The Puppet Crown [84]
How different from Vienna, where youth and beauty abound! There were no music, no long tables of refreshments, no sparkling wines, no smoking-room, good stories and better fellowship. There was an absence of the flash of jewels and color which make court life attractive.
There seemed to be hanging in the air some invisible power, the forecast of a tragedy, the beginning of an unknown end. And yet the prelate smiled on enemies and friends alike. As Maurice observed that smile he grew perplexed. It was a smile such as he had seen on the faces of men who, about to die, felt the grim satisfaction of having an enemy for company. The king lay on his death bed, in all probabilities the throne tottered; yet the archbishop smiled.
The princess did not know that her father was dying; this was a secret which had not yet been divulged to her. And this was the only society she knew. Small wonder that she was sad and lonely. To be young, and to find one's self surrounded by the relics of youth; what an existence! She had never known the beauty of a glittering ballroom, felt the music of a waltz mingle with the quick throbs of the heart, the pleasure of bestowing pleasure. She had never read the mute yet intelligent admiration in a young man's eyes. And what young woman does not yearn for the honest adoration of an honest man? Poor, lonely princess indeed. For, loving the world as he himself did, Maurice understood what was slipping past her. Every moment the roots of love were sinking deeper into his heart and twining firmly about, as a vine to a trellis.
Is there a mental telegraphy, an indefinable substance which is affected by the close proximity of a presence, which, while we do not see, we feel? Perhaps; at any rate, Maurice suddenly became aware of that peculiar yet now familiar agitation of his nerves. Instinctively he turned his head. In the doorway which separated the chamber from the conservatory stood her Royal Highness. She was dressed entirely in black, which accentuated the whiteness--the Carrara marble whiteness--of her exquisite skin. In the dark, shining coils swept back from her brow lay the subtle snare of a red rose. There was no other color except on the full lips. She saw Maurice, but she was so far away that the faint reflection of the rose on her cheeks was gone before he reached her side.
"I was afraid," she said, lowering her eyes as she uttered the fib, "that you would not come after all."
"It would have been impossible for me to stay away," he replied, his eyes ardent. The princess looked away. "And may I ask after the health of the dog?"
"Thanks to you, Monsieur; he is getting along finely. Poor dog; he will always limp. What is it that makes men inflict injuries on dumb creatures?"
"It is the beast that is envious of the brute."
"And your hand?" with a glance sympathetic and inquiring.
"My hand?"
"Yes; did you not injure it?"
"O!" He laughed and held out two gloved hands for her inspection. "That was only a scratch. In fact, I do not remember which hand it was."
"You are very modest. I should have made much of it."
He could not translate this; so he said: "There was nothing injured but my hat. I seem unfortunate in that direction."
She smiled, recalling the incident in the archbishop's garden.
"I shall keep the hat, however," he said, "as a souvenir."
"Souvenirs, Monsieur," she replied carelessly, "and old age are synonymous. You and I ought not to have any souvenirs. Have you seen the picture gallery? No? Then I shall have the pleasure of showing it to you. Monseigneur is very proud of his gallery. He has a Leonardo, a Botticelli, a Murillo, and a Rembrandt. And they really show better in artificial light, which softens the effect of time."
Half an hour was passed in the gallery. It was very pleasant to listen to her voice as she described this and that painting, and the archbishop's adventures in securing them. It did not seem possible to him that she was a princess, perhaps destined to become a queen,
There seemed to be hanging in the air some invisible power, the forecast of a tragedy, the beginning of an unknown end. And yet the prelate smiled on enemies and friends alike. As Maurice observed that smile he grew perplexed. It was a smile such as he had seen on the faces of men who, about to die, felt the grim satisfaction of having an enemy for company. The king lay on his death bed, in all probabilities the throne tottered; yet the archbishop smiled.
The princess did not know that her father was dying; this was a secret which had not yet been divulged to her. And this was the only society she knew. Small wonder that she was sad and lonely. To be young, and to find one's self surrounded by the relics of youth; what an existence! She had never known the beauty of a glittering ballroom, felt the music of a waltz mingle with the quick throbs of the heart, the pleasure of bestowing pleasure. She had never read the mute yet intelligent admiration in a young man's eyes. And what young woman does not yearn for the honest adoration of an honest man? Poor, lonely princess indeed. For, loving the world as he himself did, Maurice understood what was slipping past her. Every moment the roots of love were sinking deeper into his heart and twining firmly about, as a vine to a trellis.
Is there a mental telegraphy, an indefinable substance which is affected by the close proximity of a presence, which, while we do not see, we feel? Perhaps; at any rate, Maurice suddenly became aware of that peculiar yet now familiar agitation of his nerves. Instinctively he turned his head. In the doorway which separated the chamber from the conservatory stood her Royal Highness. She was dressed entirely in black, which accentuated the whiteness--the Carrara marble whiteness--of her exquisite skin. In the dark, shining coils swept back from her brow lay the subtle snare of a red rose. There was no other color except on the full lips. She saw Maurice, but she was so far away that the faint reflection of the rose on her cheeks was gone before he reached her side.
"I was afraid," she said, lowering her eyes as she uttered the fib, "that you would not come after all."
"It would have been impossible for me to stay away," he replied, his eyes ardent. The princess looked away. "And may I ask after the health of the dog?"
"Thanks to you, Monsieur; he is getting along finely. Poor dog; he will always limp. What is it that makes men inflict injuries on dumb creatures?"
"It is the beast that is envious of the brute."
"And your hand?" with a glance sympathetic and inquiring.
"My hand?"
"Yes; did you not injure it?"
"O!" He laughed and held out two gloved hands for her inspection. "That was only a scratch. In fact, I do not remember which hand it was."
"You are very modest. I should have made much of it."
He could not translate this; so he said: "There was nothing injured but my hat. I seem unfortunate in that direction."
She smiled, recalling the incident in the archbishop's garden.
"I shall keep the hat, however," he said, "as a souvenir."
"Souvenirs, Monsieur," she replied carelessly, "and old age are synonymous. You and I ought not to have any souvenirs. Have you seen the picture gallery? No? Then I shall have the pleasure of showing it to you. Monseigneur is very proud of his gallery. He has a Leonardo, a Botticelli, a Murillo, and a Rembrandt. And they really show better in artificial light, which softens the effect of time."
Half an hour was passed in the gallery. It was very pleasant to listen to her voice as she described this and that painting, and the archbishop's adventures in securing them. It did not seem possible to him that she was a princess, perhaps destined to become a queen,