“I—I see.”
“Very few people knew the reason for the broken engagement. All Europe wonders why I have never married, why I have no heir. I’m a great connoisseur of beautiful women—my Gallery of Beauties is quite famous—but I have never shown an interest in marriage. I’m an enigma, they say. Fortunately my companions have been both loyal and discreet.”
Karl fell silent, eyes dark as he remembered the tragic events of his life. I understood now. I understood the haunted look in his eyes, the melancholia, that curious lack of sexuality. He continued to gaze at the fire, and then he sighed and looked up at me and smiled a pensive smile.
“I cultivated an interest in art and architecture, and when I became King I devoted myself to turning Barivna into the Athens of Germany. I had a vision, and I endeavored to bring art and beauty and culture to my people. Instead of factories I built theaters and museums. Instead of manufacturing cannon and guns and establishing an army, I established the university and filled Barivna with bright, vital young men who cared nothing for war. Many people believe I’ve been very foolish.”
Karl set his champagne glass aside. “You must find this all extremely boring, my dear.”
“Not at all. I was just wondering if it would be presumptuous of me to ask a favor.”
“Anything you like.”
“Your Gallery of Beauties—I’ve heard so much about it. I wonder if you might show it to me?”
He looked pleased. “But of course,” he said, “although I feel sure you’ll find it quite disappointing. You see far greater beauty each morning when you gaze into your mirror.”
“You’re being gallant again.”
“Merely honest, my dear.”
Taking my hand, he led me out of the room. The palace was still, the silence broken only by our voices and the rustle of my skirt and his brocade robe as we moved down the carpeted corridors with their sparkling chandeliers and exquisite pieces of furniture. All the candles were burning brightly in the dead of night, an indication that Karl’s nocturnal habits were well established. Over a hundred people dwelled here, but with the exception of the footmen who kept watch over the candles no one else was visible. I found the atmosphere rather eerie as we moved from corridor to corridor. It must have been ten minutes before we finally reached the gallery.
“Here are my beauties,” Karl said quietly.
The gallery was long and brilliantly lit, and there were thirty-six paintings. Each sumptuously framed portrait was of an exceptionally beautiful woman. Karl worshipped beauty in all its forms, and each time he saw a strikingly lovely woman, be she the butcher’s daughter or an elegant aristocrat, he had her immortalized on canvas. I recognized several of the women, one a very famous French actress, one a cool English beauty notorious for her sexual liaisons. The English woman had stayed in Barivna for several weeks, and Karl had given her many expensive gifts. Their “affair” had been the talk of Europe a few years back. Karl was silent as we moved from canvas to canvas, a dreamy look in his eyes.
“They’re quite impressive,” I remarked. “You’ve known a great many beautiful women.”
“None so lovely as you, my dear. I’d like very much to add your portrait to the collection.”
“I’d be quite honored.”
“I already have an artist in mind,” Karl confessed shyly. “Only Joseph Stieler could do justice to you. I’ll let him know my wishes and have him arrange with you for your time.” He turned to me, “It’s almost dawn. Would you like to see the gardens?”
I nodded, and Karl took my hand once more, leading me down yet another corridor and out onto an open passageway, its roof supported by slender white marble columns. We went down a flight of steps and into the spacious gardens. Shrubs rustled quietly. The breeze caused my black lace overskirt to lift and billow over the oyster gray satin. The moonlight had faded to a milky white, and the sky was the color of pale ashes, faint pink stains beginning to spread in the east.
We strolled slowly toward the low white marble bannister that stood at the edge of the lake. Beyond the rippling blue-gray water we could see the town’s majestic white buildings a pale violet in this light, rooftops beginning to catch the first pink stains. I wondered how frequently these periods of acute melancholia came over the King. Was that the reason he had made no effort to see me sooner? I suspected so, but he seemed far more at ease now, as the breeze rippled the water and the sky lightened.
