She was as bankrupt as the Prince and as lonely.
It was clear she could not remain at Dillenburg; she was but a burden and an encumbrance in a household beginning to be run with the strictest economy. Anne had fiercely refused to take her to Cologne, nor did Rénèe wish to go, for her influence over the Princess had ceased and Anne was openly defying her husband and her kinsfolk. She was living at Cologne surrounded by any rabble she could find to sympathize with her, and she had put her legal affairs—her frantic attempts to recover her property, and her wild expedients to raise money—into the hands of Jan Rubens, the Brussels' lawyer.
Rénèe sickened to think of this; her whole spirit was crushed by the misfortunes which had overwhelmed not only her country and her faith but all she cared for, and the little world in which she had moved and served.
There was no further occupation for her at Dillenburg; William's children were in charge of his mother and sisters and of the Landgravine Elisabeth, Count John's wife.
The Court of the Elector Palatine—that refuge of all persecuted Protestants—occurred to Rénèe; some German ladies she had known at Dresden were prepared to welcome her there.
She suggested this plan to the Countess of Nassau one heavy November day when they walked in the castle gardens to catch the faint chill glimpse of the winter sun.
"You, too, are eager to leave us!" exclaimed the Countess, who could not forget Anne's fierce denunciations of the dulness of the life at Dillenburg.
"No, Madame, no," said Rénèe eagerly; "but I must work—in some way I must justify my life—or die."
Juliana pressed her hand kindly.
"I know, my child, I know. There is indeed nothing but idleness for you here where we women are too many already."