She studied him archly. ‘As you discovered when you last visited us.’

‘Yes. There was one young French woman …’

‘Ah, Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse. What an excellent idea! Her father might help you. Oh, I am not sure. They are a very proud family. You have no idea how proud some of these exiles can be. Pride seems to grow out of poverty.’

‘To show it perhaps is their only way of reminding others of their past splendours.’

‘I am sure you are right. I do not think the Marquis would care to become a teacher of French. I believe I know an old professor …’

‘Well, I fear I should not wish to be so serious as that. He would put me through lessons which I should find beyond my powers of concentration.’

‘But my dear friend, you will have to concentrate if you wish to learn a language.’

‘I meant rather to learn through conversation … light, amusing conversation.’

‘Such as you might exchange with a young lady?’

‘Exactly.’

‘With say … Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse?’

‘That is what I mean.’

She laughed and nodded. ‘Well, I could ask Eléonore how she would feel about giving you such lessons. Shall I do so?’

‘I would deem it a great favour if you did.’

‘It would please me to please you,’ she aswered. ‘After all we are connected by marriage now. But I must warn you, cousin. Are you my cousin? Let us pretend so. It is such a pleasant, cosy relationship. I must warn you that it could only be Mademoiselle d’Olbreuse teaching you the French language. You would not be expected, however tempted, to teach her anything.’

She laughed and went on. ‘She is an enchanting creature, I grant you. She is the loveliest girl I have ever seen. Do you agree with me?’

He nodded seriously.

‘Consider, cousin. She will never be your mistress. Would it not be better at this stage to turn your attention towards an easier conquest? I would not have your stay in Breda clouded in any way.’

‘You are very kind.’

‘Well, we are … cousins, and I want to help you.’

‘So you will ask this lady if she will consent to instruct me in the French language?’

‘If you are still sure that you want to learn it?’

‘I was never more sure of anything in my life,’ he answered.

‘Then, I shall ask her.’

When he had left she was thoughtful for a while. He was a handsome fellow and well-versed in the arts of seduction. It would be interesting to see what happened now. How would he tilt against Eléonore’s impregnable virtue. She could not for the life of her guess how this would end.

The Princesse de Tarente obligingly lent them a room. Eléonore sat on one side of the table, he on the other; he watched her gesticulating hands; he listened to her fluting voice.

‘French is surely the most charming language in the world,’ he said. ‘When spoken by you,’ he added. ‘My attempts seem to provoke only merriment.’

They were amusing lessons. He told her that he had never before enjoyed learning. How different it would have been had she taught him in his youth; he might have become a scholar. In spite of this, she pointed out, he was not making much progress with his French.

Every time he left that room he marvelled at himself. This was not the manner in which he usually conducted his love affairs; he was like a naïve schoolboy. Two weeks had passed and he was still taking his French lessons and she was no nearer becoming his mistress than she had been on that first evening at the ball.

But she was not indifferent to him. Behind her dignity there was a warmth of … friendship? She was pleased to see him; she admitted that she enjoyed teaching as much as he enjoyed learning. It was a profit to them both, she pointed out; a mutual advantage; for while he progressed a very little with the French language, she was augmenting her German.

The inevitable happened when he conjugated the verb to love.

‘Je vous aime,’ he told her; and she pretended to believe that was part of the lesson.

‘That is correct,’ she told him.

‘Correct and inevitable,’ he said. ‘From the moment we met I knew meeting you was the most important thing that had ever happened to me.’

He had seized her hands across the table but she was smiling at him calmly.

‘I do not expect you to love me as deeply, as devotedly as I love you … yet,’ he rushed on. ‘But I must have the opportunity of showing you … of …’

Her eyes were puzzled. ‘The Princess tells me that you are in no position to make such a declaration,’ she said.

‘You will come back to Germany with me. We will live there together for the rest of our lives … but not all the time of course. We will travel … see the world. I will take you to Italy, to England …’

‘But how would that be possible?’ she asked.

‘How? We will just go. That is how.’

‘Then is it not true that you have taken an oath to your brother never to marry?’

‘To marry …’ he stammered.

She smiled coolly. ‘I see that marriage had not entered your mind.’ She rose. ‘The lesson is over. I think, do you not, that in the circumstances there should be no more.’

He was on his feet and at her side.

‘Eléonore …’ He tried to embrace her but she held him off.

‘I do not think you understand,’ she said. ‘We are poor … we are exiles … but my family would never allow me to enter into such a relationship as you are suggesting. Goodbye, my lord Duke, I am sorry you did not explain sooner.’

With that she left him. He stood staring after her – bemused, frustrated and desperately unhappy.

‘What can I do?’ he asked the Princess.

She put her head on one side and regarded him affectionately. So handsome. Such an accomplished lover. Well, this time he had indeed met his match.

‘These French nobles … they are so proud,’ she reminded him.

‘I understand that. I would not have her other than she is … but what can I do?’

‘You might offer settlements. They are very poor. The father’s prospects are alarming … unless one of his daughters – or both of them – make wealthy marriages.’

