The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “And who is Bizet?” It sounded strangely like a command instead of a question.

  “He wrote the opera you are about to attend. Bizet is unabashedly modern and greatly misunderstood.”

  “Oh, have you heard tonight's opera, Mademoiselle?” he asked with polite interest though it was plain his interests lay elsewhere. He had resigned himself to following her lead.

  Just as she wished.

  “Once or twice,” she gurgled. “The tenor is marvelous though not yet known.” Being an understudy, she was singing with a little known tenor as well.

  “Indeed?” he remarked graciously. “Possibly this evening will establish his fame.”

  “Without question, your highness. I have never heard anyone with a voice like his.” The tenor had struggled initially; his voice had faltered with every attempt to reach the B-flat in the “Flower Song”. But he was the only other person in opera as tireless as herself. With extreme force of will Enrico Caruso had added a tenor's soaring golden register to his natural rich, baritone voice.

  “You speak as if his singing is of great importance to you, Mademoiselle,” the prince remarked with a contrived lightness.

  She was impressed with the patience this royal exerted in pursuing her. Many men of far lower stations would have stomped away by now.

  “Your observation is astute, your highness. Caruso's singing is of enormous importance to me.” Tonight we will make opera history.

  If she could get rid of this prince, that is. “And who is your favorite Spanish soprano, if I may ask?”

  “I favor the days when men sang all the parts. I admit I am old fashioned, but do not like to see our women on the stage.”

  “Oh?” she asked coolly. “And why is that, your highness?”

  “I would think it would be obvious, Mademoiselle. And, please, call me Prince Alejandro.”

  “You consider it degrading for women to be on the stage, your highness?”

  “That is the general view of things. And how could it be otherwise? Women should be cherished, protected, and revered. How can that be the case when they are flaunting themselves on the stage?”

  “I beg you will excuse me, your highness.” She forced a smile, surprised at the magnitude of her disappointment in this man.

  How could I have imagined any other outcome? Why had she wasted her precious time on him? She wanted to kick herself.

  “I am much honored to make your acquaintance, but I, unfortunately, have a pressing engagement.” She turned to leave.

  “Mademoiselle, please. When shall I see you again?” the prince called after her, his voice desperate. Clearly he was unaccustomed to being refused information and did not know how to navigate this disappointment.

  “Oh, I should think very soon indeed,” she spoke over her shoulder.

  Unless I don't make haste. Nicolette could not resist turning to gaze upon him one last time.

  “But I don't even have your name,” he commanded, his voice now edged with angst.

  “You will, your highness.” She bestowed a parting glance upon him before turning and gliding quickly across the grand hall, smiling to herself.

  “You will.”

  14

  I simply have to see her!

  “She’s all I live for!

  I simply have to see her!

  Daytime and nighttime

  I wait beneath her window.”

  —The Barber of Seville by Gioachino Rossini

  Nicolette Genevieve stood in the wings of the sumptuous Palais Garnier Opera House surrounded by gold and red velvet awaiting her entrance, her heart pounding as the proximity of her performance both thrilled and unsettled her.

  It was the night she had worked to create every day of her life. She looked into the audience to see thousands of people watching her.

  Am I nervous? Yes!

  Anxious? Impatient? Yes!

  I have waited all my life to live this moment.

  Fingering the gold bangles in her ears, she peered around the corner. Oh! The arrogant prince who had the audacity to belittle stage performers was seated next to the stage.

  Pursing her lips, a calm swept over her as a heightened sense of purpose possessed her.

  His royal highness will never forget this night as long as he lives.

  I will bring him to his knees…

  She dismissed me. Alejandro didn't recall ever being dismissed before except by the king and queen of Spain.

  Utterly confused, he stared after the beauty.

  I am not accustomed to being denied. He was generally the recipient of falseness and facades, superficial adoration and attempts to impress.

  An annoying behavior which suddenly had a great deal of appeal.

