The Esoteric Serial: SECRET MEMOIRS OF ROYAL SAXONY, STORY OF LOUISE, THE EX-CROWN PRINCESS

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SECRET MEMOIRS OF ROYAL SAXONY

STORY OF LOUISE

THE EX-CROWN PRINCESS

1891-1902

BY

HENRY W. FISCHER

Bensonhurst, New York 

Fischer’s  Foreign Letters, Inc.Publishers

1912

FROM LOUISE'S DIARY

THE STORY OF LOUISE,

CROWN PRINCESS OF SAXONY

CHAPTER XLVI

FEARS FOR MY LOVE

Some reflections on queens of old who punished recreant lovers—Henry was in debt and I gave him money—Indignities by which some of that money was earned—Husband accompanies me to Loschwitz—Reflections on Frederick Augustus's character.

January 15, 1901.

My love played the melancholy Dane for the last few days. His tenderness seemed labored, his spirits under a cloud. Every smile I got had to be coaxed from him.

"The end of my happiness," I thought; "some chit of a girl dethroned me." And I cursed my birthday. "A kingdom for ten years off my age."

And my thoughts of thoughts travelled back to the times when royal ladies had their rivals immured, as practiced by a Brandenburg princess at the Kaiser's hunting box at Grünewald, or made a head shorter, like Lady Jane Grey, who was far too pretty to please Elizabeth; or shot, as elected by Queen Christina, tribade and nymphomaniac both.

And the things Queen Bess did to her unfaithfuls and the crimes Mary Stuart perpetrated to cheat Jeannie Bothwell out of her doughty Hepburn!

"If I were Queen," I thought, and I must have spoken aloud, for Henry said: "You would make me a great lord, love, wouldn't you, give me the best paying office at court, but that's small comfort to my creditors today."

"It's creditors, mere creditors bothering you?" I almost shouted with joy. This man was still mine. No one had succeeded in luring him away from me. I threw myself upon him and nearly smothered him.

Filthy lucre, or the want of it, oppressing my boy. Money, miserable money, caused me to doubt his very loyalty.

"How much?"

He stuttered and denied and swore it was all a mistake and that I had misunderstood him. "As an army officer——"

"Don't talk like Frederick Augustus. It will give me the greatest pleasure in the world to arrange your affairs, dearest."

I got him to name the sum after a while. What a pity I am not rich. As Catharine sent her Orloffs and Potemkins and Zoritchs to the State Treasury to help themselves as they saw fit, so I would gladly turn fortunes over to Henry, never asking for an accounting.

But this Imperial Highness is wretchedly poor, like most royal women not actually seated on the throne. I can't offer my paramour financial independence, not even luxury, but, thank heaven, I saved up enough to provide for his present needs, even if my treasury be drained to the last twenty-mark piece, and I will have to cut short my charities for the next quarter of a year. But he must not know these sordid details.

Some day I will be Queen. I will reimburse the poor and I will be a true Catharine to Henry.

Dresden, January 16, 1901.

I brought my mite to our rendezvous. Mostly in small bills and twenty-mark pieces. If Henry knew that many of these were earned in the right royal fashion of having them slipped down one's stocking by a husband, too drunk to distinguish a royal palace from a dance-hall!

He told me honestly enough how he got into debt. "How can one lay by for a rainy day when one hasn't got anything?"

I appreciate the play of words, for I am in the same predicament.

Only once has Henry touched a card, but he lost considerably in horse deals, as most young army officers do.

His sister made a rich marriage, but he wouldn't discover himself to her. If she asked money of her husband, there might be trouble, for Vitzthum is not a liberal man.

Loschwitz, April 1, 1901.

The children's health called for country air and I was quasi-forced to retire to Loschwitz, though I have a thousand and one reasons for remaining in Dresden. Frederick Augustus accompanies us. After the strenuous city life (in Dresden!), he needs a change and a long rest from drinking and carousing, he says boastingly.

Of course, while he is here, I dare not invite the Vitzthums. But as soon as he is gone, they shall come for a couple of weeks, and their presence will make Henry's possible.

It's dreadful the way I miss the sweet boy. I suffer like a dog, when the longing seizes me, suffer both in heart and body. When I contemplate his miniature, tears come into my eyes. I often cry for hours thinking of him.

And to have to endure this great booby of a husband of mine day and night, especially nights. It's almost more than I can bear.

The grossness of his egotism reminds me of the story told of King James, whom the English got rid of in 1689.

The Dutch William, instead of waiting peacefully for the heritage of his father-in-law, went to claim it before his death, and James, pressed on all sides by enemies, decided upon flight.

One Sunday, in the month of December, his devotions over, he dismissed all his servants and advised his last partisans to turn towards the rising sun.

After which, he lay for an hour with his wife, the better to take leave of her."

The very thing Frederick Augustus would do if war or revolution made us fugitives.

I never realized the diversity in our natures as much as I do now, when all my thoughts go out to another, when even connubial tendernesses seem like whip-strokes.

The further our souls draw apart, the more disgusting this forced intimacy, the prostitution under the marriage vow, which I detest and abhor.

But what will I do? Shut my door to him? He would kick it in, or climb through the window. It's easier to submit to the violation of my person than to breaking of locks and furniture.

CHAPTER XLVII

LOVE'S INTERMEZZO

Bernhardt takes advantage of my day-dreams—My husband's indolent gaucherie—Violent love-making—Ninon who loved families, not men—Does Bernhardt really love me?

Loschwitz, April 10, 1901.

Fortunately Bernhardt came for a few days to relieve the monotony of my alcove life par le droit du plus fort.

Tall stories of dissipation, indiscipline, scandal, had preceded the poor fellow. No doubt, his military superiors got orders to make his life as unhappy as they possibly can, and he retaliates.

The Prince told me that, at last, he had succeeded arranging for an audience with the King. His Majesty had denied himself to Bernhardt for months past. He managed the coveted boon only by the intervention of various high generals and the threat to appeal to the Kaiser.

The Royal House of Saxony, while compelled to recognize William as War-Lord, doesn't court his interference, or attempted interference, in matters military.

Flushed with this initial success and expecting lots of good things in the future, Bernhardt was bent upon having a good time. He drank with Frederick Augustus, made love to Lucretia and squeezed the chambermaids on his floor to his heart's content.

To me he was the most gallant of cousins and, glad to contribute to the happiness of the poor fellow, I gave him plenty of rope, perhaps too much.

On the second day of his stay we had a very merry dinner, having dispensed for the time with titled servants.

After dinner the three of us retired to the veranda. I was in a rocker, showing perhaps more of my ankles than was absolutely necessary. Frederick Augustus was smoking dreamily. Like an animal he likes to sleep after he has gorged himself.

Bernhardt, with my permission, had thrown himself on a wicker lounge and was absorbing cigarettes at a killing rate. I bantered him on his laziness. But he only sighed.

"You wish that audience was past and forgotten," I asked.

"Pshaw, I'm thinking of something prettier than the King."

Remembering Bernhardt's chief weakness, I indulged in the old joke, "Cherchez la femme."

Bernhardt replied, with another succession of groans, "You are right, Louise; parfaitement, cherchez la femme."

"Egads," grunted Frederick Augustus, glad for an excuse to go to his room, or play a game of pinochle with his aides, "egads, if you indulge in intellectualities, I had better go. A full stomach and French conversation—whew!"

The Tisch was in Dresden; Fräulein von Schoenberg with the children, Lucretia flirting somewhere at a neighboring country chalet. We were alone on the remote terrace and it was getting dark. Bernhardt sat up and looked at me with eyes of life-giving fire, but continued silent.

"You want me to think that you command the rays of the sun stolen by Prometheus?"

He answered not, but sought to burn the skin of my neck and bosom by those Prometheus rays.

Now, in the morning I got a note from Henry, and I had been thinking of the dear boy every minute. I was longing for him; my heart, my senses were crying for him.

I forgot Bernhardt; I forgot all around me. With my fancies focussed on my lover, I leaned back in my armchair, gazing at the rising moon. My word, at that moment I was lost to everything.

I half-awoke from my dream when I heard Bernhardt rise. A moment later I felt his eyes prowling over my body. Then a shadow darkened my face and Bernhardt said with a strange quaver in his voice:

"Cherchez la femme. You are the woman, Louise, you and none else."

And wild, forbidden kisses burned on my face, on my neck, on my breasts. Both hands claimed a lover's liberties.

I was taken completely unawares; in my mind of minds I was in the Countess's pavilion, receiving Henry's caresses. All sense of location had vanished. And, thinking of my lover, I clasped both arms about Bernhardt's neck and drew him to me. We kissed like mad. The love feast for Henry became Bernhardt's in the twinkling of an eye.

Whether he felt like a thief, I don't know; for my part my senses responded to Henry, not to his substitute.

How long this embrace lasted, I don't know. Somebody, or some noise, caused us to separate.

I fled and locked myself in my room.

"Tell His Royal Highness he must excuse me. I can't see him before he goes away. Say I have a headache, or the gout, I don't care which," I commanded Lucretia next morning.

The previous night I had denied myself to Frederick Augustus, though he entreated and raved.

While I appreciate the arch-Lais's bon mot that "one can't judge of a family by a single specimen," which made Ninon talk of her lovers not as Coligny, Villarceau, Sévigné, Condé, d'Albret, etc., but as les Rochefoucaults, les d'Effiats, les Condés, les Sévignés, etc., I was determined not to betray Henry by the whole House of Saxony in a single twelve-hours.

I wonder whether this Bernhardt loves me? Perhaps, on his part, it was the longing for the girl he adores, as, on mine, it was longing for Henry that drew us together with electric force. And, of course, environment had something to do with it: moon, opportunity, Frederick Augustus's indolent gaucherie. Yes, why deny it, the good dinner we had, the champagne.

CHAPTER XLVIII

GRAND MISTRESS TELLS HUSBAND I KEEP A DIARY

He wants to see it, but seems unsuspecting—Grand Mistress denies that she meant mischief, but I upbraid her unmercifully—Threaten to dismiss her like a thieving lackey.

Loschwitz, May 1, 1901.

Frederick Augustus leaves tomorrow. Forever, I thought, when he put this question to me:

"You are keeping a Diary, Louise?"

I was frightened dumb. I stared at him.

"What's the matter," he laughed. "I'm not going to eat you." He didn't seem to be at all perturbed.

"How do you know I keep a Diary?" I stuttered.

Nonchalantly enough he made answer: "Your bag-of-bones Baroness told me. Full of forbidden things, I suppose, since you regard it a state secret. You often say that my education was sadly neglected. Maybe I can learn a thing or two from your scribblings. Let's look 'm over."

By this time I had regained my composure. "Naturally," I said, "a Diary records thoughts and things intended for the writer only, but if you choose to be ungentlemanly enough to wish to peruse those pages more sacred than private letters, I suppose I will have to submit."

Frederick Augustus changed the subject, but I felt instinctively that he was disappointed. Someone had played on his curiosity, and to go unsatisfied is not at all in this prince's line.

Of course, the someone was the Tisch, but how did she know? I will ask her as soon as Frederick Augustus is gone.

