“I prefer the classics,” Alejandro said simply, fighting the urge to elaborate. “This is too modern for my taste.”
“Ah, yes.” Saint-Cyr nodded.
“You don’t like the art nouveau, your highness?” Leroux asked, his interest piqued. Leroux was never one to be dissuaded from a thorough enjoyment of the arts.
His one redeeming feature from what Alejandro had seen.
“I have no objection to art nouveau though I find it silly—and dull. This I would scarcely call art nouveau, however.” Alejandro shrugged disinterestedly. Leroux might have an artist’s soul, but that didn’t mean he had taste. “Who is the composer?”
“Bizet,” answered Leroux.
“Bizet?” Alejandro considered. “Never heard of him. Who is he? What unfortunate country claims him as its native son? Did he study music? The composition has a foreign sound to it: not French—that is good—even though it is sung in French—that is bad—but not Spanish, German or Italian either. What is it?”
“Portuguese,” answered Saint-Cyr definitively, flipping his blonde curls. “It sounds Portuguese to me.”
“It is not Portuguese,” Alejandro muttered, being fluent in five languages and dabbling in several more.
“What else could it be? I’m sure it ain’t Bulgarian,” Saint-Cyr demanded with bruised feelings. Like his companions, the count of Saint-Cyr wore a coat shaped to the waist with tails two inches above the back of the knee, an evening coat faced with silk lapels, and a white silk bow tie. But his friends wore white gloves to his lavender, and white pearl buttons to his gold and amethyst buttons. His shirt had a full three-inch standing collar, he added a gold watch fob to his attire, and his hair was longer and curled in contrast to Valentinois' short coal black hair.
“My dear Count, you do not have a drop of Latin blood in your entire body—you are one hundred percent French—so you cannot be the judge of such a matter,” pronounced Alejandro coolly, slowly raising his eyes from his cards, suppressing a smile. “And do not insult Portugal in my presence.”
“If I am no judge of Latin, then neither are you, Prince,” retorted Saint-Cyr indignantly. “Do you forget your ancestry, Alejandro? You might be destined to be the ruler of a Latin country, but you are Austrian, of the Germanic line, related to Prince Albert, whom you strongly resemble.”
“I assure you, I am Spanish, born and bred.” Alejandro’s voice was low, and his head jerked up. To question his right to Spain’s claim, even in jest, made his blood boil. His first language was Spanish, and he was raised within the culture. Not to mention he had been taught since he was a suckling child to whom his allegiance lay.
Everything is for Her.
“To be sure.” Valentinois was oblivious to Alejandro’s anger while shaking his head at Saint-Cyr. “I mean yes, he does: Alejandro has the German build and height—but with his sultry, dark eyes we have no chance with the ladies when he is about. No, my foolish friend: Alejandro is decidedly Latin.”
There is one lady I cannot impress. Alejandro was disconcerted to return to the source of his irritation.
Valentinois laughed, adding, “And you are wrong about the music as well, le Count. The music is American: untamed and uncivilized. Risqué, you know.”
“You do know they speak English in the Americas, my friend?” Leroux asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Saint-Cyr sputtered.
“You see what I mean? No one knows what this music is,” Alejandro pronounced. “And no one cares.”
What he did care about was the woman in black who refused to allow him into her confidences knowing full well who he was. Never in his life had he encountered such hauteur!
It excites me.
And he had no idea how to find her again.
Which infuriates me.
“Le Prince, if I may beg your indulgence, please illuminate the matter,” persisted Saint-Cyr. “If you would not classify the music as art nouveau nor as Portuguese, how would you classify it?”
As rubbish. “You are the fashion virtuoso among us, Count, how can it escape you?” replied Alejandro, sighing heavily. “It is, of course, part of the movement which is referred to as abstract art.”
“Abstract art,” repeated Saint-Cyr in awed tones, covering his mouth with his lavender gloves as if he had just been given the key to the kingdom. “What is it?”
