"He is indeed a very splendid cavalier," said Anne, with vast satisfaction, "and he made me such fine speeches and compliments. I wish you had seen him when he came to Dresden, but you will soon see him now. And I am higher born than he, for he is only a Count in Germany. Yet he is a sovereign Prince too, and I shall give way to no one at the Court of Brussels. Is it not all very pleasant?" So the girl chattered on in her shrill, high voice, and the waiting-woman dutifully assented to all she said; but Rénèe's calm, Rénèe's self-effacement, usually so grateful to Anne, to-day offended her. She wanted a more human interest shown in her affairs, some excitement, some envy, some jealousy. "You talk as if you were sick!" she cried fretfully. "Do you not care at all about my wedding?" Rénèe flushed at the rare personal address; it was seldom Anne spoke to her as to another human being. "Of course I care," she answered gravely, "but how can I comment on matters so much above me?" Anne was mollified. "Would you not like a husband, rich and handsome?" she asked, trying to provoke the flattery of the other's envy. "I?" asked Rénèe, in genuine surprise. "Who will ever marry me?" Anne smiled. "Perhaps some day I shall find some one for you. How old are you?" "Twenty-five, Your Grace." "That is not very young! Nearly ten years older than I am! Is it not very fine to be married at sixteen? Would you not like to be married soon?" "I would never marry any but a Lutheran," replied Rénèe calmly. Anne flushed, and her bright eyes flashed with amazing fury. "Ah! You, too, dare to blame me because the Prince is a Papist!" she exclaimed. "Nay," said Rénèe gently. "I know there are reasons of State." "Reasons of State?" shrieked Anne. "I love him and he loves me! You are jealous because you will never have such a knight!" "Never, truly," replied the waiting-woman with undiminished sweetness. "It is only great ladies like Your Grace who can wed with such as the Prince of Orange." "You would not marry save with a Lutheran," said Anne. "Then you would not marry the Prince?" "That is a jest—to suppose such a thing." "Ay, but would you?" insisted Anne. Rénèe's native courage and honesty flashed through her long reserve, her self-effacement. "I would not wed with a Papist were he the Emperor himself," she replied firmly. "You proud hard creature!" cried Anne, vexed to tears. "But it is all a lie—a jealous lie, you would wed the first Papist who asked you." Rénèe was silent. "Wait until you see the Prince," insisted Anne childishly. "There is no one like him—no one." "So I have always heard," said Rénèe sincerely. "Did you ever see his first wife?" asked Anne abruptly. "Was she pretty? Did he care for her?" "I never saw the first Princess, Your Grace. They were very young when they married, and she died very soon."