The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “We are each of us to perform a commission for the other,” he said. “It is a business transaction of sorts. I fail to understand why you take offense at every perceived slight when I am to save your career for you.” I, a royal. Destined to be a sovereign ruler. In her employ. And she acts as if I am here to hold her skirt while she walks.

  “How would you view it, your highness, if I expected you to prove your worth to me? Would you find it offensive?”

  “It seems precisely what you do require, Mademoiselle,” he retorted.

  “Not at all. I have never presumed to be embarrassed of your company. Which is precisely the inference. Apparently I am good enough to perform miracles but not to be seen with you.”

  “In general, I clearly do not take issue with your company.” He waved to the dining room, while speaking through a smile formed with clenched teeth. “And might I add this is most impertinent and unladylike behavior for public display, Mademoiselle Genevieve. You are merely proving my point.”

  She very purposely brushed her gloved hand along the antique silver box, pushing the heirloom towards him. “I am exceedingly sorry, your highness, but I cannot accept your lovely box, or any other jewelry expressing the sentiment you feel towards me.”

  “Mademoiselle, you only emphasize your station in life by not understanding my situation. My life is not my own: I belong to España. My personal feelings are irrelevant. Honestly, your reaction is uncalled for.”

  “I expect you do the best you can, your highness.” She smiled a frozen smile. “Still, we have a bargain. No doubt we can find other venues which would be more appropriate to my station in life and where I would be more at home. Possibly there will be a cockfight or a drunken brawl somewhere in the city to which you could escort me.” She beheld him with a haughty disdain which would have done the Queen Mother proud.

  She then surprised him by standing and curtseying deeply showing the greatest respect for the benefit of the others present, as if to confer that she was not a hoyden, but a lady.

  To his great relief she did know how to keep her private affairs private.

  She turned and gracefully left the room, all eyes accompanying her.

  25

  Your intentions?

  “When he has gone

  find some way to let me know your name

  your station in life and your intentions

  so that I may learn who it is

  who has taken such an interest.”

  - The Barber of Seville by Gioachino Rossini

  Nicolette was still fuming the following afternoon when Prince Alejandro brought his carriage round to the Palais Garnier to escort her to the Tuileries Garden. She would not give him the pleasure of knowing he had unsettled her, however. She primarily ignored his royal highness while insuring she was visible through the window, answering his questions briefly but politely.

  Along the way she waved at everyone she knew and made as much of a spectacle as possible.

  Things continued on much in this vein for most of the afternoon until Prince Alejandro tried a new tactic.

  “Senorita Nicolette, I recall your naming your favorite operas. And why do you count among your favorites The Barber of Seville, of all the operas, may I ask?"

  Nicolette had to admit, unlike most men, if Prince Alejandro wished to engage her in conversation, he knew precisely how to go about it. He seemed to make a study of determining what people wished to talk about—and then embarking on that very subject.

  I shan’t be fooled by him!

  “It is a musical masterpiece,” she quipped.

  “There is one piece sung with eight different harmonies, as I recall,” Alejandro said with disinterest.

  Ah, so you do know the opera. And you feigned ignorance.

  “Not eight harmonies, but eight distinct musical melodies.” Nicolette corrected the crown prince of Spain with easy aplomb. “A harmony is the same melody in a different range. Can you imagine the difficulty in combining even two distinct melodies to sound appealing? But eight?”

  “I would think it an impossibility.”

  “And it sounds wonderful.” She glanced over her shoulder at the prince, unable to suppress her passion for the subject.

  Careful, my girl, if you engage with him, he has won. If you are a living, breathing woman instead of a statue, he has won. Remember you are not good enough to escort him to affairs of state.

  She fumed at the memory.

  He glanced out the window of the carriage and she found herself stealing a glance at his muscular physique and rigid jawline.

  Shameless girl!

  “The Barber is very funny,” Nicolette added, “but, whether tragic or joyful, what is the fundamental principle of Rossini's work?"

  “Rhythmic zest?” Prince Alejandro shrugged. He seemed interested in her, but not in the genius of Rossini.

  “Delight, your highness.” She frowned. This royal could clearly use more delight in his life. “Consider the barber of Seville himself.”

  “Figaro seems unduly pleased with himself,” Prince Alejandro noted. “And yet he is only a barber.”

  “Only a barber. Figaro tells us there is nothing he cannot do or facilitate. His confidence is delectable and contagious.” She didn't know why she was sharing so much.

  Possibly I long to see a spark of life in this man not related to a flirtation. A little bit of Figaro would go a long way to help this prince.

  “Indeed. A jack of all trades.”

  “He congratulates himself, he sings his own praises to the heavens, he delights in his own company.” She laughed. “As you say, he is but a barber—and yet he sings that he is the luckiest, the busiest, the smartest man in town.”

  “Figaro proves to be a competent fellow.”

  “He his much more than that. Figaro expresses complete joy in being alive…and in being Figaro. He loves the experience of his own existence.”

  “He enjoys his own company, to be sure.”

