‘To say?’ repeated Madame von Rosen, ‘O, much to say! Much to say that I would rather not, and much to leave unsaid that I would rather say. For I am like St. Paul, your Highness, and always wish to do the things I should not. Well! to be categorical—that is the word?—I took the Prince your order. He could not credit his senses. “Ah,” he cried “dear Madame von Rosen, it is not possible—it cannot be I must hear it from your lips. My wife is a poor girl misled, she is only silly, she is not cruel.” “_Mon Prince_,” said I, “a girl—and therefore cruel; youth kills flies.”—He had such pain to understand it!’ ‘Madame von Rosen,’ said the Princess, in most steadfast tones, but with a rose of anger in her face, ‘who sent you here, and for what purpose? Tell your errand.’ ‘O, madam, I believe you understand me very well,’ returned von Rosen. ‘I have not your philosophy. I wear my heart upon my sleeve, excuse the indecency! It is a very little one,’ she laughed, ‘and I so often change the sleeve!’ ‘Am I to understand the Prince has been arrested?’ asked the Princess, rising. ‘While you sat there dining!’ cried the Countess, still nonchalantly seated. ‘You have discharged your errand,’ was the reply; ‘I will not detain you.’ ‘O no, madam,’ said the Countess, ‘with your permission, I have not yet done. I have borne much this evening in your service. I have suffered. I was made to suffer in your service.’ She unfolded her fan as she spoke. Quick as her pulses beat, the fan waved languidly. She betrayed her emotion only by the brightness of her eyes and face, and by the almost insolent triumph with which she looked down upon the Princess. There were old scores of rivalry between them in more than one field; so at least von Rosen felt; and now she was to have her hour of victory in them all. ‘You are no servant, Madame von Rosen, of mine,’ said Seraphina. ‘No, madam, indeed,’ returned the Countess; ‘but we both serve the same person, as you know—or if you do not, then I have the pleasure of informing you. Your conduct is so light—so light,’ she repeated, the fan wavering higher like a butterfly, ‘that perhaps you do not truly understand.’ The Countess rolled her fan together, laid it in her lap, and rose to a less languorous position. ‘Indeed,’ she continued, ‘I should be sorry to see any young woman in your situation. You began with every advantage—birth, a suitable marriage—quite pretty too—and see what you have come to! My poor girl, to think of it! But there is nothing that does so much harm,’ observed the Countess finely, ‘as giddiness of mind.’ And she once more unfurled the fan, and approvingly fanned herself. ‘I will no longer permit you to forget yourself,’ cried Seraphina. ‘I think you are mad.’