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lee-laurent · 18 days ago

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Fairytale - Quinn Hughes

Summary: Quinn, a commoner, falls for the princess of his kingdom

content: monarchy (?), fluff, angst, arranged marriage

wc: 9.5k

notes: this is kinda cheesey. i can't tell if it's cringe or not... also i had to use translator app a bit because idk the english words for some like fairytale stuff

Princess Francesca shifted restlessly in her bed, the dawn light casting pale strips of light through her curtains. She could hear the faint, familiar creaks of the palace as it stirred awake--the footsteps of the early-rising servants, the rattle of dishes from the kitchens below, the swish of brooms across the marbled halls.

Today was a court day, and soon her maid would enter with a dress stiff with embroidery, layers of silk, and delicate lace. She'd be expected to sit for hours in the throne room beside her father, listening to noblemen, landowners, and advisors drone on. A long day of diplomacy and keeping her shoulders straight, her chin lifted just so. The thought alone made her itch for escape.

Francesca bit her lip, her heart pounding as she crept to her wardrobe and reached for her plainest, dullest dress. She slipped it over her nightgown, pulling the rough woolen fabric over her head, the fibres scratching against her skin--a small price to pay for a taste of freedom.

She sat at her vanity, shaking her golden hair free from its nightly braid, her curls falling in soft waves past her shoulders. Reaching for her ribbon, a pale blue one that she used almost every day, she grabbed the front strands of her hair, securing them in the back with a bow. The ribbon was her favourite touch--simple, delicate, and nothing like the polished tiaras or heavy jewels she was used to. With a final check to ensure her face was free of any telltale signs of royalty, she drew up her hood and made her way toward the door.

Frankie's maid, Alice, a warm-hearted woman with wise eyes and a knack for knowing precisely when not to ask questions, waited outside her chamber door. She raised an eyebrow as Frankie slipped into the hall, unable to fully hide her smirk. "And where will you be going this morning, Your Highness?"

Frankie rolled her eyes. "Out."

Alice's mouth quirked into a smile. "Just 'out,' is it?"

"Just out," Frankie confirmed, trying to sound nonchalant. She fidgeted with her hands, giving her maid a sheepish smile.

"Right. And if anyone asks, you're...?"

"Visiting the royal library," Frankie said with a practiced innocence that didn't fool anyone. She laughed softly, her excitement showing. "Or perhaps just getting some fresh air."

Alice's face softened. She was the one person in the palace who knew the princess's longing for life outside the walls, for glimpses of the world where people's lives weren't spent writing royal decrees or following courtly schedules. She reached out, tucking a stray curl behind Frankie's ear. "Be careful, my lady."

"I will. I promise." They shared a silent look--a small, loyal moment--and then she hurried down the corridor, her heart racing as she slipped down the servant's staircase.

Once she reached the palace gardens, she held her breath, feeling the crunch of the gravel path under her shoes. She walked briskly, drawing her cloak tightly around her as she slipped through the gates at the side of the gardens, making her way out of the palace grounds and into the village.

Everything around her felt a little brighter. She watched the vendors set up their carts, the farmers unloading barrels and crates, children running along the cobblestone paths with shouts of laughter. She smiled to herself. Here, no one would spot that she was Princess Francesca. Here, she would be just another face in the crowd.

The hum of the village felt so much different than the hum of the palace. Here, people smiled and waved to each other, calling out their familiar greetings. A woman walked past with a basket of freshly picked apples. A dog barked as it chased after a boy in a patchy coat. For the first time in days, Frankie could breathe.

Stepping into the heart of the market, she allowed herself to slow down, to wander without purpose. Here, she was just a girl in a hood, taking in the sights and sounds.

The market hummed with energy, the cobblestone paths busy with villagers setting out baskets of freshly baked bread, bundles of herbs, and gleaming fruits and vegetables. Frankie weaved through the stalls, occasionally glancing over her shoulder, though no one gave her a second glance. Her father ruled the lands with a firm but fair hand, and his face was well-known. But she, safely hidden beneath her cloak, remained unrecognized--a mystery among the townsfolk.

Drawn by the warm glow of a blacksmith's forge near the edge of the square, Frankie approached a modest shop where the rhythmic clang of hammer against metal rang out. She slowed her pace, intrigued by the broad-shouldered young man working within.

He had thick, dark hair that caught in the morning light, and his hands moved with practiced ease, shaping a piece of iron with each strike of his hammer. He face was focused, intent on his work, and she watched him with quiet fascination, feeling like she'd stepped into another world.

Suddenly, his voice interrupted her thoughts. "Do I have something on my face, or are you just that interested in the fine art of smithing?"

Startled, Frankie's eyes snapped up to meet his. His expression held a bit of amusement, the slightest lift of his eyebrow acknowledging the fact that he'd caught her staring.

"Oh, I--no, I mean..." Frankie stammered, momentarily flustered. She tried to regain her composure, pulling her hood down a little lower. "I was just... watching."

"Watching, were you?" His tone was light, teasing, as he wiped his hands on a rough cloth and stepped out from behind the forge. Up close, his face was warm, with sharp blue eyes that seemed to see right through her. "You don't look like a smithing enthusiast, if I'm being honest."

"No, I suppose I'm not," she replied, feeling her cheeks warm. "But it's... interesting. I've never really seen it up close."

"Ah, I see. A newcomer, then," he guess, smiling in a genuine way. "You're safe here, don't worry. No one's going to bite." He extended his hand. "I'm Quinn."

For a split second, Frankie hesitated, but then she placed her hand in his. His grip was rough and firm, completely devoid of the etiquette and delicacy she was used to. It felt real.

"Frankie," she replied, keeping the introduction simple.

"Frankie," he repeated. "Well, Frankie, nice to meet you. And welcome to our fine little village."

"It's lovely," she said earnestly, glancing around. "Much more... lively than the palace."

She caught herself too late, realizing she'd let slip more than she meant to. But if Quinn noticed, he didn't show it. He was looking at her with the same warm smile, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.

"What brings you to this side of town?" he asked. "It's rare we get visitors who find the blacksmith shop 'interesting.'"

"Oh, I, um..." She scrambled for an explanation. "I wanted to see a bit more of the kingdom. Sometimes you see things more clearly when you... step outside of your own walls."

Quinn tilted his head, considering her answer. There was a glint of something--understanding, perhaps--in his eyes. "Well, then, you picked a good day for it. And if you're looking to see the world from outside 'your walls,' let me know. I've got a pretty good tour of this place. It's not much, but it's home."

Frankie couldn't help but laugh. "A tour? Do you always offer guided tours to strangers?"

"Only to the ones who seem a bit... lost." He crossed his arms, clearly trying to read her, but without the prying curiousity she had expected.

"Well then, perhaps I'll take you up on it. After all, it's not every day you meet a blacksmith willing to show you around."

A gust of wind swept through the square, lifting her hood slightly. Without thinking, she reached up to pull it back into place, but not before it slipped just far enough to reveal her face fully.

Quinn's eyes widened, recognition flickering across his face as he took a step back. "Wait... you're--"

Before he could finish, he hastily lowered himself into an awkward bow, his expression suddenly formal and full of embarassment. "Your Highness. I'm so sorry, I didn't know--"

"No, please, stand up," she tried to stifle a laugh. "I'm not a princess here. I'm just... Frankie."

