“What would the world say of the Princess who allows her hand to be transferred so casually?” It was Ruperta who put the question.
The Count turned to her with a cynical smile.
“Chancellor Rollmar would probably say, Fräulein, that a Princess had no right to her hand or her heart. They are the property of the State, to be disposed of to its best advantage. And this State is represented by Chancellor Rollmar.”
“I was not asking for the Chancellor’s opinion, but the world’s,” Ruperta said coldly.
“The world, dear lady, is too selfish to trouble itself about such matters. The world considers that persons in high places have their duties—sometimes very disagreeable ones—to perform. It is, after all, some compensation for other advantages. Moral, do not be a Princess, the world would say with a shrug. No; the only person who is likely to find serious fault with the business is the Princess herself. Always supposing that she has inherited sufficient character and preserved sufficient humanity to feel her position and resent it.”
“You mean if she is a woman and not a doll?”
“Exactly. In this particular complication, the Princess may regard the change from the rightful heir to the usurper with the indifference which she doubtless feels for both.”
“She may feel none for a third man,” Ludovic put in.
The Count gave a shrug. “So much the worse for her and the third man, if Rollmar gets wind of it.”
“Poor Princess!” Ruperta commented bitterly.