“It is the musical equivalent of a child cutting out geometric shapes and gluing them together in a slapdash fashion with such inexpertise it ceases to amuse and begins to offend.”
“I take it, your highness, that you are not a lover of the abstract. In music at least,” mused Leroux, appearing deep in thought. “May I inquire if you favor the abstract in paintings and sculpture?” This question incited a round of unconstrained laughter from Saint-Cyr and Valentinois, causing Leroux to blush, visible even beneath his beard.
“Abstract art is an affront to the senses, an abomination to the educated, and an insult to all who have gone before.”
“Such decisiveness,” murmured LeRoux. “This bodes well for your future reign, I predict.”
“Are there no standards in Paris?” demanded Alejandro coolly, even as Saint-Cyr and Valentinois shared a knowing glance, le Duc shaking his head in anticipated dread.
“There is no discipline to it,” Alejandro continued. “I shall take up a paintbrush myself if this is what the world has come to.”
“And what shall you paint, Alejandro?” Saint-Cyr laughed, barely containing himself as he waved his lavender glove in front of his face. “Beautifully plump Women? White horses with feathered plumes? Eighteenth century naval ships engaging in a battle to the death?”
Alejandro felt a smile tugging at his lips against his will.
“Ah, but this opera, your highness,” Leroux insisted, placing a card on the table as the chorus continued the introductory song. “It is beautiful—and misunderstood.”
“Misunderstood certainly.” Alejandro frowned. “The musical line could inspire nothing else.” He listened half-interestedly without turning, placing the ace of spades on the table. “You just gave me the game, le Comte.”
Who is she? Who is the enchantress?
Alejandro knew all the royal born princesses. No, he had never seen the woman in black before.
I would remember her into the next life.
“And consider, Prince Alejandro, the setting for Bizet's opera is Madrid, your home,” Leroux exclaimed with a boyish excitement which contradicted his appearance: a thick head of brown, curled hair and a full beard.
“An unfortunate choice of location.” Alejandro dealt a new game.
“You shall see, your highness, Madrid is the perfect setting for Carmen—the only possible setting,” Leroux insisted.
“I beg you not to taint Madrid.” Although LeRoux was inoffensive outside of an annoyingly jovial disposition, Alejandro could not approve of the fellow: he had inherited millions of francs which he subsequently lost through wild living. The wastrel had no concept of duty and merely lived for his own pleasure.
But who in my circle does not? Alejandro turned to look at his bodyguard, the one exception, and then at Valentinois—who, at least, was a fanatical sports enthusiast. Saint-Cyr could be forgiven for his ridiculous extravagances because he was the glue which held the friendships together.
Of all things Prince Alejandro held in disregard, a lack of discipline and control was paramount.
I was never happier than when I was in the royal navy. It was pointless to wish for the impossible, but when he slept his dreams betrayed him: then he was allowed to command his own ship, fighting and dying in service.
But, alas, he had grown reckless, taking too many risks, and the king had pulled him out of the navy.
“Lud, the soprano has just entered the stage. She is ravishing,” Saint-Cyr exclaimed.
“Alejandro, I beg you to trouble yourself. Turn and look. You won't be disappointed,” advised le Duc de Valentinois, having noticeable difficult
y in returning his eyes to the cards.
I will be gravely disappointed if she is singing music by the same composer who created the overture monstrosity. “Later, Valentinois. At present I am relieving you of your coin which is necessary to pay for the inferior champagne.”
“Inferior? It is the finest I have ever had the pleasure to open,” Valentinois replied indignantly as he ran his gloved white hand along the famous Cordon Rouge, the distinctive red sash of the French Legion of Honor which was draped across the bottle.
“I would trust Alejandro's judgment on this, le Duc,” chuckled le Comte de Saint-Cyr, his blonde curls bobbing. “He has a great deal more experience popping the cork than you do.”
“Le Duc is too busy with his hunting and fishing to bother with women, I'll wager,” LeRoux added, even as he and Saint-Cyr burst into laughter.