He straightened slowly, clearly uncertain. She could tell he was grappling with how to speak to her now that he knew her true identity. A few tense moments passed, before Frankie took a deep breath.

"I really mean it," she said softly. "Out here, I'm just another face in the crowd. Not Princess Francesca. Just Frankie."

"Just... Frankie," he echoed, testing out the words. A small smile played at his lips, and she could see his confidence returning, though there was a newfound hint of respect. "I think I can manage that."

They stood there, quietly holding each other's gaze as the bustling world continued around them. They were both fully aware that something had changed in the brief exchange. Frankie felt even more excitement.

"Well," he said, grinning, "shall we start that tour, then, 'just Frankie'?"

"Lead the way, Quinn."

As they turned and began to walk through the market together, side by side, Frankie felt a lightness that had been missing for so long. And she allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to live like this normally.

Quinn showed her everything--the quiet back gardens of the town's inn, where flowers grew wild and fragrant; the bakery where the owner let her sample fresh pastries; the hidden creek just beyond the town, where they walked barefoot along the edge of the water.

Every place they visited had its own small charm, a piece of the world Quinn knew so well, and Frankie was mesmerized. Her world was expanding with every story he told and every laugh they shared. It was a freedom she'd only dreamed of.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, they found themselves in a quiet clearing outside the village. They sat on a fallen log, listening to the rustling of the leaves in the wind.

"It must be nice," Frankie finally said, looking out at the trees. "To have this kind of life. To belong to a place like this."

"It has its charms," he agreed. "But I don't think it's as simple as it seems. I have my own responsibilities, even if they're different from yours. Sometimes you don't need a crown to feel trapped by what people expect of you."

Frankie glanced at him, surprised by his honesty. "I suppose you're right. I sometimes think... maybe it doesn't matter who you are. Everyone has a role to play, whether they chose it or not."

Quinn nodded. "But at least you're out here. Maybe that's a sign that you want something different. Something... real."

"I think you might be right," she murmured. "Thank you, Quinn. I mean it."

He reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing against her cheek. For a breathless moment, they were both still, each daring to imagine something beyond the lives they'd known.

"You're welcome, Frankie," he whispered. "Anytime."

The forst clearing outside the village was quiet, except for the leaves and the occasional call of a bird in the distant. Frankie and Quinn sat together on the soft grass, a small spread of bread, cheese, apples between them, a makeshift picnic Frankie had prepared in secret before leaving the palace again. She didn't know what had made her brave enough to bring it--perhaps her desire to spend just a few more moments in his world instead of hers.

"Not much of a royal feast, I'm afraid," she said, laughing as she held up a piece of bread.

Quinn accepted it with a grin. "For someone who's 'just Frankie,' I'd say it's perfect." He took a bite, savouring it as if it were the finest meal. "Besides, it's not every day I get lunch with the princess. I mean... with Frankie."

She chuckled, though she felt a thrill each time he spoke her name, as if it were a secret shared only between them. She lay back in the grass, stretching her legs and looking up at the patches of sky between the treetops. Quinn joined her, lying down, his head tilted to watch the clouds drift by.

"You know," he began, after a few minutes of silence, "you never told me why you started sneaking out of the palace. Not that I'm complaining about it, of course," he added quickly, giving her a lopsided smile.

She paused, gathering her thoughts. "I just... needed to feel free. The palace is so beautiful, but it's also... confining. Every moment, every decision, it's all made for me, like the path of my life was laid out long before I even had the chance to imagine anything else."

She turned her head, meeting his gaze. "Out here, I can be someone else. Not a princess, not the king's daughter. Just... me."

"I think I understand. Growing up in the village I've had people tell me who I'm supposed to be, too. What I should become." He shrugged, staring at his roughened hands.

Frankie smiled, comforted by his words. It was something she'd never shared with anyone--not even Alice, though Alice likely understood more than anyone. She reached out, her fingers brushing his hand, as if she could draw strength from his touch.

"Thank you, Quinn."

He turned his hand over, his fingers entwining with hers. "For what?"

"For letting me be me. I don't think you know how much it means to me."

Their eyes met and the world around them started to fade. The line between their lives disappeared, and she found wondering if maybe--just maybe--she could have this. A life where she was more than just her title. A life where she could be someone like Quinn.

But the thoughts felt too dangerous, too tender and fragile, like a spark that could go out at any moment. She looked away, her face flushing. Yet, she didn't pull her hand from his.

"Frankie," Quinn murmured. "I think... I feel the same way."

She didn't dare move, her heart caught with the knowledge that this was more than just a simple friendship. This was something else, something deep and precious--and terribly risky.

But lying with Quinn in the clearing, she decided that some risks were worth taking.

Back at the palace, Frankie tried to carry on as usual, performing her duties, attending dinners, and studying the various treaties her father was eager to discuss with her. But her mind lingered on those stolen moments with Quinn, on the way his hand felt in hers, the gentle way he listened to her. She felt lighter. She was carrying a secret so precious that she wouldn't trade it for anything.

But that feeling grew harder to hold onto as her father's plans began to solidify. King Eric had summoned her to his study one evening, a summons she knew would not bring good news.

Frankie took a deep breath and knocked on the heavy oak door, the quiet creak that followed her entry filled her with unease. Her father was seated at his desk, papers and maps spread across the surface. His face was set in its usual stern expression, his fingers tapping impatiently as he gestured for her to sit.

"Francesca," he began, folding his hands over the papers before him. "I've made a decision about your future. It's time to take your rightful place in securing the future of our kingdom."

She swallowed, her hands twisting in her lap. She had heard this line before, but something about the look in his eyes filled her with dread. "My rightful place?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "The alliance with Lathora has been in negotiation for some time now. Their prince--Prince Edmond--will make a fine match for you. The marriage will bring stability to both kingdoms and ensure our people are secure for generations to come."

Her heart sank at his words. She'd heard her father discuss the prospect of alliances before, but never with such finality. She felt a surge of panic, her fingers clenching as she fought to keep her composure.

"Father, I..." she hesitated, searching for the right words. "I understand the importance of alliances, but perhaps there's another way. A marriage--"

"Is not negotiable," he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I am not blind, Francesca. I see the way you slip from your duties, sneaking off into the village like a commoner. You are a princess--one day a queen. It's time you understand your life is not your own. Your choices affect the entire kingdom."

Frankie looked away, her throat tight. She wanted to tell him about Quinn, to show him that what she'd found was worth more than every alliance, that her happiness could be valuable too. But she knew it would fall on deaf ears.

"Yes, Father," she forced herself to nod.

"Good." He straightened, satisfied with her compliance, and shuffled the papers in front of him. "Prince Edmond will arrive within the month. I expect you to show him the respect and hospitality befitting a future queen."

Late that night, after her father's announcement, Frankie sat by the windows in her chambers, her heart heavy. The palace walls, once merely confining, now felt suffocating. She couldn't bear the thought of marrying a man she barely knew, let alone someone she didn't love.

As if sensing her turmoil, Alice slipped into the room. She had a knack for appearing at the right time, and this was no exception.

"Frankie?" Alice's voice was soft as she approached. "You look troubled, dear."