  “What has claimed your attention, my prince? You are staring straight ahead at nothing.” Esteban appeared at his side. Joaquin subsequently stepped back some four feet out of ear shot, assuming a military position.

  “Believe me, it was not nothing.” Unless one calls a tornado a slight breeze. Or Lady Godiva overdressed.

  “And why are you not surrounded by people? An unprecedented occurrence for your royal highness in a public setting, to be sure.” Esteban paused to consider the matter, his brow wrinkled. “What have you done to offend, my prince?”

  “That is the question, certainly,” Alejandro mumbled.

  “I can think of no other reason why your entourage has abandoned you.”

  The bell sounded, indicating the first act would begin shortly. As Alejandro and Esteban strolled towards their seats, the status seekers, toadies, and simply curious still in the entry way kept pace with them, pretending to be indifferent while stealing interested glances at the duo.

  Alejandro turned slowly to face Esteban, still in a state of stupefaction but managing nonetheless to display his extreme pleasure. “It is a curious mystery. I might wonder the same of you.”

  But Alejandro knew the remark was unfair even before he said it. Despite the existence of a small group of anarchists who hated the monarchy, there had never been a serious attack on his person. The oglers attending them were simply that. And Esteban was never far away though the last attack had been instigated by his father the king for publicity, Alejandro was certain.

  He glanced to Esteban’s ivory cane, which he knew concealed a sword. Alejandro could not fathom where a revolver was hidden in Esteban’s form-fitting tuxedo, but he was certain it was.

  “Were there not sufficient fawning women to amuse you, Alejandro?” Esteban's chiseled, angular face held a forced amusement. Some admirers moved towards them and Esteban held up his hand, indicating his royal highness did not wish to stop and converse.

  “That circumstance would have been a tolerable improvement,” Alejandro muttered under his breath. The contrast between his usual effect on women and the siren’s reaction to him left him feeling disgruntled.

  He resolved to correct that.

  As Alejandro recalled her now—he could scarcely think about anything else—it seemed to him she had been teasing him. Teasing him.

  “I’m surprised to find you in an even worse mood than when I left you,” Esteban mused.

  “All things are possible in Paris.”

  Her nature was brash. And openly playful at the same time. Perplexing.

  Alejandro hoped it was playfulness at least. Did he imagine the note of antipathy in her manner, as if she were uncertain as to whether or not she approved of him?

  Who is she to approve or disapprove of me?

  “What is bothering you, your highness?” his companion repeated.

  “I am unaccustomed to being held in disregard, Esteban,” Alejandro was surprised the words blurted forth.

  “What a preposterous notion. Everyone likes you, your highness. Even the people who despise you like you.” Esteban’s raised eyebrows accentuated his words. “And they all adore you.”

  “Not all.” What accounted for her reaction to him? He had not been impolite.

  If an
yone was rude, it was she.

  Why would she hold herself above him?

  I am the crown prince of Spain, the empire which once ruled the world and discovered the Americas, whose empire spanned continents and oceans. I am a descendent of the house of Bonifácio and of the conquistadors.

  Clearly she was not higher born than himself. It was debatable whether anyone was.

  Who is she?

  She is entrancing.

  Alejandro didn’t know who she was—she had made certain of that—but if she were royalty, he would know her. He knew all European royalty.

  Diantre, they were his cousins. No, he had never seen this woman before—even in his wicked dreams.

  But I will now.

  “Of whom are we speaking?” asked Esteban. “Who has offended you?”

  “I wish I knew.” How could it be that one who had everything to gain from the association and nothing to lose was displeased with the prince of Spain? Even if she found nothing in him to attract her—that was a first in his experience—what was there to repel? She didn't know him well enough to make that assessment.

  “This enigmatic person must be a façade—or a villain with some ulterior motive. What else could it be, your highness? You are perfect in every way.” Esteban stroked his goatee. “I take it we speak of a lady?”

  “Yes. And no.”

