“What freezing coldness, little one! But I forgot that you had married into a romantic family. The Mortimers and their wives are always absurdly attached to one another. It is quite bürgerlich—middle-class, I suppose your new relations would call it.”
“If it is middle-class to be fond of one’s husband, then I am middle-class,” said Helene.
“You—the descendant of Charlemagne! And you are allowing your husband to drag you into exile already? Where are you going with this wonderful luggage which needs so much looking after?”
“Can you ask, Cousin Ottilie? Of course we are going to Novigrad, to help look for the dear Count.”
“To help look for——? Oh, Count Mortimer!” the Princess broke into a soft peal of laughter. “My darling Lenchen, you must forgive me. It really did not occur to me whom you meant. Has it never struck any of you that Count Mortimer might prefer not to be looked for?”
“How could it? What can you mean?”
The Princess drew a letter from her pocket. “Of course Lord Usk won’t believe me,” she said, “but I should really like to save you two from taking a journey into the wilds for no reason at all.”
“Cousin Ottilie! why shouldn’t Usk believe you?” cried Helene, aghast.
“My dear child, he is prejudiced, of course,” but the Princess seemed a little confused, and unfolded the letter quickly, as though to forestall further questioning. “This is from my husband’s cousin, Valerian Pelenko. I have just been paying a flying visit to Dardania—to see the new baby, not to stay; Emilia and I agree better apart—and I wrote to ask whether I might spend a night at his house near Klotsch on the journey. Here is what he says: ‘Pray consider my house as your own, as often and as long as you like. I am sorry to be away. By the bye, I had a curious rencontre just as I was leaving home. Do you remember the man Mortimer, who made rather a laughing-stock of himself at Ludwigsbad two or three years ago by aspiring to your particular favour? Naturally you will remember him; he found your cousin Ernestine of Thracia less hard-hearted than yourself, I recollect. Well, as I was driving towards Klotsch, before we turned into the Novigrad road, we met another carriage, and in it I saw Count Mortimer and a lady, with whom he seemed to be on excellent terms——’”
“Oh, it must be a mistake!” cried Helene. “Why, Aunt Ernestine was at Molzau, at Michael’s wedding.”