"It's my father. He's... he's arranged a marriage for me. To a prince from Lathora. It's final--there's no way out."

Alice sat beside her, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I thought something like this might happen. But I had hoped he would see that you're still young, that you deserve a chance to find happiness on your own terms."

A tear slipped down Frankie's cheek, and she quickly brushed it away. "Alice, I don't want this. I don't want him. There's... someone else."

"Quinn?" she asked quietly.

Frankie nodded, unable to hide the longing in her eyes. "He's... he's everything I never thought I could have. He listens to me, sees me--not as the princess, as me. And I know... I know I could be happy with him. Truly happy."

Alice squeezed her hand. "Then, my dear, you owe it to yourself to fight for that happiness."

"But how? My father would never understand. And Quinn... he's a commoner. Father would never allow that."

Alice was silent for a moment, then gave her a gentle smile. "Some things are worth the risk, Frankie. Love is one of those things."

The words lingered and stirred a flicker of hope in Frankie's heart.

The grand meeting hall was dressed to the nines. Banners bearing the royal crest hung from the towering stone walls, and the crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow across the table set with gleaming silverware and fine china.

At the far end of the room, Frankie stood with her father, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She'd been in formal attire countless times, but today her tiara felt heavier, its sharp edges pressing into her temples. She glanced at her father, who was watching the door with a look of satisfaction, and she couldn't shake the growing dread within her.

"Stand tall, Francesca," he murmured. "Today is important. The kingdom's future depends on it."

She swallowed thickly, straightening her shoulders as the doors opened to reveal Prince Edmond. He was a nobleman, that was for sure. Tall and fair, with a solemn expression and regal posture. Dressed in royal blue and silver, he carried himself with an air of practiced decorum, bowing slightly to her father before moving his gaze to Frankie.

"Princess Francesca," he greeted, extending his hand to her. His tone was formal, his words rehearsed. "It is an honour."

Frankie forced a smile and took his hand, allowing him to lead her to the table. Advisors exchanged approving glances as they sat, and her father looked on with unmistakable pride.

Dinner began, and Frankie found herself struggling to follow the stiff conversation. Edmond seemed nice enough, but he hardly spoke beyond polite small talk and formal questions. He was painfully proper, never once breaking his composure or expressing anything remotely personal.

"Princess, I hear that your kingdom is renowned for its gardens," he remarked between bites, his tone void of warmth. "I would be delighted to take a tour."

"Yes, of course," Frankie replied, trying to match his formality. "Our gardens are... nice."

She felt like a stranger in her own life. She was a performer playing a role that didn't belong to her. Every forced smile, every polite reply, drained her more. With each moment she felt herself drifting further and further from the person she was with Quinn.

She looked around the room, catching Alice's sympathetic gaze from the far end of the room. Her maid offered her a warm, encouraging smile, and Frankie felt a pang of gratitude. But even Alice's support couldn't shake the ugly feeling she had.

As the dinner dragged on, Frankie found herself longing for the forest clearing, the bustling streets of the village, and Quinn's gentle smile. She wondered what he was doing at that very moment, likely enjoying a meal with his family, laughing happily.

Just as she thought she could endure no more, the dinner came to an end. Edmond rose and gave another polite bow, his expression unreadable. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Princess Francesca. I look forward to continuing our... alliance."

"Likewise, Prince Edmond."

As people began to leave the hall, her father took her by the arm, his grip firm. He led her to a quiet corner. "You did well tonight, Francesca. Prince Edmond is an ideal match. Solid, dependable, and the alliance will secure the future of our kingdom."

Frankie wanted to protest, to tell him that there was more to life than alliances and duty, that there were things she couldn't find in a forced marriage. But she knew better than to voice those thoughts.

"Yes, Father."

"Good," he patted her on the arm. "We'll continue with the arrangements. Soon, you'll see that this was the right path."

As he left, Frankie glanced at Alice again, who had quietly made her way over. "Not quite the fairy tale, is it?" the maid mumbled.

"No, not quite."

"Come, I'll take you back to your chambers. And I've got something for you--someone left a note."

Her father's expectations and Prince Edmond's impersonal formality faded into the background as she clutched the note that Alice handed her. With trembling hands, she unfolded it, soft handwriting scrawled across the page:

Stay strong, Frankie. I'll be waiting

The words were simple, but they filled her with courage. She would stay strong. For herself. For Quinn. For the future she really wanted. She would stay strong.

The moon was bright as Frankie slipped through the palace gates and made her way to the forest clearing. She needed to feel free, even if it was only for a few minutes. After hours of gross formalities, she couldn't bare the idea of returning to her chambers. She needed to see Quinn, to be near someone who saw her as more than just a bargaining piece in her father's plans.

When she reached the clearing, she found him waiting, his familiar silhouette illuminated by the glow of the moon. Quinn sat on their fallen log, staring at the stars above, lost in thought. At the sound of her footsteps, he looked up, a smile on his face.

"Frankie," he said quietly, standing to meet her. "I wasn't sure you'd come tonight."

"I had to." Without thinking, she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him, seeking comfort in his embrace. Quinn barely hesitated before returning it, holding her close. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and reassuring, and she could finally breathe.

They stood like that for a while, until Frankie pulled back, looking up into his eyes. "It's hopeless, Quinn. My father has decided everything for me. There's a prince--Prince Edmond. He's the one my father has chosen for me. The one I'm suppoesed to marry."

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, and she saw Quinn's face darken, his expression pained.

"Prince Edmond. And you're just supposed to accept it? No choice?"

She shook her head. "That's the way it's always been. To my father, marriage is a contract--a way to secure power and strengthen alliances. He doesn't see it as anything more."

"So, that's it then?" Quinn looked at the ground. "You'll marry this prince, while I... I go back to being a commoner with nothing to offer you?"

The pain in his voice cut through her, and she held his hand tightly. "Quinn, please. You have to know none of that matters to me. Titles, crowns, alliances--none of it matters when I'm with you." She looked into his eyes, her voice pleading. "You're the only one who makes me feel like I'm more than a princess. With you, I can just be myself."

"But, Frankie... what can I give you that someone like him can't?"

"You've already given me everything," her voice broke. "You give me the freedom to be myself. To be... happy."

Frankie could see the conflict in his eyes, the battle between his feelings for her and his fear that he could never be enough. She could feel her heart breaking at the thought of losing him.

Finally, unable to bear the distance between them, she reached up, cupping his face in her hands as she whispered, "Please, Quinn. Don't pull away from me. Not now."

Slowly, he raised his hand, covering hers. He drew her closer, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mixing. "I'll try, Frankie. For you... I'll try."

She leaned up, pressing her lips to his in a gentle kiss, one that quickly turned desperate. Slowly, they sank down to the forest floor, their fingers intertwined.

"Stay with me tonight?" she whispered.

"Yeah, let's forget about the rest of the world for a bit."

Just them, beneath the stars, in a world where only they existed.

Frankie stood by the window, focused on the gardens below, though her mind was far from the flowers and fountains stretching across the grounds. The dinner with Prince Edmond still lingered in her head, a reminder of the life her father wanted her to live--bound by duty and sacrifice, devoid of choice. She just clung to the fragile hope that somehow, she and Quinn could find a way to be together.

She didn't hear the door open until her father's voice broke her from her daydreaming.

