The mists of a raw September morning hung about Celle as the Duchess Sophia drove in from the Hanover road, stiff and cold from her long journey. One wonders what thoughts crowded into her brain as the coach rattled through the quaint streets of the little town. She had not been here for seventeen years, never since Eléonore had queened it at the castle, and she had come to-day to disqueen her, by destroying her influence and bringing to naught her most cherished scheme. Yet she would have to make peace with her, turn to her a smiling face, and enter into close and intimate relations with the woman she hated, insulted, and despised. It must have been with mingled feelings that Sophia saw the towers of the mighty schloss rise before her. The sleepy sentinel, recognising the unaccustomed liveries of Hanover, hurried to let down the drawbridge, raise the portcullis, and salute the great Duchess. The moment the coach entered the courtyard Sophia alighted. A glance sufficed to show her she was not too late, the Wolfenbüttel equipage was not yet there. Brushing aside ceremony, she, who was so great a stickler for etiquette, demanded to see the Duke of Celle at once. The few half-awakened servants who happened to be up as she entered the castle, astonished at the unexpected apparition, explained to her that His Highness had not yet risen, he was even now dressing, but would soon be able to descend and receive her in a fitting manner. But Sophia was in no humour to tarry; ascending the great staircase, she haughtily demanded to be shown at once to the Duke’s chamber, in bed or out of bed, dressed or undressed, her business was one which would admit of no delay. The flurried page conducted her to the door of the ducal apartment, and here she ordered him to leave, and announced herself by promptly opening the door and walking in upon the astonished Duke, who was then at his dressing-table.