Sophia Dorothea closed her eyes.
“Do you remember,” she murmured, and her expression was greedy as the expression of one glimpsing the food he is famishing for, “that night–how young I was?”
“Do I remember? It was the last thing that ever happened to me,” answered Annette von Arlestein.
Before the mental vision of both the tragedy that had been lying silently in their hearts so long loomed suddenly clear and distinct, as if it had happened yesterday. There was silence.
They saw the scene before them as if they had not been actors in it.
A luxurious bedroom, a white and gilt imitation of Versailles, filled with elegant furniture, fashionable toilet articles and splendid clothes, a bed of white satin and many mirrors–this was what they both saw.
All was brilliant, pretty and cheerful.
At the foot of the bed stood a beautiful woman, Sophia Dorothea, opulent in charms and happiness; her black hair rolled in curls between a braid of pearls and fell on her soft shoulders. White and crimson mingled ravishingly in her face and her dark eyes were soft, yet sparkling.
She wore a gown of white brocade, cut low on the bosom and laced across the muslin shift with a pink cord; the skirt was embroidered with little wreaths of blue roses; the petticoat glimmered with gold thread.