  “I should say he is enchanted by his own company,” Nicolette giggled, unable to suppress her amusement. “We could all learn something from him.”

  “And do you have much in common with this Figaro, Senorita?” he asked softly.

  “I do. I love being who I am.” Until recently. “And what is your favorite opera, Prince Alejandro?”

  “I would say La Bohéme. It has a special place in my heart.”

  “Oh?” She was interested to see some evidence of feeling in his expression. “And why is that, your highness?”

  “I was very sick once. Close to death, in fact. I believe I was dying when I heard something which pulled me back.”

  Quickly she tore her eyes from the carriage window and turned to look at him. Catching herself, she assumed a certain nonchalance in her voice. “What did you hear, your highness?”

  “I heard someone singing a piece from La Bohéme.” Prince Alejandro closed his eyes momentarily, apparently deeply moved at the memory. “A soprano.”

  “Many people hear music. How could this possibly have pulled you back from death?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

  “I can't explain why, I found the strength to continue. There was a dramatic change in my health: suddenly I could open my eyes, could see, could speak, could communicate my needs. Before that I could not connect with the people around me. It was as if I was in the bottom of a well and I could see them, but they could not see me.”

  “And when did it change?” she gasped.

  “I can put it at the exact moment of hearing the music.”

  “It must be coincidence…”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “No. It was the music which healed me. I know it to be true.”

  “How can you be certain, your highness?”

  “Because I felt it.” His expression was distant before he turn towards her. “You see, Senorita, music has held a place in my heart for some time.”

  “Where were you when this occurred?” Very deliberately, she bent her head
so her hat would cover her face as the shock of the possibilities hit her.

  No, no, it can’t be. A memory which was so dear to her. A boy for whom she had prayed for so many years.

  “As it so happens, I was in Constantinople in the palace of the Sultan.”

  “The Seraglio,” she whispered, her eyes stealing a glance at his expression even as her throat went dry.

  “Yes, Senorita.” He nodded, raising his eyebrows in condescension. Quickly he caught himself, asking politely, “You have read about it?”

  He might be sincere, but arrogance was interwoven into his personality. “Read? You flatter me, your highness.” She swallowed hard, her indignation at his assumptions returning. “And how long ago were you there? At the Seraglio?” She still hoped against hope she was mistaken.

  “Eight years ago. In the springtime.”

  When spring comes, I breathe its perfume petal by petal. The flowers I make, alas, have no scent.

  Nicolette felt her hands shaking as she reached for her fan, covering her face. She didn't know why the news they had crossed paths before, that she had aided in his recovery, was so disturbing. She stole a glance over the top of her fan and searched his face for some glimpse of the gentleness, the sweetness, she had seen in the boy, now permanently etched in her mind.

  If this man was her enemy, and he might be, and that boy was one she had loved for so many years, how could they be one and the same?

  No. It can’t be.

  It was contrary to all reason. That the unfeeling, arrogant man who was now in control of her future and judged her so harshly was the sick boy who had touched her heart: so sweet, so helpless…

  “April's first kiss is mine,” he murmured to himself, as if he were answering her thoughts.

  Gasp. She tried to catch her breath.

  Stop! She admonished herself. He is my nemesis.

  There might be some sweetness in him long ago, but she must never lose sight of the fact that he will do whatever it takes to get what he wants.

  Regardless of Alejandro’s intent this man was her only hope for a future. She resented him greatly for that.

  “Senorita Nicolette?” He attempted to see past her fan and the rim of her hat. “Are you well?”

  Nicolette’s head was spinning. She had thought Prince Alejandro must have imagined the effect her singing Carmen had on him.

  But it was not his imagination.

  It has happened before.

  26

  The harmony of friendship

  “Only the harmony of friendship

  Makes milder the burdens

  Without this sympathy

  There is no happiness on earth”

  - THE MAGIC FLUTE by Amadeus Wolfgang Mozart

  “Is it necessary to move at such a break-neck pace?” Esteban tapped his cane lightly against the beveled glass of the carriage, the various wooden inlays of the cane's knob catching the scant light.

  “It is.” Alejandro could ignore his responsibilities no longer. He was amazed he had done so at all. He never ignored his duty.

  Or at least I never did before I met Nicolette Genevieve. Alejandro gently ran his fore-finger along the blue damask lining the carriages’ interior as he thought of the woman who was holding him captive.

  “Why not order one of those new motor cars if you wish to race at this speed, Alejandro?”

  “Because I hate the bloody things. So noisy one can't think and dust flying everywhere. Inelegant contraptions.”

  “I see. If one is to die, let one depart with elegance.”

  “Odd that you should object to elegance, Esteban.” How anyone could look so utterly comfortable in the most formal clothing imaginable was beyond him. The stiff pointed collars of Esteban's shirt formed two triangles above a thin maroon silk tie. There was a white silk scarf in his pocket, a white rose in his lapel, and an overabundance of gold buttons along each sleeve.

  “Certainly I do not.”

  “Nor do I. My dear Esteban, it is imperative that I look my best, so I prefer the closed carriage. Or don't you recall that we are dining with the British diplomat to France?”

