A prince of lovers

THE birds in the woodland surrounding the royal chapel sang lustily, as though exulting in the fact that the tones of their great opponent, the organ, were for once so soft and weak as to yield them an easy victory in the game of out-singing one another. The lowness of tone in the dragging melody seemed to be the interpretation of a heavy heart; it spoke the language of sadness and of parting.

Ludovic had taken his place early beside the organ, but had waited long for the player; long, indeed, past her usual hour. Waited till he was forced to ask himself whether the last night had not been the end of that informal, delicious acquaintance. Was he never to see the Princess again, at least as he had known her? Never again watch fascinated for those sweet glimpses of the sun breaking through the cold mist? There was so much he had to tell her, that he felt he dared say now, if only the chance were not gone. He waited, hoping and despairing, till the afternoon seemed turning to evening; he watched the door through which she would come till he hated it for mocking him with its immovability. At last, when he was sure that the parting was over, unrealized, he looked up to see the door open and the Princess and Countess Minna coming towards him.

Eagerly he went forward; ah! she was so cold. There was no trace of the feeling she had given glimpses of the night before. The hand that touched his lips was as chill as a statue’s. She had repented, yet why, then, had she come? There was, at least, no sign of disapproval in that stately greeting. She went straight to the keyboard, he to his post, Countess Minna, unusually serious, to her accustomed corner. So the music began to float gently through the place; it was, or at least seemed, less interesting to him than usual; he had so much to say, and the soft introit interposed between him and his desire. Still, he could but wait; it was not for him to pluck open the blossom of his hopes before his glorious sun should ripen them. He was content to be near her, thankful that she had come, overjoyed yet sad to think what her presence meant. When the playing was over what would her words be? Not so frigid as her greeting surely; yet the very coldness gave to her slightest unbending a value far surpassing the warmth of an impulsive nature.

The sinking sun struck horizontally through the richly tinted windows, and the shadows of the trees, just stirred by the almost windless atmosphere, danced slowly and languidly on the wall, the pillars and richly carved stalls, as though keeping time and character with the music. The sands of his last day were running low, the dreamy music, though he loved it, made him impatient. Then an idea came to him. Why should he not ask Countess Minna to release him and take his place, so that he might go round and be at least within sight of the Princess? He hesitated. Would she not be offended if he broke the tacit understanding between them? Certainly her reception of him had given no encouragement to impatience or forwardness. It was his duty to respect her slightest hint, to let the initiative always come from her, above all, never to make her task (if he dared believe it were one) more difficult. Yet every argument failed against his intense desire. He looked round at the demure reader coiled up snugly in her corner; she glanced up as his movement caught her eye, and laughed as he signed to her. Then she shook her head; she was sharp enough, and guessed what he wanted, but—perhaps she, too, thought it madness. Anyhow it was with a deprecating expression that she rose and came to him.

“Will you not relieve me for five minutes?” he asked.

She kept her hands behind her. “Why?” she asked. “You are surely not tired.”

“No; not tired, but——”

“The Princess hates any one to look over her.”

“May I not see her from a distance?”

“You are a fool, with apologies for the liberty of telling you so, Herr Lieutenant.”

“I dare say I am. But why?”

“To long for fruit that is out of your reach.”

“Perhaps. Still I shall not say it is sour.”

“Heaven forbid! No, you will not do that. Look! Quick! The wind is out. Pump for your life! So! Shall I tell you further why you are a fool?”

“If you please.”

“Because you do not seem to have the sense to know what would happen if your organ-blowing were to come under the notice of our Chancellor.”

“I can guess.”

“The grapes would be sour, at least they would set your teeth on edge, though your sense of taste would soon be over.”

“I dare say.”

“And yet it is worth the risk, eh? It is well that you are brave. This is the last time we meet here.”

“As the Princess wills.”

“She has willed it. I told her she was a—not wise to come to-day. You don’t think of me and the risk I run. I am not anxious to meet you in the next world yet. There! as you are brave, and this is truly the last time, give me the handle. But you will worry the Princess.”

With a word of thanks he had turned towards the front of the organ, when her voice called him back sharply. “Take care! We are watched. Bend down quickly.”

She sprang forward and pushed him away, taking his place at the handle. “Keep under the curtain,” she directed, pumping away vigorously. “Out of sight. A man is looking through the window. I just saw his head from where I stood. It was Udo Rollmar. If he sees you—ah, he must not see you. Hist! there he is again.”