Loschwitz, May 2, 1901.

"Have you ever seen my Diary?" I asked the Tisch this morning.

"Never, Your Imperial Highness."

"Then how do you know I keep a Diary?"

"I surmised it because I saw Your Imperial Highness write repeatedly in one and the same book." The hussy affected a humble tone, but the note of triumph and hatred underlying the creature's meekness did not escape me.

"And the mere surmise prompted you to blab to my husband, arouse his suspicions?"

"For Heaven's sake," cried my Grand Mistress, "I had no idea that His Royal Highness didn't know about the Diary. Secrets between the Prince-Royal and Your Imperial Highness—how dare I pre-suppose such a state of things? His Royal Highness casually asked how the Crown Princess killed time in Loschwitz. I mentioned riding, driving, bicycling, writing letters, writing in the Diary——"

My fingers itched to slap her lying face, Grand-Duchess of Tuscany fashion, but I kept my temper.

"Listen to me," I said. "While you have secret instructions to play the serpent in my household and to betray, for dirty money, your mistress of the Blood Imperial, your duties as a spy are confined to my going and coming, to my exterior conduct, to my visits outside the palace, to my friendships, perhaps.

"They cannot possibly encompass my thoughts. And my Diary is the repository of my thoughts—thoughts that must not be defiled by your favor-seeking curiosity. Be warned. The next time you dare act the burglar—I say burglar—I will kick you out of doors like a thieving lackey."

She got as white as a sheet and hissed back: "Your Imperial Highness can't dismiss me. Only His Majesty has power——"

I interrupted her with an imperious gesture.

"I said I will kick you out of doors like a thieving lackey," I repeated, "and I will do so this moment if you say another word. Whether or not His Majesty will punish me for the act, that's my business. You will be on the street and will stay on the street."

I pointed to the door: "I dismiss you now. You will keep to your room for the rest of the day."

I saw the Tisch was near collapse.

"Your Imperial Highness deigns to insult a defenseless woman," she breathed as she went out.

Defenseless! So is the viper that attacks one's heel! First these "defenseless" creatures goad one to madness, then they appeal to our noblesse oblige. The enmity between the Tisch and I is more intense than ever.

CHAPTER XLIX

ARISTOCRATIC VISITORS

I hear disquieting news about my lover's character—The aristocracy a dirty lot—Love-making made easy by titled friends—Anecdotes of Richelieu and the Duke of Orleans—The German nobleman who married Miss Wheeler and had to resign his birthright—The disreputable business the Pappenheims and other nobles used to be in—I am afraid to question my lover as to charges.

Loschwitz, May 15, 1901.

The Vitzthums have been visiting for a week. Henry lodges in the village, but spends nearly all his time in the castle and grounds. We play tennis, polo, ball; we drive, ride, go bicycling, we dine and sup together.

I ought to be the happiest woman in the world, but a shadow dims the ideal picture my mind's eye drew of the lover.

I have it recorded somewhere—I wish I hadn't, so I might doubt my memory—that Henry told me he never borrowed from his sister. Countess Vitzthum's confidences to me show that he did repeatedly, that, in fact, he is forever trying to borrow.

"He is a spendthrift; he cannot be trusted," said his sister, who loves him dearly. "He will wreck his career if he continues at the pace he is going. Some day we may hear of him as a waiter or cab-driver in New York."

These disclosures frightened me. I might forgive him the lie, but what is he doing with the money?

Spending it on lewd women like Bernhardt, I suppose.

I said: "Oh," and Madame von Vitzthum seemed to catch its significance. It occurred to her at once that she had said too much and she tried to minimize her brother's delinquencies. But I know.

Maybe some of my money went to pay hotel expenses for——

At Midnight.

My cousin Richelieu caused his mistresses to be painted in all sorts of monastic garments and licentious devices, saying: "I have my saints and martyrs; they are all that; but, as for virgins, there are none outside of Paradise." Substitute paillards for the holy ones and you have the situation in a nutshell.

The Vitzthums are panderers. They always manage to leave me alone with Henry. When we are a-wheel, they ride a mile ahead; while playing tennis one or the other aims the ball, every little while, to enter the open window of a summer-house, where my lover and I can exchange a few rapid kisses. When we are driving, without coachman or groom, of course, they always "feel like walking a bit," while Henry and I remain in the carriage.

The same at the house, on the veranda. They are always de trop. Vitzthum even sacrifices himself to the extent of paying court to the Tisch and engaging her entire attention, if it must be. He reminds me of a certain colonel of the French army during the Regency.

"Monseigneur," said this gentleman to my cousin d'Orleans, "permit me to employ my regiment as a guard for my wife, and I swear to you that nobody shall go near her but Your Highness."

Of course, it's very lovely of them, but rather emphasizes the poor opinion I have of the nobility.

Your nobleman and noblewoman adopt all tones, all airs, all masks, all allures, frank and false, flattering and brutal, choleric or mild, virtuous or bawdy—anything as long as it makes for their profit. Some months ago I met at the Dresden court the Dowager Countess Julie Feodorowna of Pappenheim, who told everybody she could persuade to listen that her eldest son, Max Albrecht, had to resign the succession, because he married beneath him, an American heiress, Miss Wheeler of Philadelphia.

"Then you despise money?" I queried with a malicious thought just entering my head.

"Not exactly, Your Imperial Highness," she said, "but our house laws——"

"Those funny house laws," I smiled, "you don't say they forbid a Pappenheim to accept half a dozen millions from his wife, when, in days gone by, the Counts of Pappenheim's chief income was the tax on harlotry in Franconia and Swabia."

The Countess nearly dropped. "Don't be alarmed," I said. "See the pompous looking man in the corner yonder? It's Count Henneberg. His forbears held the fiefship of the Würzburg city brothel for many hundred years. That's where the family fortune came from."

Loschwitz, May 17, 1901.

I am an ingrate. I bit the hand that fed me. Noble iniquity that yields such delicious crumbs of love as Henry and I stole in moments of ecstasy in park and parlor, in pavilion and veranda, on our drives and rides, be blessed a hundred times. Ah, the harvest of little tendernesses, the sweet words I caught on the wing—recompense for the weeks of abstinence I suffered!

Occasionally only, very occasionally, I feel like questioning Henry as to the lie he was guilty of. I quizzed his sister time and again about his relations with women. She always gives me a knowing laugh; I wonder whether she means to be impertinent, or is simply a silly goose.

I won't ask him. If he is innocent, as I sincerely hope, he will be offended. If he is not, he will be ashamed of himself and will avoid me in future. It's "innocent," you lose, and "guilty," you don't win.

And I love him. I want him, whether he lies to me or not.

CHAPTER L

TO LIVE UNDER KING'S AND PRINCE GEORGE'S EYE

Abruptly ordered to the royal summer residence—The Vitzthums and Henry take flight—Enmeshed by Prince George's intrigues—Those waiting for a crown have no friends—What I will do when Queen—No wonder Kings of old married only relatives—Interesting facts about relative marriages furnished by scientist.

Loschwitz, May 18, 1901.

All-highest order to proceed to Pillnitz, the royal summer residence, without delay—a command I cannot possibly evade. Conveyed in curt, almost insulting terms—the Tisch's work, no doubt.

It came like lightning out of a blue sky, just when Henry and I had planned some real love-making à la Dresden.

The Vitzthums lost no time taking their leave when the scent of royal disgrace was in the air, and, as if to emphasize the obscene office they had assumed, they spirited Henry away ere we had time even to say goodbye.

What a life I am leading with the ogre of the King's wrath forever hanging over me; Prince George's intrigues, octopus-like, enmeshing me!

Ten years I have been Crown Princess of these realms. Three Princes and a Princess I gave to Saxony. A fifth child is trembling in my womb, yet every atom of happiness that falls to my lot is moulded into a strand of the rope fastening 'round my neck.

I haven't a friend in the world. A most dangerous thing to be on good terms with the heirs to the crown. Makes the temporary incumbent of the bauble nervous, makes him jealous.

When I am Queen, I will have friends in plenty. But then I won't need any. Immense wealth will be at my disposal. I will have offices to distribute, titles, crosses and stars.

Instead of tolerating the serpents now coiling at my fireside ready to spring at a word from their master, I will appoint to court offices persons I love or esteem, at least.

Henry shall be my Chief Equerry; the Tisch will be dismissed in disgrace—no pension.

But I am day-dreaming again. I started out to say that I had no friends. Yet there's Bernhardt? Precisely—as long as I am his mistress.

Marie is dead, Melita expects to be divorced before the end of the year. She will be a Russian Grand-Duchess, and the tedium of petty German court life will know her no longer.

Aside from Lucretia, there isn't a man or woman at the Saxon court whom I can trust, for our high functionaries are only lackeys having a bathroom to themselves. In no other way do they differ from the servants who are allowed one bathroom per twenty-four heads.

But the high aristocracy! Its men and women flatter us to get us into leading strings, try to make us pawns on the political or social chess-board. As a whole, they are a despicable lot.

No wonder kings of old married members of their own family exclusively, even their sisters, in re of which the learned Baron von Reitzenstein told me many interesting details.

He copied especially from Egyptian records, but also from Armenian, Babylonian and Persian, to wit:

Daranavausch married his niece, Phratunga.

His son and successor married his niece Artayanta.

Artaxerxes was also married to a niece of his.

Darius II and Parysatis married their sisters.

Kambyses married two of his sisters.

Artachschasa II married his two daughters; Kobad his daughter Sambyke.

Artaviraf, the founder of a great ancient religion, married no less than seven of his sisters—because "there were no other women worthy of the honor."

According to that, the aristocracy of old must have been as rotten as that of our day.

Lucretia is the only person I trust, and they would have robbed me of her services long ago if my marriage contract did not vest the power of dismissal in me.

Unlike me, she can afford to defy the King's wrath.

CHAPTER LI

COLD RECEPTION—ENEMIES ALL AROUND

Frederick Augustus gives his views on adultery—Doesn't care personally, but "the King knows"—"Thank God, the King is ill"—I am deprived of my children—Have I got the moral strength to defy my enemies?

Pillnitz, May 20, 1901.

I am undone. That malicious Tisch woman holds me in the hollow of her hand.

I dropped into a sea of ice when I set foot in the castle. Long faces, suspicious looks, frigidity everywhere. The King treats me like a criminal. I wonder the guards don't refuse their spiel at my coming and going.

Pillnitz, May 21, 1901.

Frederick Augustus arrived. He doesn't say for how long, and acts the icicle in the presence of others. At night he seeks his "rights," seeks them brutally.

This afternoon he said to me:

"That you made me a cuckold isn't exactly killing me; this sort of thing happened to better men than I, and—I was almost prepared for it. But to hear it announced from the King's lips——"

Because His Majesty knows—Frederick Augustus raved and swore I had dishonored him.

"If I wasn't a royal prince, I would be kicked out of the army," he whined.

In short, adultery isn't so very reprehensible if the King doesn't know.

Late tonight profound disquietude at court. The King is ill.

Thank God, the audience I feared must be postponed.

Pillnitz, May 22, 1901.

