Anne was standing in the door of the inner room.
She leant against the wooden lintel and stared at Rénèe. The white linen round her head and shoulders made her face look yellow and faded as that of an old woman; her blue dress clung to her meagre figure in straight lines; there was no attempt now to hide her deformity of raised shoulder and crooked hip; her hands pulled nervously at her girdle.
"Your labour is for nothing," she said. "I am not going to Dillenburg."
Rénèe went on packing.
"Your Highness will certainly go," she answered quietly.
"No," said Anne violently. "I was a fool to leave Brussels—but I will not leave the Netherlands. Why should I go into exile? Where is all my state? It has melted like snow. There is no one to look after me; I can hardly get a drink of beer or wine when I want it. He never gives me any money—has he thrown it all away on this miserable beggar war? I will not be the wife of a ruined man—am I to live on wind and eat my hands and feet? By God, I had better have married a simple German Count than this great Prince."
The resignation of the Prince and the subsequent alteration in his fortunes might certainly have frightened many women; but Rénèe had no spark of sympathy for Anne's complainings and railings.
"Your Highness came to Breda, and Your Highness will go to Dillenburg."
Anne gave her a look of hate.
"I would sooner stay and put myself at the mercy of Alva," answered the Princess sullenly. "I do not fear the Spaniards."