"Francesca, I have news."

She turned, hiding the worry that twisted her stomach.

"The negotiations with Lathora have failed," he announced, his voice clipped. "Prince Edmond's advisors were unreasonable in their demands, and I will not tolerate such arrogance, not even at the sake of an alliance."

"I see," Frankie replied, her worry replaced by excitement. "Then... there will be no alliance?"

"For now, no. But rest assured, we will find a suitable match. I will not allow this kingdom's future to remain vulnerable."

He studied her, searching for resistance, but she just nodded. She nodded like she always did when her father told her something. She nodded and it made her feel weak. "Of course, Father. I trust you'll make the best decision for the kingdom."

"Good. I have already reached out to another kingdom. Prince Trevor is well-regarded, and his kingdom is both powerful and influential. He's charming, highly capable, and exactly the sort of match we need."

And just like that, the excitement she felt dimmed. Prince Trevor. She'd heard stories of him--a confident, bold young man with a reputation for his charm. Unlike Prince Edmond, who had shown no personal interest in her, Prince Trevor was rumoured to have his own reasons for a royal match, and her father had always spoken highly of him and his father's kindgom.

"He will arrive within the week. Prepare yourself. Remember... respect and warmth befitting of a queen."

Frankie sank back onto the velvet-cushioned bench by the window. Her brief hope was dashed, replaced by dread at the thought of yet another arranged meeting, another prince who would see her as only a political prize.

"What is it, dear?" Alice slipped into the room, a freshly cleaned nightgown in her arms.

"Prince Trevor. Another visit. He's supposed to be a good... match for me."

"Another suitor already? That was fast."

Frankie nodded, a bitter laugh leaving her throat. "Apparently, the kingdom's future can't afford any delay. I thought... maybe I'd have more time between suitors. But now it's worse--this prince, Trevor... he's everything Father could want."

"Time is precious, dear. And it sounds like you'll have to make the most of what you have."

"I just wish... I wish I could talk to Quinn. He's the only one who understands."

"Then talk to him. Don't let this prince or anyone else stop you from finding what matters."

She would talk to Quinn. Make the most of the time she had--no matter what her father's plan was.

Carriages rolled through the gates, flanked by royal guards. Frankie stood up straight and tall as the entourage approached. It took everything in her to maintain the mask of dutiful obedience.

In the lead carriage, a young man stepped out, tall and impeccably dressed in rich, dark fabrics embroided with the crest of another kingdom. His presence was immediately striking--confident and sharp. His blond hair caught the sun, and he wore a self-assured smile.

He crossed the courtyard easily, bowing deeply before the king. "Your Majesty. Thank you for inviting me to your kingdom. It is an honour."

"Prince Trevor," King Eric replied. "We are delighted to have you here. Please, allow me to introduce my daughter, Princess Francesca."

Frankie dipped into a small curtsy, keeping her gaze neutral. To her surprise, Trevor offered her a grin, one that felt genuine and a bit too confident. He took her hand and bowed over it, never taking his eyes off hers in way that made her feel exposed.

"Princess Francesca, I must admit, I was eager to meet you."

"Welcome, Prince Trevor. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"It was long," he replied with a small chuckle. "But well worth it, if it means meeting such... esteemed company."

King Eric seemed pleased with the exchange, just as he had with Prince Edmond. "Good, good. Let us retire to the main hall. I trust you two will have much to discuss."

Frankie found herself side-by-side with Trevor as they followed her father, his presence uncomfortably close. The palace staff had arranged for refreshments in the main hall, where soft music played, and light filtered through the stained-glass windows.

Trevor leaned in slightly, his voice low enough for only her to hear. "I've heard many things about you, Princess. But none of them seem to capture the... charm of your presence."

Frankie didn't sense any malice in his words--if anything, he seemed genuinely interested in her. But there was a smugness, an unspoken assumption that made her wary,

"Thank you, Your Highness."

"Oh, please," he waved her off dismissively. "There's no need for such formality between us. Call me Trevor."

"Very well, Trevor."

They took their seats in the centre of the room, and as refreshments were brought in, Trevor continued talking. He talked about his kingdom, his travels, his fondness for sports, even sharing an amusing story about an ill-fated hunting trip that had everyone laughing and nodding along.

Trevor was charming--she couldn't deny that. But it was the practiced charm of someone who knew his own worth, who was accustomed to admiration. It only made her think about how different he was tha Quinn, whose honesty was comforting and not... whatever this was.

After a while, Trevor turned the conversation to Frankie. "And tell me, Princess, how do you spend your time in the palace? Surely you must find ways to escape the routine of court life."

"I do enjoy some time in the gardens and reading in the library. Occasionally, I take walks beyond the palace grounds."

"Beyond the grounds?" he raised an eyebrow. "You must be quite adventerous, then. I'm impressed."

"I enjoy the fresh air," she said simply, hoping to deflect his interest.

But Trevor grew even more curious, and he leaned closer. "Perhaps you could show me these spots. I would love to see more of the kingdom--from a local's perspective, of course."

"Perhaps," she replied, though she knew it was unlikely she would bring him to her favourite spots.

Finally, the gathering drew to a close, and Trevor turned to her. "Thank you for your time, Princess. I look forward to seeing you more during my stay." His words held an unspoken promise as he took her hand once more, pressing a kiss to it.

She forced a smile, but it was hollow. Why did her dad get a say in her life and she didn't?

Quinn walked alone, his thoughts heavy. News of Prince Trevor's arrival had swept through the kingdom, carried by rumours and whispers that painted him as the perfect suitor for the beautiful Princess Francesca. Quinn had heard the villagers speak about Trevor's charm, his looks, his power. He was everything a princess could want, everything Quinn felt he was not.

He shook his head, pushing back the growing ache in his chest as he made his way to their forest clearing. He knew Frankie would be waiting for him, but he wasn't sure what he'd say. The thought of her standing beside a prince, a man who could give her the security and life she deserved, made him feel helpless. He could he compete with that?

He found her there, sitting on their log, her face lighting up when she saw him. She rose, coming to meet him, her arms reaching out to pull him close. But he took a step back, his hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze fixed on his shoes.

"Quinn?" Her voice was soft, confused. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, I just... I heard the news. About Prince Trevor."

She hesitated, her expression turning guarded as she nodded. "Yes, he arrived today."

Her confirmation made his fists clench in jealousy. "So, he's... he's the new one, then? The prince your father wants you to marry?"

Frankie reached out, her hand resting on his arm. "My father thinks he's the right choice. But I don't."

He shook his head, pulling his arm away, and looked past her. "Frankie, I'm not... I can't compete with him. Or with any prince. I'm just... me."

She stepped closer, reaching for his hands, her eyes pleading. "Quinn, don't say that. You're everything to me."

He let her take his hands, but his grip was loose, uncertain. "Maybe you think that now, but I'm not blind, Frankie. I know what you deserve. Someone who can give you the life you're meant to have."

"But I don't want that life. Not if it means losing you."

Quinn looked down at their hands, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "But you deserve someone who can be by your side... someone who can stand with you, not behind you."

"Please, Quinn. Don't say that. Don't push me away."

"Frankie, I love you. I love you more than anything. But maybe... maybe loving you means letting you go. So you can have the life you were born to have."

