The princess royal alone was silent; her heart was heavy and sorrowful. She had carefully reconsidered the scene which had occurred, and the result was, she was now convinced that the poem which she had received was not intended for her, but for some other fair lady. She was ashamed of her credulity, and blushed for her own vanity. For how could it be possible that the handsome and brilliant man who sat at her side, who was so witty and spirited, who was as learned as he was intelligent, as noble as he was amiable, how could it be possible that he should love her?—she who was only young and pretty, who was moreover guilty of the great, unpardonable fault of being his wife, and a wife who had been forced upon him.
No, this poem had never been intended for her. But for whom, then? Who was the happy one to whom the prince had given his love? Her heart bled as she thought that another could call this bliss her own. She was too mild and gentle to be angry. She ardently desired to know the name of her rival, but not that she might revenge herself. No, she wished to pray for her whom the prince royal loved, to whom he perhaps owed a few days of happiness, of bliss.
But who was she? The princess royal's glance rested searchingly on all the ladies who were present. She saw many beautiful and pleasing faces. Many of them had intelligence, vivacity, and wit, but none of them were worthy of his love. Her husband had just turned to his fair neighbor, and, with a fascinating smile, whispered a few words in her ear. Madame Morien blushed, cast down her eyes, but, raising them again and looking ardently at the prince royal, she murmured a few words in so low a tone that no one else heard them.
How? Could it be this one? But no, that was impossible. This giddy, coquettish, and superficial woman could by no possibility have captivated the noble and high-toned prince; she could not be Elizabeth's happy rival.
But who, then? Alas, if this long and weary feast were only at an end! If she could but retire to her chamber and read this poem, the riddle would then be solved, and she would know the name of his lady-love.
It seemed, however, that the prince had divined his wife's wish, and had determined that it should not be gratified.
They had taken their seats at table at a very late hour to-day, at six o'clock. It had now become dark, and candelabras with wax candles were brought in and placed on the table.
"The lights are burning," exclaimed the prince; "we will not leave the table until these lights are burned out, and our heads have become illuminated with champagne."[6]
[6] Bielfeld, vol i., page 84. The prince's own words.
And amid conversation, laughter, and recitations, all went merrily on. But the heart of the princess royal grew sadder and sadder.