It wasn't. His Majesty appointed Prince George his representative, and I received a command to call on him at ten sharp.

I wrote on the Court Marshal's brutal invitation: "I refuse to see His Royal Highness."

Ten minutes later the Tisch entered my apartment with a look of triumph on her hateful face. She handed me a letter on a golden plate and waited.

"Your Ladyship is dismissed," I snapped.

She didn't move: "I expect your Imperial Highness's commands with respect to the royal children," she said. "May it please Your Imperial Highness to read Prince George's letter."

I tore open the envelope. His Majesty's representative "graciously permits me to see my children at nine in the morning and between five and six in the afternoon. At no other time, and never unless Baroness Tisch is in attendance."

I threw the letter on the floor and trampled on it. "Get out," I commanded the Baroness. If she hadn't gone instantly, I believe I would have choked her.

So I am deemed unworthy to mother the children I bore; and a spy is officially appointed to watch my intercourse with the little ones lest I corrupt them. No other inference was to be drawn from the measure.

"I will show them." But no sooner was the threat launched, than a great fear clutched at my heart.

Was I in a position to defy them? To guard the purity of the royal children "is the King's first duty towards his family." If he had proof positive that I was an impure woman, there was no use quarrelling with his decision. Besides, moral delinquencies engender more than physical weakness. I felt my boasted energy ebbing away fast.

"I am without strength, unnerved, because Henry left me," I lied to myself. The abandoned woman is either a tigress or a kitten. I happen to be no tigress.

CHAPTER LII

PRINCE GEORGE REVEALS TO ME THE DEPTH OF HIS HATRED

A terrible interview—"The devil will come to claim you"—Uncertain how much the King and Prince George know—I break into the nursery and stay with my children all day—Prince George insults me in my own rooms and threatens prison if I disobey him.

Pillnitz, May 23, 1901.

I caught Prince George in the park after laying in wait for him three long hours.

"Why does Your Royal Highness forbid me to see my children?" I demanded, every nerve aquiver.

"His Majesty's orders. He thinks you are not fit company for growing children. You are leading a godless life."

"What does Your Royal Highness mean?"

"What I said. A godless life, such as you entered upon, is an invitation to the devil. Sins are the devil's envoys. When you are black with sin, the devil himself will come to claim you."

He dropped his theological lingo and continued: "My fine daughter-in-law wants to be everybody's lady-love. If she had her sweet will, she would ruin every young chap in the residence and the surrounding country."

He looked about him and, seeing we were unobserved, eased his bile in this pretty epigram as rank as a serpent's saliva: "An adulterous wife, that's what you are. Satan alone knows how many you seduced."

It was more than I could stand and I burst into tears. In moments like this women always cry, but even if I hadn't felt like doing so, I would have cried because George hates it.

"Prove to me, prove to the King that you are sorry for what you have done, return to the path of righteousness, to God, and we will see about the children," he whispered as he moved away.

"What does he know?" "How much have they found out?" I kept saying to myself as I withdrew to my lonely apartments.

Pillnitz, May 24, 1901.

No answer to the questions in my last entry. The silent persecution continues unabated. I am growing desperate.

Pillnitz, May 25, 1901.

This morning at eight-thirty I went to the nursery.

The Baroness tried to speak to me. I held up my hand. "Not a word from you, or something terrible will happen."

Fräulein von Schoenberg, who is really a sweet girl, offered some respectful advice. I begged her to be silent. If the door had been locked I would have forced it with the dagger I carried in my bosom.

Lucretia came and whispered. "I have decided to stay, and stay I will. Let them do their worst if they dare," I told her.

I changed the children's curriculum. "You can drive every day; you can't have mother every day. Let's have some games."

I remained in the nursery till all the children were asleep. They partook of the breakfast, lunch and dinner I ordered for myself. A great treat for them. We were very happy.

But I waited in vain for interference. Nothing happened to clear the situation. Those questions were still unanswered when I returned to my apartments.

I had just sat down to read the evening papers, when Prince George entered unannounced.

"If ever again you dare disobey my commands"—he shouted without preliminaries.

I cut him short: "Are the children yours or mine?"

"They belong to Saxony, to the Royal House," he bawled, and poured forth a torrent of abuse without giving me a chance to put in a word. "You shall be disciplined to the last extremity. We will imprison you in some lonely tower, without state or attendants. You shall not see your children from one year's end to the other."

"Prison for the Crown Princess? Would you dare, Prince George?"

"At the Tower of Nossen rooms are in readiness for your Imperial Highness," sneered my father-in-law as he walked out.

Nossen! A ruined country-house, flanked by a mediæval tower in the midst of swamps. The nearest habitation miles away. Neither railway nor post-office, neither telegraph nor telephone—just the place to bury one alive. And I only thirty-one.

Augustus the Physical Strong imprisoned Countess Cosel at Nossen six months before he sent her to her prison-grave in Stolpen. After Cosel's departure, another royal mistress was lodged in Nossen, and as she would neither commit suicide, nor succumb to the fever, they starved her to death. And it all happened in the eighteenth century.

The word Nossen sent cold shivers down my spine. I am sure I won't sleep a wink.

CHAPTER LIII

REVOLVER IN HAND, I DEMAND AN EXPLANATION

An insolent Grand Mistress, but of wonderful courage—Imprisonment, threats to kill have no effect on her—Disregards my titles—My lover's souvenir and endearing words—How she caused Henry to leave me—My paroxysms of rage—Henry's complete betrayal of me.

Pillnitz, May 26, 1901.

This morning I awoke a mental and physical wreck, but determined to solve those vexatious questions: "What do the King and Prince George know?" "What have they found out?"

I slipped on a dressing-gown, fetched my small revolver from its hiding-place in the boudoir and rang for the Tisch.

I received her politely enough. I was quiet, cold, calculating. She gave a start as she observed my stony countenance.

"Baroness," I said, motioning her to come nearer, "explain the attitude assumed by His Majesty, Prince George and the rest."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I want to know. Do you hear, Grand Mistress? I command you to speak," I cried.

A sneer of contempt hovered about her lips. She is a viper, this woman, but has the courage of the rattle-snake in action.

I turned the keys in the several doors and threw them under the bed. From under the pillow I drew my revolver.

I showed her the weapon and calmly announced, accentuating each word: "You won't leave this room alive until the question I put to you is answered to my satisfaction. I want the whole truth. You needn't excuse your own part in the business. As Henri Quatre said to the lover of Diane de Poitiers, secreted under her bed, as he threw him half a cold bird: 'We all want to live, some honestly, some dishonestly.' You choose the dishonest road. Be it so.

"But I want you to state what you accuse me of. Hurry," I added menacingly.

The Tisch was unmoved. Either she thinks me a horrible dastard or is brave to madness. She looked at me fearlessly and smiled. She seemed to enjoy my rage.

"Answer or I will shoot you like the dog you are."

And then her cold and fearless voice rang out: "Put your revolver away. I am not afraid to tell you, and that thing might go off. Is it possible," she continued sarcastically, "you have to ask?"

This woman dared to address me "you." "Tisch," I thundered, "my title reads Your Imperial Highness."

Another contemptuous smile curled her thin lips as she answered insolently: "At your commands. But if you want me to talk, put away the weapon. I won't open my head while threatened."

I threw the revolver into a drawer of my chiffonier and the Tisch approached me. "Do you know this?" she hissed, whipping from her desert bosom the golden Portebonheur, Henry's present.

I had missed it for two days. Fear seized my throat.

"Do you know this?" repeated the Tisch, pushing the button and disclosing Henry's miniature with the legend "To my sweetest Louise."

"Where did you get it?" I asked, half-dead with shame and fear.

"Never mind. It's the last piece of evidence that fell into my hands. The real facts I have known for a long while."

"And sold that knowledge?"

"I did my duty."

"Report, then."

And she told the story of her infamy—or mine?

My true relations with Henry were discovered by her at Loschwitz. He is a distant relative of hers and she an intimate friend of his mother. Hence she took care not to compromise the young man. The entire blame was put on me.

"Her Imperial Highness is indulging in a dangerous flirtation with Baron Bergen," she advised the King. "They must be separated at once lest that exemplary young man fall victim to her seductive wiles. I beseech Your Majesty to order the Crown Princess to Pillnitz and put a stop to her most reprehensible conduct."

Hence the royal command to proceed to Pillnitz without a moment's delay. "The King and Prince George deem your honor unsafe unless you are under their watchful eyes," she had the effrontery to tell me.

She drew a key from her pocket and opened one of the bedroom doors.

With her hand on the knob, she said, bowing formally:

"By Your Imperial Highness's leave, I will keep the Portebonheur to use in case you are ever tempted again 'to throw me out of doors like a thieving lackey!'"

A low bow, a sarcastic smile,—my executioner was gone. And I broke some priceless bric-a-brac, stamped my foot on the pearl necklace Frederick Augustus had given me, tore three or four lace handkerchiefs and stuffed the rags in my mouth to prevent me from crying aloud.

Pillnitz, May 27, 1901.

Lucretia finished the Tisch's report. The good soul hadn't had the courage to tell me before, but now that the Grand Mistress had spoken, considerations of delicacy no longer stood in the way.

What a judge of character I am, to be sure: Henry, whom I raised from obscurity, whom I befriended, loved, advanced, rescued from the hands of usurers—a traitor, pshaw, worse,—I cannot write down the word, but it's in my mind.

Henry, who hadn't the time to take leave from me, devoted an hour to the Tisch before he went away with the Vitzthums.

He told her all and gave her his word of honor—the honor of a man who accepted money from the woman weak enough to love him—that, first, he would never see me again of his own accord and would reject both my entreaties and commands; secondly, that he would petition to be transferred to a distant garrison to be out of the path of temptation; thirdly, that he would burn my letters.

The Tisch, on her part, promised to tell the King only half the truth—not for my sake, of course, but to shield her dear, seduced young relative.

CHAPTER LIV

FORCED TO DO PENANCE LIKE A TRAPPIST MONK

"By the King's orders"—I submit for the sake of my children—Must fast as well as pray—In delicate health, I insist upon returning to Dresden—Bernhardt, to avoid being maltreated by King, threatens him with his sword—The King's awful wrath—Bernhardt prisoner in Nossen—I escape, temporarily, protracted ennui.

Pillnitz, May 28, 1901.

Though I am in delicate health, the King, having recovered from his illness, commanded me to do penance,—almost public penance.

Fast and pray, pray and fast is the order of the day for the next two weeks.

I arise every morning at five. At six a closed carriage takes me to a distant nunnery of the Ursulines, a good hour's travel. I am forced to attend mass, which also lasts an hour. Then a half-hour's sermon, dealing with fire and brimstone, hell and damnation.

When that's over the Mother Superior kindly asks me to her cell and lectures me for an hour on the duties of a wife and mother, and on the terrors that follow in the wake of adultery.

(I wonder where she gets her wisdom. She isn't married, she isn't supposed to have children, and she ought to know that the founder of her religion was most kind to the adulteress.)

Then back to Pillnitz and breakfast, for it's the King's express command that I worship on an empty stomach; some Jesuit told George my sins would never be forgiven unless the torture of the fast was added to that of early rising, travel, prostration before the altar and listening to pious palaver.

