“I know women,” the Councillor retorted dryly. “Royalty has no charms for them until they are over thirty-five.”
“Oh, you think so?” the Duke said doubtfully, having no more definite argument ready. “I thought a good deal more of it before I was that age than I do now.”
“Is it possible?” The Duke looked for the sneer he knew was there, but it was only to be felt, not seen, so he had no excuse for offence. “Your Highness was not—a woman.”
That was the worst of Rollmar; his cleverness was useful, indispensable, his stinging tongue abominable. Duke Theodor often wished his minister less able, that he might afford to do without, or at any rate, with less of him. To have it conveyed to you daily, even under the cloak of homage, that your crown covers a pair of ass’s ears is galling; it needs a full and constant supply of self-opinion for its constant rejection. Happily in Duke Theodor’s case the flow showed no signs of failing.
“You think,” he suggested, drawing back from the thin ice at its ominous crack, “you think my daughter will take offence at the cavalier way in which Prince Ludwig seems inclined to treat the business?”
Rollmar protruded his under jaw. “I don’t know whether the Princess will take offence, but the question is whether she may not take a fancy to someone else, someone visible and tangible, which Prince Ludwig at present is not.”
“I should hope,” said the Duke pompously, “my daughter would not do that.”
“I should hope so, too,” Rollmar added dryly.
“It is impossible,” his highness declared, nettled at the doubt in the other’s tone.
“It is not only possible, but highly probable,” the Chancellor declared boldly.