But tears and reproaches were ingredients of conversation which were by no means pleasing to Frederick William, and he fled from them to the parlors of his dear friend, Wilhelmine, where he was certain to find gayety and amusement.
Wilhelmine Rietz thought of all this while reclining on her sofa, awaiting the arrival of invited company—she thought of this while gazing at the reflection of herself (adorned with jewelry and attired in a satin dress, embroidered with silver), in the magnificent Venetian mirror. She had always found these conversations with her image in a mirror very interesting, for these two ladies kept no secrets from each other, but were friends, who imparted their inmost thoughts without prudery and hypocrisy.
“You will yet be a countess,” said Wilhelmine. “Yes, a countess, and whatever else you may desire.”
The lady in the mirror smiled, and replied: “Yes, a countess, or even a princess, but certainly not one who heaps reproaches upon herself, and dies of remorse; nor yet one of those who seek to reconcile themselves to the world, and to purchase an abode in heaven, by unceasing prayer and costly alms-giving. No, I will be a countess who enjoys life and compels her enemies to bend the knee—who seeks to reconcile herself to the world by giving brilliant entertainments and good dinners, and cares but little for what may take place after her death—a countess who exclaims with her great model, the Marquise de Pompadour, ‘Après moi, le déluge! ’”
CHAPTER IX.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
Wilhelmine was now interrupted in her animated conversation with her reflection by the abrupt entrance of her “self-styled husband,” the Chamberlain Rietz.
She saw him in the mirror, and she saw, too, how the friend with whom she had been conversing, colored with displeasure and frowned. Without rising, or even turning her head, she allowed the chamberlain to approach until he stood in front of her, and then she cried, in an imperious voice: “Where were my servants? Why do you come unannounced to my presence?”