Baron Malfalconnet possessed the gift of lending Time wings and using
the simplest incident as the foundation for an entertaining story.
He knew that his Majesty did not like waiting, and the quarter of an
hour which Barbara had mentioned might easily become a longer period. So
he adorned the description of his ride as an envoy most generously with
many partially invented details. Wolf, Herr Peter Schlumperger,
Frau Kastenmayr, his estimable sister, and the party of Ratisbon
excursionists, upon whom he had scarcely bestowed a passing glance, all
played a large and by no means enviable part.
But he gained his object, for the impatient monarch listened gladly,
and all the more willingly in proportion to the more brilliant eloquence
with which the clever connoisseur of mankind placed Barbara in contrast
to all the obscure, insignificant, and ridiculous personages whom he
pretended to have met. The peculiar charm which her individuality thus
obtained corresponded with the idea which the monarch himself had formed
of the expected guest, and it flattered him to hear his conjecture so
remarkably confirmed.
A few questions from the monarch followed the baron’s report. While the
latter was still answering the last one, Chamberlain de Praet announced
the singer’s arrival, and Count Bueren escorted the aged Marquise de
Leria to the monarch.
The Emperor went at once to the table, and as he descended the stairs,
leaning lightly on Malfalconnet’s arm, it was scarcely perceptible that
he used the left foot less firmly than the other.
According to his command, only the small table at which he was to sit
with the marquise had been laid in the dining-room. The boy choir had
taken a position opposite to it.
At his entrance Barbara rose quickly from the chair, into which she had
sunk by no means from weariness.
With a throbbing heart, and still heavily oppressed by anxiety, she
awaited the next moments and what they would bring.
The Benedictio Mensae was again to open the concert. She needed no notes
for this familiar music. Yet she looked toward Appenzelder, who had
thanked her for her appearance as if she had done him a great favour.
Now the orchestra behind her was silent. Now she saw the lackeys and
attendants bow profoundly. Now Appenzelder raised his arm.
She saw it, but he had not yet touched the desk with the little ebony
staff, and she availed herself of the pause to glance toward the
anxiously expected sovereign, whose presence she felt.
There he stood.
Barbara scarcely noticed the old lady at his left; he, he alone
captivated her eyes, her heart, her senses, her whole being.
What a happy surprise!
How Wolf, Maestro Gombert, and others had described the Emperor, and how
he stood before her!
This chivalrous, superb, almost youthful gentleman and hero, whose
haughty, self-assured bearing so admirably suited the magnificence of
his rich-hued garments, was said to be a gouty old man, bowed by the
weight of care! Had it not been so abominable, it would have tempted her
to laugh.
How petty men were, how cruel was the fate of the great, to whom envy
clings like their own shadow, and whose image was basely distorted even
by those who knew the grandeur of their intellect and their deeds, and
who owed to them their best success in life!
Her heart beat for this man, not only with the artist’s desire to
satisfy the connoisseur, no, but with stormy passion--she felt it now;
yet, though the god of love was called a blind boy, she had retained the
full, clear strength of vision and the absolute power of discernment.
No one, not even the handsomest young knight, could compare in her eyes
with the mature, powerful guide of the destiny of many millions, whose
lofty brow was illumined by the grandeur of his intellect, and with
whose name the memory of glorious victories was associated. The pride
justified by his birth had led him from one lofty deed to another, and
he could not help carrying his head so high, for how far all the rest of
mankind lay beneath him! There was no living mortal to whom the Emperor
Charles would have been obliged to look up, or before whom he need bow
his head at all.
She would fain have been able to stamp his image deeply, ineffaceably
upon her soul. But, alas!
Just at that moment a short, imperious sound reached her ear.
Appenzelder had struck the desk with his baton. The Benedictio must
begin at once, and now her breath was really coming so quickly that it
seemed impossible for her to sing in this condition.
Deeply troubled, she pressed her hand upon her bosom.
Then the cruel, tyrannical baton struck the wood a second time, and----
But what did this mean?