  “Please, Alejandro, no more married women. It is vulgar—and selfish to take that which is not yours when you have so much.”

  “Where have you been Esteban?” The prince sighed heavily. He supposed he should be grateful that, for once, he was not bored.

  “Merely admiring the architecture of the building. I trust I did not miss anything of importance?”

  “You did.” All feminine eyes were on them, Joaquin maintaining his distance as he stood behind them.

  Alejandro knew what was due to him and no more; he was well aware attentions were always accentuated when Esteban was with him. Had there not be a royal among them, the two standing together would have nonetheless caused notice. Both were athletic in build; adding to this Esteban was an arbiter of fashion.

  His bodyguard’s short pointed beard, thin moustache, and wildly disheveled curls were in contrast to his strict adherence to style: every attention had been paid to his tuxedo consisting of a white satin vest, white bow-tie, and white pearl buttons. He held opera glasses, a watch chain with charms was suspended from one vest pocket to the other, and an elegant ivory cane.

  Abruptly Alejandro turned on his heel to face his footman. He commanded tartly, “Find out who she is, Joaquin.”

  “Ah, a mystery lady…” Esteban raised his eyebrows.

  “But, your highness, she is—”

  “I have had enough of your insolence, Joaquin. One more such argumentative remark or interference and you will be reassigned to a simple post in the royal country estate, do you understand? I begin to think you are in charge here.”

  “I wish he might be. Things would make more sense,” Esteban murmured.

  “Certainly not, your highness!—” Joaquin objected.

  “I don’t wish direction, I merely require information.”

  Joaquin's grunts indicated great distress. Alejandro knew Joaquin did not fear him and was mortified at the thought of not giving satisfaction.

  “There, there, Joaquin, we shall make it right.” Alejandro forced himself to bestow a smile upon his servant. The familiarity was his own fault; he was much too lenient. “But I shall ask the questions and you shall answer them henceforth, are we agreed?”

  “Yes, your highness, but may I just say that—”

  “And you will tell me who she is by tomorrow morning.”

  “Your highness, I—”

  “Understood?” Alejandro frowned.

  Joaquin's lips quivered, as if wishing desperately to speak but knowing he had been commanded to be silent. His long curled moustache bounced up and down, and the blue silk handkerchief in his pocket—the mark of a gentleman, not generally worn by a man servant—seemed to waive at him in unison.

  “Not another word, my friend. Tomorrow morning.”

  Joaquin shook his head violently, turning red, his cheeks wobbling like turkey wattles—as if he were afraid to make a sound, and yet thought it his duty to do so. There was a sort of “gobble, gobble” emanating from his tightly closed lips.

  Alejandro had known Joaquin to exhibit self-importance, but he had never before thought him peculiar. Ah well, he was a good and loyal servant.

  It was the woman in black who had cast him in a dark mood. He should not take her foul manners out on Joaquin.

  They proceeded up the grand staircase, forty-eight feet wide, until it separated into two diverging stairwells, surrounded everywhere by crystal chandeliers, huge marble columns, torch lighting, and gold leaf sconces. Reaching Apollo's lyre, they hastened to their opera box.

  Each private box held six to ten people in spacious accommodations and could be decorated according to the patron's taste.

  It is a grandiose mistake to allow the Count of Saint-Cyr free reign in decorating, Alejandro thought as he entered the box.

  To be sure, the Palais Garnier Opera House seated two thousand people and was five stories high. The private opera boxes next to the stage comprised four stories alone. An exquisite three-tier crystal chandelier hung from a domed ceiling painted by the artist Chagall, inspired by nine musical masterpieces. Ballet dancers dressed in yellow pirouetted to scenes from Giselle and Swan Lake while Stravinsky's passion was portrayed in shades of red in Firebird.

  No one but Saint-Cyr would have attempted to compete with these opulent surroundings. But the Count met that challenge with the fervor of the peasants who stormed the Bastille: loving France so much they were willing to destroy Her. And rebuild her from the ground up.