Valentinois almost choked on a gulp of champagne, turning red but managing to mutter, “I'd rather face a Lion and her cubs than a French Mama with a marriageable daughter.”
“And you'd likely fare better, Val,” agreed Alejandro.
The prince intended to elevate the conversation when suddenly he was surrounded by the most glorious sound he had ever experienced. A voice like a crystal bell, a voice so full of color she was painting notes rather than singing them.
Alejandro thought he had never heard anything so divine, so intoxicating in his life.
He longed to turn suddenly to find the source of this heavenly nectar, but in his desire to never leave the moment, to remain forever frozen in time, he could not move. He closed his eyes to listen, lost in the enchantment.
The music intermingled with his soul. Her voice danced across three octaves, unfathomable in its range and diversity. Sliding to her lowest register, her tones were primal and rich, vibrant with feeling and emotion.
I am her willing captive. He felt as if he were floating in a warm stream, lulled into a drugged state, light caressing his face as he basked in a sun of her making.
Alejandro opened his eyes and turned slowly to discover the origin of his enchantment, oblivious to everything but that first moment of seeing the source of this intoxicating experience.
Madre de Dios! It is she.
2
She is dangerous
“She is dangerous
She is beautiful”
—CARMEN by Georges Bizet
The captivating soprano and the object of his desire were one and the same.
He had been smitten—and rebuffed—by an opera singer.
Impossible. An opera singer reject a prince? Who was she to rebuke him?
She glanced into his box and smiled, her eyes the color of the Mediterranean twinkling with mischief.
I should have known. It was all an act to increase my desire.
It is working. His anticipation grew with every passing glance. She swayed, and he felt himself wanting her more than he had ever desired a woman.
“Her voice might be that of an angel,” Saint-Cyr whispered, leaning in towards him, “but her movements are that of a seductress.”
“With that voice, I would follow her anywhere had she the plainest of looks and the dullest of personalities,” Alejandro murmured.
But she is anything but dull. She weaved across the stage, every movement charged: every pronounced slide of her hips, shrug of her shoulder, toss of her lustrous black hair, and lowering of her eyelids provocative and tantalizing. She dazzled and enslaved with her voice, her movement, and her slow, sensual smile.
Alejandro savored the pleasure of studying her in detail even as he bathed in the caress of her voice. She wore a simple gold crucifix around her neck. At her ears were large gold bangles. Her gown was a black raw silk with a gloriously low décolletage, accented by a red rose at a bosom so shapely an accent was unnecessary.
A black lace shawl tantalized rather than covered. As his eyes moved along her legs he saw that the hem of her dress did not even reach the floor.
Her ankles are fully revealed.
His lips formed a wicked smile. Revealed ankles, gold bangles, and a plunging neckline. In a culture which corseted and subdued its women—this woman was wild and untamed.
He had never had any doubt on that subject from the moment of meeting her.
“Watch yourself, Alejandro,” cautioned Valentinois, as if reading his mind. "She is only playing a part.”
“Is she? I wish I might play that part with her.” Alejandro’s eyes remained glued to the stage just as she remained intent upon pretending she was ignoring him. It was the oldest game in the book: she was only thinking of him, and her continual coy glances in his direction confirmed it.
Alejandro recalled her confident, unabashed manner—in truth, he had thought of little else since meeting her. She made it clear she had no need to impress him or gain his approval. He might choose to please her—but she would choose to please herself.
A devotion which he was certain would provide him with unequaled pleasure.
“Do you know her, Alejandro?” asked le Comte de Saint-Cyr, waving a lavender glove towards the stage.
“Not precisely. But I will. Very soon.” His eyes remained fixed on the stage as he shook his head.
“I am pained even now for her inevitable broken heart.” Le Duc de Valentinois chuckled, his dark, mysterious looks in contrast to his jovial nature.
“She is enchanting. I may have to cast her in my next novel.” Gaston Leroux watched her intently while a card slipped out of his hand unnoticed. “Her singing is somewhat disturbing at the same time it captivates.”
