The prince, during this time, had walked rapidly on with his wife; no word was exchanged between them. Only once, when he felt her arm trembling, he turned and said harshly:
“Why do you tremble?”
“It is cold!” said she, monotonously.
“And yet,” said he, laughing derisively, “it is such lovely, invigorating weather.”
They went onward silently; they entered the castle and ascended the steps to the apartment of the princess. Now they were in her cabinet—in this quiet, confidential family room, where Prince Henry had passed so many happy hours with his beloved Wilhelmina. Now he stood before her, with a cold, contemptuous glance, panting for breath, too agitated to speak.
The princess was pale as death; unspeakable anguish was written in her face. She dared not interrupt this fearful silence, and appeared to be only occupied in arranging her toilet; she took off her hat and velvet mantle.
“Madame,” said the prince at last, gasping at every word, “I am here to make a request of you!”
Wilhelmina bowed coldly and ceremoniously. “You have only to command, my husband!”
“Well, then,” said he, no longer able to maintain his artificial composure. “I command you to show me the letter you have hidden in your bosom.”
“What letter, prince?” stammered she, stepping back alarmed.