The Emperor had left his elderly companion after she was seated at the
table, and was advancing--her eyes, clouded by anxious expectation, did
not deceive her--and was walking with stately dignity toward the boy
choir; no, not to it, but directly toward herself.--Now it seemed as
though her heart stood still.
At no price could she have produced even a single note.
But it was not required, for the wave of the imperial hand which she saw
was to Appenzelder, and commanded him to silence his choir.
The unexpected movement concerned her alone, and ere Barbara found time
to ask herself what brought him to her, he already stood before her.
How friendly and yet how chivalrously stately as the slight bow which
the monarch bestowed upon her; and he had scarcely done so when, in
peculiar German, whose strange accent seemed to her extremely charming
and musical, he exclaimed: “we welcome you to the Golden Cross, fairest
of maidens. You now behold what man can accomplish when he strives for
anything with genuine zeal. The wisest among the wise declare that even
gods fail in the conflict against the obstinacy of beautiful women, and
yet our longing desire succeeded in capturing you, lovely fugitive.”
Barbara alternately flushed and paled as she listened to these words.
She had not heard Frau Lerch’s counsel, and yet, obedient to a secret
impulse, she timidly lowered her blue eyes. But not a word of the
sovereign had escaped her, and, though she still lacked the power of
speech, she found courage to smile and shake her head in denial.
The Emperor did not miss a single change of feature, and, swiftly
understanding her mute contradiction, went on gaily: “Look! look! So,
fairest of the fair, you refuse to acknowledge our glorious victory?
That bears witness to a specially independent comprehension of things.
But we, how are we to explain such a denial of an accomplished fact?”
Then Barbara summoned up courage and answered, still with downcast eyes,
“But, your Majesty, how can I regard myself as conquered and captured
when I voluntarily yielded to your Majesty’s wish?”
“And may I perhaps also hope that it gives you pleasure to grant my
entreaty?” asked the sovereign in a subdued tone, gazing as he spoke
deep into the eyes which the young girl had just raised to his.
Barbara did not instantly find the reply she sought, and only bent her
head in assent, but the Emperor was not satisfied with this mute answer,
and eagerly desired to learn whether it was so difficult for her to
admit what he so ardently wished to hear.
Meanwhile her quick intellect had found the fitting response, and, with
a look which told the questioner more than she intended to betray, she
answered softly: “Why should I not have fulfilled your Majesty’s request
gladly and proudly? But what followed the walk here, what befell me
here, is so much more beautiful and greater--”
“And may we know,” interrupted the Emperor urgently, “what you find here
that affords your heart so much pleasure?
“You and your favour,” she answered quickly, and the flush which
suddenly crimsoned her cheeks showed him how deeply she was moved.
Then Charles went close to her and whispered: “And do you wish to know,
most bewitching woman, how he, in whose presence you confess that you
are glad to remain, looked forward to your coming? As he would greet
happiness, spring. And note that I look you in the face, it seems as
though Easter bells were pealing the resurrection of a love long buried
in this breast. And you, maiden, you will not belie this hope?”
Barbara clung to the back of the chair for support, while from her
deeply agitated soul struggled the exclamation: “This poor heart,
my lord, belongs to you--to you alone! How it mastered me, who can
describe? But here, my lord, now----”
Then the monarch whispered warmly: “You are right. What we have to say
to each other requires a more fitting time and a different place, and we
will find them.”
Then he stepped back, drew himself up to his full height, waved his
hand to her with gracious condescension, and in a loud, imperious tone
commanded Appenzelder to begin the Benedictio.
“It rests with the lovely artist yonder,” he added, glancing kindly
at Barbara, “whether she will now ennoble with her wonderful voice the
singing of the boy choir. Later she will probably allow us to hear
the closing melody of the ‘Ecce tu pulchra es’, which, with such good
reason, delighted the Queen of Hungary, and myself no less.”
He seated himself at the table as he spoke, and devoted himself to the
dishes offered him so eagerly that it was difficult to believe in the
deep, yearning emotion that ruled him. Only the marquise at his side and
Malfalconnet, who had joined the attendant nobles, perceived that he ate
more rapidly than usual, and paid no attention to the preparation of the
viands.
