“I thought they 'd never go,” said she, with a sigh; “but I know why they remained,—they all thought the Prince of Istria was coming. They saw his carriage stop here this evening, and heard he had sent up to know if I received. I wrote on a card, 'To-morrow at dinner, at eight;' so be sure you are here to meet him.”
Sir Horace bowed, and smiled his acceptance.
“And your journey, dear Princess,” said he, between the puffs of his smoke, “was it pleasant?”
“It might have been well enough, but I was obliged to make a great détour. The Duchess detained me at Parma for some letters, and then sent me across the mountains of Pontremoli—a frightful road—on a secret mission to Massa.”
“To Massa! of all earthly places.”
“Even so. They had sent down there, some eight or nine months ago, the young Count Wahnsdorf, the Archduchess Sophia's son, who, having got into all manner of dissipation at Vienna, and lost largely at play, it was judged expedient to exile him for a season; and as the Duke of Modena offered his aid to their plans, he was named to a troop in a dragoon regiment, and appointed aide-de-camp to his Royal Highness. Are you attending; or has your Excellency lost the clew of my story?”
“I am all ears; only waiting anxiously to hear: who is she?”
“Oh, then, you suspect a woman in the case?”
“I am sure of it, dear Princess. The very accents of your voice prepared me for a bit of romance.”
“Yes, you are right; he has fallen in love,—so desperately in love that he is incessant in his appeals to the Duchess to intercede with his family and grant him leave to marry.”