Peeping through a slight parting in the curtains that screened the organ-blower’s seat, Ludovic could see a foxy face looking in through one of the leaded panes. He remembered what Countess Minna had told him of the Chancellor’s son, that he was in love with the Princess.

“I am not afraid of that fellow,” he said. “Why should I hide from him?”

Minna threw up her hand in distress. “Oh, you idiot! You will ruin us all. Can you not think of the Princess? Now will you hide? Quickly! He is surely coming in. Oh, we are ruined! We are lost!”

The face had disappeared from the window. The situation was critical. At any moment Captain Rollmar might show himself over the screen. Minna was beside herself with terror, while the music still floated out under the fingers of the unconscious player.

“Oh, this is awful!” she gasped in despair, looking helplessly round the trap in which they seemed caught. “Ah!” She pointed to the narrow door which gave admittance to the interior of the organ. “In there, for Heaven’s sake!” she besought him. But he hesitated and hung back.

“It is unnecessary,” he objected quietly.

Even in her distress she could not help marvelling at his coolness.

“You are mad, or, at least, horribly selfish,” she exclaimed indignantly. “If you are tired of your life because you cannot have what you want, I promise you I am not. Man, to save the Princess’s honour and my life, will you not go in there till the danger is past?”

She spoke with rapid vehemence, trembling with fear and excitement.

“I will obey you,” he said with a half laugh, and entered the narrow opening. She shut and fastened the door, and then sprang back to the bellows handle. Just in time; for she had scarcely given one vigorous pull when the curtain parted, and the expected face appeared. She affected to give a start and a little scream.

“Ah, Captain, how you frightened me. I thought it was the devil, who they say once came after a priest in this very chapel.”

His suspicious eyes were searching the place as he replied with a cunning smile, “It is neither the devil nor a priest this time, little Minna, although if the old gentleman has taste he would be more attracted by the organ-blower than by the clergy.”

She made him a mocking curtsey, and, by design or accident, let the wind run off, bringing the music to a stop.

“Highness!” she cried, “here is Captain von Rollmar.”

If it was in apprehension that the Princess joined them she did not show it.

“May I blow for you, Princess?” Captain Udo asked with a bow.

“Thank you, I have finished playing,” she returned coldly. “The light is fading. Come, Minna.”

The vulpine eyes were feasting on her, so contemptuously majestic in comparison with his cunning insignificance. “Do not hurry away,” he suggested with all a vain, clever man’s self-confidence. “It is pleasant here.”

“Yes; but we have stayed long enough. It grows chilly. Let us go, Minna.”

Minna had placed herself a little behind the Captain, so that, unseen by him, she could give her mistress a warning glance.

“We might stroll out into the park,” she suggested, “if your Highness is agreeable. It is a delicious evening, and Captain von Rollmar would be our escort.”

The proposal suited the Captain exactly, and as for the Princess she comprehended the intention behind it and agreed. So the three went out together, leaving Ludovic a prisoner in the organ.

They walked up and down the great avenue till it was time to go in, Captain Udo in such a state of content that the amiability working out in his expression almost eclipsed its foxiness. He was too happy to think of suspicion. It was dusk when they turned up a path leading to one of the private entrances of the palace. But there was hardly any scandal to fear in the company of the Chancellor’s son; at least the wily old terror would have to keep his blame at home.

“Oh, Highness,” Minna cried suddenly, “I have left my book back in the chapel. How stupid I am! May I run back for it? You shall not wait for me a minute.”

“Does the book matter?” the Princess asked.

“Oh, Highness,” she replied with a humorous look of entreaty, “it is so interesting, and I have promised myself such a delicious hour with it to-night. May I run?”

“You are a spoilt child, Minnchen,” her mistress laughed.

Captain Udo made a half-hearted offer to fetch the book, but Minna decided that he might not find it at once; she knew exactly where it was. He should stay with the Princess for the one short minute the errand would take. Accordingly he, nothing loath, remained and Minna sped off to the chapel. Only to find the door locked.

The book must indeed be interesting to make her look so troubled at its loss, Captain Udo thought as she rejoined them empty-handed. But she would send a servant for it, she said.

“You might have thought of that before, and saved yourself the trouble, silly child,” the Princess remarked.