‘If it is a matter of money …’

‘Compared with them, my dear lord Duke, you are very wealthy and you would give a great deal to win my dear little Eléonore. But it may be that money is not enough. But we can try.’

‘You will talk to her?’

‘I would do a great deal to make you happy,’ she answered.

The Marquis d’Olbreuse smiled at his beautiful daughter.

‘It is for you to decide, my child,’ he said.

‘But how could I accept such … dishonour. Have you not always said that our pride is all that is left to us now?’

‘I have and I mean it. But it is not easy to make a good marriage when there is no dowry. I have nothing to offer you … neither you nor Angelique. How different it would be if we had not been driven from our home!’

‘You are not suggesting that I should accept him?’

‘I would not suggest that you did anything you do not want to do.’

‘But father, he is asking me to become his mistress!’

‘It is true. But he has talked of settlements … and a man does not usually offer that to a casual mistress. I believe if it were possible, he would marry you.’

‘But, mon père, it is not possible.’

Angelique had come into the room. She was a very pretty girl but lacked Eléonore’s outstanding beauty.

The Marquis looked from one to another of his daughters and sighed.

Two lovely girls and he had not the means to set them up in life. That, he believed, was his greatest tragedy of all. Life did not become easier as the years passed. He visualized an old age of poverty, of living on the bounty of others. It was not a pleasant vista for a proud old man.

And if Eléonore accepted the offer of the Duke of Brunswick-Lüneberg? He was rich; he was a Prince – albeit a German one of a small principality. He was not the head of his house because he had an elder brother living and had signed away his own rights – but …

Even so, he would not persuade her that here was a chance to make her family’s future secure. In France a Prince’s mistress was a power in the land – often more so than his wife. Eléonore was French enough, proud enough, beautiful and intelligent enough, to play the rôle made famous by so many women of her own country. In her small way she might become a Diane de Poitiers. Little pride was lost and honours were gained in such a role.

But the man was a German, of course; and they had not the same refinements of taste as the French nor the same ideas of gallantry.

It must be for her to choose. But if she accepted, if she played her rôle as he was sure it could be played, what good she could bring to her family!

Eléonore, who knew him so well, guessed the thoughts which were passing through his mind. She was a little shocked; and yet she understood so well.

When she retired to her room Angelique followed her there.

‘You are the talk of Breda,’ said Angelique. ‘How I envy you!’

‘Then you are foolish. My position is far from enviable.’

‘They say that Duke George William is madly in love with you. I think he is most attractive. I don’t know how you can refuse him.’

‘Then it is a pity he does not transfer his affections to you.’

‘Now Eléonore, don’t be touchy. Mon dieu! So it is true then?’

‘What?’

‘You’re in love with him.’

Eléonore turned away angrily.

Was she? She was not sure. But Angelique had noticed something in her demeanour, some change.

If he despaired and went away, she would be quite desolate. Was that being in love?

If he had offered marriage how joyfully she would have accepted. But how could the proud daughter of a proud house agree to become a mistress?

The Princesse de Tarente watched the lovers with interest. So charming she said, in a blasé world. She was certain that in time Eléonore would relent.

She told George William so and that if he offered a morganatic marriage it might help to persuade Eléonore.

‘Alas, she has had a strict upbringing and it has always been impressed on her that she must never live with any man without marriage.’

‘I have been a fool,’ cried George William. ‘If I had not made the contract with my brother how happily would I marry her. Nothing but my declaration of renunciation holds me back. I know that I want to live with Eléonore for the rest of my life, and I shall never want any other woman. She will be sufficient to me. My dear Princess, I cannot describe to you how much I have changed. I am a different man. Had I known it was possible to feel this passion, this tenderness, this desire for a tranquil life with one woman I should never have been such a fool as to sign that contract. I know now why I refused Sophia. I must have been secretly conscious that Eléonore was waiting for me.’

‘So charming!’ sighed the Princess. ‘So romantic! You have promised settlements that would accompany a proper marriage … you have offered a morganatic marriage … you can do no more. I am certain that Eléonore loves you.’

‘Are you?’ he cried rapturously.

‘My dear George William, how delightful it is to be in love! Oh yes, she adores you. She would make you a wonderful wife and you would be the best husband in the world. You have learned the emptiness of mere passion, the dissatisfaction which must follow lust. You are in love, and it is quite beautiful. I believe you will win in time. I will give a ball for you both which will, in a way, set a seal on your relationship. When she knows how much all of us in Breda are with our dear romantic lovers, she may relent, for she longs to, I do assure you. Oh, how she longs to! She cannot deceive me. She is as much in love with you as you are with her.’

He kissed the Princess’s hands with fervour. She was his very dear friend. If he were not so wholeheartedly in love with his Eléonore he would doubtless be in love with her.

‘No more compliments of that nature, my dear,’ reproved the Princess. ‘They might reach Eléonore’s ears, and then she would think she was right after all – fascinating as you are – to hold out against you.’

But he was grateful, he assured her. He would be grateful to the end of his days.

It was a glittering ball and the guests of honour were Duke George William and Mademoiselle Eléonore d’Olbreuse.

They danced together; they talked together; and made no secret of their pleasure in each other’s company.