Majesty Part 15

"About a certain tender parting at Castel Vaza...."

The Marquis of Xardi bursts out laughing. Lady Danbury suddenly clutches his arm:

"I say, Xardi, I know less slender people than the Marchioness of Dazzara who would fall into a decline if they lost the imperial favour.

_Et toi?_"

The marquis laughs loudly and:

"Even the crown-princely favour," he whispers, behind Lady Danbury's Watteau fan.

And they chuckle with laughter together.

"His imperial highness the Duke of Xara; their excellencies Count Ducardi, Prince Dutri and the Marquis of Leoni!" are announced, slowly and impressively.

There is a slight movement in the groups. The room divides into two rows; a couple of ladies get entangled in their trains and laugh. Then they all wait.

Othomar appears at the open door; Ducardi, Dutri and Leoni are behind him. The old duke hastens towards the prince; the Marquis of Xardi hurriedly thrusts Lady Danbury's fan into her hand and joins his father.

The old duke is a well-knit, elegant man, full of racial refinement, with a clean-shaven face; he is dressed simply in evening-clothes, with the broad green riband of a commander of the Imperial Orb slanting across his breast and the grand cross of St. Ladislas round his neck.

Othomar wears his full-dress uniform as colonel of the Xara Cuira.s.siers, silver, red and white; he holds his plumed helmet under his arm; he presses the duke's hand, he addresses him with genial words; but, in the ingenuousness of his youthful soul, he feels bitter remorse gnawing at his conscience now that he speaks of Castel Vaza, now that he listens to the cordial protestations of the duke. Othomar also shakes hands with the Marquis of Xardi.

Then the d.u.c.h.ess approaches and greets the crown-prince with her famous curtsey. Lady Danbury envies her her grace and asks herself how it is possible, with those statuesque lines; she cannot deny that the d.u.c.h.ess of Yemena is a splendid woman.... Between the duke and the d.u.c.h.ess, the prince walks down the row of bowing guests; the Marquis of Xardi follows with the equerries.

Othomar has seen the d.u.c.h.ess once or twice at the Imperial since his return to Lipara, but never alone. They now exchange courteous phrases, with official voices and intonations. The groups form once more, as at an intimate rout.

The d.u.c.h.ess walks on with Othomar, till they reach the long conservatory, dimly lighted, dusky-green, with the stately palm-foliage of the tall plants, with the delicate tracery of the bamboos, which exude beads of dew against the square panes. They are silent for a moment, looking at each other; and Othomar feels that his emotions for this woman are nothing more than fleeting moments, cloudlets in his soul. The unknown has opened out to him, but has turned to disillusion.

Nevertheless he is thankful to her for what she gave him: the consolation of her pa.s.sion, while his eyes were still moist with tears.

She strengthened him by this consolation and made him discover his manhood. But everything in life is twofold; and his grat.i.tude has a reverse of sin. He sees the duke in the distance holding an animated conversation, underlined with elegant, precise gestures, with Ducardi; and remorse softly pierces his boyish soul.

And next to his grat.i.tude he feels his disillusion. Love! Is this love?... He feels nothing; nothing new has come into his heart. He sees how deliciously beautiful the d.u.c.h.ess is in her ivory brocade, her train edged with dark fur, her bodice cut square, a string of pearls round her neck. The half-light drifts past her through the plants, a faery green, with a gentle slumbering and with shadows full of mystery; her face, with its delicate smile, stands out against the background of blurred darkness. He recalls her kiss and the mad embrace of her arms. Yes, it was a blissful enervation, an intoxication of the flesh, an unknown giddiness, a physical comfort. But love: was it love?... And he has to make up his mind: perhaps it is love; and, though he feels something lacking in his soul, he makes up his mind for all that: yes, perhaps that is what it is ... love.

"And when shall I see your highness again?" she whispers.

The question is put crudely and surprises him. But this single second of momentary solitude is so precious to the d.u.c.h.ess that she cannot do otherwise. She observes his surprise and adores him for his innocence; and her eyes gaze so beseechingly that he replies:

"To-morrow I am dining with the French amba.s.sador; after that I am going to the opera.... Can I find you here at eleven o'clock?"

He is surprised at the logical sequence of his thoughts, at his question, which sounds so strangely in his ears. But she answers, laughing disconcertedly:

"For G.o.d's sake, highness, not here, at eleven o'clock! How could we!...

But ... come to ... Dutri's...."

