The Victorian Fairy Tale Book (Pantheon Fairy Tale & Folklore Library)

by Hearn, Michael Patrick

  Then Yolande shook her head, and said to herself, “This bodes no good.”

  Next morning all was prepared for the marriage, and the Princess was dressed in white satin and pearls with a long white lace veil over her, and a bridal wreath on her head, and she stood waiting among her grandly dressed ladies, who all said that such a beautiful bride had never been seen in the world before. But just as they were preparing to go down to the fine company in the hall, a messenger came in great haste summoning the Princess at once to her father the King, as he was much perplexed.

  “My daughter,” cried he, as Fiorimonde in all her bridal array entered the room where he sat alone, “what can we do? King Pierrot is nowhere to be found; I fear lest he may have been seized by robbers and basely murdered for his rich clothes, or carried away to some mountain and left there to starve. My soldiers are gone far and wide to seek him—and we shall hear of him ere day is done—but where there is no bridegroom there can be no bridal.”

  “Then let it be put off, my father,” cried the Princess, “and to-morrow we shall know if it is for a wedding, or a funeral, we must dress”; and she pretended to weep, but even then could hardly keep from laughing.

  So the wedding guests went away, and the Princess laid aside her bridal dress, and all waited anxiously for news of King Pierrot; and no news came. So at last every one gave him up for dead, and mourned for him, and wondered how he had met his fate.

  Princess Fiorimonde put on a black gown, and begged to be allowed to live in seclusion for one month in which to grieve for King Pierrot; but when she was again alone in her bedroom she sat before her looking-glass and laughed till tears ran down her cheeks; and Yolande watched her, and trembled, when she heard her laughter. She noticed, too, that beneath her black gown, the Princess still wore her gold cord, and did not move it night or day.

  The month had barely passed away when the King came to his daughter, and announced that another suitor had presented himself, whom he should much like to be her husband. The Princess agreed quite obediently to all her father said; and it was arranged that the marriage should take place. This new prince was called Prince Hildebrandt. He came from a country far north, of which one day he would be king. He was tall, and fair, and strong, with flaxen hair and bright blue eyes. When Princess Fiorimonde saw his portrait she was much pleased, and said, “By all means let him come, and the sooner the better.” So she put off her black clothes, and again great preparations were made for a wedding; and King Pierrot was quite forgotten.

  Prince Hildebrandt came, and with him many fine gentlemen, and they brought beautiful gifts for the bride. The evening of his arrival all went well, and again there was a grand feast, and Fiorimonde looked so beautiful that Prince Hildebrandt was delighted; and this time she did not leave her father’s side, but sat by him all the evening.

  Early next morning at sunrise, when every one was still sleeping, the Princess rose, and dressed herself in a plain white gown, and brushed all her hair over her shoulders, and crept quietly down stairs into the palace gardens; then she walked on till she came beneath the window of Prince Hildebrandt’s room, and here she paused and began to sing a little song as sweet and joyous as a lark’s. When Prince Hildebrandt heard it he got up and went to the window and looked out to see who sang, and when he saw Fiorimonde standing in the red sunrise-light, which made her hair look gold, and her face rosy, he made haste to dress himself and go down to meet her.

  “How, my Princess,” cried he, as he stepped into the garden beside her. “This is indeed great happiness to meet you here so early. Tell me, why do you come out at sunrise to sing by yourself?”

  “I come that I may see the colours of the sky—red, blue, and gold,” answered the Princess. “Look, there are no such colours to be seen anywhere, unless, indeed, it be in this bead which I wear here on my golden cord.”

  “What is that bead, and where did it come from?” asked Hildebrandt.

  “It came from over the sea, where it shall never return again,” answered the Princess. And again her eyes began to sparkle with eagerness, and she could scarcely conceal her mirth. “Lift the cord off my neck and look at it near, and tell me if you ever saw one like it.”

  Hildebrandt put out his hands and took hold of the cord, but no sooner were his fingers closed around it than he vanished, and a new bright bead was slung next to the first one on Fiorimonde’s chain, and this one was even more beautiful than the other.