The aged eyes, of the Emperor’s watchful companion, to whom up to
the close of the repast he addressed only a few scattered words, also
detected something else. Rarely, but nevertheless several times, the
Emperor glanced at the boy choir, and when, in doing so, his Majesty’s
eyes met the singer’s, it was done in a way which proved to the
marquise, who had acquired profound experience at the French court,
that an understanding existed between the sovereign and the artist which
could scarcely date from that day. This circumstance must be considered,
and behind the narrow, wrinkled brow of the old woman, whose cradle had
stood in a ducal palace, thronged a succession of thoughts and plans
precisely similar to those which had filled the mind of the dressmaker
and ex-maid ere she gave Barbara her farewell kiss.
What the marquise at first had merely conjectured and put together
from various signs, became, by constant assiduous observation, complete
certainty when the singer, after a tolerably long pause, joined in
Josquin’s hymn to the Virgin.
In the Benedictio Mensae she remained silent, but at the first effective
passage joined in the singing of the boys.
Not until the ‘Tu pulchra es’ did she display the full power of her art.
From the commencement she took part in the execution of this magnificent
composition eagerly and with deep feeling, and when the closing bars
began and the magic of her singing developed all its heart-thrilling
power, the watchful lady in waiting perceived that his Majesty forgot
the food and hung on Barbara’s lips as though spellbound.
This was something unprecedented. But when the monarch continued for
some time to display an abstemiousness so unlike him, the marquise cast
a hasty glance of inquiry at Malfalconnet. But the affirmative answer
which she expected did not come. Had the baron’s keen eye failed to
notice so important a matter, or had his Majesty taken him into his
confidence and commanded him to keep the secret?
That Malfalconnet was merely avoiding making common cause with the
old intriguer, was a suspicion which vanity led her to reject the more
positively the more frequently her countryman sought her to learn what
he desired to know.
Besides, she soon required no further confirmation, for what now
happened put an end to every doubt.
Barbara had to sing the “Quia amore langueo” again, and how it sounded
this time to the listening hearer!
No voice which the Emperor Charles had ever heard had put such pure,
bewitching melody into this expression of the deepest yearning. It
seemed as though the longing of the whole world was flowing to him from
those fresh, young, beautifully formed red lips.
A heart which was not itself languishing for love could not pour forth
to another with such convincing truth, overwhelming power, and glowing
fervour the ardent longing of a soul seized by the omnipotence of love.
The mighty pressure of rising surges of yearning dashed against the
monarch’s heart, and with tremendous impetuosity roused on all sides the
tender desires which for a long time had been gathering in his soul. It
seemed as though this “Because I long for love” was blending with the
long-repressed and now uncontrollable yearning that filled his own
breast, and he was obliged to restrain himself in order not to rush
toward this gifted singer, this marvellously lovely woman, whose heart
was his, and, before the eyes of all, clasp her in his embrace.
The master of dissimulation forgot himself, and--what a delight to
the eyes of the marquise!--the Emperor Charles, the great epicure and
thirsty drinker, left the pasty and the wine, to listen standing, with
hands resting on the table and outstretched head, to Barbara’s voice.
It seemed as though he feared his ear might miss a note of this song,
his eye a movement of this source of melody.
But when the song ceased, and Barbara, panting for breath, returned
the ardent look of gratitude and delight which beamed upon her from his
eyes, the Emperor left the table, and, without noticing Count Krockow,
who was just lifting the silver cover from the roast capon, the last of
the five dishes ordered, went up to Barbara.
Would he really end the meal now? The old marquise thought it
impossible, but if the incredible event occurred, then things were to be
expected, things----
But ere she had imagined how this unprecedented event could take place,
the Emperor himself informed her, for, half addressing Barbara, half
the lady in waiting, he exclaimed in a slightly muffled tone: “Thanks,
cordial thanks for this great pleasure, my dear Jungfrau! But we wish
to add to words another token of appreciation, a token of more lasting
duration.--Do us the favour, Marquise de Leria, to conduct this noble
artist to the upper rooms, that she may receive what we intended for
her.”
