It was now that the audience paid their greatest tribute. For the curtain did not fall on a burst of applause. As Klasky dropped his head in weariness over the score, there fell over the entire theatre a total stillness. In that solemn and magical hush, the spectators took hold of their departed souls and admitted them once more into their bodies.

It was in that moment of utter silence before the applause which would presently raise the roof, that Guy turned to the woman for whom this miracle had been wrought.

She sat with her dark head leaning against the blue silk draperies of the lôge. One lovely arm lay relaxed and still on the arm of the gilt chair, the hand with the great diamond hanging free. The marvellous eyes were sealed by luxuriant, dusky lashes; her bosom rose and fell, softly, rhythmically. Her breathing was steady, but every now and then a small, incongruous and not entirely pleasant snuffling noise came from between her parted lips.

Guy leaned forward, suddenly anxious. Had she been overcome? Had she fainted?

But, no. There was no cause for alarm and certainly none for the black despair which now overwhelmed him. Naturally and — but for the small snores she emitted — gracefully, Nerine Hurlingham lay deep in sleep.

12

Refreshments and champagne had been laid out in the great hall for the cast and those who cared to join them. However when they had eaten and — more particularly — drunk, they were inclined to wander back to the theatre where they felt at home and, carrying bottles and glasses, to come to rest amongst the scenery — lolling contentedly against pieces of temple, sprawling across pillars.

Everyone was exhausted, tipsy and for these few hours completely happy. For their triumph was as tangible, as unmistakable, as a seam of gold in a rock face, or as the discovery of a new planet, or the act of love. Tomorrow there would be tensions and rivalries again — and hard work as they struck the set and prepared for the journey back to Vienna. But tonight belonged to the gods and even Jacob who never paused, paused now. Even Jacob who never praised, now praised.

‘No, no, Savachka!’ said Raisa firmly. She removed the Archduke’s glass and handed him her large, scuffed and overflowing shoe. ‘It is from zis zat you must drink champagne!’

‘Ah, if only Mama could have been here tonight,’ sighed Pino, his arm around the Middle Heidi. ‘How that woman loved me!’

‘It came quite suddenly you see, this terrible twang — and then I fell and all I remember is my silver tail rolling, rolling away over the footlights before everything went black!’ declared the Rhinemaiden, recounting her historic mishap to the sympathetic David Tremayne.

But again and again they returned to the performance, recalling its felicities like people telling their beads so that they would not forget this night.

To the happiness and contentment pervading the party there was a notable exception: Prince Maximilian of Spittau, scrambling frantically over pieces of scenery and looking for his love.

For Tessa, Maxi could not help feeling, had behaved most shabbily. Not only had she rushed backstage during the interval, but as soon as the applause started after curtain down she had shot off again, declaring that she had to help clear up. And since then he had seen no sign of her.

But he was going to find her. He was going to find her and bring this proposing business to a head if it took all night. Enough was enough. Now, his glass clutched in his hand, he stumbled over entwined couples, fell over Raisa’s dachshund and enquired with increasing desperation for the Princess of Pfaffenstein.

No one could help him. Even Boris, who regarded Tessa as his special charge, had no idea where she was and Klasky, when questioned, opened an eye, said vaguely, ‘Dear little thing… brought The Button to Sachers…’ and passed out at the foot of a cut-out tree.

‘Going to find her,’ said Maxi, draining his glass. ‘Going to find her… going to —’ and lurched away in the direction of the dressing-rooms.

At first Tessa had been buoyed up and sustained by the general jubilation that followed the fall of the curtain. But slowly, inexorably, the pain that had been lying in wait for her crept closer, could not be ignored and soon took over her whole self in a way which seemed entirely physical.

As soon as she had tidied up backstage, she slipped away to the West Tower. But before she could be alone, she had to go and say good night to the aunts for she was aware how badly she had neglected them during the past week.

She found them preparing for bed, their grey plaits hanging down their backs and, as always, their faces lit up at the sight of her. But when she had left again to go up to her room they turned to each other, suddenly stricken and helpless.