  The Princess gave a long low laugh, quite terrible to hear.

  “Oh, my sweet necklace,” cried she, “how beautiful you are growing! I think I love you more than anything in the world besides.” Then she went softly back to bed, without any one hearing her, and fell sound asleep, and slept till Yolande came to tell her it was time for her to get up and dress for the wedding.

  The Princess was dressed in gorgeous clothes, and only Yolande noticed that beneath her satin gown, she wore the golden cord, but now there were two beads upon it instead of one. Scarcely was she ready when the King burst into her room in a towering rage.

  “My daughter,” cried he, “there is a plot against us. Lay aside your bridal attire and think no more of Prince Hildebrandt, for he too has disappeared, and is nowhere to be found.”

  At this the Princess wept, and entreated that Hildebrandt should be sought for far and near, but she laughed to herself, and said, “Search where you will, yet you shall not find him”; and so again a great search was made, and when no trace of the Prince was found, all the palace was in an uproar.

  The Princess again put off her bride’s dress and clad herself in black, and sat alone, and pretended to weep, but Yolande, who watched her, shook her head, and said, “More will come and go before the wicked Princess has done her worst.”

  A month passed, in which Fiorimonde pretended to mourn for Hildebrandt, then she went to the King and said:

  “Sire, I pray that you will not let people say that when any bridegroom comes to marry me, as soon as he has seen me he flies rather than be my husband. I beg that suitors may be summoned from far and near that I may not be left alone unwed.”

  The King agreed, and envoys were sent all the world over to bid any who would come and be the husband of Princess Fiorimonde. And come they did, kings and princes from south and north, east, and west—King Adrian, Prince Sigbert, Prince Algar, and many more—but though all went well till the wedding morning, when it was time to go to church, no bridegroom was to be found. The old King was sadly frightened, and would fain have given up all hope of finding a husband for the Princess, but now she implored him, with tears in her eyes, not to let her be disgraced in this way. And so suitor after suitor continued to come, and now it was known, far and wide, that whoever came to ask for the hand of Princess Fiorimonde vanished, and was seen no more of men. The courtiers were afraid and whispered under their breath, “It is not all right, it cannot be”; but only Yolande noticed how the beads came upon the golden thread, till it was well-nigh covered, yet there always was room for one bead more.

  So the years passed, and every year Princess Fiorimonde grew lovelier and lovelier, so that no one who saw her could guess how wicked she was.

  In a far-off country lived a young prince whose name was Florestan. He had a dear friend named Gervaise, whom he loved better than any one in the world. Gervaise was tall, and broad, and stout of limb, and he loved Prince Florestan so well, that he would gladly have died to serve him.

  It chanced that Prince Florestan saw a portrait of Princess Fiorimonde, and at once swore he would go to her father’s court, and beg that he might have her for his wife, and Gervaise in vain tried to dissuade him.

  “There is an evil fate about the Princess Fiorimonde,” quoth he; “many have gone to marry her, but where are they now?”

  “I don’t know or care,” answered Florestan, “but this is sure, that I will wed her and return here, and bring my bride with me.”

  So he set out for Fiorimonde’s home, and Gervaise went with him wi
th a heavy heart.

  When they reached the court, the old King received them and welcomed them warmly, and he said to his courtiers, “Here is a fine young prince to whom we would gladly see our daughter wed. Let us hope that this time all will be well.” But now Fiorimonde had grown so bold, that she scarcely tried to conceal her mirth.

  “I will gladly marry him to-morrow, if he comes to the church,” she said; “but if he is not there, what can I do,” and she laughed long and merrily, till those who heard her shuddered.

  When the Princess’s ladies came to tell her that Prince Florestan was arrived, she was in the garden, lying on the marble edge of a fountain, feeding the gold-fish who swam in the water.

  “Bid him come to me,” she said, “for I will not go any more in state to meet any suitors, neither will I put on grand attire for them. Let him come and find me as I am, since all find it so easy to come and go.” So her ladies told the prince that Fiorimonde waited for him near the fountain.

