'Months! Months of Stuttgart without you? Ah! Eberhard, you cannot ask it!' She pleaded long, but for once the Duke was obdurate: he must go, he said; honour demanded it.
On the day fixed for Eberhard Ludwig's departure there was much stir in Stuttgart, and the people crowded the streets to show honour to their Duke, whose popularity was suddenly reawakened by his reassumption of the rôle of military hero. Johanna Elizabetha was to accompany the Duke out of the town; once again she was to be permitted to play her part as wife and Duchess. Forstner had achieved this, with the help of Osiander, who was to pronounce a blessing on the Duke and his body-guard on the market-place ere they set forth. The Prelate declared he would refuse his benediction were the Duchess not accorded her fitting place in the ceremony. Wilhelmine was enraged. It is hard for a woman to see another recognised as the beloved's wife, besides she regarded this as a slight to herself. It was terrible to her, and she stormed and raged and reproached the Duke, demanding what was to be her place in the ceremony. Then, in tears, she caressed him.
Of course, the Duke blamed Johanna Elizabetha for this scene. When do we ever blame the right person for the disagreeable happenings of our lives?
At length Serenissimus tore himself away from his mistress, carrying in his heart her picture in her yellow, sunlit room, crying bitterly with face hidden in her hands. He hated tears, but Wilhelmine's weeping was so different from that of other women, he reflected, as he wended his way through the gardens towards the castle to mount his charger and head the procession to the market-place, and thence away to the French frontier. He had taken leave of Johanna Elizabetha that morning, for though she was to assist in the ceremony of departure, he had granted her request for a previous farewell in private. The Duchess had met him with tear-swollen lids, and had wept incessantly during the short interview. The poor soul had shown her grief in a most unbecoming way; her mouth grimaced ridiculously when she cried, 'like a squalling brat's,' his Highness had reflected bitterly.
Ah! the difference when Wilhelmine wept—her head bowed down with sadness, her face hidden. It was so graceful, so poetic; of course the secret was, that when she wept she hid her face. A really clever woman of the world would never show the grimace of sorrow: she may weep, but she hides her face, well knowing that a weeping woman is a hideous sight; but all this Eberhard Ludwig did not know.
Meanwhile Wilhelmine sat in her yellow salon listening to the sounds from the market-place which floated to her across the gardens behind the Jägerhaus. She heard the flare of trumpets which greeted the Duke, the roar of the enthusiastic people acclaiming their warlike sovereign; then followed silence, Osiander must be pronouncing his benediction, she thought. Again a flourish of trumpets, men shouting, and then she heard the grand hymn, 'Ein' Feste Burg ist unser Gott,' sung by thousands of voices and brayed out by the brass instruments. The sound came nearer: she could hear the tramp of feet, the clatter of horses, the cries of the people. The musicians played a march: it seemed to Wilhelmine that it became more triumphant, more blatant, as the cortège passed near the Jägerhaus; yet the boisterous military music held a note of pathos, something infinitely moving at this terrible farewell hour, and the listening woman wept bitterly, and, God knows! she forgot to hide her sorrow-distorted mouth at that moment.
The days dragged on. May came cold and unfriendly, as April had been, and Wilhelmine thought that all the warmth of the world must have departed when Eberhard Ludwig went to the frontier to do battle. The lilacs came to a tardy bloom, and even on the cold ungenial air there floated a divine fragrance. News came from the Duke—dull news, all detail of the organising and improvement of troops. Passionate words intermingled in these letters to Wilhelmine, old faded yellow curiosities now. Madame de Ruth, Zollern, and Stafforth often visited the favourite at the Jägerhaus, and Wilhelmine's innate desire to please—that impulse which must ever belong to the 'charmeurs' and especially to the 'charmeuses' of the world—taught her to forget her sadness when she was with her friends, and thus some brighter hours were passed. She sang, and if her singing were more truthfully passionate and more sad than of yore, it was surely love which had taught her greater depth. Only Madame de Ruth, the old courtesan, realised that not love but love's sadness had given that tone to the glorious voice; and Madame de Ruth looked at Zollern, her eyes full of tears, but Zollern leaned his chin on the mythologically ornamented china handle of his stick and revelled in a thrill, a spark of youth's desire, which the younger woman's voice had rekindled. Men are promiscuous to the end of their lives. Why blame them? God made them so.
Towards the beginning of May, shortly after his Highness's departure, Madame de Ruth arrived one morning at the Jägerhaus brimming over with words and gossip. 'Imagine, ma chère,' she cried, as she rustled into Wilhelmine's yellow salon, 'Osiander is in disgrace with the Duchess! I heard it was coming, but did not believe it. As you know, her Highness has given orders that, being in spiritual mourning in the absence of her dear spouse at the war, she will see none save her personal attendants and Madame de Stafforth. Well, well, it is quite contrary to every etiquette; but, indeed, the court of Stuttgart has ceased to exist nowadays, and her Highness can do as she likes.'
'Yes, yes; I know all that. Tell me what the news is!' broke in Wilhelmine impatiently. The Duchess's entire seclusion was well known to her, she heard it discussed by her friends daily.