I stand it for my children's sake. They will be returned to me after I did penance full score. My only satisfaction: I compel the Tisch to attend me on my trips, and make her sit on the back seat of the carriage. I know this turns her stomach and watch her twitching face with devilish glee.

Dresden, June 15, 1901.

With the authority of the pregnant woman I demanded that I be allowed to return to town.

"If compelled to see Prince George and the rest of my enemies daily, my child will be mal-formed, or I will suffer an avortement," I told the King.

They let me go and I am breathing more freely. I still wear the chain and ball, but they don't cut into my flesh as in Pillnitz.

Yesterday I learned that Bernhardt was in Dresden, and sent for him. He came in company of two army officers who remained in the anteroom.

"I am a prisoner," he said resignedly, "those fellows outside will conduct me to Nossen."

The audience granted him several months ago took place only after my departure from the summer residence, and developed into a fearful scene.

"His Majesty," said Bernhardt, "was in a rage when I entered. 'State what you have to say,' said the King, 'and be brief.'

"'If Your Majesty will graciously permit me to reside in Dresden, I will promise to lead a life in accordance with Your Majesty's intentions and will obey your slightest wish.'

"'What?' cried the King, 'You dare name conditions for your good conduct?'"

Bernhardt denied any intention to impose conditions, but begged to submit to His Majesty that he couldn't exist in those small garrisons. If in Dresden, it would come easier to him to turn over a new leaf.

"Sure, all you young rakes want to live in the capital," sneered the King, "because it's easy in a big town to hide one's delinquencies."

"Your Majesty," cried Bernhardt, "if I ever did a reprehensible thing, it was forced upon me by intolerable conditions."

The King grew white with rage.

"No excuses," he thundered. "You are a rip and ugly customer and you will stay in the garrison I designated."

Even before the King had finished, Bernhardt interrupted him with a fierce: "Don't you call me names, Majesty. I won't stand for that."

"Won't stand for anything that I think proper to mete out to you, rascal? I will make you." The King had risen and was about to box Bernhardt's ears.

Bernhardt jumped back two paces and shouted like mad: "Don't you dare touch me. I will defend my honor sword in hand, even if I have to shoot myself on the spot."

For several seconds the King stood speechless, then he reached out his hand and touched an electric button. Marshal Count Vitzthum responded.

"Take him," said the King hoarsely—"he is your prisoner."

Bernhardt drew his sword and threw it at the King's feet. He was conducted to a room, and sentinels were posted outside his door and under his windows. Presently the telephone called together a council of war and it was decided that Bernhardt go to Nossen during the King's pleasure, or rather displeasure.

"The army officers that act as my guards are not allowed to speak to me," said Bernhardt, "and the garrison in Nossen will likewise be muzzled." He laughed as he added: "I suppose I shall have to make friends with the spirits of the great Augustus's mistresses haunting the old burg. They were gay ones! If the King remembered that, he would send me to the Trappists rather than to Nossen."

Dresden, July 1, 1901.

I never dreamt that science would come to my rescue, but a clever woman has more than one trick up her sleeve. On a visit to a book store I happened to see a new publication on the Hygienics of Pregnancy and had it sent to the palace.

Last night, when nearly dead with ennui, I turned over the leaves of the volume and came across an article advising women in my condition to seek plenty of merry company. My mind was made up at once.

First thing in the morning I sent for the Court Physician, and with many a sigh and groan gave him to understand that I feared to have melancholy if I continued the monotonous life I was leading.

I happened to strike one of the doctor's pet theories, and he recited whole pages from the book I had been reading. Then he asked me a hundred questions, and rest assured that my answers were in accordance with my wishes.

"I will have the honor to report to His Majesty at once," said the Councillor at the end of the examination, "that some diversion is imperative in Your Imperial Highness's case. Would Your Imperial Highness be pleased to visit the theatre or the Opera if the King approves?"

The King did approve, and the Crown Princess of Saxony is once more permitted the privilege of Frau Schmidt and Frau Müller; namely, to go to the theatre when she feels like it.

CHAPTER LV

FRANCIS JOSEPH JOINS MY SAXON ENEMIES

Cuts me dead before whole family—Everybody talks over my head at dinner—I refuse to attend more court festivities—Husband protests because I won't stand for insult from Emperor—I give rein to my contempt for his family—Hypocrites, despoilers, gamblers, religious maniacs, brutes—Benign lords to the people, tyrants at home—I cry for my children like a she-dog whose young were drowned.

Dresden, November 2, 1901.

Great family concourse to look my new baby over, dear Marie Alix, born at Wachwitz, September 27.

Emperor Francis Joseph was first to arrive, the Majesty who is forever posing as the family's good genius, as upholder of peace and amity among his countless cousins and nieces, and the many uncles and aunts and other relatives of his grand-children.

Behold how he lived up to this reputation!

I had been commanded to attend the reception in the Queen's salon, and made my bow to him. He bowed all around, looking at each present, but managed to overlook me.

Then he commenced a long and weary conversation with the Queen, at whose elbow I sat, and when his stock of platitudes was exhausted, turned to fat Mathilde, congratulating her on the possession of the Stern Kreuz decoration, an Austrian order which I likewise wore at my corsage. It was none other than the late Empress Elizabeth who pinned it on me.

Presently dinner was announced. The Emperor took in Her Majesty, the King, nolens, volens, had to conduct me, but gave me neither word nor look. Nor did the others. I couldn't have been more isolated on a desert island, than at this royal board.

They talked and cracked their silly jokes, and paid compliments to each other and were careful not to let their tongues run away with their intriguing minds, but all went above my head. No one spoke to me but the lackeys: "If it please Your Imperial Highness——"

Frederick Augustus tore into my bedroom some little time after I had retired. Picture of the offended gentleman, if you please. I got no more than I deserve, but it "reflected on him, h-i-m, HIM." Though it was a "family dinner," he, the Crown Prince of Saxony, was "publicly" disgraced. The Emperor had treated the Crown Princess as air. He had not deigned to address a single word to her. The Crown Princess was a trollop in the Imperial eyes—it was enough to drive the Crown Prince to drink.

"Drink yourself to death then," I shrieked.

During the night I speculated what to do: ask a private audience of the Emperor, state my side of the case and beg his forgiveness and protection, beg, especially, for better treatment at his hands?

And if he refused?

Francis Joseph is a good deal of a Jesuit. When he hates, he never lets it come to a break; when he loves, he never attaches himself.

If I stooped to humiliate myself, he might choose to debase me still more. It was entirely probable that he would betray my confidences to the King and Prince George.

I will defy him and—all of them!

"Her Imperial Highness regrets——" my Court Marshal wrote in answer to all invitations or rather "commands" for the next three days. When I refused to participate in the "grand leave-taking," Frederick Augustus came post-haste to expostulate with me.

"You must. It would be an affront without precedent."

"Take leave of a man who didn't say good-day to me on his arrival, and who probably intends to slight me in similar fashion on going away——"

In lieu of argument the Prince Royal abused me like a pick-pocket; I had waited for it and now I let loose.

"You are like the rest of your family," I shouted: "ignorant, thoughtless, brutal en venerie, sanctimonious in dotage. I know few people for whom I have so great a detestation as for the Royal Saxons. Look at your father, there is no more jesuitical a Jesuit, the inward man as hideous as the outward. He would be an insolent lackey, if he didn't happen to be a prince.

"And Johann George—a shameless inheritance-chaser, despoiler of pupillary funds, gambler at the bourse, who whines like a whipped dog when he loses.

"The royal Bernhardt, companion of street-walkers!

"Prince Max, who talks theology, but keeps his eye on Therese.

"Your Queen, a victim of religious madness, your King and his system—organized selfishness. Chicanery for those dependent upon him, ruin for all more gifted than the average Wettiner.

"While living here I have learned to look upon my father's discrowning as a stroke of good luck for, since kings can no longer indulge their brutalities against their subjects, they turned tyrants at home.

"If your father did to the humblest of his subjects what he did to me, he would be chased from home and country. The people, the parliament, his own creatures would rise against him and blot his name from the royal roster.

"In the palace, in boudoirs, in the nurseries, he plays the prince—extortioner—executioner. To the public he is the benign lord, whining for paltry huzzas."

Frederick Augustus was so dumfounded, he could only grind his teeth.

I continued: "You prate of respect due the Majesty. There's nothing to induce feelings of that sort. Round me there is naught but weakness, hypocrisy, pettiness. I see shame and thievery stalking side by side in these gilded halls—gilded for show, but pregnant with woe.

"Fie on you, Prince Royal, who allows his wife to be dogged by spies. Thieves, paid by your father, steal my souvenirs; a burglar's kit hidden in their clothes, they besiege my writing table. Jailers stand between me and my children.

"My children!

"Like a she-dog, whose young were drowned, I cry for my babies—I, the Crown Princess of Saxony, who saved your family from dying out, a degenerate, depraved, demoralized, decadent race."

CHAPTER LVI

I AM DETERMINED TO DO AS I PLEASE

I reject mother's tearful reproaches—I beard Prince George in his lair despite whining chamberlains—I tell him what I think of him, and he becomes frightened—Threatens madhouse—"I dare you to steal my children"—I win my point—and the children—"Her Imperial Highness regrets"—Lots of forbidden literature—Precautions against intriguing Grand Mistress—The affair with Henry—was it a flower-covered pit to entrap me?—Castle Stolpen and some of its awful history.

Dresden, November 5, 1901.

Patience ceased to be a virtue. Tolerance would be a crime against myself. I am determined to do as I please in future. If it upsets the King's, Prince George's and the rest's delicate digestion, so much the better.

The newspapers are hinting about my troubles with Prince George and the King. When I go driving or appear at the theatre, the public shows its sympathy in many ways. Sometimes I am acclaimed to the echo.

Mamma wrote me a tearful letter. She spent six hours in prayers for "sinful Louise" and sends me the fruits of her meditations: six pages of close script, advising me how to regain the King's and Prince George's favor.

Never before have I failed in outward respect to my mother, but this time I wrote to her: "Pray attend to your own affairs. Don't meddle in mine which you are entirely unable to understand."

Dresden, November 6, 1901.

Bernhardt was sent to Sonnenstein. Whether he became insane at Nossen, or whether it is the family's intention to drive him mad among the madmen of Sonnenstein, I don't know, but it behooves me to be careful.

Sonnenstein has accommodation for both sexes.

Loschwitz, November 15, 1901.

I sent a letter to the King, asking him to have Loschwitz Castle prepared for my reception. His Majesty didn't deign to answer, but Prince George commanded me in writing to stay at Dresden "under his watchful eye."

I immediately proceeded to his apartments in my morning undress, without hat, gloves or wrap. As I rushed through the anteroom, Adjutant von Metsch begged me with up-lifted hands not to force His Royal Highness's door, Prince George being too ill to receive me, etc., etc. I paid no attention to his mournful whinings. At that moment I had courage enough to stock a regiment.

"So you won't allow me to go to Loschwitz," I addressed George as I suddenly bobbed up at the side of his desk.

