She had no evil qualities; her most sincere emotion was her passionate love for her beautiful little son, Maurice; perhaps a sense of stifled discontent lay deep hidden in her heart, mingled with the adventurer’s secret longing for haven and security; this she never admitted even to herself, but sometimes it colored her behavior, as now when she was inclined to be spiteful with the young and rather silly girl absorbed in the magic of a great love.
“She really would leave everything for him,” thought the Countess; she wondered what it must be to feel like that; the creature was so shy and reserved about it too.
Aurora had herself, purely as a matter of course, tried to bring Patkul to her feet when he had first come to the Dresden Court; neither her fidelity to Augustus nor the native coldness of her disposition prevented her from endeavoring to subjugate every notable man who crossed her path; that the Livonian had been ice to her and flame to Hélène D’Einsiedel did not add to the good-humor with which she viewed this romantic, old-fashioned love affair.
Vanity apart, her good sense condemned the type of man who could prefer a stupid girl, endowed only with the passing prettiness of youth, to a woman like herself.
She was extremely lovely, vivid in coloring for the North, bright brown eyes, soft brown hair, graceful from crown to heel, every movement charming, every look and gesture radiant with beauty.
“Why are you angry with me, Countess?” asked the girl suddenly, tossing down the sugar on to the rose-colored cushions.
“How did you know I was angry?”
“Oh, la, you look as if you would like to beat me!”
Aurora suddenly moved and clasped her long hands round her knees.
“I suppose I envied you,” she said, in one of her careless generous impulses. “You have something I have never had.”