He was saying what she'd feared all along--that he felt he wasn't enough for her, that he would only hold her back. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she could no longer keep her voice steady. "So, that's it? You're giving up on us?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening. "I don't want to, but I can't ignore reality, Frankie. You're a princess. And I'm..."

"Don't," she interrupted. "Please, don't finish that sentence."

The quiet of the forest around them was thick with tension. She wanted to scream, to beg him to stay, to make him see that he was the only one for her. But his resolve was unshaken despite the pain in his eyes.

"If you leave, Quinn... I don't know what I'll do."

"I'm sorry, Frankie. I wish... I wish things were different."

He turned, his figure retreating back towards the village, and Frankie watched, tears streaming down her face as the one person she loved more than anything disappeared into the night.

Frankie felt numb. She stood by the stone fountain in the garden, watching the water cascade over the edges. The fresh air did little to ease the weight of her heartbreak.

Quinn's words cut at her heart like sharp blades. She could still feel his hands in hers, see the sadness in his features as he said goodbye. How could she even begin to think about marrying someone else when her heart was in a million little pieces?

However, she couldn't afford to avoid Trevor forever, though the thought of pretending to be interested in him felt almost unbearable.

"Princess Francesca?"

Trevor walked over, his charming smile in place. She forced a polite smile, hoping it didn't look as strained as it felt.

"Prince Trevor. I didn't expect to see you out here."

He chuckled, coming to stand beside her by the fountain. "Oh, I've always been a fan of gardens. My mother keeps one back home, though I'll admit, yours puts ours to shame."

Frankie glanced at him, uncertain of how to respond. Why did he care so much?

"You looked lost in thought," he continued, studying her face. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything... important?"

"No, just... enjoying the peace."

Trevor nodded. "I suppose a princess doesn't get much of that, does she? Not with all the demands, the expectations, the responsibilities..."

She glanced at him, trying to gauge his intentions. "You seem to know a lot about it."

He shrugged, folding his hands behind his back as he looked out over the garden. "My life may be different from yours, but it's also very similar. I get what it's like to have your path laid out for you. But I've always believed that duty and happiness don't have to be mutually exclusive."

His words were well-spoken, maybe there was more to him than she'd assumed.

"Your father told me much about you, Princess," his tone dropped to a more personal level. "But I'll admit, I really didn't expect you to be so... captivating."

She tensed, feeling her face flush. "You don't know me, Prince Trevor. Not really."

"Not yet," he remained undeterred. "But I'd like to. I see something in you, Princess. A strength. A desire to be more than what others expect of you."

She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that her heart was already spoken for, that the life she wanted was far from the one he was offering her. But she bit her tongue, knowing it would only complicate things further.

"You think you see me. But there's more to me than... strength."

"Than show me, Francesca. Show me who you are."

"I appreciate your... interest, Prince Trevor. But I don't think I'm what you're looking for."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I... I already know who I am. And I'm afraid I may not be able to meet the expectations that you or my father have for me."

To her surprise, Trevor's smile only grew. "Perhaps that's exactly why I'm here, Princess. To help you realize that duty and desire can coexist."

She didn't respond and he gave her a respectful nod. "I'll give you time, Francesca. I'm not here to force anything--only to show you that it's possible."

With a deep sigh, she looked to the edge of the garden, where the forest stretched out for miles and miles. She wished she could run to Quinn, that she could hold him despite her world falling apart. But for now, all she could do was stand there and listen to Trevor's footsteps as he retreated back into the castle.

The day had been exhausting--her father's pointed glances during the afternoon, Trevor's persistent charm, and the unshakable ache in her heart left by Quinn's absence. She was stretched thin with no clear way out.

She found Alice waiting for her in her chambers, preparing the room for the night.

"Oh my! You look exhausted! Come, sit!"

Frankie sat heavily on the edge of her bed, running a hand over her face as she struggled to keep her composure.

"What's troubling you now, Frankie? You're going to give yourself a heartattack."

Frankie was unsure of where to begin. But as she looked at Alice, the words began to spill out, her voice barely a whisper. "It's... everything, Alice. My father, Prince Trevor... and Quinn. I... I love him, Alice. But it feels like everything in the world is trying to tear us apart."

Alice nodded.

"Trevor won't give up and Father loves him. He's so certain that he can make this work, that I'll come to accept it. But I can't... I can't just pretend my heart isn't with someone else."

"And what does Quinn think of all this?"

"He... he think he's not enough. That he can't give me what I need or deserve. He said... he said maybe it would be better if we didn't see each other."

"The heart can be a stubborn thing, Frankie. It often tells us we aren't worthy of people we love most."

"But he is worthy, Alice. He's everything I could want. Kind, honest, and loves me for me and not my title."

"Be brave, Frankie. Like I've said a million times before, be brave."

"What if... what if I can't convince him?"

"Then you'll know you tried. But don't bear a life of regret."

"You're right. You're always right."

"That's what I'm here for, no? Now, get some sleep. You need it," she pulled back the blankets, a smile on her face.

"Thanks, Alice."

"Let me know how it goes," the maid winked before retreating into the hallway, leaving Frankie to figure out how to win back the love of her life.

Frankie held her head in her hands. For days she had felt a deep fatigue that tugged at her bones, combined with spells of nausea and dizziness that seemed to come and go. She had tried to dismiss it, assuming it was the stress of her upcoming marriage to Prince Trevor and the heartbreak of losing Quinn.

"I always feel like I'm asking you what's wrong nowadays," Alice said, approaching with a warm cup of tea.

Frankie smiled, taking the cup in her hands. "I... I don't know, Alice. I just feel... strange. Tired, and unsteady." She paused, a wave of dizziness overcoming her, and took a sip of tea in an attempt to steady herself.

"Forgive me, but... have you considered there might be another reason for this feeling?"

Another reason? Frankie looked up, and the implications of her confidante dawned on her. She felt the room shift around her as the realization struck her like a bolt of lightning.

"Alice... you don't mean...?"

"It's possible, isn't it, dear? You've been feeling unwell, and it's not uncommon for these symptoms to appear under such... circumstances."

Frankie gasped, setting her tea aside. The memories of her night with Quinn flashed before her and her hand drifted to her abdomen.

"Alice... could I really be..." She couldn't finish the sentence. She couldn't speak it into existence.

"There's only one way to know for sure. Shall I walk down with you?"

Frankie could only nod. The palace daughter only worked a couple days a week, but luckily for her today was one of those days. Alice stood with her while the doctor moved around the room, poking and proding the princess. Eventually, he came to his conclusion.

"You're with child."

"It's true then," Frankie whispered. "I'm..."

This child was a symbol of her love for Quinn--a precious connection that bound them together. But as the joy she felt settled, it was quickly replaced by fear. What would her father say? How would he react when he learned the princess was carrying the child of a commoner?

"What am I going to do? My father... he'll be furious. He'll never accept this."

"Francesca, I know this is frightening. But this child is a part of the love that you share with Quinn. Whatever happens, you are not alone."

"What would I do without you?"

"You have the courage to face this, for you and your baby."

Frankie nodded. She would face her father, tell him the truth, and hope that somehow, he would understand. She would protect her baby--no matter the cost.

Frankie took a long breath before she nodded to the butler to open the door to the throne room for her. She knew her face gave away her terror, but she had to face this moment for the sake of her child.

