“Is it necessary at this late day to restore it?” she asked, making as if
to detach the locket from its chain.
But Wilfrid gently restrained her.
“It could not be in a fairer place.”
The Duchess’s story cast light upon some matters hitherto dark; it
explained, for example, her recognition of him at the inn of the Silver
Birch.
And she had kept his miniature for more than eight years, ever since she
was a girl of fourteen! It was upon her breast now! Was that its usual
place? If so, and if the fact had become known to Baranoff, it would
explain why that minister had concluded that the Duchess must be in
love with Wilfrid; if love, a seemingly hopeless case, since it was not
probable that she would ever meet again the man that had saved her life.
Did she often look at the portrait within the locket? he wondered. And
now that the original was beside her, with what sentiments did she regard
him? Gratitude for saving her life? gratitude deep and sincere, but
nothing more? Wilfrid made up his mind that he would find out that very
night.
“Question one having been answered in full,” he smiled, “there comes
question two—your name?”
“I should like first to hear whom you think me to be? You must have
formed some notion.”
“Am I right in supposing that you are a grand-daughter of the Czar, Ivan
VI.?”
The Duchess received this question with a merry laugh, the first Wilfrid
had heard from her, a laugh so rippling and sweet that he was sorry when
it had ceased.
“What gave you that idea?” she asked.
“A paragraph in the English _Times_,” replied Wilfrid, repeating the
passage; for, under the belief that it referred to the Duchess, it had
been no task, but a pleasure, to learn it by heart.
“And you took me to be the lady meant? She never had any existence. If
you had seen the _Times_ just a week later you would have found that same
correspondent withdrawing the story as an idle rumour, and apologising
to his English readers for having led them astray. A grand-daughter of
Ivan! I have not a drop of Muscovite blood in my veins. I am as you are—a
foreigner in Russia.”
Somehow Wilfrid was pleased to think that she was of a nationality other
than Russ, although her statement increased his perplexity since, as
she was not connected by blood with the Imperial house of Romanoff, how
came she to be politically so great, as she undoubtedly was, according
to the account both of herself and of Baranoff? Was she a member of some
other royal house of Europe, and being, for some reason or other, viewed
with jealousy by the reigning head, had she been sent into a sort of
quasi-banishment to the Russian Court, whose orders were to exercise a
strict surveillance over her conduct, and, above all, to see that she did
not fall in love? Why would she not explain, and end all this mystery?
“I was born Princess Marie,” she continued, “and Princess Marie is the
name I love, and the name my friends still call me by.”
“Then you shall be Princess Marie to me, and——”
He paused. The clock-tower of the Sumaroff Palace chimed the hour.
“One o’clock!” said Princess Marie—to use the name favoured by
her—speaking with a sort of dismay in her voice. “I have stayed too long.
I must return, Lord Courtenay, will you escort me to the ballroom, and
there—there we must part.”
“Part! We have but just met. If we part, when are we to meet again?”
“Never, I fear.”
“Never is a hard word.”
“Do you think it is not hard for me to say it?” murmured the Princess, as
she rose to her feet, evidently bent on going.
“Stay, Princess. You have not yet redeemed all your promise. There is
your present name, and—the—the kiss.”
“You will not let me off?”
“I kept _my_ word, Princess. Will you not keep yours?”
As Wilfrid rose to his feet she receded a pace or two, with hands put
forward as if to keep him off.
“What pleasure will you have in a kiss given on compulsion?”
“Shall you give the kiss, then, from no other feeling than to get rid of
the duty?”
“In what other spirit should I give it?”
“If the Princess can give only a reluctant kiss, let her give none at
all.”
Princess Marie hesitated for a moment.
“I ... I will keep my promise,” she said. “But not ... not here ... on
the open terrace. There ... in the shadows. It is death if ... if we are
seen!”
Wilfrid took her little hand—how it trembled!—within his own, led her
across the terrace, and stood beside her under the gloom of the pine
trees.
“It was not stipulated that you should wear a mask,” said he.
She withdrew her vizard, revealing her beautiful face, made more
beautiful by the sweet colour that mantled it.
She looked round on all sides to make sure that no one was within sight.
Satisfied that they were alone she turned to Wilfrid. Never had he so
trembled as at this moment when the Princess set her hands lightly upon
his shoulders and looked him full in the face with eyes that, striving to
be bold, were yet full of timidity.
Her lovely face drew near to his; he caught the fragrance of her breath;
their lips met in a kiss, given on her part with a warmth that could
spring from but one feeling. The tender glance of her dark-blue eyes told
him, as plainly as words, what place he held in her heart. Moved by an
uncontrollable impulse he clasped her in his arms. She did not resent the
action; on the contrary she clung to him in that wild, sweet, thrilling
embrace that comes but once in a life-time.
“Princess!” he whispered in a voice trembling with emotion, “you love
me—is it not so? I will not let you go back to your old life. You must
come with me—”
“Oh no, no!” she gasped, seeking to unwind his arms. “My God! what am I
doing? Lord Courtenay ... let me go.... Do not tempt me.... This ... this
cannot be!”
“Why not?”
She gave a wild laugh.
“You would not ask, if you knew me. I am the—”
The words suddenly froze on her lips. Wilfrid, gazing upon her face,
saw its loveliness distorted by a terrible change. With blanched cheek
and open mouth she was staring at something or somebody behind him. Her
strange set expression almost suggested the wild fancy that there had
risen from out the foliage the head of Medusa, whose chilling stare could
turn the beholder to stone. Something of her feeling communicated itself
to Wilfrid; for a few seconds he stood, still holding the Princess in his
arms, scarcely daring to turn lest he should see at his elbow some awful
apparition.