The wily Minister professed ignorance, but on entering the pavilion picked up the glove and handed it to George Louis, who recognised it as one of a pair he had given his wife. His jealous suspicions were aroused, and later they were confirmed by hearing the Princess ask for her missing glove. She could give no account of when and where she had lost it, and so far as the Prince was concerned these tactics were completely successful. Notoriously unfaithful himself, he was only too ready to suspect his wife of unfaithfulness. But up till now Sophie Dorothea, though she had shown signs of wavering, had not told Königsmarck that she viewed him in any light but as a friend. He, on his part, had now gone far beyond the bounds of the most privileged friendship, and, forgetful of her rank and lonely position, had addressed the Princess in terms of extravagant devotion. Had she been wise, Sophie Dorothea would at once have closed the acquaintance. But she was not wise; and in a court of universal laxity and intrigue she saw no harm in a little flirtation. It was the almost universal custom of the time. Nearly every woman of youth and beauty, whatever her rank, and whether married or not, had gallants sighing for her smiles and wearing her favours. The Electress of Brandenburg (her sister-in-law) had many admirers, and openly avowed her preferences; so had the Duchess of Saxe-Eisenach, the Princess of Etting, and other princesses. Why should not she have one too? She was piqued by her husband’s neglect, flattered by Königsmarck’s homage, and perhaps, too, her heart was touched. She had known him from childhood. He had loved her always, so he swore. He was the ideal lover, young, handsome, and ardent, and she was hungry for love—even love like this. She had no idea, when she listened, of going beyond the bounds of discretion; yet even for her to listen was indiscreet, nay dangerous, surrounded as she was by spies and enemies. She had no one in whom to confide; no one to advise her except Eléonore Knesebeck, who, though devoted to her mistress, was a sentimental, silly young woman, eager to vary the monotony of her duties by acting as go-between in an intrigue. It was impossible, now that suspicion was aroused, for Königsmarck to see the Princess so frequently as he had done, and in an evil moment she consented to allow him to write to her from time to time, though not promising to reply. The letters, to disarm suspicion, were to be addressed to Eléonore Knesebeck. Thus did Sophie Dorothea first open the sluice-gates a little way to a little stream, which later swelled into a mighty river, carrying her and Königsmarck before it, and engulfing them finally in the rush and roar of its waters. But the story of all this is best told in the letters themselves. CHAPTER XI. HISTORY AND AUTHENTICITY OF THE LETTERS.[55]