'I do not know, your Highness,' said Wilhelmine shortly. Each word the Duchess-mother spoke cut her to the quick, and she hated the tall, gaunt old lady as even she had never hated before.
'Well, I hope for you sake, Madame, your husband will be able to reside here soon. It is hard for a young woman to be alone. And besides, really you should pray for a son to succeed to the Würben family honours. I used to know a Count Würben at Vienna many years ago. A Count Nepomuk Würben—'Nepi,' they called him—perhaps an uncle of your husband's?'
'That is my husband's name, your Highness,' replied Wilhelmine in a toneless voice.
'Impossible! Why, the man I mean will be sixty years old by now, and he disgraced himself and squandered a fortune. No; that man cannot be your husband, dear Madame! I heard he had made a fearful marriage—some adventuress who had amassed money and wished for an old and honourable name. It interests me much; pray ask your husband if that Würben was a cousin of his. A disagreeable subject though, for, of course, no nobleman would care to own so vile a person as cousin.'
Wilhelmine threw up her head proudly. 'Your Highness, Count Nepomuk Würben is my husband, and I must request you not to criticise him in my presence.'
Her spirit pleased the Duchess-mother, who replied in a different tone: 'That then, Madame, is your misfortune. We will not mention it again.'
Eberhard Ludwig during this painful scene stood in embarrassed, angry silence. He durst not interfere, for knowing his mother's character, he was well aware that any intervention on his part would only draw down upon Wilhelmine a flood of free-spoken remarks.
Meanwhile the other members of her Highness's intimate circle had entered from a small withdrawing-room, leading out of the larger apartment.
The Stafforths, Madame de Gemmingen, a young gentleman of the household, Monsieur de Röder, and the Erbprinz's governor, Monsieur le Baron de Walchingen, his tutor, and various other unimportant persons. The Duke's mother and Wilhelmine stood together in the centre of this group. The older woman wore the sombre garb of a widow's mourning, which she had never put off since Duke Wilhelm Ludwig's death thirty years ago.
Wilhelmine was dressed, as usual, in delicate yellow brocade with profusely powdered hair and flashing jewels. They made a striking contrast—sober sadness and old age, radiant youth and brilliant, lavish joy. And near by was Johanna Elizabetha, clad in dull, unnoticeable garments of grey blue silk. To Eberhard Ludwig the group was symbolic of his life's history, and he sighed heavily as he turned to greet Madame de Stafforth.