Descending, she allowed the gorgeously-dressed man in the royal livery to take her cloak from her shoulders; and then, without a word, hastened along the great marble hall, up the grand staircase and along corridor after corridor—those richly-carpeted corridors of her prison that she knew so well—to her own splendid suite of apartments.
The servants she met at every turn bowed to her, until she opened the door of a large, airy, well-furnished room, where a middle-aged woman, in cap and apron, sat reading by a shaded lamp.
In an instant, on recognising the newcomer, she sprang to her feet. But at the same moment the Princess rushed to the dainty little cot in the corner and sank down beside the sleeping curly-haired child—her child—the little Princess Ignatia.
So passionately did she kiss the sweet chubby little face of the sleeping child that she awoke, and recognising who it was, put out her little hands around her mother’s neck.
“Ah, my little pet!” cried the Princess. “And how are you? It seems so long, so very long, since we parted.” And her voice trembled, for tears stood in her eyes. The child was all she had in the world to love and cherish. She was her first thought always. The glare and glitter of the brilliant Court were all hateful to her, and she spent all the time she dared in the nursery with little Ignatia.
The English nurse, Allen, standing at her side, said, with that formality which was bound to be observed within those walls,—
“The Princess is in most excellent health, your Imperial Highness. I have carried out your Highness’s instructions, and taken her each day for a walk in the park.”
“That’s right, Allen,” responded the mother, also in English. “Where is the Crown Prince?”
“I have not seen him, your Highness, since you left. He has not been in to see Ignatia.”
Claire sighed within herself, but made no outward sign. “Ah, I expect he has been away—to Berlin, perhaps. Is there any function to-night, have you heard?”