My father-in-law looked at me as if I were a spook, emerged from a locked closet.

"Who let you in?" he managed to say after a while.

"I didn't come here to answer questions," I replied. "I came to announce that if you don't let me go to Loschwitz, there will be a scandal that will resound all over Christendom and make you impossible in your own capital."

"Why do you want to leave Dresden?" he insisted.

"Because I want to be alone. Because I am tired of hateful faces. Because I refuse to accept orders and insults from people that are beneath an Imperial Princess of Austria."

Prince George turned pale.

"Am I one of those beneath Your Imperial Highness?" he queried stupidly.

"Decidedly so."

A long pause. Then Prince George shouted: "To the devil with you. I don't care whether you stay in Loschwitz, or Dresden, or on the Vogelwiese."

The Vogelwiese is an amusement park, respectable enough, but the word or name, as used by George, reeked with sinister and insulting meaning.

Trembling with rage, I replied: "Right royal language you royal Saxons use. From time to time, I suppose, you refresh your fish-wife vocabulary in the annals of Augustus the Physical Strong, than whom a more gross word-slinger did not walk the history of the eighteenth century."

I believe Prince George was frightened by my violence. Assuming a haughty tone he said formally: "Your Imperial Highness is at liberty to travel whenever you please, but you will be so good as to leave your children in Dresden."

I stepped up to the white-livered coward and hissed in his face: "Steal my children if you dare, and I will go to France, or Switzerland and ask a republican President to interfere for humanity's sake."

"And—land yourself in an insane asylum," sneered George.

"An old trick of the Royal House of Saxony, I know," I shouted back. "Bernhardt is saner than you, yet the King sent him to Sonnenstein. If such a crime had been perpetrated by one not a king, he would go to jail."

Prince George pointed a trembling finger towards the door. "Out with you!" he bawled hoarsely. "Out!"

I stood my ground. "May I take my children? Yes or no?"

He rang the bell and repeated mechanically: "Out with you, out!"

I had another fit of crying convulsions. Doctors, maids and lackeys were summoned in numbers. They bedded me on the couch and six men-servants carried me to my apartments.

Two days later I went to Loschwitz with my children.

I had defied the King. Prince George was humbled. I carried my point, and the Dresden court will not see me again in a hurry.

Loschwitz, Christmas, 1901.

I refused to spend Christmas at Court. Frederick Augustus planned a stay of a couple of weeks. "Not a single night," I wrote back.

They parleyed; they begged. "The Crown Prince desires to spend Christmas with the children. In the interests of public opinion, it's absolutely necessary that he does."

"But not—that I submit to prostitution. I will give him a dinner, but he will drive back to Dresden immediately afterwards."

Frederick Augustus brought numerous presents for me. "You may place them under the Christmas tree," I ordered the Tisch.

"Oh, Your Imperial Highness, look," cried the Tisch, holding up something or other.

I turned my back on her and looked out of the window. I never went near my end of the Christmas table. "You will send the things brought by His Royal Highness to the bazaar for crippled children," I told the House Marshal. "They shall be sold for the benefit of the poor."

Loschwitz, January 1, 1902.

"Her Imperial Highness regrets."

I refused the invitations to today's family dinner; the grand reception, Te Deum and parade. "Unprecedented affront!" What do I care!

I have eighteen horses, half-a-dozen carriages, I drive, I ride, I hunt, I give the Tisch palpitation daily by the literature I affect: Zola, Flaubert, M'lle Paul, Ma Femme, M'lle de Maupin, Casanova, M'me Bovary. And the periodicals I subscribed for! Simplicissimus, Harden's Zukunft, all the double entendre weeklies and monthlies of Paris. May Prince George and Mathilde burst with rage and envy when they hear of my excursions in the realms of the literary Satans.

Loschwitz, January 15, 1902.

The Tisch is beginning to treat me like a person irresponsible for her doings. Sonnenstein is looming up anew. But I am going to fool her. As I will hold no more speech with her, there will be no occasion for turning my own words against me.

If I have to give a command, or answer a question, I ask Lucretia or Fräulein von Schoenberg to convey my orders.

Loschwitz, March 20, 1902.

An uneventful winter is drawing to a close. By banishing myself to this quiet place I raised a barrier against quarrels, against harsh orders, against humiliations. And the barrier also shuts out: love, happiness.

Sometimes, when the Tisch's hateful mouth spouts honeyed platitudes, I ask myself whether the affair with Henry wasn't, after all, a flower-covered pit dug for me by my enemies.

It was the Tisch who had Henry appointed Vortänzer.

Maybe, knowing my inflammable heart, she offered the tempting bait solely to the end of getting me into her power?

Far from impossible.

I curse the day when I entered Dresden, joined this court and family.

Loschwitz, May 15, 1902.

Royal command to join the court at Pillnitz June 1. The King, who has been ailing for some time, is anxious to be reunited with the children, and, as a necessary evil, I must go along.

I replied that I would prefer Nossen, or even Stolpen, if it pleases His Majesty.

Castle Stolpen is an old-time stronghold of the bishops of Meissen, and its very ruins are pregnant with reminiscences of a barbaric age. The apartments once occupied by the Countess Cosel, as a prison first, as a residence after the death of Augustus, might be made habitable even now. Exceedingly interesting are the old-time torture chambers and the subterranean living rooms of the "sworn torturer" and the dogs, man-shaped, that served him.

Sanct. Donatus Tower, a wing of the great, black pile, was the ancient habitat of these worthies, and the torture chamber, still extant, is a hall almost as big as the Dresden throne-room. In an inscription hewn in the basalt, the sovereign bishop, Johannes VI, poses as builder and seems proud of the damnable fact. Other princes of the Church let us know in high-sounding Latin script that they created the "Monk hole" and the "stairless prison" respectively.

The latter is a vast subterranean vault, never reached by sunshine or light of any kind. Its victims were made to descend some twenty feet below the surface of the earth on a ladder. When near the bottom, the ladder was pulled up and—stayed up. The prisoners were fed once every twenty-four hours, when a leather water pouch and some pounds of black bread were sent down on a rope.

Of course only the strongest got a morsel, or a drink of water. The others died of starvation and the survivors lived only until there were new arrivals, stronger than themselves. The dead bodies were never removed, and horrible stories of necrophily smudge the records of this awful prison and cover its princely keepers with infamy.

The "Monk's hole" was called officially "Obey Your Judge." It is a sort of chimney, just large enough to take the body of a man.

When a monk or other prisoner refused to confess, he was let down into the hole in the wall to starve, while tempting dishes, meat, wine and bread, were dangled over his head, almost within reach of his hands.

Of course, after enduring this torture for several days, the delinquent was glad enough to "Obey His Judge."

By offering to go to this abode of horror and to take the place of Cosel, I meant to show my utter contempt for the royal favor vouchsafed.

CHAPTER LVII

I CONFESS TO PAPA

King Albert dies and King George a very sick man—Papa's good advice—"You will be Queen soon"—A lovely old man, very much troubled.

Castle Sibyllenort, June 19, 1902.

King Albert is dead. George is King, and may God have mercy upon my soul.

Of course the demise of His Majesty changed all my plans of defiance and otherwise. I am once more an official person, even an important one, for the new King can't last long. He is a very sick man, in fact. Perhaps that is the reason why he wants to hear himself addressed "Your Majesty" all the time. Petty souls like to be called "great."

Dresden, June 21, 1902.

I intended to return at once to Loschwitz, but the King, hearing of my intention and not wishing to provoke another scene, invited my father to come to Dresden "in the interests of his daughter."

The same evening I received a wire from papa, saying that he would be in Dresden within twenty-four hours.

My own arrival in the capital was kept secret by the King's order, but next afternoon, when I drove to the station to welcome my father, I got my reception just the same. The people wildly cheered their Crown Princess and thousands of sympathizing eyes followed me from the palace to the depot.

I was almost overcome by so much sympathy and when at last I saw father, I threw myself on his neck, crying aloud.

The King was standing by, impatiently waiting to conduct his grand-ducal guest before the guard of honor had drawn up. "Later, later," whispered papa, patting me on the cheek.

Dresden, June 22, 1902.

I had an hour's talk with father. I bared my heart to him. I reported my own faults along with those of the others.

Papa understands me. He sympathizes with me, but help me he cannot.

"These are only passing shadows," he said. "Look boldly into the future. You will soon be Queen."

And he told me of his financial difficulties and of the misfortune of being a sovereign lord without either land or money.

"The Emperor ordered me to scold you hard," he continued, "and mamma wants me to be very severe. As to King George, he said he would thank God if I succeeded in breaking your rebellious spirit. 'If you don't, I will,' added his Majesty."

Then father kissed me more lovingly than ever and asked, half apologetically: "Is it true, Louise, that you had a lover?"

"I thought I had one, but he was unworthy of me," I replied without shame.

My confession seemed to frighten him.

"It's sad, sad," he said. "Royal blood is dangerous juice. It brought Mary of Scots to the scaffold; it caused your great-aunt Marie Antoinette to lose her head, only to save the old monarchies a few years later, when we inveigled the enemy of legitimate kingship into a marriage with another of your relatives. But for Marie, Louise, the descendants of the Corsican might still sit on a dozen thrones."

Father forgot his daughter's disgrace when he mounted this historic hobby-horse and, needless to say, I did not recall the original text.

Only when, three days later, he took leave of me, holding my head long between his two trembling hands and kissing me again and again, I felt that the poor, old man's heart was oppressed with shame and torn by fears.

CHAPTER LVIII

MONSIEUR GIRON—RICHARD, THE ARTIST

The King asks me to superintend lessons by M. Giron—A most fascinating man—His Grecian eyes—He is a painter as well as a teacher—In love—Careless whether I am caught in my lover's arms—"Richard" talks anarchy to me—Why I don't believe in woman suffrage—Characters and doings of women in power.

Dresden, July 1, 1902.

King George is determined I shall stay in Dresden to end the newspaper talk about trouble in the bosom of the royal family.

He engaged a new head-tutor for my little brood. Monsieur Giron, a Belgian of good family.

"I would be pleased if you attended the children's lessons and reported to me on the method of the new man," he said. "You are so intellectual, Louise, you will find out quickly if M. Giron is not what he is represented to be."

I promised, for, after all, I owed so much to the King and my children.

Alas, it was fate!

Dresden, July 1, After Midnight.

He is tall, well made, and his wild, Grecian eyes fascinate me. He is conscious of self, but modest. His voice is sweet and sonorous, his eyes are bright with intellect. Speaking eyes!

I asked him to visit my apartments at the conclusion of school hours. He told me he was a painter as well as a teacher of languages.

"Would you like to paint me?"

"I am dying for a chance to reproduce your loveliness as far as my poor art permits."

He told me he had a studio in town, where he is known under his artist's pseudonyme, Richard.

"How romantic! I'd like to see it," I said impulsively.

"Several ladies and gentlemen of society sat for portraits at my studio here and at home."

In short we arranged that he paint my picture and that I should go to his studio, where the light is excellent.

Dresden, July 15, 1902.

I am happy once more. Those hours at Richard's studio are the sweetest of my life.