Her father was a solitary figure on the far side of the room. He was seated on his throne, reviewing a parchment with intense focus. He looked up, raising an eyebrow at her sudden entrance.

"Francesca. This is unexpected. What brings you here?"

Her courage wavered under his intense stare. But she felt a surge of strength at the idea that she could live a happy life with her child and Quinn. She looked her father directly in the eyes, inhaling sharply.

"Father, I need to speak with you. It's... it's important."

King Eric's eyes narrowed, his expression shifting to one of mild annoyance. "Very well, Francesca. What is it? You seem rather... grave."

"I... I have something to tell you. Something that I know you won't be pleased to hear." Her voice trembled, but she pushed on. "I am... carrying a child, Father. Quinn's child."

For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of shock in his eyes, but it quickly vanished, replaced by a cold, piercing stare that made her feel small and insignificant.

"What did you say?"

"I am with child. The child is Quinn's. I... I love him, Father. I know this isn't what you wanted, but I had to tell you. This... is very important to me."

King Eric's hands clenched around the arms of his throne, his face growing hard with anger. He rose slowly, his gaze dark as he approached her. "Francesca," his tone was laced with fury, "do you understand what you have done? You, a princess, have disgraced this family by carrying the child of a commoner! You have risked everything I have worked to build--all for a fleeting, foolish romance!"

Tears stung her eyes, but she held her ground, unwilling to back down. "It's not foolish, Father. I love him. I want him to be part of my life."

"Love? This is not about love, Francesca. This is about duty. About securing the future of this kingdom! Do you realize the scandal this could bring upon us? The disgrace? No one can know of this--no one."

"Father, please. This baby is a part of our family. Can't you see that?"

"Leave! I don't want to speak with you about this further!"

Frankie didn't let her sobs escape her until she'd left the room, running the rest of the way to her chambers. She shoved her head in her pillow, screaming. How could he be so cruel?

It had only been a day since their confrontation and her father had summoned her to his study. She tried to imagine what he could possibly want from her now, after everything he'd said.

She entered the room to find her father seated at his desk. Behind him stood two advisors and, to her surprise, Prince Trevor himself. The prince gave her a sympathetic nod as she entered, but she could sense the tension beneath his charm, as if he, too, were uncomfortable.

"Francesca. Sit."

Reluctantly, she sat across from him, stealing a glance at Trevor, who looked back at her with the same strange, calm expression. Whatever her father was about to say was definitely not going to be in her favour.

"After careful consideration, and after consulting with Prince Trevor and his advisors," the king began, "I have decided on the final plan that will secure our alliance and protect the reputation of our family."

Frankie knew whatever was coming was something monumental, something inescapable.

"You will marry Prince Trevor. And once the child is born, it will be recognized as his legitimate heir. This will satisfy the alliance and protect the throne from any scandal."

"Father... you cannot mean this," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You would have me marry someone I do not love and raise my child as if it belonged to another man?"

Trevor stepped forward. "Princess, please understand that I hold you in the highest respect. This is not a decision I take lightly, but as prince, it is my duty to my people to align with your father's wishes. It would be a... practical arrangement. One that serves us both."

Frankie looked at him, desperation filling her eyes. "And you agree to this? To pretend this child is yours? To live a lie?"

"If it means peace for our people, then yes. Sometimes duty requires us to make sacrifices."

"But this child is not yours, and I am not yours. I... I am bound to someone else, someone who loves me for who I am."

King Eric's face darkened as he listened to her protests, his patience wearing thin. "You are a princess, Francesca. Have you forgotten that? This marriage is not a matter of choice, it's a matter of duty. You will do what is expected of you."

She looked to Trevor again, but he looked away, his silence confirming his compliance. The future she'd envisioned with Quinn was slipping further and further from her grasp.

"What about my baby? What about the truth?"

"Your child will be the future heir, protected by the alliance forged through this marriage. You must set aside your personal attachments, Francesca. This is a sacrifice you will make."

Her father and Trevor had reduced her love, her future, and even her child's identity to nothing more than a means to an end. "Yes, Father. I understand."

"Good. This is for the best, Francesca. One day, you will see that."

She would not betray her love for Quinn, nor would she let her child's life be built off lies. She would find a way out.

The palace was beautiful, with tapestries of gold and crimson adorning the walls and rows of white lillies lining the grand hall, their scent filling the air. Candles in chandaliers flickered above the gathered nobility and dignitaries. It was a sight fit for a royal wedding--a vision of perfection that would make any bride squeal. But Frankie only felt numb with dread.

Dressed in an ivory gown and a veil that trailed behind her like mist, she walked down the aisle on her father's arm. King Eric's face was stern but proud, as if the spectacle he had crafted would hide her sorrow. Frankie kept her head high, but her thoughts were miles away--on the life she would never have, on the man she loved, on the future that was being stolen from her.

At the end of the aisle waited Prince Trevor, standing tall in his ceremonial attire, his expression as neutral as it had been in the meeting. He, too, was playing his part in this theatre. Trevor was bound by duty.

The king's voice was low as he released her hand, a final, whispered warning. "Remember, Francesca. For the kingdom. Do what must be done."

She nodded, standing beside Trevor as the officiant began the ceremony, her gaze distant. This was the final nail in the coffin that was her life.

Quinn sat hunched over a letter in his bedroom, his eyes fixed on Alice's handwriting. The truth hit him like a punch to the gut. Frankie was pregnant with his child. She had been forced into a marriage to protect the kingdom.

Setting the letter down, Quinn rose to his feet, his face pale. He couldn't let this happen. He wouldn't allow her to be trapped in a loveless marriage with his child by her side. Without another thought, he left his home, running through the streets toward the palace, each step fuelled by desperation.

The officiant continued, his voice steady as he reached the vows. Frankie could feel the weight of Trevor's hand resting on hers, but the rest of her body felt numb... frozen.

Just then, the heavy doors to the grand hall swung open with a loud crash, and commotion erupted among the guards. Heads turned in shock as Quinn stormed into the room, his voice ringing out as he called her name.

"FRANKIE!"

Gasps rippled through the crowd, and the guards hurried to interept him, grabbing his arms to restrain him. But Quinn struggled against them, his eyes fixed on Frankie.

"Let me go!" he shouted. "I need to speak to her! Frankie, don't do this!"

Frankie's composure shattered as she saw him fighting against the guards. Her eyes filled with tears, "Father, please let him speak."

"Remove him. He has no place here."

The guards began to drag Quinn back, but he resisted, his voice desperate as ever. "Frankie, don't let them do this to you! You don't have to live this lie! I love you!"

Frankie felt a surge of defiance--a fierce determination to claim the life she wanted, even if it meant forsaking everything she'd ever known. But then, her father gripped her arm, his voice a harsh whisper. "Don't let him make a fool of you, Francesca. This is your duty. Your responsibility to all the people of the kingdom."

Her heart screamed for her to run with Quinn, to escape, but her father's will and the many eyes on her held her back.

"Remove him! This wedding will proceed!" King Eric's voice boomed.

"Frankie, please! You don't have to do this!"

"Let's... let's finish," she whispered.

Quinn was dragged out and the doors shut. The officiant resumed as if nothing had happened and before she knew it she was officially married to Prince Trevor.

