‘O, you have found out so much,’ she cried.
‘Yes, madam, I grow wiser with advancing years,’ he returned.
‘Years,’ she repeated. ‘Do you name the traitors? I do not believe in years; the calendar is a delusion.’
‘You must be right, madam,’ replied the Prince. ‘For six years that we have been good friends, I have observed you to grow younger.’
‘Flatterer!’ cried she, and then with a change, ‘But why should I say so,’ she added, ‘when I protest I think the same? A week ago I had a council with my father director, the glass; and the glass replied, “Not yet!” I confess my face in this way once a month. O! a very solemn moment. Do you know what I shall do when the mirror answers, “Now”?’
‘I cannot guess,’ said he.
‘No more can I,’ returned the Countess. ‘There is such a choice! Suicide, gambling, a nunnery, a volume of memoirs, or politics—the last, I am afraid.’
‘It is a dull trade,’ said Otto.
‘Nay,’ she replied, ‘it is a trade I rather like. It is, after all, first cousin to gossip, which no one can deny to be amusing. For instance, if I were to tell you that the Princess and the Baron rode out together daily to inspect the cannon, it is either a piece of politics or scandal, as I turn my phrase. I am the alchemist that makes the transmutation. They have been everywhere together since you left,’ she continued, brightening as she saw Otto darken; ‘that is a poor snippet of malicious gossip—and they were everywhere cheered—and with that addition all becomes political intelligence.’
‘Let us change the subject,’ said Otto.