The Baroness reflected; the plump little Grand Duke smiled. And he had reason, for there was about this slim white woman--whose eyes were colossal emeralds, and in show equivalently heatless, if not in effect,--so much of the _baroque_ that in meditation she appeared some prentice queen of Faëry dubious as to her incantations. Now, though, she had it--the mislaid abracadabra.
"I knew that I had some obstacle in mind--Thou shalt not commit adultery. No, your Highness, I will not go."
"Remember Sapphira," said the Grand Duke, "recall Herodias who fared happily in all things, and by no means forget the portmanteau."
"I have not the least intention of going--" the Baroness iterated, firmly.
"Nor would I ever suspect you of harboring such a thought. Still, a portmanteau, in case of an emergency--"
"--although I am told the sunrise is very beautiful from the Gardens of Breschau."
"It is well worth seeing," agreed the Grand Duke, "on certain days--particularly on Thursdays. The gardeners make a specialty of them on Thursdays."
"By a curious chance," the Baroness murmured, "this is Wednesday."
"Indeed," said the Grand Duke, "now you mention it, I believe it is."
"And I shall be here, on your Highness' recommendation, to see the sunrise--"
"Of course," said the Grand Duke, "to see the sunrise,--but with a portmanteau!"
"With a portmanteau," entreated the Grand Duke. "I am a connoisseur of portmanteaux. Say that I may see yours, Amalia."
"Say yes, Amalia. For to the student of etymology the very word portmanteau--"
"I am sorry to inform your Highness that there is some one at the door of the summer-house."
Inasmuch as all Noumaria knew that its little Grand Duke, once closeted with the lady whom he delighted to honor, did not love intrusions, and inasmuch as a discreet Court had learned, long ago, to regard the summer-house as consecrate to his Highness and the Baroness von Altenburg,--for these reasons the Grand Duke was inclined to resent disturbance of his privacy when he first peered out into the gardens.
His countenance was less severe when he turned again toward the Baroness, and it smacked more of bewilderment.
"And the Comte de Châteauroux," said the Baroness.
There is no denying that their voices were somewhat lowered. The chill and frail beauty of the Grand Duchess was plainly visible from where they sat; to every sense a woman of snow, his Highness mentally decided, for her gown this evening was white and the black hair powdered; all white she was, a cloud-tatter in the moonlight: yet with the Comte de Châteauroux as a foil, his uniform of the Cuirassiers a big stir of glitter and color, she made an undeniably handsome picture; and it was, quite possibly, the Grand Duke's æsthetic taste which held him for the moment motionless.