Anne was now a little frightened; she dimly wondered what her own position would be if all these fearful edicts against heretics were enforced.
"What can I do?" she asked foolishly.
"Bear yourself discreetly—flatter the Regent, eschew the Cardinalists—do not encourage Seigneur Brederode."
"I am sure no one takes any notice of what I do," returned Anne. In her heart she was sorry she was not an orthodox Catholic; the sufferings of fellow-heretics did not move her in the least, but she was alarmed at the thought of being involved in any of their misfortunes.
"The actions of the daughter of the Prince who forced the Peace of Passau from the late Cæsar must always be important."
Anne was flattered at this; she was always inordinately proud of her famous father, while not sympathizing in the least with the principles or the actions that had made him glorious.
"I will do what I can in the matters you tell me of," she said, "but it was never my husband's wish that I should be troubled with grave business of any kind."
Sabina took this ungracious concession as the utmost she was likely to get; she rose, feeling that the whole interview had been rather useless.
Anne rose too, and as she stood, the bright cruel light of the window over her, the other woman noted afresh how crooked she was, how sickly, how plain, and was sorry.
And over Anne's shoulder she glanced into the gardens which showed through the open casement, and saw the Prince playing tennis in the sunlit court; his gay spirits, his splendid health, his pleasant handsomeness formed a bitter contrast with his wife. The Countess, with the generosity of the woman who has everything, felt sorry indeed for this woman who had nothing but a position she could not hold, and a husband she could not please.