The festivities were over, and the palace was dark and quiet. Frankie was wearing the stupid white nightgown she had been forced to wear. She knew this day had been Hell. She knew Quinn was worth the sacrifices and she should've gone with him.

A soft knock sounded at her door, and Alice slipped in holding a small bundle. "It's time, my lady," she whispered with urgency.

Frankie nodded, rising from her bed and taking Alice's hands. "Thank you, Alice. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

"You can repay me by finding happiness. Now, hurry. I've packed some things for you--just the essentials."

She draped a dark cloak over Frankie's shoulders and tucked the hood around her face, obscuring her features.

"If... if he ever asks, tell my father that this was my choice. That I left willingly."

"You've made the right choice, Princess. This child deserves a life of love and freedom--and so do you."

Frankie blinked back tears, then turned toward the narrow servant's door that Alice had left ajar. Silently, she slipped through the gardens scanning the edge of the woods for any shadows. She prayde that Quinn had received the message that Alice had sent him earlier that evening.

A figure emerged from the trees and she could've died from happiness. He moved forward, in disbelief that she was standing in front of him.

"Frankie," he whispered. "I didn't think... I thought..."

She silenced him with a kiss, her eyes filling with tears. "I couldn't stay, Quinn. I couldn't live that life, not when I knew what we could have together. I chose you. I chose us."

"We... We'll go far from here. Somewhere safe, somewhere we can be free."

"I don't care where we go, as long as we're together."

With one last look at the palace, the place she'd spent her entire life, Frankie turned her back on it, taking Quinn's hand as they disappeared into the forest, leaving behind the world of royalty and expectations. Together they were stepping into the unknown, choosing love and the promise of a new beginning.

#nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey imagine #hockey fic #quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine

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chopinski-official · 1 month ago

Text

Chopin's Funeral

By Benita Eisler

Funeral at La Madeleine, 1868

On a sparkling Paris morning, Tuesday, October 30, 1849, crowds poured into the square in front of the Church of the Madeleine. The occasion was the funeral of Frédéric Chopin, and for it, the entire facade of the great neoclassical temple had been draped in swags of black velvet centred with a cartouche bearing the silver-embroidered initials FC.

Admission was by invitation only: Between three thousand and four thousand had received the black-bordered cards. Observing the square with its crush of carriages, the liveried grooms and sleek horses, the throngs converging on the porch, Hector Berlioz reported that "the whole of artistic and aristocratic Paris was there." But another who surveyed the crowd, the music critic for the Times of London, suspected that of the four thousand who filled the pews, a large number had been admitted just before noon, strangers to the dead man, mere bystanders even, "many of whom, perhaps, had never heard of him."

Facades of La Madeleine, 1840-70

If death is a mirror of life, Chopin's funeral reflected all the disjunctions of his brief existence. The most private of artists, his genius was mourned in a public event worthy of a head of state. Canonized as "angelic," a Shelleyan "poet of the keyboard," Chopin seemed to personify romanticism, and before he was buried, its myths had already embalmed him: a short and tragic life; an heroic role as Polish patriot and exile; doomed lover of the century's most notorious woman; and finally, his death from consumption, that killer of youth, beauty, genius, and of courtesans foolish enough to fall in love.

Chopin's Last Chords by Józef Męcina-Krzesz

In reality, he was the least romantic of artists. While the generation that had come of age just before his own in France, including the Olympian Victor Hugo, had defined romanticism as a holy war of the "moderns" (themselves) against the "ancients" (their literary elders), setting off riots in theaters to make their point, Chopin clung to the past. His musical touchstones were Haydn, Mozart-but especially Bach. He harbored doubts about Beethoven's lapses of taste, was incurious about the music of Schubert, and generally contemptuous of his other contemporaries: Schumann, Berlioz, and Liszt, towards whom his feelings were further tangled by rivalrous friendship. In art, he preferred the marmoreal neoclassicism of Ingres and his followers to the radical inventions in color and form of his friend Delacroix. Socially and politically, he was still more conservative.

The same aristocratic circles that had embraced Chopin the child prodigy in Warsaw were waiting to welcome the twenty-one-year-old sensation of Paris. Chopin arrived in France in 1831. One year before, revolution had replaced the Bourbon Restoration with the Orleanists swept in by Louis Philippe and his July monarchy. It was still a world of fixed hierarchies: of titles, birth, and breeding, buoyed by a flood tide of fresh money coined by the financiers and industrialists whose entertainments outshone the Sun King in splendor, if not in style. Chopin made some friends among the professional middle class-a less grand banker or diplomat, a few fellow musicians. He had a horror of "the People" as a force of upheaval or even change (which he dreaded in any form), and he was suspicious of those who championed their cause. He was appalled by that quintessentially romantic belief, whose most ardent proponent was George Sand, that art must serve the cause of social justice-or, indeed, any other cause except itself.

Like many who have thrived as "exceptions," propelled by talent from modest origins to a place among the privileged, Chopin was repelled by marginality: by poor Poles, by Jews, by the ill-dressed and ill-mannered, by coarseness or slovenliness, in art or life.

Chopin’s hand and death mask

Most likenesses of the composer suggest that he was far from handsome. He had pale, colorless hair, a thin, hooked nose, a pursey mouth, and rabbity, lashless eyes. In these images, Chopin bears only a glancing resemblance to his famous portrait by Delacroix-the portrait of romantic genius itself, with his tousled chestnut mane and burning inward gaze. Chopin's famous dandyism, then, must be understood as another labor of creation, like his music an imperious quest for perfection. The dandy enlists distinction-in dress, speech, manners-along with distance, to create a masterpiece: himself.

What appeared to many-then and now-as the snobbery of a provincial, self-invented aristocrat and aesthete, had deeper sources. Chopin needed the reassurance that a fixed social order provides. Dependent and childlike in many ways, he clung to the security of protective institutions-the monarchy, the Church, and the family-which defined themselves proudly as patriarchal, stern but loving fathers keeping watch over children, dedicated to exalting an ideal past and to keeping present chaos at bay.

Two years and only two public concerts after his arrival in Paris, Chopin ranked among those few artists who moved in every circle that counted. Ignoring protocol, older, established musicians called upon him. He was a fixture at the grandest houses, where, arriving in his own carriage, he was welcomed as a lionized guest who never failed to charm and amuse; if he could be prevailed upon to perform, he hypnotized every listener. The musically knowledgeable drew close to the piano to study the wizardry of his technique and his famous inventions in fingering, third finger crossing the fourth, that made his impossibly difficult compositions appear effortless. Fellow exiles heard laments for a homeland in the languorous rubato of the mazurkas, with their heart-catching drop from major to minor keys, but the mood of elegy was as often shattered by discordant salvos of unleashed rage. Even those guests whose attendance was simply an occasion to wear the new diamonds, to remark casually at the bourse that the reception last evening at Baron James's had been more than usually delightful, stayed well past midnight, straining to hear the final note, when the pianist, pale and exhausted, rose wearily to take his bow. It was uncanny how Chopin's music spoke so intimately to their most private, long-buried thoughts and memories, evoking childhood happiness and lost love; innocent, nobler selves trampled by the harsh rules of life.