  “How could I forget? We are racing the devil to get there.” Esteban touched the charms attached to a watch chain suspended from his white satin vest: the Virgin Mary bordered on one side by a cross and on the other by a horse head. “Are you acquainted with Lord Ravensdale and his wife, your highness?”

  “No. But it promises to be a boring affair. Diplomats always are.”

  “The English have been known to surprise you.”

  “Even so, this truth crosses international lines: professional diplomats rarely say anything with any content to it. They live merely to please everyone. They fawn and cajole, congratulate and applaud, all the while attempting to extract secrets useful to their respective governments. They pretend to speak volumes while saying precisely nothing.”

  “An important skill you must master to be king,” Esteban murmured.

  “Perhaps you wish me to take my example from President Loubet?” asked Alejandro.

  “Do not be fooled by Loubet’s kindness; he is a master statesman. His honesty gets the better of him at the appropriate times.”

  “Indeed, President Loubet is known for the clarity of his impassioned speeches. An honest man of integrity.”

  “He personally pardoned Dreyfus in the Dreyfus Affair.” Esteban kept abreast of current events, for Alejandro’s sake and his own. “Bravery is an unusual quality in a politician.”

  “I shall never forget when Loubet walked as the chief mourner behind the hearse of Felix Faure, putting himself in great danger as a target. Everyone thought it was foolish at the same time they admired him for it.”

  “What supreme ruler walks unprotected behind the coffin of a controversial figure out in public?" Esteban's gaze was reflective as he watched Alejandro. “What troubles you, Alejandro? Do you feel yourself to be in danger in this country? I feel it, too, though I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Let me help you. It is the soprano from the opera. Dangerous and she is proving to be a very difficult one to manage.”

  “Ah, an exquisite talent. Nicolette Genevieve, I believe her name is?”

  “It is not her name which interests me.”

  “So she is your next conquest?” Esteban raised his eyebrows.

  “To the contrary.” Alejandro added under his breath, “She is no one’s conquest.”

  “You can console yourself with the knowledge that you are in good company with her other spurned suitors then.” Esteban shook his head. “Though it surprises me. I expect your being out of favor is only temporary.”

  “No, I have seen her several times now. Senorita Nicolette is far from impressed with me, though I am at a loss to know why.”

  “Not impressed with you?” Esteban drawled. “Extraordinary.”

  “At first I thought it was an act—”

  “—Naturally you would.”

  “But it soon became clear she truly does not like me.” Alejandro ran his finger along his family ring.

  “What did you say to the senorita to displease her?”

  “The devil take me if I know. What have I not said to displease her?”

  “Clearly a woman without manners or breeding. But if you have seen her several times, as you say, she is agreeing to meet with you. What is the basis for concluding she does not hold you in regard?” Esteban’s tone was suspicious.

  “She is only meeting with me because I have a hold over her,” Alejandro said bluntly.

  “Tsk. Tsk.” Esteban shook his head. “A gentleman would not behave thus.”

  “You surprise me, Esteban. I thought you knew me better.”

  “I thought I did too.”

  “It is she who pulls me here and there like a bull with a ring in my nose. It is demeaning to the extreme. Any man would feel the same, but I am to be king. I have never allowed a woman to treat me thus. And you should hear how she talks to me. As if I
were the chambermaid.”

  “In light of these sad facts, the wise course would be to forget her and to find another beautiful woman to occupy your time. That should not tax your abilities, my dear Alejandro.” Esteban studied him intently.

  “No, Esteban, it isn't the senorita's beauty which sets her apart from other women.” Alejandro was surprised at how much he was revealing, but his emotions had been churning uncontrollably since his drive in the Tuileries with Nicolette, begging for an outlet. She had teased and provoked him, preening like a peacock before the public and treating him as if he were merely a pawn in her game. The only reprieve she gave him was when they discussed opera. Even then, she turned strangely quiet.

  “You forget I saw Senorita Nicolette myself.”

  “Yes, then, it was her beauty,” Alejandro looked up at Esteban through his eyelashes. “And it wasn't.”

  It was everything about her.

  “You don’t consider her to be beautiful?”

  “I did until I got to know her better.” Alejandro shook his head. “And, upon closer inspection, her features are not delicate. Her lips are overfull, her nose is not disproportionate but not aristocratic either, her cheekbones are defined I grant you, and her eyes…” Those eyes could lead a man into a storm.

  Esteban laughed. “Are you saying the senorita is not feminine?”

  “Precisely. And not exactly.” She is everything a woman should be—and should not be. “There is no sweetness about her. No softness.” Although Alejandro had to admit he greatly appreciated how she had exited Le Meurice, with dignity and decorum. No one present but himself could possibly have known how furious she was. He could not bear an uncouth person who chose to share private matters with everyone without regard for whose reputation it might damage.

  And yet, she made certain I knew. It was rude to the extreme.

  “Because she said no to you, my friend. Simply because she exudes confidence, charisma, and purposefulness does not make her unfeminine.” He took his pipe from his pocket, adding softly, “Quite the contrary.”