10 PRELUDE TO THE SERVANTS’ BALL

Under the colored lanterns swinging from trees, there were already a score or more carriages lining the side drives. Coachmasters talked in groups. The doors of the hall stood open, a wide bar of light silhouetting those who came on foot from the opera-hall, and turning to a more vivid green the tender grass. Violins sounded piercingly; as Rodvard joined the throng at the entrance, striving to walk with Cleudi’s slight strut, he saw how all the floor beyond was covered with jewels and flashing feet, while nearby the mingled voices were so high that only the rhythm of the music was audible, with women’s laughter riding on all like a foam. Right behind him a bearded Prophet of Mancherei showed the slim legs of a girl through an artfully torn silken robe, and tossed at him a rouge-ball which marked his white jacket; he must weave his way to the foot of the stairs around a group gaily trying with tinsel swords to attack an armored capellan, pausing to bow before one of twenty queens.
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Halfway up the stairs in the dim of the balustrade, an archer of the guard, with his star-badge picked out in emeralds, was kissing a sea-witch in flowing blue. They disembraced at his footfalls; the sea-girl leaped up and threw her arms around Rodvard’s neck, crying; “Snowlord from Kjermanash, I will melt you. Did I not tell you, ser archer, that witches are all fickle?”

“But are tamed by those who battle for them,” said the archer, as Rodvard gave her the kiss she sought. (Behind her eyes was nothing but reckless pleasure.) “My lord of Kjermanash, I challenge you; will you duel or die for her?”

“Oh, fie!” cried the sea-girl. “No one shall ever tame me,” and giving them each a box on the ear in a single motion, ran lightfoot and laughing down the steps to throw herself on the capellan, shouting that he was her prisoner.

“Lost! Lost!” cried the archer in mock agony. “Come, my lord, let us make an alliance for the conquest of witches less fickle than the marine. I will provide the arm and you the purse, from that secret gold-mine which all Kjermanash keep.”

“Ah, ser archer, it is magic gold, and at the touch of a witch, would vanish.” Rodvard bowed and turned up the stairs.

For most, it was still too early to retire to the boxes, the corridor behind them was empty of all but one small group of masks, laughing together. Rodvard waited a moment with beating heart, turning to toss one of his snowballs of perfumed fabric at random into the crowd below. He thought someone down there in the group might have cried, “Cleudi!” as the people at the end of the corridor entered their box and he was alone. The handkerchief was in place; it was more than a little dim for him to be sure of the color, but as he took it from its place with a little tear, there could be no doubt that the perfume was rose.

Eight paces counted in automatic nervousness carried him to the door of Cleudi’s box. Music and voices were muted from within, it was an island of alone, the feeling deepened by everything in view. Other servants than Damaris had been busy; the reek of flowers was heavier than ever, even the chairs were garlanded and the odor enhanced by a tall candle which stood on the sideboard, left of the entrance, sending a tiny curl of perfumed smoke into the still air. Around the candle were viands; beyond the sideboard against the wall, a divan with rolling edges; round chairs facing the panels where the box would look out over the dancing floor if the panels were let down and the curtains drawn back. There were two chairs facing the table and it was laid, but in the center, only the bottle of fired-wine, its cork already drawn. Rodvard poured himself a dram and drank it rapidly, savoring the warm shock as it coursed down his throat.
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He wondered if he dared take a second draft and decided against, he would need clear wits to play his part. A slice from the ham made him realize hunger, but again he forebore to go further, it would be ungentle to disarrange the meal before the arrival of his guest. He walked slowly across and seated himself in one of the chairs, looking outward toward the blank paneling, twisting his back into the comfort of the seat, but without finding rest. From below the high note of a violin in crescendo pierced the hangings; one might be one of those gods of antique legend, who sit on the Shining Mountains, with heads above the clouds, and control mortal destinies to whom all below would be what he heard now, a babble with an occasional note of agony. Ah, but to be the controller instead of the controlled—

The door was tapped.

So rapidly that the chair was overset, Rodvard leaped to his feet, picked it up, cursing his clumsiness, strode swiftly to the door and threw it open. On the threshold stood the Prophet of Mancherei, who had teased him with the rouge-ball. He bowed over her hand, drawing her in, and as the door closed, declaimed:

“Now that winter’s gone, the earth has lost

Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost

Candies the grass or casts an icy cream

Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;

Now do the choir of chirping minstrels bring

In triumph to the world the youthful spring:

The valleys, woods and hills in rich array

Welcome the coming of the longed-for May.