He left the hall as he spoke; but the marquise beckoned to Barbara,
detained her with words of sweet flattery a short time and then, with
the young girl, ascended the stairs up which the Emperor had preceded
them.
Meanwhile the old noblewoman continued to talk with her; but Barbara did
not listen. While following her guide, it seemed as though the steps her
light foot trod were a heavenly ladder, and at their end the gates of
Paradise would open.
She felt with inexpressible delight that she had never before succeeded
so well in expressing a strong feeling in music, and what her song
endeavoured to tell the Emperor--no, the man whom she loved--had been
understood, and found an echo in his soul.
Could there be a greater happiness?
And yet, while she was approaching him, he must be awaiting her.
She had wished to arouse his attention, his approval, his delight in her
singing. All three had become hers, and now new wishes had mastered
her, and probably him also. She desired his love, he hers, and, fearing
herself, she felt the great peril into which her aged companion was
conducting her.
The Emperor was indeed the greatest and noblest of men! The mere
consciousness that he desired not only her singing, but her heart,
inspired the deepest bliss. Yet it seemed as if she ought not to cross
the threshold of the room which opened before her; as if she ought to
rush down the stairs and fly from him, as she had dashed away when his
messengers wished to lead her to his presence.
But he was already advancing from the end of the large apartment, and
the mere sight of him put an end to every further consideration and
crushed her will.
Obedient to a glance from the Emperor’s eyes, the marquise, bowing
reverently, retreated into the corridor whence they had come and closed
the door.
The clang against the jambs told Barbara that she was alone with the
ruler of half the world, whom she dared to love.
But she was not granted a moment to collect her thoughts; the Emperor
Charles already stood before her, and with the exclamation, “Quia amore
langueo!” opened his arms.
She, too, was longing for love, and, as if intoxicated by the lofty
feeling of being deemed worthy of the heart of this mighty sovereign,
she yielded to his kisses; and as she herself threw her arm around his
neck and felt--that she had a right to do so, it seemed as though an
invisible hand was placing a royal crown upon her brow.
The joy which filled her little heart appeared too rich and great for
it when, repeating the “Amore langueo” with her head upon his breast, he
whispered sweet love phrases and confessed that those words, since
she had sung them for the first time, had echoed through his hours of
reflection, through the cares of business, through the brief hours of
repose which he allowed himself, and so it must continue, and her love,
her voice, and her beauty render the downward path of life the fairest
portion which he had traversed.
Then Barbara, with the low exclamation, “Because I, too, long for love,”
again offered him her lips, and he accepted the sweet invitation with
impetuous passion.
Already, for the second time since her entrance, the clock on Charles’s
writing-table struck the quarter of an hour, and, as if startled from a
deep slumber, she withdrew from his embrace and gazed, as if bewildered,
toward the door. Directly after it opened, and Don Luis Quijada with
firm step entered the room.
The trusted favourite of the Emperor was always free to seek his
presence. He had returned to Ratisbon in advance of the Queen of
Hungary, who would not arrive until the following morning, and, after
a brief conversation with Malfalconnet and Master Adrian, the loyal
nobleman had gone without delay, and at the risk of angering him, to his
imperial master. Without even rising from the divan, and still clasping
the hand which Barbara attempted to withdraw as Don Luis advanced,
Charles asked with stern rebuke what had caused his entrance at so late
an hour. Quijada requested a brief audience, but Charles replied that he
had nothing to conceal from this companion.
A low bow followed this remark; then, with quiet dignity, the major-domo
reported that the leaders of the orchestra and the boy choir had been
waiting below--and with them Sir Wolf Hartschwert and an old gentleman,
the father of this lady--a considerable time for her return. So it
seemed to him advisable, unless his majesty wished to reveal this sweet
secret to the world, to part from his beautiful friend, at least for a
short space.
The Emperor Charles did not permit such suggestions even from those
who were nearest and dearest to him, and he was already starting up
indignantly to thrust Don Luis back behind the barriers through which he
had broken, when Barbara with tender persuasion entreated her lover, for
her sake, to exercise caution. Charles at last consented to part from
her for a time. He was sure of her; for he read in the dewy brightness
of her eyes how hard it was for her also to release herself from his
embrace.