‘What is it?’ enquired Tante Tilda piteously. ‘What makes her look like that? Her eyes…’

Tante Augustine shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Before,’ she said gruffly, ‘one could at least brush her hair for her. But now…’

‘She’ll be all right when she’s married to Maxi?’ said Tante Tilda beseechingly. ‘She’ll be all right then, won’t she, Augustine?’

But the Duchess was silent. Tomorrow she would forget again, would continue to press for the marriage that was so suitable, so dynastically right. But tonight she was still caught by the music’s truth and she did not speak.

Tessa had reached her room, but she did not prepare for bed — instead, she climbed the round, stone steps which led up to the tower roof. It was for this view, this freedom, that she had chosen the plain, round room out of all the others in the castle, and now, stepping out, she found herself under a brilliant canopy of stars.

She was alone now and there was no escape. No more than one can ignore what Van Gogh saw in an olive tree or Rembrandt in the lineaments of age, could she forget what had happened to her when Guy had held her in his arms.

Here it was, then. Love. Love as strong, as specific, as if it were some metallurgical process welding her thoughts, her desires, her soul to a man who scarcely knew she existed. All those celestial shriekings in Tristan and Isolde, all those swords plunged by heaving tenors into their own chests, had been nothing more than case histories, describing this thing which was as real, as hard as stone.

Oh, God, thought Tessa; why? The uselessness of it when he loved Nerine and would, in any case, never have stooped to her. To ‘why?’ there was no answer except in the whim of fate. When, then? This was easier to answer. Almost at once, had she known enough to read the signs. That first time when he had taken her home and placed his fingers against her cheek, measuring the line of her hair… And again in the Stadtpark when he spoke of his foster-mother and his voice had grown so warm and tender… And at Sachers. Yes, she had certainly known at Sachers.

And I wanted to consult Professor Freud, thought Tessa. Well, the joke’s on me. With the appalling clarity of her condition, she saw Guy’s hand as he pushed a lock of hair impatiently from his forehead, saw his mocking smile as he drew the curtains of the alcove at Sachers, the curve of his throat as he bent to take the strawberries from her in the woods.

Do I know everything about him already? she thought, bewildered. And back came the answer: everything. You are branded with this knowledge, you will have it for the rest of time.

But this was too much. She took a deep breath, inhaling the night air scented with hay, with honeysuckle and the rich waters of the lake, listened to the music and laughter coming from the theatre and tilted her head at the stars. She had never seen them so brilliant and clear. Cassiopeia, Orion, the great girdle of the Milky Way — and her own birth sign, Gemini. With such staggering beauty in the world, how could anyone not rejoice?

It seemed, however, that ‘anyone’ could. For at once came the age-old cry of lovers since time began. ‘What are the stars if I am not gazing at them with him? What is beauty except something that we share?’

Alone and appalled, Tessa stared at the meaningless heavens. ‘This,’ said the Princess Theresa-Maria Rodolphe Caroline of Pfaffenstein, lifting her chin, ‘this I will fight.’

‘May I help Your Highness?’ The Littlest Heidi stood before Maxi as he clambered over yet another pile of scenery in his relentless, and so far hopeless, search for his beloved.

‘I’m looking for the Princess of Pfaffenstein. For Tessa,’ he added, for he was endeavouring to embrace democracy.

But his eyes rested, with a pleasure he found it impossible to conceal, on the entrancement that was Heidi Schlumberger dressed as a rabbit. It was thus that she had danced to Tamino’s flute. Now, though she had removed her mask, she was still encased in soft, beige fur with a white fluffy tail. The huge blue eyes, the golden curls tumbling over her pelt, were almost too much for Maxi. He had not sought her out since they met at the film show but the little dancer had seldom been absent from what passed, in Maxi’s mind, for thoughts.

‘I haven’t seen her for quite a while,’ said Heidi. ‘Shall I help you look? She may still be doing something in one of the dressing-rooms. You can’t imagine how hard she works.’

Maxi, who could imagine it all too well, wrinkled the nose which came to him straight from Phillip II of Spain and said he would be grateful. It was necessary, he said, for him to speak to Tessa that very night.

So they searched the dressing-rooms, the wardrobe, the Green Room, but there was no sign of Tessa.