While we watched, the lake turned pink, shimmering as though covered with pink spangles. The spangles changed to gold, becoming brighter still as the first real rays of sunlight touched the water. The buildings beyond lost their violet hue, white and gold now, gleaming as the sun grew stronger and shadows melted away in the morning light. The King was silent, gazing at the town he had created, the vision he had transformed into solid reality. He would leave no heir, but he would be leaving a legacy of beauty and culture far more durable than flesh. Few men had achieved as much.
“I thank you for tonight,” he said. “You’ve performed a great kindness, my dear, greater far than you suspect.”
“It’s been my pleasure,” I replied.
“Have you immediate plans?” he inquired.
“Not really. I thought of returning to Paris, but I have no engagements. Eventually, I’ll have to go on another tour. I am a dancer and must dance for my living.”
“Perhaps you’d consent to be my guest for a while? It will take Stieler some time to paint your portrait. You seem pleased with Chez Elena, and I know you’ve made friends among the students. I would make very few demands on you, my dear. Occasional companionship, nothing more.”
He looked at me with those sad eyes, eyes filled with silent pleading. I was deeply moved. Karl of Barivna needed me as no man had ever needed me before, and there could be only one answer.
XXX
The studio was bright and sunny, and through the bank of windows to my right I could see the small, lovely garden with lush purple bougainvillea spilling over the wall and vivid blue larkspurs in neat beds. I had grown very fond of the garden as the weeks went by. The birds that splashed in the white marble bird bath were almost old friends. The chair used for my sitting stood on a low wooden dais and was covered with worn maroon brocade. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it suited Stieler’s purpose. He wanted me sitting very straight, resting my left elbow casually on the arm of the chair, my head turned slightly to the right.
Stieler had been working on the painting for over six weeks. For two hours each day during the best afternoon light, I posed, wearing a black velvet gown with long, tight sleeves and a form fitting bodice, the skirt spread out in lustrous folds. My ebony hair was pulled back sleekly, and just above my temple was a spray of three vivid red carnations. A drift of fine, flowered black lace floated around my face to create the Spanish mantilla effect Stieler wanted. These sessions provided serene interludes, and I had come to enjoy them despite Stieler’s fawning, ingratiating manner. The final sitting came at last.
“Are you growing tired, Countess?” he asked.
“I can manage for a while longer.”
“Half an hour more and I’ll be finished.”
“Completely?”
He nodded, stepping back from the canvas to gaze critically at his work.
“I’ll want to do some work on the background, but today will be your last sitting. I must say, I’ll miss working with you. I’ve never had a more cooperative model.”
“Indeed?”
“Most of the ladies can’t sit still. Either they want to chatter away with a flock of friends who come to keep them company, or they sit and eat chocolates or play with their lap dogs. Most trying. You’ve been a joy, Countess.”
Stieler dipped his brush into the paint on his palette and moved back to the canvas, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, a look of intense concentration in his cool gray eyes. Tall, slender, older than he cared to admit, he sported a neat ginger goatee and long sideburns, looking far
more like a diplomat than an artist. The long frock coat he wore in lieu of the traditional artist’s smock was always spotless. Stieler had painted so many aristocratic ladies that it had gone to his head. Rarely had I encountered a greater snob, yet he was unquestionably a superb artist. Each painting he did glowed with life.
“This shall be my masterpiece,” he declared. “It’s going to eclipse everything else in the Gallery.”
“Do you think so?”
“There’s no question about it.”
Karl’s decision to include my portrait in the Gallery of Beauties had caused a great stir at Court. Count Arco-Valley had adamantly declared that if a painting of “that whore” was to be included, Stieler’s portrait of his wife would promptly be removed from the gallery. A surprising number of Karl’s courtiers and advisors had Sturnburgian connections. They resented my presence in Barivna, and their resentment had flamed even more when, two months earlier, Karl decided to bestow citizenship on me and make me Countess of Landsfeld, granting me an annuity of twenty thousand florins a year and the Landsfeld estates. He had done so against my wishes. Insisting that he wanted to show his appreciation, that he wanted me to have security, he explained that, as King, he had the power to do anything he pleased and it pleased him to do this for me.