And Ludovic von Bertheim remained imprisoned in the organ. His was a curious nature, for the situation amused him, and yet in itself it was by no means pleasant. The space was confined, the atmosphere close and dusty. But for a few feeble rays of light which stole in between the pipes he was in darkness. And yet he laughed. He heard the heavy footsteps of the sacristan, then the clang of the locked door, and still he laughed. The situation had its charm; not a very obvious one. That he was a prisoner was certain enough; he had tried the little door; it was securely fastened on the outside; no doubt he could kick it open, but that would be a last resort. Perhaps he did not want to burst it open. The tortuous pathways in the organ, known only to the tuner, were not inviting; he resolved to leave them untried, and await his release where he was, meanwhile making himself as comfortable as he could. So he stayed, for hours it seemed, for he could not see his watch. Dusk deepened into night; the moonlight streaming faintly through the coloured windows could not penetrate that thicket of pipes and levers; the darkness was as complete and oppressive as the silence.

Perhaps it was from having grown accustomed to the intense silence that his ear at length detected a light footfall; he listened alertly, it came near; yes, his ear had not played him false, the step was just by him, only separated by a thin partition. The latch was turned and the door opened. So used had his eyes become to the darkness that even the subdued moonlight for a moment dazzled him, but without a question he made haste to leave his uncomfortable prison.

“A pretty penance you have made me pay, Countess,” he laughed, then stopped short with a great thrill. It was not the Countess Minna, whom he had looked for, but the Princess.

For a moment he could not speak; only stare at her as she stood before him, the dim light and shadow heightening her beauty by affording of it no more than a suggestion.

“You, Princess?”

The low tone vibrated with recognition as though struck from the depth of his heart. It was eloquent of an acknowledgment that could not be spoken.

“Minna came long ago to release you, but found the chapel locked up.”

Her calm tone was in strong contrast to his fervent ejaculation:—

“Thank Heaven for that!”

A ray of moonlight, guided by a moving branch, stole along the organ screen and for a moment lighted up her face.

“And you have come, my Princess.” He spoke in a rapturous whisper, for the intoxication of her beauty, the splendid graciousness of her presence bereft him of voice. How could he address her as he would have spoken to Countess Minna?

There was a suggestion of sad playfulness in her tone as she replied. “Was it not fitting that I should return the service you rendered me, and free you? But, indeed, I came to say good-bye!”

Her face was now in the dim shadow again and somehow he felt glad of it. There are joys so great that they suddenly turn to torture.

“Must it be?” he said pleadingly.

“You know it must be,” she answered in the same repressed tone.

“You are going,” he said, “to marry Prince Ludwig against your will.”

“Whether that be or not it can make no difference to us,” she replied still coldly. Ah, if he might only hear her speak again with the warmth of last night.

“I cannot leave you, my Princess, even at your bidding.”

“You are unkind to disobey.”

“If you wish me to go, if you will be happier in the knowledge that you will never set eyes on me again——”

“It is not a question of happiness.”

“Of duty?”

She threw back her head and forced a laugh. “It is a matter, as I said last night, of madness or sanity.”

“Then let me be mad.”

“No, no.”

“Let me stay, if only to breathe the same air, to see you, far off, yet to see you, to wake every morning with a hope——”

“No, no!” Ah, her heart was sending warmth into her voice at last.

“You cannot be so cruel, my Princess.” He was pleading now with desperate earnestness. “Let me stay near you.”

“It is you that are cruel. You must go.”

“Ah, think how you say that. You are my queen, my goddess; I must obey you. I am to go? Tell me! Tell me!”

She wavered. She was a woman, circumscribed, starved of love and joy. They were within her reach now, could she keep back her hand from taking them? Madness, she kept telling herself. Yes, but what a delicious madness. The strain was at breaking point, then suddenly it was relieved. Her innate resolution and pride came to her rescue. With an intense effort she put forth all her strength blindly in a last effort, and such was her power of repression that the struggle, the desperate crisis were but faintly indicated.

“Yes; you are to go.”

For very chivalry he could urge her no farther. A shadow passed across the chapel. “Princess!” Minna’s voice was heard in a low call of warning.

The Princess turned apprehensively. “I must go. Good-bye,” she said.

She gave him her hand. He seized it in both of his and raised it with a swift passionate action to his lips. “It is indeed farewell, dear Princess? I am to go?”

She did not speak; he raised his head and looked in her face for an answer, still keeping her hand in his. Impulsively, before he could realize the action, she had bent forward and touched his cheek with her lips. “Stay,” she said, “my love.”

“Princess, are you mad? You will be missed,” Minna cried, suddenly appearing. “Run for your life! I will let Herr von Bertheim out.”

The hastening push she gave him seemed to wake him from a delicious dream. Next moment he was outside the chapel and alone.