“How silly!” said the Princess Hedwig, with glowing eyes.
“But Highness!” implored the Countess. “If only you would use a little caution. Open defiance is its own defeat.”
“I am not ashamed of what I do,” said Hedwig hotly.
“Ashamed! Of course not. But things that are harmless in others, in your position—you are young. You should have friends, gayety. I am,” she smiled grimly in the darkness, “not so old myself but that I can understand.”
“Who told my mother that I was having tea with—with Prince Otto?”
“These things get about. Where there is no gossip, there are plenty to invent it. And—pardon, Highness—frankness, openness, are not always understood.”
Hedwig stood still. The old city was preparing for sleep. In the Place a few lovers loitered, standing close, and the faint tinkling of a bell told of the Blessed Sacrament being carried through the streets to some bedside of the dying. Soon the priest came into view, walking rapidly, with his skirts flapping around his legs. Before him marched a boy, ringing a bell and carrying a lighted lamp. The priest bent his steps through the Place, and the lovers kneeled as he passed by. The Princess Hedwig bowed her head.
It seemed to her, all at once, that the world was full of wretchedness and death, and of separation, which might be worse than death. The lamp, passing behind trees, shone out fitfully. The bell tinkled—a thin, silvery sound that made her heart ache.
“I wish I could help you, Highness,” said the Countess. “I should like to see you happy. But happiness does not come of itself. We must fight for it.”
“Fight? What chance have I to fight?” Hedwig asked scornfully.