There sat Anne in the same listless attitude in which he had left her, with her elbows propped on a table covered with a rich tapestry and her face sunk in her small, large-veined hands.
And behind her, as always, was Rénèe, motionless, like her shadow.
It was usual for the Prince to pass his wife in silence when he thus met her by chance, but now, though with an obvious effort, he came across the room.
"Madame," he said; then, "Anne."
She looked up; her sallow face flushed and she glanced down again, spreading out her hands on her skirt.
Rénèe turned to go, but the Prince said, "Stay." He stood looking at his wife in a silence that held no judgment; he gazed at her rather as if he sought to throw the protection of tenderness over her sickly unloveliness, her miserable melancholy. Always in the Prince's attitude towards his wife there had been this gentleness, which was at once gallant and touching.
"Anne, I have been wishing to speak to you."
She made no response.
"You always disliked Brussels, did you not, Madame?" he added.
"Why do you ask that?" she demanded, with instant suspicion.