Cinderella

The Prince

There was something clearly princely about him. Something that made all of the faces turn towards him, and once one's eyes were locked upon him, they could not be so easily turned away. And it was certainly not the sole fact that he was a prince.

The man was certainly not handsome. Although the majority of girls, thinking of a prince, would imagine an attractive, charming gentleman, sitting on a white horse, this description could not be more deceiving, because there was no charm at all in this prince, and his face was rather one of the uncomely.

And yet, no sooner had he entered than all of the conversations stopped. His manner of walking was ugly, a bit like a waddle; he slouched and narrowed his eyes, as if he had bad eyesight.

Deirdre, standing right next to Quinnelly, who was probably one of the most handsome men in the whole neighbourhood, acknowledged that the prince could not compare with her dance partner, and did not really understand why young maidens would ever want to marry someone like him.

Prince Gerard was tall, for sure, and if not for the fact that he kept slouching, one could suspect that he was quite stately. However, although he was not old, he was mature enough for one to expect him to have been long married if he did not want to be called an old bachelor. His age, after all, was easily seen on his face: perhaps because of his squinting there was already a net of tiny wrinkles around his eyes, and the contour of his face already lacked the youthful freshness.

The man's eyes were quite big; their outer corners sloped slightly; the colour of his irides was so deep that it would be difficult to define in the darkness of the room. His complexion was not pale, rather dark, which could be quite shocking, since none of the self-respecting nobles in the neighbourhood would have ever allowed for the sun to spoil his face like that. His nose, in turn, was long and straight; Deirdre noticed that if it was at least a bit shorter, the man would not seem to be so ugly, because his mouth, even though a little asymmetrical, was quite nicely shaped.

In spite of the prevailing fashion, the prince had not cut his hair short; it reached his shoulders, but he did not have it tied on the back of his head, but rather allowed it to hang loose. Just like his eyes, his hair colour was difficult to specify; it was rather dark, somewhere between brown and dark-grey.

The most shocking fact was that although dressed tastefully, the prince seemed to look a bit grotesque: he had a well-fitting tailcoat and a quite big bow-tie around his neck. The white shirt fitting tight to his body was certainly made of excellent fabric, just like the narrow trousers and the elegant, shining shoes with small heels and silver buckles he had on. Everything seemed to be just right.

And yet, the prince was a person completely different than the one about whom young girls could have been dreaming during long, winter nights.

On the other hand, both in this uncomely face, and in the inelegant manner of walking, even in the way he furrowed his brow as he looked around, there was something truly princely. Something that would not let this man be passed by indifferently.

"Let's go," muttered Quinnelly, clasping his hand around Deirdre's to pull the girl towards the next room, quite probably in order to move her away from the prince, who – with a face full of nothingness – was just walking down the stairs and looking at the faces of the assembled.

Deirdre, though, did not move. Furrowing her brow a bit, she looked at her partner.

"Should not we stay? It would be rude to leave exactly at the moment when the prince is walking in," she said quietly. She noticed, too, that the people the prince was passing by were bowing or curtseying reverently. Her heart beat faster in fear. And what if he was to come closer to them?