“I’ll wager your blood is as blue as the blood of most of those parasites and hangers-on who surround me,” he claimed. “I’ll brook no further argument, Elena. You’re going to be a citizen of Barivna, and you’re going to become a countess whether you like it or not.”
My elevation to the aristocracy had been a great boon for the press, providing even more material for the sensational stories that had appeared in every paper in Europe. It was the most delicious scandal in months, making my affair with Franz seem a trifle in comparison, and the writers outdid themselves. I was a scheming, mercenary temptress taking advantage of the poor, deluded King. I was ruling Barivna from behind the throne, advising Karl on every move. The papers reported that I was brazenly carrying on affairs with a number of students as well, a new one each night, and that I had already caused numerous riots because of my outrageous, immoral conduct.
Smiling a rueful smile, I gazed out at the garden again. If only they knew, I thought. If only they knew how many nights I had done nothing but sit with Karl in his private apartment, amusing him with bright chatter and the gossip that he adored, playing cards with him, discussing painting and literature and music, doing my best to keep away those dark demons that so often threatened to take hold of him. The title he had bestowed upon me, the gifts he insisted on giving me were tokens of appreciation, yes, but not for favors granted in the bedroom. The sensation-seeking newspaper writers would never have understood our platonic relationship, a relationship I could never discuss wtih anyone.
The stories they wrote about my friendship with the students were just as preposterous, but then who would believe that Elena Lopez could entertain rowdy groups of young men without sex entering the picture? How surprised the journalists would have been to see me serving ale and cheese in the elegant drawing room, patiently listening as my young admirers engaged in heated discussion about painting and poetry. Encouraging them in their ambitions, pleading with them to be temperate when they railed against the influx of even more soldiers from Sturnburg, I tried to be a wise and gracious hostess. But despite my good intentions, the newspapers apparently chose to believe only what they wanted to believe. And when a particularly bitter clash erupted one day between soldiers and students—a clash provoked by too much ale and too many hot words—I was the one the newspapers blamed.
The stories didn’t bother me in the least. I had long since grown immune to sensational journalism. The increasingly grave political scene did disturb me. I knew my presence in Barivna had added further tension to an already tense situation, but I also knew how much Karl needed sympathetic companionship during his dark periods of melancholia. It wouldn’t have helped the political situation one jot if I had left, and my presence gave comfort and support to a man who needed it desperately. I had received anonymous letters filled with threats, and once, late at night, my carriage had been pelted with stones by a group of men in uniform, but I wasn’t about to let such things frighten me away.
Growing weary, muscles stiff from sitting so long in the same position, I sighed. Stieler stepped back from the canvas again and, frowning, came over to the dais to rearrange a fold of my black velvet skirt. Returning to the canvas, he picked up his brush, stared at me and resumed his work. Trying to relax my neck muscles, I touched the spray of red carnations and thought about my relationship with Karl, so different from my relationships with Brence or Anthony or Franz and, in some ways, more fulfilling than any of the others had been.
I needed to give of myself, and with Karl I was able to do that without reservation, without fear of rejection. I gave warmth and understanding and concern, and it was received freely, appreciated fully. He listened to my opinions with respect, and our conversations were spirited. The bond between us was not physical, and for that reason there was none of the stress or friction, none of the contention and subtle rivalry that marked my relationships with other men. When I was with Karl there was no need for guile, no need to keep up my guard.
I knew full well that I was living in a fool’s paradise which would soon come to an end, but after so much pain I was content to live from day to day, to deny those other needs that had brought about the disastrous relationship with Franz. My devotion to Karl and, to a lesser degree, my friendship with the students helped me to forget. If, occasionally, there were restless nights when memories plagued me and I was filled with a terrible ache inside, they always passed.
