And then, to the memory of both, came the most tragic figure in the tragedy. In the glow of the great fire stood a young man, Philip von Königsmarck, one of a wild and unfortunate family; his brother Charles and his sister Aurora were sadly known to fame, but neither had a fate so dark as his.… Wind and rain increased in violence and swept and howled round the towers of Schloss Ahlden and beat in at the draughty window of the Princess’s bedroom.
She put her hands over her eyes; memory was becoming so strong that she felt herself back in that moment she had not talked of for thirty-two years.
“The kitchen was very large,” she said, “and he stood waiting for me. Do you remember him, Annette?”
“Herr Jesus!” muttered the old woman. “He had on a great coat–light–and black satins under it and high soft boots and a little useless sword with a steel tassle–and a steinkirk cravat. They were fashionable that year, pulled through the buttonhole of the waistcoat—”
The Princess did not move her hand from her eyes; she saw all these details. She saw more; she saw the young Swede’s passionate face, his deep blue eyes, the cluster of his blonde hair on his brow.
“You stood at the door,” she said, “and we both forgot you, and then—”
Annette remembered.
The bright young beauty had gone straight to her lover’s arms, and without a word they had kissed.
Then he had drawn her to the settle, and she had sat beside him, loosening her cloak, and on her throat, her shoulders, her arms he had kissed her again.