This evening was but one of many during that Christmastide. Wogan must
wear an easy countenance, though his heart grew heavy as lead. The
Countess of Berg was the Prince Constantine's favourite; and Wogan was
not slow to discover that her smiling face and quiet eyes hid the most
masterful woman at that court. He made himself her assiduous servant,
whether in hunting amid the snow or in the entertainments at the palace,
but a quizzical deliberate word would now and again show him that she
was still his enemy. With the Princess Casimira he was a profound
critic of observances: he invented a new cravat and was most careful
that there should never be a wrinkle in his stockings; with the Princess
Charlotte he laughed till his head sang. He played all manner of parts;
the palace might have been the stage of a pantomime and himself the
harlequin. But for all his efforts it did not seem that he advanced his
cause; and if he made headway one evening with the Prince, the next
morning he had lost it, and so Christmas came and passed.
But two days after Christmas a courier brought a letter to the castle.
He came in the evening, and the letter was carried to Wogan while he was
at table. He noticed at once that it was in his King's hand, and he
slipped it quickly into his pocket. It may have been something
precipitate in his manner, or it may have been merely that all were on
the alert to mark his actions, but at once curiosity was aroused. No
plain words were said; but here and there heads nodded together and
whispered, and while some eyed Wogan suspiciously, a few women whose
hearts were tuned to a sympathy with the Princess in her imprisonment,
or touched with the notion of a romantic attachment, smiled upon him
their encouragement. The Countess of Berg for once was unobservant,
however.
Wogan made his escape from the company as soon as he could, and going up
to his apartments read the letter. The moon was at its full, and what
with the clear, frosty air, and the snow stretched over the world like
a white counterpane, he was able to read the letter by the window
without the light of a candle. It was written in the Chevalier's own
cipher and hand; it asked anxiously for news and gave some. Wogan had
had occasion before to learn that cipher by heart. He stood by the
window and spelled the meaning. Then he turned to go down; but at the
door his foot slipped upon the polished boards, and he stumbled onto his
knee. He picked himself up, and thinking no more of the matter rejoined
the company in a room where the Countess of Berg was playing upon a
harp.