“I shall take care that does not happen.”
“Well, his father’s story, then—a marriage without love or even liking on either side, arranged purely as a matter of state. What else can you hope for from Count Mortimer? I don’t doubt that he has a suitable alliance in view already. There are your cousin the Emperor Sigismund’s twin daughters, the little Princesses Hermine and Frederike of Hercynia—either of them would be an excellent match for Michael.”
“That I would never allow. I have always disliked Sigismund, and I should refuse to welcome either of his children here.”
“Even if Michael fell in love with one of them?”
“Oh, that would be different, of course. But I shall take good care that he has no chance of falling in love with them.”
“Then is he to be permitted to select his own bride? That might lead to complications—if he preferred a pretty bourgeoise, for instance. The marriage could scarcely turn out a success, and moreover, your family and the Schwarzwald-Molzaus would not allow it to take place.”
“He could not marry below his own rank, naturally. But there must be ways of bringing the right people together.” She paused, and her eyes followed those of her cousin to the corner in which Princess Ludmilla was dispensing imaginary tea in dolls’ cups to a select detachment of the King’s tin soldiers, while the host was crawling round the table on his hands and knees, and propping up the guests as they slipped down. “Ottilie!” the Queen cried, with a gasp, “your little Lida! She is just the right age, and she is dark and he is fair.”
“My dearest Nestchen! What would Count Mortimer say?”
“What does it signify what he says? And Lida is so sweet and gentle, and Michael so masterful already! Let us make a compact, Ottilie, and educate them for each other. They shall grow up together as much as possible—we will come here, or you will come to Praka, once a-year—and when the time comes they will fall in love, and all will be well.”
“Are you really serious, Ernestine?”