Then, removing the diamond and ruby star from the lace at his neck, he
pinned it on Barbara’s bosom, with the exclamation, “In memory of this
hour!”
He afterward added, as if in explanation, that the star might show to
those below what had detained her here, and asked earnestly whether
he might hope to see her again in an hour, if a faithful man--here he
motioned to Quijada--accompanied her hither, and later escorted her home
again?
A silent nod promised the fulfilment of this request.
The Emperor then carried on a short conversation with Quijada, which
was unintelligible to Barbara; and after he had retired to summon the
marquise, Charles profited, like an impetuous youth, by the brief period
in which he was again alone with his love, and entreated her to consider
that, if she remained absent long, the “amore langueo” would rob him of
his reason.
“Your great intellect,” she replied, with a faint sigh. “My small
wits--Holy Virgin!--flew far away at the first word of love from the
lips of my royal master.”
Then, drawing herself up to her full height, she passed her hand across
her brow and defiantly exclaimed: “And why should I think and ponder? I
will be happy, and make you happy also, my only love!”
As she spoke she again threw herself upon his breast, but only for a
few brief moments. Don Luis Quijada reappeared with the marquise, and
conducted both ladies out of the imperial apartment.
Outside the door the major-domo detained Barbara, and had a tolerably
long conversation with her, of which the marquise vainly endeavoured to
catch even a few words.
At last he committed the girl to the old nobleman’s charge and returned
to the Emperor.
The marquise received Barbara with the assurance that she had found in
her a warm, nay, a maternal friend.
If this beautiful creature was not alreadv the object of the Emperor’s
love, the experienced old woman told herself, she must very soon become
so.
Yet there had never been a favourite at this monarch’s court, and she
was curious to learn what position would be assigned to her.
After accompanying the girl intrusted to her care down the stairs with
flattering kindness, she committed her to the musicians and Wolf, who,
with old Blomberg, were awaiting her in the chapel with increasing
impatience. The captain had obtained admittance through Wolf.
At her first glance at Barbara the eyes of the old marquise had rested
on the glittering star which the Emperor had fastened on the lady of his
love.
The men did not notice it until after they had congratulated the singer
upon her exquisite performance and the effect which it had produced upon
his Majesty.
Maestro Gombert perceived it before the others, and Captain Blomberg and
Wolf rejoiced with him and Appenzelder over this tangible proof of the
imperial favour.
A conversation about the Emperor’s judgment and the rarity with which he
bestowed such costly tokens of his regard was commencing in the chapel,
but Barbara speedily brought it to a close by the assurance that she was
utterly exhausted and needed rest.
On the way home she said very little, but when Wolf, in the second story
of the house, held out his hand in farewell, she pressed it warmly, and
thanked him with such evident emotion that the young man entered his
rooms full of hope and deep secret satisfaction.
After Barbara had crossed the threshold of hers, she said good-night to
her father, who wished to learn all sorts of details, alleging that she
could scarcely speak from weariness.
The old gentleman went to rest grumbling over the weakness of women in
these days, to which even his sturdy lass now succumbed; but Barbara
threw herself on her knees beside the bed in her room, buried her
face in the pillows, and sobbed aloud. Another feeling, however, soon
silenced her desire to weep. Her lover’s image and the memory of the
happy moments which she had just experienced returned to her mind.
Besides, she must hasten to arrange her hair again, and--this time with
her own hands--change her clothing.
While she was loosening her golden tresses and gazing into the mirror,
her eyes again sparkled with joy. The greatest, the loftiest of
mortals loved her. She belonged to him, body and soul, and she had been
permitted to call him “her own.”
At this thought she drew herself up still more haughtily in proud
self-consciousness, but, as her glance fell upon the image of the Virgin
above the priedieu, she again bowed her head.
Doubtless she desired to pray, but she could not.
