She, an Imperial Archduchess of Austria, Crown Princess of a great German kingdom, a Dame of the Croix Etoilée, a woman who might any day become a reigning queen, had renounced her crown and her position, and was now an outcast! Hers was a curious position—stranger, perhaps, than that in which any woman had before found herself. Many a royalty is to-day unhappy in her domestic life, suffering in silence, yet making a brave show towards the world. She had tried to do the same. She had suffered without complaint for more than three long, dark years—until her husband had not only struck her and disfigured her, but had contemplated ridding himself of her by the foulest and most cowardly means his devilish ingenuity could devise.
As she drove through those clean, prosperous villages which were on her own private property, the people came forth, cheering with enthusiasm and rushing to the carriage to kiss her hand. But she only smiled upon them sadly—not, they said, shaking their heads after she had passed, not the same smile as in the old days, before she married the German Prince and went to far-off Treysa.
The stationmaster at Rattenberg came forward to make his obeisance, and as certain military manoeuvres were in progress and some troops were drawn up before the station, both officers and men drew up and saluted. An old colonel whom she had known well before her marriage came forward, and bowing, offered to see her to her compartment, expressing delight at having met her again.
“Your Imperial Highness will never be forgotten here,” declared the gallant, red-faced old fellow, who wore fierce white moustaches. “The poor are always wondering whether you are ever coming back. And at last your Highness is here! And going—where?”
She hesitated. Truth to tell, she had never thought of her destination.
“I go now to Lucerne, incognito,” she replied, for want of something else to say; and they both walked on to the platform, he carrying Henriette’s cheap little leather bag containing her jewels.
“So this,” he said, “is our little Princess Ignatia, about whom we have heard so much.” And laughingly he touched the shy child’s soft cheek caressingly.
“And who are you?” inquired the child wonderingly, examining his bright uniform from head to foot.
The Princess joined in the Colonel’s laughter. Usually the child was shy, but, strangely enough, always talkative with any one who wore a uniform, even though he might be a private soldier on sentry duty at the palace.
The Colonel was not alone in remarking within himself the plainness and cheapness of her Imperial Highness’s costume. It had been remarked everywhere, but was supposed that she wore that very ordinary costume in order to pass incognito.