“There,” Stieler said, applying a final daub of paint. “You can relax now, Countess. It’s finished except for the background work I mentioned earlier.”
I stood up and stretched, the folds of my black velvet skirt rustling softly. Stieler wiped his hands with a cloth and then opened a bottle of champagne that had been chilling in a bucket of ice. The cork popped loudly. The champagne fizzed. Stieler filled two glasses and handed one to me as I stepped down from the dais.
“I thought a bit of celebration might be in order,” he said. “Care to see my masterpiece?”
Smiling his ingratiating smile, he led me over to the canvas that he had refused to let me look at until now. I felt a strange sensation as I gazed at it. Stieler had surpassed himself. The woman in the painting was the essence of feminine allure and loveliness. I couldn’t associate her with myself at all. The ebony hair was rich with blue-black highlights, the spray of red carnations standing out in sharp relief, the lace mantilla a fragile drift of lighter black. The skin glowed, cheeks delicately flushed, and the sapphire blue eyes were sad and wise and full of longing.
“It’s glorious,” I said. “I—I can hardly believe I sat for it.”
“I like what I’ve done with the texture of the velvet,” Stieler remarked. “The dark black nap seems to shine with a silvery haze, and the maroon brocade of the chair provides just the right contrast, very subtle and quiet.”
Finishing his champagne, he surveyed the canvas with a look of great satisfaction. “I’ll fill in the background with pale gray hazy with mauve and gold shadow and deliver it to the King tomorrow. I’ve a feeling he’s going to be pleased.”
“Undoubtedly. You’ve done a magnificent job.”
“I had a magnificent subject to work with.”
A loud ruckus in the adjoining room prevented him from paying me further excessive compliments. I was relieved when the door flew open and my escort spilled in with noisy abandon. Ever since the incident in which my carriage had been pelted with stones, Eric, Hans and Wilhelm had insisted on accompanying me to and from the studio each day, a totally unnecessary precaution which was really merely an excuse for them to spend more time with me. They filled the studio with youth and noise, exclaiming over the portrait, pounding a highly disconcerted Stieler on the back, and final
ly whisking me out of the studio and into the waiting carriage.
Hans plopped down beside me, Eric and Wilhelm onto the opposite seat, and the carriage started down the street. As we settled back, I noticed a nasty purple-blue bruise on Wilhelm’s right cheekbone. It hadn’t been there the day before, nor had the cuts on his knuckles. When I asked him about them, Wilhelm scowled, angrily shoving a lock of dark red hair from his forehead.
“Sodding soldiers!” he snarled.
“There was another incident?”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” Hans exclaimed. “It was a regular free-for-all, the biggest brawl yet! Several wounded—mostly military. It happened at the university, right outside the dormitories!”
“All because of the curfew,” Eric added.
“Curfew?”
“Schroder’s idea,” Wilhelm said. “He has decreed that all students must be off the streets by nine o’clock each evening. He decreed, just as though he had the authority to do so! When the announcement was made we went crazy, I can tell you! Schroder had to call in a troop of his men.”
“We gave ’em a run for their money!” Hans bragged. “The brawl lasted at least an hour before the soldiers had the sense to retreat, dragging their wounded after them.”
“Several students were injured, too,” Eric said quietly. “One isn’t expected to live. This wasn’t merely another clash, Elena. It was an act of outright aggression.”
“We’re not taking this sitting down!” Wilhelm vowed hotly. “No sodding Captain is going to impose a curfew on us!”
Hans and Wilhelm continued to rail against the military as we drove through town. There were far more soldiers in evidence than usual. The cafes and beer gardens seemed to be full of arrogant brutes in tight white breeches and green tunics who acted as though they owned the town. Eric informed me that a fresh detachment had arrived from Sturnburg that morning. So many new men had come that the barracks wouldn’t hold them and tents were being pitched on the parade ground.
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