Seventeen years later, he died, destitute, in an apartment paid for by friends at the most fashionable address in the most expensive quarter of Paris.

A drawing by T. Kwiatkowski of Frederic Chopin on his deathbed, 1849

Now, at the funeral, emissaries from the world of music were outnumbered by mourners from the ranks of the rich and titled. The Polish émigré aristocracy and its French counterpart among the old noblesse were in turn outshone by new money: bankers and speculators whose wives and daughters had also been among Chopin's pupils. Certain of the fashionable, one reporter noted, appeared indecorously attired in brilliant colors, glittering with jewels.

While the crowd filed through the portal, the closed casket was carried from the sanctuary and placed under an elaborate catafalque ("utterly pretentious," in the view of Paris's leading music critic) at the transept. Chopin's embalmed body had lain in the crypt for almost two weeks since his death on October 17, aged thirty-nine. His dying had been long and terrible, the disease that killed him still not diagnosed with certainty: tuberculosis of the larynx, cystic fibrosis, mitral stenosis, or a rare viral infection?

Interior of La Madeleine, 1845.

With a dandy's discipline, in his final agony of slow suffocation, Chopin had planned the musical program whose principal offering was to be a performance of Mozart's Requiem. Unknown to the dying man, women were not permitted to sing in the city's parish churches; it had taken days of pleading on the part of Chopin's most powerful friends before a special dispensation was issued by the Archbishop of Paris. The decree allowed female participation provided it remained invisible; thus the women singers, including Chopin's friend Pauline Viardot among the featured soloists, were hidden from view behind a black velvet curtain.

As the mourners took their places, the organist played the funeral march from Chopin's own Sonata in B-flat Minor. Then, the choir of the Paris Conservatory sounded the opening notes of the Requiem's Introitus, followed by the first solo — "Te decet hymnus, Deus," Viardot sang, her glorious mezzo-soprano soaring above the chorus and orchestra. Then, voices and instruments were stilled while the priest chanted the High Mass for the Dead.

Modern day interior of La Madeleine

The pallbearers emerged from their pews. Two princes, Adam and Alexandre Czartoryski, represented the community of Polish exiles. The painter Eugène Delacroix mourned the friend he had both loved and revered, calling him "the truest artist among us." From the world of music, the composer Giacomo Meyerbeer, decorations glinting against his dark mourning attire, appeared the personification of success. He had been the merest acquaintance, but Chopin, passionate for opera, had been a fan, like millions of others who had made Meyerbeer a rich man. In contrast, cellist and composer Auguste Franchomme was known to few. But the modest, scholarly professor at the Conservatory had been the inspiration for the only music Chopin would ever write for an instrument other than the piano. Franchomme was followed by a collaborator of another kind, Camille Pleyel, manufacturer of the pianos that Chopin, more than any other composer who ever lived, had made the instrument of genius.

Shouldering the massive coffin, the six men moved up the nave to the sounds of the organ playing Chopin's Preludes in E Minor and B Minor. Many of those now leaving had heard the composer play these pieces-his favorites-in their own houses, in the salons of friends, or in Pleyel's concert rooms. The familiar notes on the somber instrument spoke of the voice they would never hear again, and they wept.

Sick Chopin at Piano. Illustration on postcard by A. Serkowicz

Outside the church, the mourners gathered around the corbillard, the wagon hearse particular to Paris. Drawn by black plumed horses, it aroused shivers of dread, but also of excitement: Parisians loved a funeral. By this time, most of the mourners had dispersed; Chopin had forbidden any graveside ceremony. With the exception of the pallbearers, freed now of their burden, those who remained were women. They surrounded the small figure of the composer's older sister, Ludwika, summoned from Warsaw by the dying man at the end of June. "Please come, if you can," he had begged, even if she had to borrow the money, of which, he, alas, had none to advance. "Apply for a passport immediately," he urged, and lest he should sound like his familiar hypochrondriacal self, he invoked the advice of others close to him and concerned for his health who had agreed that no medicine would help him as much as the sight of his sister. At the same time, he tried to deny the urgency of his condition. "I don't know myself why I yearn to see Ludwika," he wrote, with a wan coyness, to the rest of the family. "It's like those whims of pregnant women."

Ludwika Chopin

Chopin might have spent the last twenty years in the most emancipated company of Paris, but it was still natural to him to ask permission of his brother-in-law for Ludwika to make the journey: "A wife must obey her husband," he wrote. "Thus, I am asking you as the husband to accompany your spouse." With the intervention of the czar's ambassador to France, whose wife was Polish, the endless passport process was hastened and Ludwika, accompanied by her husband, Józef Kalasanty Jedrzejewciz, and fifteen-year-old daughter, arrived in Paris in August. But the grumpy Kalasanty returned to Poland in September; it was only Chopin's sister and his little niece Louisette who remained with him to the end.

Another young mourner, Adolf Gutmann, thirty years old, was one of Chopin's few pupils training to be a professional musician. Others, including pianists said to be just as talented, could not have performed by virtue of birth; they were women and aristocrats of title or wealth; indeed, the most gifted of all Chopin's students was a princess, Marcelina Czartoryska, who had walked to the cemetery accompanied by Countess Delfina Potocka. Sumptuously beautiful of face and body, her golden hair as bewitching as her soprano voice, Delfina, long separated from her husband, was so prodigal with her sexual favors that she had been crowned "the Great Sinner"-no small distinction in the Paris of the July Monarchy. Chopin was rumored to have been one of her many lovers. She had rushed to Paris from her villa in Nice at the news that he was dying. With only hours to live, he had begged Delfina to play and sing for him. A piano was moved to the open door of his bedroom. But the sounds of the voice so dear to him or the music she played or sang caused spasms of choking and he motioned for her to stop.

Death of Chopin by Félix-Joseph Barrias. Showing Potocka singing to Chopin.

Sending their carriages ahead, the Polish noblewomen walked the distance, east along the grand boulevards, skirting the slums of Paris to Père Lachaise Cemetery. Others, arriving earlier in hired cabs, stood waiting by the open grave: a brawny red-haired sculptor, Auguste Clésinger, and his young wife, Solange, daughter of George Sand. Clésinger had been summoned to the dying man's bedside to mold the death mask, but the resulting likeness-bald head, drooping eyes, mouth contorted by agonized efforts to breathe-was rejected by the horrified Ludwika. Working swiftly, the sculptor had applied another layer of wet plaster, which, after removal, he reworked, smoothing away all evidence of struggle and pain until the dead man's features were composed into an expression of Christian peace. Clésinger's reward was the commission for a funerary monument, and he now surveyed the site where his marble tribute, featuring a Muse holding a lyre, would rise above a small oval profile of the composer.

Chopin’s Grave, All Souls’ Day.

Towering over the Clésingers, Ludwika, the priest, the Polish nobles, and the pallbearers was the angular figure of Miss Jane Stirling, a Scottish heiress, Chopin's pupil and patroness, who had supported the composer in the last year of his life. It was Stirling who had paid the bill for the funeral-five thousand pounds-of which two thousand were spent on the orchestra and chorus alone.

In the silence ordained by the dead man, his coffin was lowered. The mourners pressed closer together for a last look. But they also seemed to close ranks, filling an empty place among them.

#frédéric chopin #fryderyk chopin #biography #romantic era

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