Though they had not met for a week, no word of greeting escaped him. They stood side by side, as though they were strangers. He eyed her quickly, and his countenance turned slightly pale, as though displeased at her presence.
Yet the whole assembly, even though hating her, could not but admire her neat waist, her splendid figure, and matchless beauty. In the whole of the Courts of Europe there was no prettier woman than the Crown Princess Claire; her figure was perfect, and her gait always free—the gait of a princess. Even when dressed in her maid’s dresses, as she had done on occasion, her walk betrayed her. Imperial blood can seldom be disguised.
The hundred women, those German princesses, duchesses, countesses, baronesses, to each of whom attached their own particular scandal—the brilliant little world that circled around the throne—looked at her standing there with her husband, her hands clasped before her, and envied her looks, figure, position—everything. She was a marked woman.
The proud, haughty expression upon her face as she regarded the assembly was only assumed. It was the mask she was compelled to wear at Court at the old King’s command. Her nature was the reverse of haughty, yet the artificiality of palace life made it necessary for the Crown Princess to be as unapproachable as the Queen herself.
The guests were filing before the white-haired King, the hide-bound old martyr to etiquette, when the Crown Prince spoke to his wife in an undertone, saying roughly, with bitter sarcasm,—
“So you are back? Couldn’t stay away from us longer, I suppose?”
“I remained in Vienna as long as I said I should,” was the sweet-faced woman’s calm reply.
“A pity you didn’t stay there altogether,” he muttered. “You are neither use nor ornament here.”
“You have told me that several times before. Much as I regret it, Ferdinand, my place is here.”
“Yes, at my side—to annoy me,” he said, frowning.