Louis Valdor, by birth a Norseman, and by sympathies a cosmopolitan, looked up with a satiric smile in his dark eyes.
“There is no purple left to infect a man with, in the modern slum of Royalty!” he said; “Tobacco-smoke, not incense, perfumes the palaces of the great nowadays—and card-playing is more appreciated than music! Yet I and my fiddle have made many long journeys lately,—and we have sent our messages of Heaven thrilling through the callous horrors of Hell! A few nights since, I played at the Russian Court—before the beautiful Empress—cold as a stone—with her great diamonds flashing on her unhappy breast,—before the Emperor, whose furtive eyes gazed unseeingly before him, as though black Fate hovered in the air—before women, whose lives are steeped in the lowest intrigue—before men, whose faces are as bearded masks, covering the wolf’s snarl,—yes!—I played before these,—played with all the chords of my heart vibrating to the violin, till at last a human sigh quivered from the lips of the statuesque Empress,—till a frown crossed the brooding brow of her spouse—till the intriguing women shook off the spell with a laugh, and the men did the same with an oath—and I was satisfied! I received neither ‘pay,’ nor jewel of recognition,—I had played ‘for the honour’ of appearing before their Majesties!—but my bow was a wand to wake the little poisoned asp of despair that stings its way into the heart under every Royal mantle of ermine, and that sufficed me!”
“Sometimes,” said Leroy, turning towards him; “I pity kings!”
“I’ faith, so do I!” returned Valdor. “But only sometimes! And if you had seen as much of them as I have, the ‘sometimes’ would be rare!”
“Yet you play before them?” put in Max Graub.
“Because I must do so to satisfy the impresarios who advertise me to the public,” said Valdor. “Alas!—why will the public be so foolish as to wish their favourite artist to play before kings and queens? Seldom, if ever, do these Royal people understand music,—still less do they understand the musician! Believe me, I have been treated as the veriest scullion by these jacks-in-office; and that I still permit myself to play before them is a duty I owe to this Brotherhood,—because it deepens and sustains my bond with you all. There is no king on the face of the earth who has dignity and nobleness of character enough to command my respect,—much less my reverence! I take nothing from kings, remember!—they dare not offer me money—they dare not insult me with a jewelled pin, such as they would give to a station-master who sees a Royal train off. Only the other day, when I was summoned to play before a certain Majesty, a lord-in-waiting addressed me when I arrived with the insolent words—‘You are late, Monsieur Valdor!—You have kept the King waiting!’ I replied—‘Is that so? I regret it! But having kept his Majesty waiting, I will no longer detain him; au revoir!’ And I returned straightway to the carriage in which I had come. Majesty did without his music that evening, owing to the insolence of his flunkey-man! Whether I ever play before him again or not, is absolutely immaterial to me!”
“Tell me,” said Pasquin Leroy, pushing the flask of wine over to him as he spoke; “What is it that makes kings so unloved? I hate them myself!—but let us analyse the reasons why.”
“Discuss—discuss!” cried Paul Zouche; “Why are kings hated? Let Thord answer first!”
“Yes—yes! Let Thord answer first!” was echoed a dozen times.
Thord, thus appealed to, looked up. His melancholy deep eyes were sombre, yet full of fire,—lonely eyes they were, yearning for love.