Lucretia acts the protecting angel as usual. Richard calls her Justice because she is "blind." When she is along, I drive boldly up to the door in one of the court carriages. Sometimes, when I can sneak out of the palace for a little while unobserved, I go alone in a cab.

How long this sort of thing can go on without discovery, I know not. As to what will happen afterwards, I care not.

If I was told that tomorrow I would be caught in my lover's arms and banished to a lone island for life, I would go to his studio just the same.

Dresden, August 1, 1902.

Richard is moulding my character. I, once so proud of rank and station, I, who upheld the Wettiners' robbery of a poor, defenseless woman, the Duke's wife, because Socialistic papers spoke in her favor,—Louise now allows anarchistic tendencies to be poured in her ears. She almost applauds them.

This easy change from one extreme to the other at a lover's behest is one of the things that make woman's rule—or co-rule—as the male's political equal—impossible. It's a sort of Phallus worship that always was and always will be.

"Though women have not unfrequently been the holders of temporary and precarious power, there are not many instances where they have held secure and absolute dominion," says Dr. William W. Ireland in his famous "Blot upon the Brain."

Because they were swayed by the male of the species, of course!

Though the characters of the world's female sovereigns differed as to blood, race, education, environment and personal traits, neither showed any inclination to resist the allurements of irregular amours.

Think of Semiramis, of Mary of Scots, of Elizabeth, Catherine I, of the Tsaritzas Elizabeth and the second Catherine—under the temptations of Power, they recruited paramours for themselves in all ranks of society.

Agrippina was more licentious than Caligula; Messalina's infamy surpassed Nero's, and the furthest reaching, the one irresistible Power swaying them all was MAN.

Augustus of the three hundred and fifty-four emphasized this in the negative and, in his own uncouth way, by "postering" the Countess Cosel's chief charm on penny coins.

"She cost Saxony twenty millions in gold—behold the penny's worth she gave in return."

When the beauty who had brought the richest German kingdom to the verge of state bankruptcy died February 2, 1765, four hundred of Augustus's infamous medals were found hidden in her favorite armchair. She paid three or four times their weight in gold for each.

CHAPTER LIX

THE PEOPLE THINK ME A WANTON

Credit me with innumerable lovers, but don't disapprove—Glad the King feels scandalized—Picture of the "she-monster"—Everybody eager for love—I delight in Richard's jealousy—Husband's indelicate announcement at table—I rush from the royal opera to see my lover—A threatening dream—Richard not mercenary like my noble lovers.

Dresden, August 10, 1902.

This is the kind of speech Richard holds with me and—I enjoy:

"Every working-girl, every poor woman who suckles her own children and helps her husband in the fight for existence, stands mountain high above royal ladies like you.

"None of you royal ladies are their moral equals.

"In no distant time," he says, "they will chase you from your thrones, even as your relatives had to evacuate France by tumbril, post-chaise or train."

Richard's ethical and intellectual valuation of royal princes coincides with my own. He has rare insight into our family life.

However, these disclosures both amazed and alarmed me when I first heard them pronounced. I never dreamt that opinions of that kind prevailed among the masses.

"But why am I acclaimed whenever I show myself?"

"Because you are pretty, because you impersonate the one thing all are desirous to embrace: affluence, kindness, youth and beauty. Because you are a treat to the senses and because sensuality is the paramount thing in life, whether we admit it or not."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Kings and anarchists, princesses of the Blood and laundresses, royal princes and cab drivers, empresses, street-walkers, society ladies, big-wigs and sabretasches. The draggled Menads and the helpful Lafayette, the Jacobins, Charlotte Corday and the man she killed—all were, and are, on similar pleasure bent."

And he added quickly: "As to the Dresdeners, they are tickled because, every time they applaud you, the King is scandalized."

"How do they know that I am not on good terms with the King?"

"The very children in arms understand."

All Dresden, says Richard, is talking about me. Everybody assumes to know the number and qualities of my lovers. "Louise," they argue, "knows how to enjoy herself, but, though it serves the King right, we wouldn't have her for a daughter-in-law, either."

According to the masses, I visit the Vogelwiese at night, ride on the flying horses and solicit men and boys that please my fancy. Like a gigantic she-monster, I drag them to my lair—"some to vanish forever." (No doubt, I eat them.)

"Unwashed soldiers and clerks reeking with cheap perfume, actors and students, draymen and generals, it's all the same to the Crown Princess.

"Sometimes, when the spirit moves her, the Crown Princess issues from her gilded apartments in the palace and seizes the sentinel patrolling the corridors. Or she visits the guard-room en déshabille and selects the youngest and best looking officer for her prey.

"Generous, too. She thinks nothing of handing a pension of ten thousand marks per year to a chap that pleased her once."

"Is that all they say about me?"

"Not one-half. Poor devils that can't afford ten marks per year for their fun, Cit's wives that know only their ill-kempt husbands, factory girls that sell their virtue for a supper or a glass of beer—though afterwards they claim it was champagne—all take delight in contemplating that you, or any other good looking royal woman, are Frankenstein's succuba or worse. Didn't they accuse your grand-aunt, Marie Antoinette, of incest with her son and gave him to the cobbler to thrash the immorality out of him?"

"And they give names?"

"Strings of them"—among them several I never heard mentioned before.

Dresden, August 15, 1902.

Richard is jealous—jealous of the men I did love and the regiments that public opinion give me credit for. He must needs think I have loins of steel.

He tells me he suffers agonies by what I confessed, and still more by what I hide. To see him thus unhappy gives me intense pleasure, for it shows that the boy loves me to distraction.

Midnight.

M. Giron was very cold and distant during the afternoon's lessons.

I had previously lunched with him at his studio and we were very gay then. I teased him unmercifully about "his royal demi-mondaine," as the masses painted me.

Frederick Augustus was very gallant at dinner and told me, before a table full of people, that he would take pleasure in sleeping with me tonight. I have too bad a conscience to deny myself to him. But I ran over to the opera for half an hour and ordered M. Giron to my box.

"I got over my vexation," he said,—"got over it because I reflected that you are the Princess Royal and that I would be a fool to take your love seriously. Henceforth I will regard it a passing adventure and let it go at that, for if I thought it the great passion of my life, I would despair, indeed."

"Find a closed cab," I whispered, my heart in my mouth; "I must see you alone. I will be at the northern side-exit in five minutes."

Cabby was ordered to drive slowly along unfrequented side streets. We lowered the curtains.

"So you don't love me?" I wailed. Burying my face on Richard's chest I cried as if my heart would break.

"Not love you?" he breathed. "If I loved you not, I would die, Louise."

"Then why those cruel words?"

"Good heavens," he cried, "haven't I the right to be jealous? I said what I said to hear you say that you love me."

"And you will always love me?"

"Always, dearest," and he covered my face and neck with burning kisses.

Ten minutes later I was again seated at the opera.

I hear Frederick Augustus in the corridor.

Dresden, August 16, 1902.

A horrible night. Lucky that Frederick Augustus was more than half drunk when he sought "His Imperial Pleasure-trove," as he likes to call me, for I often talk in my sleep and—I dreamt of Richard. I dreamt of my enemies, too.

They stole him from me. He was of the past like Henry, Romano and the rest.

In a second dream he jilted me—cast me off like a garment, old or out of fashion.

Lucretia, who sleeps in the next room, heard me cry out in terror, heard me denounce the King, Tisch—everybody.

And Frederick Augustus snored.

Dresden, October 1, 1902.

Princes and noblemen have ever sought their own advantage of me. To them I was always the milch-cow, or Phryne, outright.

Richard is poor. I offered him a considerable sum for one of his paintings.

"Never again mention the matter," he said curtly.

"But it would give me much pleasure to be of assistance to you."

"Louise, we must separate if you don't stop that line of talk," he replied.

And he means it.

A day or two later I let fall, casually, that Frederick Augustus might buy the portrait of myself that was nearing completion under his skillful brush.

"His Royal Highness won't have the chance," he cried fiercely. "I will tell him it isn't finished, or doesn't come up to my artistic standard, or something of the sort."

CHAPTER LX

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT LOOMS UP

My Grand Mistress shows her colors—Richard advises flight—I hesitate on account of my children—My Grand Mistress steals a letter from Richard to me—I opine that an adulteress's word is as good as a thief's—I humble my Grand Mistress, but it won't do me much good—Pleasant hours at his studio.

Dresden, October 15, 1902.

That dreadful dream is becoming a heart-breaking reality.

The Tisch entered my boudoir last night in her mantilla, emblem of her office as Grand Mistress.

Some dirty business on hand, I surmised at once.

"Imperial Highness," she said, genuflexing ceremoniously, "I submit that your artist takes too long about the portrait. Your Imperial Highness's visits to the studio must cease."

"Since when do you give orders here, Baroness?"

"His Majesty empowered me," answered the Grand Dame.

"In that case, do as you like, but don't bother me," I cried bravely enough, but trembling in every limb. The Tisch, no doubt, is preparing to deal me another blow.

When I told Richard that henceforth we would have to exercise extra care, he was beside himself with rage.

"Why stand such tyranny?" he cried. "No self-respecting woman, other than royal, would submit for a single week to be bullied and intrigued against and threatened and browbeaten as you are, and they have ill-used you for eleven years. If you were a simple Cit's daughter, instead of the descendant of a decrepit, bloodless family, yclept royal, you would make an end now, leave them to their shabby kingship and be a free woman—free and happy."

My lover forgets the children, but the picture of the free life he draws is most attractive.

"And would you go with me to the end of the earth, as the story books put it?" I asked tremblingly.

"Louise," he answered, "if you are brave enough and strong enough to throw away a crown, I will be your slave for life."

Dresden, October 20, 1902.

"Your Imperial Highness was pleased to call me a thief once," said the Tisch early this morning as she entered my boudoir, triumph written all over her yellow countenance. "You repeated that calumny to the Prince Royal and doubtless to many other persons. Today came the opportunity to live up to my reputation. I stole a letter addressed to you by your present lover, and as Your Imperial Highness is pleased to doubt my authority, immediately sent it to His Majesty. It makes highly interesting reading."

The blow made my knees tremble, but pain and rage came to my assistance, effacing the momentary weakness.

"Don't think for a moment to frighten me," I cried. "I say to your face that I have a lover—a gentleman, not an unspeakable, like your nephew. And now listen: I will tell the King and the press of Europe, if it must be, that it was you, my Grand Mistress, who 'pandered' me to Henry—for—revenue. I will have him whipped out of the army——"

"You don't suppose for a moment that the word of an adulteress would prove acceptable either to His Majesty or anyone else?" hissed the insolent creature.

"My word will be accepted all around," I shouted back, "for I have the proofs, proofs that you smuggled this unspeakable into my household, proofs that you lied to the King in order not to disrupt your nephew's career.

"And I will cry from the house-tops that you discovered my relations with Henry only after I had paid his debts, after I had financed his excursions to gambling-houses and to usurers' dens. Ah, I paid his tailors and glove-makers, his board and lodging, his laundry bills. I paid the alimony due his strumpets, and after all was done, after his lieutenantship had again a clean bill of health, financially speaking, then, and not a moment before, did you step in and make an end of the farce, wherein I played the part of 'angel,' or pay-master."

