A prince of lovers

by Sir William Magnay

For the next days he haunted the park near the chapel but without hearing the music he listened for, or seeing the Princess except once when he caught just a glimpse of her driving in at the royal gates. But one afternoon, when he had begun to think that the organ was never to speak to him again, his ear caught its notes, softly penetrating, stealing out into the woodland. For a moment he hesitated. No; he had resolved to venture boldly; diffidence would avail nothing; after all, he knew his every feeling to be chivalrous; he would not hang back.

The door was opened. Ah, it might have been closed against him. He went in quietly; Countess Minna was at the bellows; she laughed, and her laugh told him that she, at least, had expected him. He returned her silent greeting and without hesitation went up and took the lever which she very readily relinquished. The music continued for a long hour, ever sharpening his hunger for a sight of the player, for the thrill of her voice again. Minna, as before, sat comfortably reading, with a certain demure enjoyment on her face, but whether caused by the book or the situation was not to be told. As each piece ended von Bertheim looked for that radiant presence to stand before him, and at each fresh swelling forth of the organ he felt a disappointment which, with his love of music, might have been incredible.

At length with the dying vibrations of a voluntary’s last notes there mingled the striking of a clock. Countess Minna jumped up hastily and ran forward.

“Princess! It is time to go. There is five striking.”

A wave of disappointment passed over him. Should he lose his reward like that? Was it a trick? As he wondered, the Princess came from behind the keyboard screen and saw him. Their eyes met; he bowed.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “It was kind of you to relieve Gräfin Minna.”

He had come near; she, preparing to turn away, held out her hand. He pressed it to his lips. That was all, except for the word “Good-bye,” which he scarcely heard, and the “thank you,” from Countess Minna which he heard not at all. Before he could realise their departure he was alone.

When he returned to his lodgings he found an official invitation to a state concert to be held two days later. It meant the chance, certainly of seeing, perhaps speaking to the Princess. That afternoon’s luck had rewarded his days of disappointment. She had given him her hand in token that in her eyes he was free from offence. “She has a heart after all,” he said as he sat down to write an acceptance.

The concert was as rigidly classical as though the severity of the Court’s forms and etiquette had infected the music, as, indeed, it had drawn out the programme. Only in one piece was indulgence given to mere beauty of melody, and in that he recognised a favourite of the Princess’s doubtless, since she had played it both times he had been in the chapel. Carried away by the sensuousness of the melody he sat with eyes almost involuntarily fixed on the Princess. She was unlikely to notice his gaze, but the inevitable Minna looked round towards the side row where he sat, and he suddenly became aware of her scrutiny. He wondered whether she would tell Princess Ruperta of his whereabouts, but by no sign could he be certain of that. “Why should she care? What a fool I am!” he told himself.

When the music was over the guests followed the royal party into the great drawing-room, where they circulated and chatted in groups. With his white face bent forward and hands clasped behind his back the Chancellor strolled observantly through the rooms exchanging a remark here and there, but ever on the watch, it seemed.