Count Piper lifted his shoulders.
“She is the type—the temperament—they have noticed each other. He speaks of her.”
“Not when he is sober,” flashed the Duchess.
“Believe me, Madame,” he answered gravely, “he is ensnared. And his first love. It will be serious.”
The Duchess tapped her foot impatiently.
“And I came to Stockholm for this!” she exclaimed, full of contempt and revolt.
“So much depends on the lady—why should she not be our friend, Highness? The friend of Sweden? That wench might save the country if she chose to persuade the King that way—let us use her, instead of flouting her, Madame.”
The Duchess was silent a second, struggling with a pride that bade her speak scornful words; she knew that Count Piper but followed the usual procedure of courts, but his worldly wisdom disgusted her, and, desperate as she was, and cause as she had to be angry with her brother, she did not care to think of him as sunk in foolish weakness; the men of her house had never been feeble.
Yet she knew, by a deep instinct and a jealous observation, that Viktoria had greatly attracted the King, and she thought that, bold, fair, and worldly as this woman was, she would not forgo any advantage for any scruple.
“I leave it in your hands,” she said at last. “I cannot speak to her myself. I will send her to you while I go for my walk.”