  She did not rise when he came to where she lay, but his heart bounded with joy, for he had never in his life beheld such a beautiful woman.

  She wore a thin soft white dress, which clung to her lithe figure. Her beautiful arms and hands were bare, and she dabbled with them in the water, and played with the fish. Her great blue eyes were sparkling with mirth, and were so beautiful, that no one noticed the wicked look hid in them; and on her neck lay the marvellous many-coloured necklace, which was itself a wonder to behold.

  “You have my best greetings, Prince Florestan,” she said. “And you, too, would be my suitor. Have you thought well of what you would do, since so many princes who have seen me have fled for ever, rather than marry me?” and as she spoke, she raised her white hand from the water, and held it out to the Prince, who stooped and kissed it, and scarcely knew how to answer her for bewilderment at her great loveliness.

  Gervaise followed his master at a short distance, but he was ill at ease, and trembled for fear of what should come.

  “Come, bid your friend leave us,” said Fiorimonde, looking at Gervaise, “and sit beside me, and tell me of your home, and why you wish to marry me, and all pleasant things.”

  Florestan begged that Gervaise would leave them for a little, and he walked slowly away, in a very mournful mood.

  He went on down the walks, not heeding where he was going, till he met Yolande, who stood beneath a tree laden with rosy apples, picking the fruit, and throwing it into a basket at her feet. He would have passed her in silence, but she stopped him, and said:

  “Have you come with the new Prince? Do you love your master?”

  “Ay, better than any one else on the earth,” answered Gervaise. “Why do you ask?”

  “And where is he now,” said Yolande, not heeding Gervaise’s question.

  “He sits by the fountain with the beautiful Princess,” said Gervaise.

  “Then, I hope you have said good-bye to him well, for be assured you shall never see him again,” said Yolande, nodding her head.

  “Why not, and who are you to talk like this?” asked Gervaise.

  “My name is Yolande,” answered she, “and I am Princess Fiorimonde’s maid. Do you not know that Prince Florestan is the eleventh lover who has come to marry her, and one by one they have disappeared, and only I know where they are gone.”

  “And where are they gone?” cried Gervaise, “and why do you not tell the world, and prevent good men being lost like this?”

  “Because I fear my mistress,” said Yolande, speaking low and drawing near to him; “she is a sorceress, and she wears the brave kings and princes who come to woo her, strung upon a cord round her neck. Each one forms the bead of a necklace which she wears, both day and night. I have watched that necklace growing; first it was only an empty gold thread; then came King Pierrot, and when he disappeared the first bead appeared upon it. Then came Hildebrandt, and two beads were on the string instead of one; then followed Adrian, Sigbert, and Algar, and Cenred, and Pharamond, and Baldwyn, and Leofric, and Raoul, and all are gone, and ten beads hang upon the string, and to-night there will be eleven, and the eleventh will be your Prince Florestan.”

  “If this be so,” cried Gervaise, “I will never rest till I have plunged my sword into Fiorimonde’s heart”; but Yolande shook her head.

  “She is a sorceress,” she said, “and it might be hard to kill her; besides, that might not break the spell, and bring back the princes to life. I wish I could show you the necklace, and you might count the beads, and see if I do not speak truth, but it is always about her neck, both night and day, so it is impossible.”

  “Take me to her room to-night when she is asleep, and let me see it there,” said Gervaise.

  “Very well, we will try,” said Yolande; “but you must be very still, and make no noise, for if she wakes, remember it will be worse for us both.”

  When night came and all in the palace were fast asleep, Gervaise and Yolande met in the great hall, and Yolande told him that the Princess slumbered soundly.

  “So now let us go,” said she, “and I will show you the necklace on which Fiorimonde wears her lovers strung like beads, though how she transforms them I know not.”

  “Stay one instant, Yolande,” said Gervaise, holding her back, as she would have tripped up stairs. “Perhaps, try how I may, I shall be beaten, and either die or become a bead like those who have come before me. But if I succeed and rid the land of your wicked Princess, what will you promise me for a reward?”