The Tisch got visibly smaller under my lash. The air of triumph she bore when entering the room gave way to an expression of despair. If she hadn't sent the letter to the King, I believe she would have given it up after I was half through with her.

Once more I hold the whip hand, but what good will it do me since I am condemned to lose the man I love?

At Midnight.

Richard approved of all I said and did. We were unspeakably happy this afternoon, despite the storm threatening us.

I fear neither the King nor Frederick Augustus now, but the fear of Sonnenstein I can't shake off.

If the King takes it upon himself to say that I'm mad, there will be plenty of medical authorities to bear him out, none to oppose him.

Of course, they will separate me from my children and will do their utmost to drive me mad between now and the time when I should be proclaimed Queen.

CHAPTER LXI

A MAD HOUSE FOR LOUISE—PROBABLY

My confidential maid, Lucretia, is banished—The new King has got the incriminating letter, but Frederick Augustus says nothing—On the eve of judgment the King falls ill.

Dresden, October 21, 1902.

This morning, at six, Lucretia rushed into my room. She was in her night-gown. Her hair was loose. No color in her face.

And between sobs and curses she told me that she had orders to leave by ten sharp. "If you dare stay over the appointed time, you will be transported to the frontier on foot, between gendarmes."

"Von Baumann shall come."

I threw a loose wrapper over my night-gown and received him at once.

"My marriage contract provides that no one but I have the right of dismissal with respect to Countess Baranello," I said sharply.

"As long as the lady keeps within the law," replied Baumann with just a trace of insolence in his voice.

I looked at him in astonishment.

"The Countess is guilty of a crime, of a succession of crimes," continued Baumann, "but His Majesty, not wishing to be harsh, decided to treat her merely as an obnoxious foreigner. She has forfeited her right to live in Saxony, and will do well to obey."

I helped poor Lucretia pack. I gave her a handful of jewels, I paid her a year's salary in advance and ordered the treasury to procure first-class passage for her to Rome.

I sent her to the station in my own carriage, and wired to our Rome representative to show her every courtesy.

Afternoon.

Frederick Augustus hasn't said a word to me about the affair with Richard. We have our meals together and his attitude in no wise differs from that usually maintained. Yet I am convinced he knows.

The last service rendered me by Lucretia, gave me great relief. She found out that neither the Tisch, nor Frederick Augustus, nor the King know who "Richard" is. Fortunately his letter was typewritten, signature and all.

Six o'clock.

The King announced his visit for eight o'clock.

Nine o'clock.

The King had a fall in his apartments shortly after he sent me notice of his coming. He was unconscious for two hours.

Safe for the time being!

CHAPTER LXII

KING'S ILLNESS A BOON TO LOVERS

Prayers mixed with joy—Espionage disorganized, and I can do as I please—Love-making in the school-room—Buying a ring for Richard—"Wishing it on"—"Our marriage"—King's life despaired of—My tormentors obsequious—Smile at my peccadilloes—Husband proud of me—My popularity a great asset—Frederick Augustus delighted when he hears that King can't last long—The joyous luncheon at Richard's studio—Making fun of majesties—I expect to be Queen presently.

Dresden, October 22, 1902.

He is dangerously ill. It may be weeks and months before the King recovers—if he recovers at all.

I feel like praying, crying, shouting with joy.

When Richard folded his arms about me this afternoon, I said to myself: "God doesn't begrudge me a lover as kind and good as Richard."

The King's illness has disorganized the espionage, my coming and going are no longer controlled. The body-groom brings in my letters as delivered at the gate.

In the school room, while the children are writing or studying, Richard and I find time to exchange kind words and even an occasional caress. When I "command" the tutor to my apartments, we need fear no surprise.

The utmost quiet prevails in the palace. The courtyard is sanded foot high and strewn with straw to deaden the sound of wheels and horses' hoofs. No more mounting of the guard with fife and drum.

I suggested that the children be sent to the Grosser Garten to play. The Tisch agreed with enthusiasm. This yields us—Richard and myself—two hours of love-making.

Dresden, October 25, 1902.

The King continues ill.

I went into a cheap jeweler's this afternoon and bought an inexpensive ring with a ruby no larger than a pin head. When I gave it to Richard, he grew red with joy.

Strange, he bought a similar ring for me. I shall never wear another ring in my life but Richard's. I pulled my rings off one after the other and threw them on the bed.

I kissed the larger ring and "wished" it on Richard's finger. He did the same with the ring intended for me. And we said, as with a common breath, "Our wedding."

Dresden, November 1, 1902.

A bulletin, by the King's physicians, holds out scant hopes for George's life.

I am watching the palace yard. The Archbishop of Dresden, attended by two court chaplains and a host of other clerics, is just mounting the stairs to administer the last rites of the Church. The next minute may see me Queen of Saxony. I may even be Queen now. I wish I had the effrontery to promise the lackey or official, announcing my enthronization, a handful of gold, as George did, when King Albert was dying.

Even so, I have risen immeasurably in everybody's esteem. The sweet family knows me again. Johann George, Mathilde, Isabelle and Max are kotowing to me. Bernhardt sent me a telegram of condolence—condolence! He is a humorist, that boy.

Minister of the Royal House, Baron Seydwitz, called twice. The Royal Adjutant, General von Carlowitz, spoke of the possibility of giving Bernhardt a command in Dresden. Von Baumann says it was the President of the Police who insisted upon Lucretia's hasty departure. If he, Baumann, had his way, my maid of honor would have got off with a warning.

And you should see the Tisch. She must have spent a month's salary on flowers for me, which I promptly sent to the nearest pauper hospital. She smiles, she nearly breaks her back genuflexing. Her every second word is "most submissive," "will the Imperial Highness deign to do this," that, or the other thing.

The terror got into her old bones and she trembles for her pension, for, of course, she knows that instant dismissal will be her portion.

Frederick Augustus talks of having some more princes and—acts accordingly. Perish the thought that his Louise is an adulteress, that she ever had a lover, has one now!

He is haunting my room, running from door to window, from window to door. Every little while he opens the portières to see if no one's coming to address him "Your Majesty."

"Your popularity with the public is a great asset," he says over and over again. "Lucky devil I, to have a wife as smart as you."

Dresden, November 2, 1902.

Frederick Augustus came running into my room and gave me a bear-hug.

"The doctors say the King is lost. Impossible to keep him alive any longer."

He rushed out.

I am Queen.

After Lunch.

Just back from Richard's studio. We had lunch together. We laughed, we danced, we sang. We bombarded one another with pillows.

We acted the jubilant heirs. I recalled Sybillenort at the time King Albert died. In Saxony, when man or woman shuffles off this mortal coil, there's always a good "feed" at the corpse's expense. At the late King's castle a "mourning breakfast" was served upon the royal family's arrival from Dresden—a most magnificent repast in the matter of plate and victuals offered, but each had to serve himself or herself, as servants were dispensed with.

This by the new King's special orders—that he might hear himself addressed "Your Majesty" by his kith and kin, a formality usually neglected in the family circle except when two or more of the big-wigs are warring against each other.

"Will Your Majesty have one or two lumps of sugar?"

"May it please Your Majesty—some steak?"

"I hope Your Majesty will allow me to peel an orange for Your Majesty."

Thus at Sybillenort. And at Richard's:

"Will Your Greatness (Majesty) deign to take Your Greatness's feather out of my eye?"

Or: "May it never please Your Transparency (Durchlaucht, German for Highness) to let His Greatness see through you."

I am several times a Countess besides a Princess, Duchess, etc., and Richard continued with his paraphrasing of titles:

"Your Illuminatedness makes lights quite unnecessary," and he switched them off in a room already darkened by blinds and shades and curtains.

CHAPTER LXIII

WHAT I WILL DO WHEN I AM QUEEN

A foretaste: titled servants put me en route for lover—The bargain I will propose to Frederick Augustus—Frederick Augustus will be a complaisant King—To revive Petit Trianon—I am addressed as Queen.

Dresden, November 3, 1902.

Though still styled Crown Princess, I am already revelling in the delights and perquisites of queenship: I do as I please, go where I please, I would think aloud, as I please, if anyone dared me.

For all my enemies of a week ago turned flatterers and flunkeys, bowing, grovelling, fawning, contemptible in their self-abasement, but quite useful to my purposes.

Like most royal palaces, ours at Dresden has a secret staircase and exit for emergencies. It is never used by ladies; only the princes have recourse to it, occasionally, to drop out of sight in mufti, for, of course, royal incognito is more or less legitimate.

"In the evening, after our card party was over, Catherine was seen to dismiss her court and retire to her private apartments with the new favorite," say the Secret Memoirs of the Court of St. Petersburg.

Less publicly, perhaps, but even more illegitimately, I walk the secret staircase en route for my lover whenever I please nowadays.

I go veiled and—make the Grand Mistress open the door for me. She knows that I am on sweet pleasure bent and—smiles.

"When will Your Imperial Highness deign to return?"

I name the hour and she is there to receive me—smirking, blind, deaf and dumb.

A foretaste of my queenship paradise! No one will boss me, no one will dare talk about me, everything I do will be good, even sublime.

I made up my mind as to Frederick Augustus.

"Frederick Augustus," I will say to him, "now that we are King and Queen, let's enjoy to the full the thing's emoluments; otherwise, what's the use? You will allow me to go my way and I will certainly shut both eyes as to your doings, even if you follow in the footsteps of your namesake of the three-hundred-and-fifty-two."

Of course, I will say it differently, but my husband will understand. The main thing: the royal family and court must stop hurling at me the long, watery haussez les mains of narrow-minded, provincial inquisitiveness, which both oppresses and goads me.

Frederick Augustus has too much respect for the kingly dignity to impugn his partner, the Queen.

Will I revive, then, the seraglios of the Russian Anns and Elizabeths, or start a new Parc aux Cerfs with strong men and Marathon winners for inmates? Thank you, a miniature Petit Trianon will be good enough for me.

The Tisch entered a minute ago and respectfully remains at the door, though she sees I am engaged on my Diary. I watch her in the mirror. She would travel bare-foot to Kevlaar, of which Heinrich Heine sung, for a glimpse of what I wrote. Her variegated grimaces give her the appearance of a carved wooden devil, sprinkled with holy water.

At last I deign to inquire: "What is it, Baroness?"

"The Crown Prince wants to see Your Imperial Highness. May he come in?"

"Since when does my husband send you to announce him?"

"Pardon, Your Imperial Highness, I meant Prince George."

Designating my first-born Prince Royal, means recognizing me as Queen.

And, but ten days ago, this same viper refused to address me by my proper title.

CHAPTER LXIV

THE KING IS ALIVE AND PUNISHMENT NEAR

My queenship postponed—King George publicly acclaimed—Cuts me dead in church—Frederick Augustus's disappointment—Terrible power of a king over his family, and no appeal—I am like the nude witch of old.

Dresden, November 10, 1902.