Now all things smile, only my love doth lower

Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power

To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold

Her heart congealed and makes her pity cold.

How shall we call it spring when she doth carry

June in her eyes, in her heart January?”

—in a half-whisper, yet joyously, with laughing lips, as Cleudi might have done it, passing one hand around her shoulders, with the other holding tight to her hand.

“A northern lord to complain of the cold? And to instruct the Prophet of Love in love?” she said, in Countess Aiella’s thrilling voice. (If it were only this one.) “I will not grant your right to sue until you have proved love your prophet.”
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“Ah, that would be epicene,” said Rodvard (the fired-wine working in him; but it was too dim to wring truth from her eyes). “You must convert yourself to a woman before you can convert me to your sacred love.”

“Oh, love does not remain true love when its longings are satisfied; therefore the sacred, which can never be satisfied, is above the profane,” she said, stepping to one of the chairs at the table with a graceful play of ankle. Her hands went up to slip off the head-mask, and she sat back, hair falling round her shoulders. “I am a little weary, my lord of Kjermanash; give me something to drink that will warm your wintry wit.”

Her fingers toyed with a goblet, but he took one of the festival-cups from his belt, poured it full, then as she drank, disengaged it from her fingers and finished it himself, lips carefully at the place where hers had touched the edge.

“Not worthy of you, my lord. Is this the promised originality? Go catch servant-girls with such tricks.”

“Alas,” he said, using the same half-whisper (the voice was the danger-point). “True love and longing has no tricks, only the expression by every means of its desire. Let us contest your heresy that satisfied longing is the end of love; for in love, the momentary assuagement only leads to further longings.”

He poured her more from the bottle, and this time took the other cup himself. (The glint of her eye, momentarily caught, held some slight anticipation of pleasure, but there was more in it of weariness with the world.)

“Ah, if it only would,” she said, and turned her lovely head aside. “I am hungry, my lord.”

He leaped up at once and began to serve her from the sideboard, while the joyous tumult from below and along the corridor became louder, and someone in the next box was making high festival, with squeals of women laughing and the rumble of men. They ate, talking a little more of the nature of love and whether it lives by satisfaction or by the lack of it. She drank more than he. There were springcakes; he set one before her, but she only tasted it and pushed it away, whereupon he left his own untouched and ran around the table to gather her in his arms. “You are the only sweet I need,” he whispered, feeling at once strong and weak, but she avoided her head from his kiss, and when he essayed to hold her, shook herself free, with: “No. Ah, let us not spoil it.”
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“Lovely Aiella, do not say that, I implore,” he cried, slipping down with one arm around her waist, his face close to the sweet hair of her turned head (and now with the fired-wine and nearness it was not of Maritzl of Stojenrosek he thought of, Maritzl lost, or of Lalette, or of the interruption that would come, but only of desire), and he slipped farther to one knee, not saying anything any more, only drawing her hands to him and kissing them again and again.

She took them from him and lifted his face gently to look him straight in the eyes, for one long breath in which the sound of the twittering recorders came from the floor beneath; then the Countess Aiella rose a trifle unsteadily to her feet, and as Rodvard rose also, holding her in the circle of his arms, said; “Shall we kiss?”

Her face was in shadow as the full lips met his, but as he swung her from her feet toward the divan, her eyes came open (and he saw in those deep pools that she would resist no longer, only hope that it would be better than the others). He half fell across her, with fingers and lips they devoured each other—

The creak of the opening door shivered through every muscle. “Be careful, my lord,” said Cleudi’s voice, strongly. “By the Service! What’s here?”

Rodvard rolled himself afoot (the thought of that other union unconsummated in Mme. Kaja’s garret shouting a trumpet through his mind and making him now glad, glad of this failure) and around to see Cleudi, all in his purple costume, with the pudgy Duke of Aggermans, and between the two a masque dressed as a bear. The man was very drunk; as the lolling white head came upright in its swing, Rodvard found himself looking into the eyes of the people’s friend, Baron Brunivar, and even in the dim light, was appalled by what he saw there, for the man was not only drunk, he had a witchery upon him.

