“Give me a better reason for banishment.”
“Than yourself? Is not the only other reason obvious?”
He bowed his head. That reason was all powerful. “I understand, Princess,” he replied. “Then I go. Is this the last time we shall meet?”
There was sadness in the proud eyes, he could be sure of that. But with characteristic self-control she forced it away. “Who can tell?” she laughed. “We may meet again before very long—in your country. There, Minna is signing to me. I know what that means. Good-bye, my friend, good-bye, and thank you.”
She was moving off, but he took a quick step after her. “Princess,” he pleaded, “give me one day’s respite. Let me hear the music in the chapel again.”
But she would not stop or turn to give him an answer. He thought he caught the murmur of one word “Madness!” as she hurried away.
CHAPTER VI
THE ORGAN’S PRISONER
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.