The King has taken nourishment. The King will not die—he will live and punish me. Still, I must not complain. I had a respite and Richard says, "when one rises from the dead, one is less inclined to be severe with the living." But he grew rather despondent immediately.

"La liberté est une garce, qui ne se laisse monter que sur des matelas des cadavres humains!" he quoted Comte Mirabeau. Our corpse was alive, our liberty is dead for the time being.

Dresden, November 15, 1902.

The King went driving this morning and I am told that he came home well pleased, for there was lusty cheering along the line. Frederick Augustus hasn't mentioned my affair at all. Disappointment made him rather gloomy and he begins to treat me again in the right royal Saxon fashion: I am air for His Highness.

After Supper.

The family will wait upon His Majesty in a body tomorrow, to congratulate him on his recovery. After that, Te Deum in the cathedral, which the court and authorities must attend by command.

"Your Imperial Highness's pew will be in readiness, but my sublime master has not deigned to graciously announce that he wishes to receive Your Imperial Highness,"—this from the toad Baumann, who but yesterday licked my boots.

Dresden, November 16, 1902.

Another straw indicating the direction of the wind—the ill-wind.

King George commanded Bernhardt to be madman no longer and come and live in Dresden. Since his arrival he has paid assiduous court to all members of the royal family, but me. He called on the royal ministers, the courtiers, the high civil authorities, but my apartments have seen him not. I don't blame the boy for making the best of the situation, but was it really necessary to offer gratuitous insult to the only relative that stood by him when in trouble?

Doubtless, he took his cue from the King, who cut me dead while, with the rest, I thanked God for his recovery.

November 20, 1902.

The Tisch is openly talking Sonnenstein. "The royal apartments are ready for her reception," she let fall yesterday.

Old Andrew, my confidential servant, told me.

She shows me the face of a bull-dog about to spring at a victim, a sea-green devil filled with vinegar and gall, but affects icy courtesy.

Frederick Augustus is down in the mouth. If he knows of any evil intention against me, he evidently made up his mind to hold his tongue and avoid scenes.

Richard keeps on saying: "Don't worry. After all, what can they do to you?" He doesn't know, or doesn't want to understand that, while the law holds out protection for all, from pedlars and vagabonds to and including prime ministers, royalty itself is only technically above the law; in praxis we are beyond the benefits of all law, human and otherwise.

To be sure, a Cit is sometimes unjustly treated, but with tenacity and a small amount of courage, he finds his remedy in the courts and in the press.

To royal princes and princesses the King is both judge and executioner, as the cases of the Duke of Saxony and Bernhardt show. Maybe it pleases His Majesty to cloak his tyranny by convoking a commission, but what of it, since the commission is invariably made up of his creatures, trained, if not commanded, to do the all-highest will and nothing but the all-highest will?

As in days gone by, the poor "witch"—if she be young and comely—must face her accusers naked, the sworn torturer at her elbow, so I have no standing in law or decency before the Powers over social life or death in our sphere of society.

If there be blemishes in my character, the King sees them magnified by the sharp tongues of evil creatures, his spies. There is no privacy. I must submit to be stared at, to have my flesh lacerated by curious eyes, and, as in the case of the old-time "witches," the handsomest were condemned the quicker because "the devil was more liable to choose them for an abode than ugly ones," so my very beauty will hasten my destruction.

CHAPTER LXV

FISTICUFFS DON'T SAVE MY CROWN

The attempted theft of my Diary—Grand Mistress discovered after breaking open my desk—Reading Diary like mad—Personal encounter between me and Grand Mistress—I am the stronger, and carry off the manuscript, but have to leave all my love letters, which go to the King—I discover that they had stolen the key to my Diary from my neck.

Dresden, November 27, 1902.

I am undone.

They tried to obtain a picture of Louise in the nude—Louise as she paints Herself—this Diary, in fact—and, though I foiled them, the King now has in his hands my entire correspondence—every letter from every man that ever approached or possessed me.

And be sure he won't use them for curl papers as did the Duke of Richelieu with the remnants of his ladyloves' billets doux that escaped confiscation.

"My collection is incomplete. I have to begin another," he said.

Alas, my collection was only too complete!

This is how it came about:

As I was in the act of retiring last night, a clairvoyant's vision seized me. "Somebody meddling with your papers!" "They are breaking into your secrétaire," the voices said.

I slipped on a pair of bath sandals and stealthily opened the door of my boudoir.

My writing desk was open, all the drawers ajar and in disorder; the Baroness bending over this, my Diary. She was reading like mad, her eyes danced with lust of revenge.

With one bound I was at her side and she was so frightened at first, I thought she would drop. Her chest seemed to draw inward; she swayed to and fro. But only for a second or two. Then, recovering her self-possession, her fighting harness was in place again.

"Go to your room, Royal Highness," she said in a tone of command. "These papers are confiscated in the name of the King."

I was beside myself with rage. "My Diary," I cried; "instantly return it to me."

More I couldn't say, for I had neither breath nor voice. My right hand was on the book when she attempted to seize it.

I struck her hand with Richard's ring—I wish it was bigger, I wish it had a good diamond point—but she wouldn't let go. Then, before one could count one, two, three, I had hold of her—Heaven, how I enjoyed it; the satisfaction I had in giving rein to my passion, for all was up now, anyhow.

With the left hand I caught her by the throat, while my good right boxed her ears after the homely manner mamma had taught me. Good, sound cuffs, I assure you, each liable to dislocate a tooth.

"Canaille," I cried, "miserable canaille." I pushed her into a corner and recovered the Diary, folding it up quickly. I was holding the book close to my bosom when I crossed the room to regain my bedchamber.

The Tisch after me, trying to snatch it back. I caught her on the chest and sent her flying. Then, with the manuscript, I made good my escape, leaving for the contemptible bird of prey all my love letters, reams of them, the oldest fifteen or more years old, the latest bearing yesterday's date.

Once in my room, I recollected and made a grab at my throat. The key to my Diary was gone. They stole it, chain and all, while I was asleep, no doubt.

Dresden, November 28, 1902.

Awakening, I find myself seated at the little table near the window. Both my hands are ink-spotted. So is my night-dress.

I see, I have written an account of the battle. I must have done so some time after I returned from the field. It's well, for at the moment, I don't remember a thing.

The palace clock strikes seven.

The day of my doom.

CHAPTER LXVI

ABANDONED

My titled servants withdraw from me—An old footman my sole support—Queen takes the children—Old Andrew plays spy for me.

Afternoon.

No one has come to see me. My household, my adjutants, marshal, chamberlains, equerries, the ladies of my entourage are on duty, but since I ordered my meals brought to the room, they pretend to assume that I'm too ill to see anyone. There may be no truth in the saying that rats leave the ship destined to sink, but the titled vermin royalty surrounds itself with certainly knows when to avoid dangerous craft.

I rang for Andrew. The good, old man wouldn't put me to the humiliation of asking questions.

"Your Imperial Highness's children are with Her Majesty," he said; and, coming a step nearer, he added in an undertone: "Baroness Tisch has been with His Majesty since nine in the morning."

"You are a kind and brave man." I held out my hand.

"If Your Imperial Highness has no immediate orders for me," continued the good soul, "I beg to be allowed to visit my friend, Hans, the King's body-servant."

I thanked Andrew for his good intentions. "Wait in the ante-chamber until I am dressed."

I donned a forty-mark costume that I keep on hand for the purpose; it didn't take me more than six or seven minutes.

"I will have to leave by the secret staircase, Andrew."

He understood and cleared the way for me.

CHAPTER LXVII

FAMILY COUNCIL AT CASTLE

Rendezvous at studio—State takes my children from me—Madhouse or flight—I brought fifty-two trunks to the palace—Depart with small satchel—If I attempt to see my children I'll be seized as "mad woman"—Varying emotions of the last ten minutes—Threatening shadows thrown on a curtain decide me—Ready for flight—Diary the last thing to go into the satchel.

At Night. Eleven O'clock.

They went into family council at six tonight and are still deliberating, Andrew reports. The Tisch, he says, acts as secretary; His Majesty, of course, presides.

Present are the Dowager Queen, Mathilde and Isabelle. Then Frederick Augustus, Johann George, Max and Bernhardt. Baron George von Metzsch, a high government and court functionary and my enemy, attends as legal adviser to the King.

It's in the nature of things that the Baron will do his worst to destroy me, but Bernhardt! Bernhardt, who held me in his arms, now one of my judges! He will have to be especially severe with his quondam mistress lest the King suspect.

While the sweet family bent over those love letters—I bet the Tisch withheld Henry's—I sat in Richard's studio, advising with him.

"There are only two things to be considered: the madhouse or instant flight."

"You dare advise me to leave my children?"

"There are no nurseries in madhouses. Your children are lost to you, anyhow. If you remain, as an alleged insane person, you 'can't be trusted,' they'll argue, for you are helpless, legally, morally and physically.

"If you run away to Switzerland, on the other hand, you are a free woman, under the protection of a republican government.

"Switzerland, I needn't tell you, will not go to war to wrest your children from the royal family, but will afford you personally every advantage, legal and otherwise.

"Decide quickly: are you going to make King George a present of yourself as well as of the five children you bore for the benefit of the Wettiners?"

"Never."

My mind is made up. My few belongings are packed. I, who came to Dresden with fifty-two trunks, leave the palace with a satchel, easy to carry. I take nothing but my personal jewels, the little money I own and some changes of linen.

If I could only see my children for a moment or two, but the Queen has them in her keeping, and I might be seized as a "mad woman" if I dared leave my apartments and cross to those occupied by Her Majesty.

And Frederick Augustus! He will miss me in his way.

Ten more minutes. I hear the distant clatter of a carriage. Richard driving to our rendezvous, two streets north of the palace gate.

Will my limbs carry me to him and liberty? I pace the room to test their strength.

"Louise," says the voice within,—"your last chance. Your good-natured husband, your darling children, your old parents, pomp and state and circumstance, indeed, a crown, you are going to abandon for—what?"

A man whose carnal side only you know, a poor man, an artist without fame, a professional without future.

Sadly perturbed in mind, I walk to the window. Those of His Majesty's cabinet, where the family council is in progress, are directly opposite.

Shadows of men and women, rising from a sitting position, are thrown on the curtains.

One of the shades slowly ascends.

I see the Tisch pointing a bony finger to the windows of my boudoir. Von Metzsch stands by her side. They grin.

You triumph, wretch and Jezebel?

But when your sbirri, in an hour from now, or tomorrow morning early, invade my rooms, instructed to carry me away—bound hand and foot to a sofa, or in a straight jacket, perhaps—they will find the Crown Princess gone—her and her Diary.

Both will be safe on foreign soil ere you can make arrangements for organized pursuit, for Richard and I will travel by carriage to a distant suburb, there mount the fast express and keep to our state room, engaged under an assumed name, until without the sphere of Saxon or German influence.

A discreet knock. Andrew, my liberator! In his hand a tallow dip to light this Imperial Highness down back stairs to the new life of her choice.

"One moment, old man, this book goes into the valise.

"Hand me the blotter, please. Tears won't do.

"And a couple more handkerchiefs from the top of the chiffonier, please."

FINIS

NR

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