  Alejandro shook his head in disapproval, stealing a glance at Esteban, whose eyes twinkled with amusement.

  It is outside of enough. The Count of Saint-Cyr's opera box was completely lined in blood red velvet from floor to ceiling. Flowers, satin pillows, and velvet cushions were in periwinkle blue, deep purples, silver, and gold, all in a disturbing striped pattern. The addition of Louis XVI antique furniture emphasized the fact that, if Maximilien Robespierre and Marie Antoinette's ghosts were still in residence, they were letting their presence be known at the Palais Garnier.

  Or, at least, in the Count of Saint-Cyr's box.

  Vive la France! Vive la République! Vive la Résistance!

  Situated in the red velvet-lined opera box, Alejandro searched the other elite boxes in vain for the woman in black. She was not one to blend into the background so he could only suppose she was not in the boxes. Surely she was not in the general seating…

  It’s as if she has disappeared into thin air.

  “Who are you looking for, Alejandro? Play a round of cards with us,” Valentinois insisted, his dark, melancholy looks adding an obsessive tone to his intensity.

  “Excuse me? No one. Oh, yes, why not.”

  Seated with Alejandro in the private box, his friends of many years chatted amiably, insisting on drawing him into the conversation while the orchestra played the overture. Out of duty, habit, or a failed attempt at the social graces, he knew not which, he acquiesced.

  “Although this is her debut, the soprano is said to be phenomenal,” offered le Comte de Saint-Cyr. “And beautiful,” he added with the sly smile of one who has advance information.

  “She is young if it is her debut.” Alejandro frowned as he reached for a card. “All young sopranos are beautiful. But not necessarily talented.”

  “I have a friend who observed her in rehearsal, and he was smitten beyond reason.”

  “I always suspected your grandfather was not only one of Napoleon's nine guards but a spy as well, le Comte,” Alejandro said. “You do your ancestor credit.”

  Saint-Cyr's deep blue eyes brightened, his blonde curls glistening around his face, as he recalled the source and origin
of his nobility, Napoleon having bestowed a title and wealth upon each of his nine guards.

  Count Saint-Cyr waved his lavender gloved hand in false modesty. With the addition of the gold and rubies to Saint-Cyr's attire, one had to admit the effect was dazzling.

  “In point of fact, Saint-Cyr's grandfather would roll over in his grave were he to see him,” Valentinois said. A rumbling of laughter accompanied the count’s feigned indignation.

  “And what can you tell us about the opera besides the beautiful soprano?” asked Esteban, who had long been included as one of Alejandro's friends despite his lack of blue blood.

  “The setting for Bizet's opera is Madrid, and it is sung in French,” stated Gaston Leroux.

  “An unfortunate choice.” Alejandro had agreed to attend, but feigning enthusiasm he found increasingly difficult this evening.

  “You are a master of English, French, and Italian, as well as Spanish, “ stated Esteban. “You are in a position to overlook it, my friend. I trust it will pose no difficulty.”

  “I could overlook it if the opera set in Spain were sung in Italian; that is, at least, the language of the Pope. But French?” Prince Alejandro laughed at the absurdity of it. “The very fact that I am a man of education, as you point out, makes it difficult to overlook the art this city produces. Ave Maria. Have you seen that fellow Picasso's work, Valentinois? That which Parisians produce with the considerable energy they exert is, to say the least, indefinable.”

  “Picasso is Spanish,” stated Esteban without aplomb.

  “True. He exhibited much promise before he came to Paris.” Alejandro threw a ten of spades on the table. “Do we forget all that we have learned from centuries of masters, revert to our schoolroom days, and call it art? There is no discipline to it. It does nothing to elevate, to uplift, to improve. It merely tears down.” He shook his head. “No, if the soprano is anything in that line, I have no need of her performance.”

  “You speak of Picasso's work Life, painted after his recent visit to Barcelona, your highness?” asked Gaston Leroux with genuine curiosity.