She stammers; she remembers the equerry's luxurious flat and sees herself there again ... with others. And in her confusion she does not perceive that she has wounded him deeply and torn his sensitiveness as though with sharp claws; she fails all the more to perceive this, because he answers, confusedly:

"Very well...."

They return, laughing, with their official, colourless voices; they walk slowly: he, so young in his silver uniform, with the helmet, with its drooping plume, under the natural grace of his rounded arm; she, with her expansive brilliancy, trailing her ivory train, waving her fan of feathers and diamonds to and fro against her Carrara-marble bosom. All eyes are turned in their direction and observe the d.u.c.h.ess' triumph....

And Othomar now knows that his "love" will become what is called a _liaison_, such as he has heard of in connection with this one and that, or read of in novels. He had not yet imagined such an arrangement. He does not know how he is to tell Dutri that he has made an a.s.signation with the d.u.c.h.ess in his rooms; and, when he thinks of the equerry, something of his innate sovereignty is chipped off as little pieces of marble or alabaster might be from a frail column....

Joining the duke and the general, he talks of the approaching manoeuvres. He now sees the d.u.c.h.ess standing at a distance and Mena-Doni bending his Neronic head close to her face. His great antipathy for this man is mingled with jealousy. And, while he smiles and listens to the Duke of Yemena, he feels that he now knows for certain that his love after all _is_ love, because jealousy plays a part in it.

3

Next morning, when Othomar rode out alone, he was thinking the whole time of Dutri. The difficulty of broaching the subject to his equerry struck him as unsurmountable. His heart beat when he met Dutri waiting for him in the Xaverius Barracks. But the young officer had the tact to whisper to him, very calmly and courteously, as though it were the simplest matter in the world:

"I was talking with the d.u.c.h.ess of Yemena, highness.... Her excellency told me that your highness wished to speak to her in private and did me the honour.... Will your highness take this key?..."

Othomar mechanically accepted the key. His face remained rigid and serious, but inwardly he felt much annoyed with the d.u.c.h.ess and did not understand how and why she could drag Dutri into their secret. The ease and simplicity with which she had evidently done so flashed across him as something alarming. A confusion seemed to whirl through his head, as though the d.u.c.h.ess and Dutri had, with one breath, blasted all sorts of firm convictions of his youth. He thought of the old duke. He considered all this wrong. He knew that Dutri was a young profligate; he was in the habit of hearing the whole gazette of court scandal from him, but he had never believed one-half of what Dutri related and had often told the equerry bluntly that he did not like to hear ill spoken of people whom they saw daily, people attached to his house. Now it seemed to him that everything that Dutri had said might be true and that yet worse things might well take place. This key, offered with such simple politeness, with such libertine ease, appeared to him as an object of searing dishonour. He was already ashamed of having put the thing in his pocket....

He went on, however. The key burnt him while he spoke with General Ducardi and, on his return to the Imperial, with his father and Myxila.

Before going to visit the empress, who was awaiting him, he locked it away in his writing-table; then slowly, his forehead overshadowed, step by step he went through the long galleries to the empress' apartments.

In the anteroom the lady-in-waiting rose, curtseyed, knocked at the door and opened it:

"His highness the Duke of Xara...."

Othomar silently made the sign of the Cross, as though he were entering a church:

"May G.o.d and His Mother forgive me!" he murmured between his lips.

Then he entered the empress' room.

She was sitting alone in the large drawing-room, at one of the open windows overlooking the park. She wore a very simple, smooth, dark dress. It struck him how young she looked; and he reflected that she was younger than the d.u.c.h.ess. An aureole of delicate purity seemed to quiver around her tall, slender form like an atmosphere of light and gave her a distinction which other women did not possess. She smiled to him; and he came up slowly and kissed her hand.

She had not yet seen him that day; she took his head between her cool, slim hands and kissed him.

He sat down on a low chair by her side. Then she pa.s.sed her hand over his forehead:

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He looked at her and said there was nothing particular. She suspected nothing further; this was not the first time he brought her a clouded forehead. She stroked it once more:

"I promised papa to have a serious talk with you," she said.

He looked up at her.

"He thought it better that I should talk to you, because it was his idea that I could do so more easily. For the rest, he is very pleased with you, my boy, and rejoices to find that you have such a clear judgement, sometimes, upon various political questions."

This opinion of his father's surprised him.

"And about what did you promise to talk to me?"

"About something very, very important," she said, with a gentle smile.

"About your marriage, Othomar."

"My marriage?..."