She need confess nothing to the august Queen of Heaven. She knew that
she had neither sought nor desired what now burdened her heart so
heavily, and yet rendered her so infinitely happy. She had obeyed the
Emperor’s summons in order to win approval and applause for her art,
and to afford the monarch a little pleasure and cheer, and, instead, the
love of the greatest of all men had flamed ardently from the earth, she
had left her whole heart with him, and given herself and all that was
in her into his power. Now he summoned her--the Holy Virgin knew this,
too--and she must obey, though the pure face yonder looked so grave and
threatening.
And for what boon could she beseech the Queen of Heaven?
What more had the woman, to whom the Emperor’s heart belonged, to
desire?
The calmness of her soul was at an end, and not for all the kingdoms
Charles possessed would she have exchanged the tumult and turmoil in her
breast for the peace which she had enjoyed yesterday.
Obeying a defiant impulse, she turned from the benign face, and her
hands fairly flew as, still more violently agitated, she completed the
changes in her dress.
In unfastening the star, her lover’s gift, she saw upon the gold at the
back Charles’s motto, “Plus ultra!”
Barbara had known it before, but had not thought of it for a long time,
and a slight tremor ran through her frame as she said to herself that,
from early childhood, though unconsciously, it had been hers also.
Heaven--she knew it now--Fate destined them for each other.
Sighing heavily, she went at last, in a street dress, to open the
bow-window which looked upon Red Cock Street.
Barbara felt as if she had outgrown herself. The pathos which she had
often expressed in singing solemn church music took possession of her,
and left no room in her soul for any frivolous emotion. Proud of the
lofty passion which drew her with such mighty power to her lover’s arms,
she cast aside the remorse, the anxiety, the deep sense of wrong which
had overpowered her on her return home.
What was greater than the certainty of being beloved by the greatest of
men? It raised her far above all other women, and, since she loved him
in return, this certainty could not fail to make her happy also, when
she had once fully recovered her composure and ventured to look the
wonderful event which had happened freely in the face.
The stars themselves, following their appointed course in yonder blue
firmament--his device taught that--made her belong to him. If she could
have forced herself to silence the desire of her heart, it would have
been futile. Whoever divides two trees which have grown from a single
root, she said to herself, destroys at least one; but she would live,
would be happy on the highest summit of existence. She could not help
obeying his summons, for as soon as she listened to the warning voice
within, the “Because I long for love” with which he had clasped her in
his arms, urged her with irresistible power toward the lover who awaited
her coming.
The clock now struck two, and a tall figure in a Spanish cloak stood
outside the door of the house. It was Don Luis Quijada, the Emperor’s
majordomo.
It would not do to keep him waiting, and, as she turned back into the
room to take the little lamp, her glance again fell upon the Virgin’s
image above the priedieu and rested upon her head.
Then the figure of her imperial lover stood in tangible distinctness
before her mind, and she imagined that she again heard the first cry
of longing with which he clasped her in his arms, and without further
thought or consideration she kissed her hand to the image, extinguished
the little lamp, and hurried as fast as the darkness permitted into the
entry and down the stairs.
Outside the house Wolf returned to her memory a moment.
How faithfully he loved her!
Yet was it not difficult to understand how she could even think of the
poor fellow at all while hastening to the illustrious sovereign whose
heart was hers, and who had taught her with what impetuous power true
love seizes upon the soul. Barbara threw her head back proudly, and,
drawing a long breath, opened the door of the house. Outside she was
received by Quijada with a silent bend of the head; but she remembered
the far more profound bows with which he greeted the monarch, and,
to show him of how lofty a nature was also the woman whom the Emperor
Charles deemed worthy of his love, she walked with queenly dignity
through the darkness at her aristocratic companion’s side without
vouchsafing him a single glance.
Two hours later old Ursula was sitting sleepless in her bed in the
second story of the cantor house. A slight noise was heard on the
stairs, and the one-eyed maid-servant who was watching beside her
exclaimed: “There it is again! just as it was striking two I said that
the rats were coming up from the cellar into the house.”
“The rats,” repeated the old woman incredulously; and then, without
moving her lips, thought: “Rats that shut the door behind them? My poor
Wolf!”