“Her voice is so resonant, almost as if there is an echo built into it,” Valentinois agreed, entranced, unusual for a man who never exhibited anything except a determination to remain in the bachelor state.
“Can you not envision her in a gondola on the lake beneath this opera house?—I have seen it—casting a siren's spell as she traverses Paris along underground waterways?” asked LeRoux, transporting everyone into his imagery, reminding all he had taken up a successful career as a novelist after squandering his fortune.
“And who will be her dark lord, her benefactor, my romantic friend?” Saint-Cyr asked. “Give her a lover as mysterious and elusive as she.”
“A phantom dark lord?” Leroux asked, barely audible.
“A crown prince perhaps?” Valentinois asked.
“No,” Leroux shook his head. “Not dark and twisted enough.”
“That's where you are mistaken,” uttered Alejandro, without realizing he had spoken.
“It is your turn Alejandro. Play your card, then return to your evil scheming.” Saint-Cyr shrugged and placed his card on the table.
“I am finished playing,” Alejandro replied with finality, tossing the Ace of spades on the table.
“But you won, Alejandro,” Saint-Cyr protested.
Alejandro turned his chair to face the stage, positioning it against the pillar, insuring he wouldn't be disturbed again. It shouldn't have been required of him, but he didn't wish to take any chances.
His bodyguard, ever watchful, cast a questioning glance towards him. Alejandro held up his hand to stop his companion from moving towards him, and the response was immediate.
Good. He was in no danger and could take care of himself. On at least one occasion he had saved his bodyguard's life.
Even if Alejandro had been in deadly danger, he wouldn't have cared. He had a mysterious compulsion to create more distance between himself and the others, as if this music were a private—and necessary—moment for him.
Music had always been the quickest route to his soul. Music elicited passion, not academic treatises. It might end with discourse, but it always began with feeling.
Once, as a young man, he had been lying on his deathbed in a foreign country when he had been revived by beautiful music; he never knew if it had been a fantastic dream or an angel singing.
Or both.
But this performance brought music to a new level. Singing was more than
a profession for the soprano. She had clearly devoted her life, her very being to transcending barriers, becoming one with the listener through her voice.
And she succeeded: she controlled the mood of the audience.
Entirely against his will, his royal highness was absorbed into the story unfolding before him: he was corporal Don José to her Carmen.
She wooed and enticed him, all the while telling him she would never be his.
Every note she sang stabbed at his heart while sending him into ecstasy.
Would I follow this woman, forsaking my home and betraying my country as Don José does?
Not a chance in hell.
Alejandro was always in control where the feminine sex was concerned, keeping his heart in tact. Women were the one area of his life he did not give to Spain; he fully resented that part of his heart which he selfishly withheld.
And despised himself for it.
As such, he never allowed any woman to dictate his actions—and most certainly his thoughts and feelings.
But there was no denying the sound of this woman’s voice produced a rapture new to his existence, as if returning to one's Maker after a long sleep.
Alejandro knew his reaction to the music came from a distant, previously inaccessible corner of his heart, without knowing the full extent of her reach.
A celestial three-tiered crystal chandelier sparkling like a pirate's treasure hung from the Palais Garnier’s magnificently painted domed ceiling. Seeking to steady himself, Alejandro’s eyes took refuge in the depiction of Mozart's “The Magic Flute” through endless glistening pieces of crystal. The dancing chandelier lights merged with “Prelude to the Afternoon of the Faun” in white, “Romeo and Juliet” in green, “Firebird” in red, “Giselle” in yellow, and “Swan Lake” in ice blue, absorbing all the colors in a beauty so intense he could only be in heaven.
Luring him in, the sharpened points suddenly turned towards him, their infinite beauty transformed into a deadly weapon headed straight for his heart.
As the soprano continued singing, unexpectedly her deeply impassioned vocals penetrated layers of his emotions and experiences until the music reached a forbidden memory long imprisoned. Once surfaced, his emotions found their release.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren Page 2