  “What would you have?” asked Yolande.

  “I would have you say you will be my wife, and come back with me to my own land,” said Gervaise.

  “That I will promise gladly,” said Yolande, kissing him, “but we must not speak or think of this till we have cut the cord from Fiorimonde’s neck, and all her lovers are set free.”

  So they went softly up to the Princess’s room, Yolande holding a small lantern, which gave only a dim light. There, in her grand bed, lay Princess Fiorimonde. They could just see her by the lantern’s light, and she looked so beautiful that Gervaise began to think Yolande spoke falsely, when she said she was so wicked.

  Her face was calm and sweet as a baby’s; her hair fell in ruddy waves on the pillow; her rosy lips smiled, and little dimples showed in her cheeks; her white soft hands were folded amidst the scented lace and linen of which the bed was made. Gervaise almost forgot to look at the glittering beads hung round her throat, in wondering at her loveliness, but Yolande pulled him by the arm.

  “Do not look at her,” she whispered softly, “since her beauty has cost dear already; look rather at what remains of those who thought her as fair as you do now; see here,” and she pointed with her finger to each bead in turn.

  “This was Pierrot, and this Hildebrandt, and these are Adrian, and Sigbert, and Algar, and Cenred, and that is Pharamond, and that Raoul, and last of all here is your own master Prince Florestan. Seek him now where you will and you will not find him, and you shall never see him again till the cord is cut and the charm broken.”

  “Of what is the cord made?” whispered Gervaise.

  “It is of the finest gold,” she answered. “Nay, do not you touch her lest she wake. I will show it to you.” And Yolande put down the lantern and softly put out her hands to slip the beads aside, but as she did so, her fingers closed around the golden string, and directly she was gone. Another bead was added to the necklace, and Gervaise was alone with the sleeping Princess. He gazed about him in sore amazement and fear. He dared not call lest Fiorimonde should wake.

  “Yolande,” he whispered as loud as he dared, “Yolande, where are you?” but no Yolande answered.

  Then he bent down over the Princess and gazed at the necklace. Another bead was strung upon it next to the one to which Yolande had pointed as Prince Florestan. Again he counted them. “Eleven before, now there are twelve. Oh hateful Princess! I know now where go the brave kings and princes who came to woo you, and where, too, is my Yolande,” and as he looked at the
last bead, tears filled his eyes. It was brighter and clearer than the others, and of a warm red hue, like the red dress Yolande had worn. The Princess turned and laughed in her sleep, and at the sound of her laughter Gervaise was filled with horror and loathing. He crept shuddering from the room, and all night long sat up alone, plotting how he might defeat Fiorimonde, and set Florestan and Yolande free.

  Next morning when Fiorimonde dressed she looked at her necklace and counted its beads, but she was much perplexed, for a new bead was added to the string.

  “Who can have come and grasped my chain unknown to me?” she said to herself, and she sat and pondered for a long time. At last she broke into weird laughter.

  “At any rate, whoever it was, is fitly punished,” quoth she. “My brave necklace, you can take care of yourself, and if any one tries to steal you, they will get their reward, and add to my glory. In truth I may sleep in peace, and fear nothing.”

  The day passed away and no one missed Yolande. Towards sunset the rain began to pour in torrents, and there was such a terrible thunderstorm that every one was frightened. The thunder roared, the lightning gleamed flash after flash, every moment it grew fiercer and fiercer. The sky was so dark that, save for the lightning’s light, nothing could be seen, but Princess Fiorimonde loved the thunder and lightning.

  She sat in a room high up in one of the towers, clad in a black velvet dress, and she watched the lightning from the window, and laughed at each peal of thunder. In the midst of the storm a stranger, wrapped in a cloak, rode to the palace door, and the ladies ran to tell the Princess that a new prince had come to be her suitor. “And he will not tell his name,” said they, “but says he hears that all are bidden to ask for the hand of Princess Fiorimonde, and he too would try his good fortune.”

  “Let him come at once,” cried the Princess. “Be he prince or knave, what care I? If princes all fly from me it may be better to marry a peasant.”