The mouth opened. “Sh’ my always darling,” said Brunivar thickly, and disengaging his arm from Cleudi’s, swung it in a round gesture. “Glad you foun’ her for me.” Aggermans released the other arm; the Baron took three stumbling steps toward Aiella, and as she slipped his clutch, stumbled onto the divan, pushed himself around, focussed his eyes with difficulty, and cried; “Now I foun’ her. Festival night. You go leave us, and I do anything you want tomorrow, my lor’.”

Aggermans’ round face had gone cherry-red. “That I can credit, my lord,” he said, looking steadily not at Brunivar but at the Countess Aiella. “The more since I once would have done the same. But it is too high a price for the temporary favors of a bona roba.”
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The Countess laughed. “The pleasure of your Grace’s company has been so small that you must not blame me if I seek elsewhere.” She turned to Cleudi with a certain dignity. “As for you, my lord, I know whom I have to thank for this shame, and believe me, I will not forget it.”

He bowed. “If the memory lasts until the next time when you laugh over having given a rendezvous you never meant to keep, I shall feel myself repaid for my troubles,” he said.

“Ah, she has been deceiving you, too?” said Aggermans, and turned toward Rodvard as Brunivar made one more pawing effort to grasp the girl. “And who is this? I think I should like to remember him.” (Concentrated venom streamed from his eyes.)

“Why, since this is another costume of mine, I think this will be my writer,” said Cleudi. “Take off your mask, Bergelin.”

Rodvard drew it off slowly, not knowing what to say, but the Countess Aiella spared him the trouble. “I see,” she said. “It was all planned, not a part only. At least he has a heart, and so the advantage over any of you.” She stepped over to take the young man’s arm. “Ser, will you escort me as far as my pavilion?”

Cleudi stepped aside to let them pass through the door and down the stairs. “What, unmasked already, my lady?” cried someone in the gay crowd round the door, but she did not turn her head until they were out in the shadow, when she released his arm with; “Now, go.”

From within the hall came the moan of violins.
II

He woke with scaly tongue, head spinning in the fumes of the fired-wine and body burning with unfulfilled desires, to the clink of silver on porcelain, as the maid Damaris bore in his breakfast tray. She was already in costume, a milkmaid and not badly done; her eyes and feet were dancing. “Oh, where did you get the lovely Kjermanash mask?” she asked as he propped himself up among the pillows, and giving him the tray, went to run her fingers lovingly over the white silk where it hung across the chair. “It’s just the most beautiful thing ever. I’ll be so happy to be with you in it.”

“Count Cleudi lent it to me . . . Damaris.”

“What is it?”

“Sit down a minute. On the chair, no matter.”
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“I’ll ruffle your beautiful costume. Was it made in Kjermanash?” She sat facing him on the bed as he moved over to make room. The neck of her milkmaid’s dress was cut low enough to show the upper round of her breasts with a little in between (and the Blue Star told him that she noticed, and wanted him to notice; that it was festival day, when all’s forgotten in the new spring).

“Damaris—about this ball . . . I’m afraid I won’t be able to go with you after all.”

Rather than angry, her face was woebegone to the edge of tears. (A world was crashing in her thoughts.) “You don’t want to be with servant-class people?”

He reached out and patted her hand conciliatingly. “Of course I do, with you. But Damaris . . . you said it cost three spadas and I haven’t hardly any coppers, even.”

“Oh.” She perched her head on one side and looked at him birdlike under prettily arched brows. “I can let you have that much.” Then, seeing the expression on his face; “You can give it back to me when you get it from your master.”

(He did not really want to go at all, headache and the thought of his position with Cleudi and the Duke of Aggermans gnawed at him, he could not think clearly.) “I—I—”

“I don’t mind, really.”

“But I don’t want to take your money. I may—may not get any.”

She considered, looking at him sharply, with eyes narrowing. Then; “I know. You don’t want to go with me because I’m not your friend.” She tipped suddenly forward, one arm round his neck, and kissed him hard, then drew her head back, and with a long breath, said; “Will you go with me now?”

“I—”

She kissed him again, tonguewise, and as her lips clung, shifted her body, and with her free hand, guided his to the V of her dress. Her eyes said she did not want him to stop, and he did not. Near the end it came to him that the Blue Star was dead, he could not fathom a single thought in her mind.