“God be merciful to us, M. de Jennico!” and seemed the next instant ready to burst into tears.
In the first confusion of my thoughts, in the rage created by this eternal quid pro quo—that I should ever find the lady-in-waiting when I wanted the Princess, and the Princess when I wanted the lady-in-waiting,—I might have been inclined to think that Anna had after all spread her tidings, and that my wife’s former mistress had come to her aid at this awkward moment; but the surprise and consternation on this woman’s countenance were too genuine to have been counterfeit.
Whatever reason brought the Princess here I was in no humour to inquire.
“I came to see my wife, Madam,” said I, “and not to presume upon your Highness’s condescension. I am determined to see my wife,” I insisted; “that Ottilie Pahlen, who was your maid of honour, and lived with me as my wife for a month, as your Highness well knows, and who was in such haste to wed this Court doctor of yours at the first rumour of her husband’s death.”
I spoke in a very uncourtier-like rage. But she whom I addressed showed neither anger nor astonishment, but sank into the nearest chair, a mere heap of soft distressed womanhood, wringing her plump dimpled hands, while tears of extraordinary size suffused her eyes and overflowed upon her cheeks.
At sight of this my heat fell away; I threw myself on my knees beside her, and, all forgetful of the distance between us, took one of her hands in mine and poured forth an appeal.
“You were always kind to me; be kind now. I must see my wife. I have been cruelly treated; I am surrounded with enemies; be you my friend!”
She leant forward and looked at me earnestly with swimming eyes.
“Is it possible,” she exclaimed—“is it possible, M. de Jennico, that you have not found out yet?... that you do not suspect?...”
Even as she spoke, and while I knelt looking up at her, the scales fell from my eyes. I needed no further word. I knew. How was it possible, indeed, that I should not have known before? I saw as in a flash that this comely burgher woman was not, had never been, never could have been, the Princess. I saw that the hand I still unconsciously held bore marks of household toil, that on the third finger glittered a new wedding ring. Then a thousand memories rushed into my mind, a thousand confirmatory details. Oh, blind—blind—blind that I had been—fool, and worse than fool! The mystery of my wife’s mocking smile; the secret that had so often hung unspoken on her lips; her careless pretty ways; the depth of her injured pride; and then the manner in which she had been guarded from me, the force employed against me, the secret diplomatic attempts to free her, followed, on their failure, by the relentless determination to do away with me altogether! Before my reeling brain it all rose into towering conviction—a joy, a sorrow, both too keen for humanity to bear, seized upon my weakened frame. I heard as if in the far distance the words the woman near me was saying: