Three or four of the archduchesses seemed to be acting as marriage brokers for Ferdinand, just elected hereditary prince of Bulgaria, whose mother, Princess Clementine, a daughter of the dethroned King Louis Philippe of France, was reputed to be rolling in gold.

Leopold irreverently called Ferdinand's partisans "Fillons" after famous "La Fillon," who supplied the harem of our jolly ancestor, the Regent of France, Duke of Orleans, and he insisted that Ferdinand was a Cohen, not a Coburg. As a matter of fact, Ferdinand's great fortune is derived from a Kohary, which is Hungarian for Cohen. The original Kohary was a cattle-dealer, who supplied the armies of the Allies during the Napoleonic wars. In this way he accumulated so much wealth that an impoverished Coburg prince fell in love with his daughter and made her his wife, after she exchanged the name of Rebecca for Antonie and the Mosaic faith for that of Rome.

Young and proud and flippant as I was, Leopold's talk filled me with hearty contempt for the "Coburger" long before we were introduced. And as to his ambassador, who was forever dancing attendance upon me, I hated him. Yet the Imperial "Fillons" kept up their clatter, and one fine morning Prince Ferdinand was announced.

He wasn't half bad looking, but struck me as too much of a mother's-boy. Princess Clementine seemed to decide everything for him. Anyhow, I wouldn't have him and he marched off again.

I next reviewed, as another Balkan matrimonial possibility, Prince Danilo of Montenegro, a small, thin person, looking like a Jew counter-jumper in holiday dress—Vienna "store-clothes."

Danilo spoke the worst table d'hote French I ever heard in my life, and I told mother I would rather marry a rich banker than this crowned idiot. For once she agreed with me and said his father was only a "mutton-thief," anyhow.

Finally there was talk of King Alexander of Servia, six years younger than I. Queen Natalie, who a few days ago celebrated one of her several reunions with ex-King Milan, spoke feelingly of her "Sasha" to mother, lauding him as the best of sons and the most promising of sovereigns, but the oft-divorced Majesty was less communicative when mother asked how many millions she would pass over to Alexander on his marriage day. That settled "Sasha's" ambitions as far as my hand was concerned. Marry a Balkan King and the nee Keshko holding the purse-strings! Not for my father's daughter! I didn't want to marry into a Russian Colonel's family, anyhow. I believe Queen Natalie's father was a colonel, or was he only a lieutenant-colonel?

These marriage negotiations aside, Anna and myself had a mighty good time in Vienna (I forgot to say that Emperor Francis Joseph agreed with me that Danilo and Alexander were quite impossible and that henceforth Balkan marriages should be taboo).

"I have ordered a dozen young officers to report for tonight's dancing," said my Imperial uncle one evening. "Select from among them your tennis partners, girls." Baron Cambroy of the Guards was my choice, and a mighty handsome fellow he is. He seemed pleased when I commanded him to tennis duty every afternoon during our stay. He is tall and spare in appearance and I might have fallen in love with him sooner, but for his dark skin. I am an Italian and, by way of contrast, prefer blondes to any other sort of man.

Anna, myself and our ladies bicycled to the tennis court every afternoon, and on our way back to the castle were escorted by the Baron and the other officers.

Trust a girl with a dress reaching an inch below her knees to find out scandals! On the second day after our meeting with the Baron, Anna told me that he was the lover of Draga Maschin, lady-in-waiting to Queen Natalie of Servia.[4]

Draga was in attendance upon Queen Natalie when she called on us, a beautiful girl, somewhat too full-bosomed for an unmarried one, like my great-aunt, Catharine, who became the wife of that upstart, Jerome Napoleon. At home we have her picture, and mother, who was rather skinny as a girl, never failed to point out that it was painted before Queen Catharine's marriage, despite her voluptuous bust.

If my Baron was really Draga's beloved, that would more than half explain mother's puzzle.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: The same who afterwards became the Queen of King Alexander of Servia and eventually the cause of his death and of the extinction of the Obrenovitsch dynasty. Alexander and Draga were both slaughtered in their beds May 29, 1903, ten years after the above was written.]



CHAPTER IX

LOVE-MAKING

The fascinating Baron—The man's audacity—Putting the question boldly—Real love-making—Risque stories for royalty.

CASTLE WACHWITZ, May 1, 1893.

I am in love but, like a prudent virgin, I admitted the fact to myself only shortly before we departed for Salzburg. After I put several hundred miles between me and my fascinating Baron, all's well again.

My first love, and it was the man's audacity that won the day!

Imagine an Imperial Highness, decidedly attractive, eighteen, and no tigress by any means, wheeling at the side of a mere lieutenant who has nothing but his pay to bless himself with and nothing but good looks to recommend him. And, as before stated, he wasn't even my style.

Anna pedalled ahead some twenty-five paces; our ladies wheezed and snorted that many behind. This devil of a lieutenant took a chance.

"Imperial Highness," he commenced, "I wager you don't know what love is."

It was the one theme I was aching for, scenting, as I did, the odor of forbidden things. Never before had I the opportunity.

"R-e-a-l love," he insisted.

"Do you blame me?" I asked, vixen-like. "Would be a poor specimen of Guard officer who didn't know more about real love than a mere girl of eighteen and a princess at that."

"Will your Imperial Highness allow me to explain?" This, oh so insinuatingly, from the gay seducer.

"Why not?" I asked, with the air of a roue and hating myself for blushing like a poppy—I felt it.

"Charmed to enlighten you—with your Imperial Highness's permission," whispered the Baron, his knee crowding mine as he drew nearer on his wheel.

"Explain away."

"Not until I have your Imperial Highness's express command and your promise not to get angry if I should offend."

Anna, always an enfant terrible and invariably in the way, was waiting for us in the shadow of a tree and now rode by the Baron's side. She had evidently heard part of our conversation.

"Permission and pardon granted beforehand," she cried. "Go ahead."

The Baron looked at me, and not to be outdone by the parcel of impudence in short petticoats, I said carelessly: "Oh, tell. I command."

The Baron began to stroke his moustache and then related a story of Napoleon and our ancestress Marie Louise, the Austrian Archduchess, not found in school books.

On the day before her entry into Paris, he said, and when they were destined to meet for the first time, Napoleon waylaid his bride-to-be at Courcelles and without ceremony entered her carriage. They rushed past villages, through towns en fete and at last, at nine o'clock in the evening, reached the palace of Compiegne. There the Emperor cut short the addresses of welcome, presentations and compliments, and taking Marie Louise by the hand conducted her to his private apartments. Next morning they had breakfast in bed. The marriage ceremony took place a few days later.

"That's love," said the Baron, shooting significant glances at me.

"Henry Quatre did the same to Marie de Medici—an Italian like you, Imperial Highness."

Anna didn't know what to make of it, and as for me, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

The impudent fellow seems to have misinterpreted our silence, for, brazen like the Duc de Richelieu, who boasted of sleeping in the beds of queens, he continued:

"Catharine the Great, too, knew what love was. One fine afternoon when she wasn't a day older than you, Imperial Highness, she looked out of the window of her room at Castle Peterhof. In the garden below a sentinel, very handsome, very Herculean, very brave, was pacing up and down. Catharine, then Imperial Grand-duchess and only just married, made a sign to the soldier. The giant, abandoning his rifle, jumped below the window and Catharine jumped onto his shoulders from the second story.

"That's real love," concluded the Baron.

Anna got frightened and fled down the avenue, but I had the weakness to remain at the Baron's side until we reached the palace.

Alas, Frederick Augustus wasn't as good a talker as the Baron.



CHAPTER X

MY POPULARITY RENDERS GEORGE DYSPEPTIC

The Cudgel-Majesty—Prince George's intrigues—No four-horse coach for Princess—Popular demonstration in my favor—"All-highest" displeasure.

DRESDEN, September 1, 1893.

I haven't lived up to my promise to keep a daily record, or even a weekly one. Those tales of my girlhood days disgusted me with diary keeping as far as my early experiences at home went and I reflected that many of the subsequent happenings in my life might be safer in the shrine of memory, than spread over the pages of a blank-book, even though no one sees it and I carry its golden key on a chain around my neck.

We are back in the capital now and things are moving. Great doings had been planned for our reception, for the re-entry of the little prince, my baby, and his mother who is expected to give another child to Saxony at the end of the year. Two babies in one year! I am going to beat the German Empress, and if Wilhelm doesn't send me a medal I will cut him dead the next time I see him!

Well, about that reception. Flags, triumphal arches, speeches by the burgo-master, white-robed virgins at the station and all that sort of thing!

But Father-in-law George said "no." Anything that gives joy to others goes against his royal grain, gives him politico-economic dyspepsia. He doesn't want me to be popular,—neither me, nor Frederick Augustus, nor the baby.

George will be the next king, and if the Dresdeners or the Saxons want to "Hoch the King," they must "Hoch" George. They MUST. "It's their damned duty," says George the Pious, who never blasphemes on his own account, but allows himself some license concerning his subjects. His attitude recalls the story told of Frederick William the First of Prussia, whose appearance on the streets of Berlin used to cause passers-by to run to save their back. Upon one occasion His Majesty caught one of these fugitives, and whacking him over the head with his Spanish reed, cried angrily: "What do you want to run away from me for?"

"Because I'm afraid of your Royal Majesty," stuttered the poor devil.

"Afraid?" thundered Frederick William, giving the fellow another whack with his cane. "Afraid?"—the beating continuing—"when I, your King, commanded you to love me. Love me, you miserable coward, love God's Anointed." And the loving Majesty broke his cane on the unloving subject's back.

Two days before our arrival Prince George sent his adjutant, Baron de Metsch-Reichenbeck, to the Mayor of Dresden, stopping all reception arrangements contemplated.

To have children was a mere picnic to Her Imperial Highness, lied George's messenger,—if the physicians hadn't used chloroform I would have perished with the torture. Ovations intended as a sort of reward or recognition of my services to the country, then, would be entirely out of place, and must not be thought of.

The municipality thereupon officially abandoned preparations. I was a little vexed when I first heard about George's meanness, yet again felt tickled that he went out of his way to intrigue against me, the despised little princess of a House that ceased to reign. And I had an idea that the Dresdeners would give us a good welcome anyhow.

I had contemplated ordering my special train to leave in the early morning or at noon, but the Ministry of Railways informed me that it was impossible to accommodate me at the hours mentioned.

"We will take the ordinary express, then, and will be in Dresden at four in the afternoon," I suggested.

"According to the new schedule, the express doesn't stop in Dresden," protested Frederick Augustus.

"We will command it to stop," I cried.

Frederick Augustus looked at me as if I had asked him to borrow twenty marks from the Kaiser. "For God's sake!" he cried, "don't you know what happened to John the other day?"

I confessed my ignorance.

"Well," said Frederick Augustus, "John ordered the Continental express to pick him up at his garrison, and he had no sooner arrived in Dresden than he was commanded by the King to appear before him. His Majesty walked all over John, accusing him of 'interfering with international traffic' and forbidding him to issue another order of that character."

"Pshaw!" I said, "John is merely a childless princeling. I am the mother of Saxony's future king. The regeneration, the perpetuation of your race depends on me."

It was a mere waste of breath, for at that moment came a telegram, announcing that our special was billed to leave at 3:30, getting us to Dresden at half-past five—King's orders.

"Did you command the Daumont coach-and-four to meet us at the station?" I asked.

"My dear child, you are dreaming," replied Frederick Augustus. "The State carriages are the property of the Crown and we don't own a four-horse team in Dresden. They will send the ordinary royal carriage, I suppose."

I was mad enough to wish my husband's family to Hades, the whole lot of them, but the people of Dresden took revenge in hand and dealt most liberally. Of course, having fixed our arrival at a late and unusual hour, George expected there would be no one to welcome us, but the great concourse of people that actually assembled at the station and in the adjacent streets, lining them up to the palace gates, was tremendous instead.

One more disappointment. George had sent an inconspicuous, narrow coupe to the station,—the Dresdeners shouldn't see more than the point of my nose. I saw through his scheme the moment I clapped eyes on that mouse-trap of a vehicle standing at the curb.

And then I remembered the brilliant stagecraft of August the Physical Strong—he of the three hundred and fifty-two—and how he always managed to focus everybody's eyes on himself. And I stood stockstill on the broad, red-carpeted terrace when I walked out of the waiting room and held up my baby in the face of the multitude. You could hear the "Hochs" and Hurrahs all over town, they said. Hats flew in the air, handkerchiefs waved, flags were thrust out of the windows of the houses.

"What are you doing, Imperial Highness?" whispered Fraeulein von Schoenberg, my lady-in-waiting.

"Never mind, I will carry the baby to the carriage," I answered curtly.

"But the King and Prince George will be angry,—everything will be reported to them."

"I sincerely hope it will," I said.

And before I entered that petty souriciere of a royal coach, I danced the baby above my head time and again, giving everybody a chance to see him. And as I stood there in the midst of this tumult of applause, this waving sea of good-will, this thunder of jubilation, I felt proud and happy as I never did before. And when the thought struck me how mad George would feel about it all, I had to laugh outright.

I was still grinning to myself when I heard Frederick Augustus's troubled voice: "Get in, what are you standing around here for?"—These manifestations of popularity spelt "all-highest" displeasure to him, poor noodle. He anticipated the scene at the palace, George fuming and charging "play to the gallery," the Queen in tears, the King threatening to banish us from Dresden.

"Be it so," I said to myself, "we might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb." And I refused to enter the carriage until I had waved and smiled profound thanks to everybody in the square and in the windows and on the balconies of the surrounding houses.

I saw the Master of Horse address the coachman and immediately divined his purpose. So I pulled at the rope and commanded the coachman to drive slowly. I said it in my most imperious manner, and the Master of Horse dared not give the counter order with which Prince George had charged him. Poor man, his failure to subordinate my will to his, or George's, cost him his job.

And so we made our royal entry into Dresden amid popular rejoicings. I glued my face to the carriage window and smiled and smiled and showed the baby to everyone who asked for the boon.

Baby took it all in a most dignified fashion. He neither squalled nor kicked, but seemed to enjoy the homage paid him.

When we reached the palace there was another big crowd of well-wishers, who shouted themselves hoarse for Louise and the baby, and, malicious thing that I am, I noticed with pleasure that it all happened under George's windows.

"This will give father-in-law jaundice," said baby's nurse in Italian. She is a girl from Tuscany and very devoted to me.

"If he dies, I will be Queen the sooner," thought I,—but happily I didn't think aloud.



CHAPTER XI

SCOLDED FOR BEING POPULAR

Entourage spied upon by George's minions—My husband proves a weakling—I disavow the personal compliment—No more intelligent than a king should be.

DRESDEN, September 5, 1893.

I wrote the foregoing at one sitting, without interruption. It's not so easy a matter to put down the consequences of our triumph, or rather mine and baby's.

When I entered my apartments, I met a whole host of long faces. The Commander of the Palace, in great gala, offered a most stiff and icy welcome. The adjutants, the chamberlains, the maitre d'Hotel, all looked ill at ease. They evidently felt the coming storm in their bones and didn't care to have it said of them, by George's spies, that they lent countenance, even in a most remote way, to my carryings-on. Even the Schoenberg—my own woman—shot reproachful glances at me when the Commander of the Palace happened to look her way.

Frederick Augustus looked and acted as if he was to be deprived of all his military honors.

"Your courage must have fallen into your cuirassier boots, look for it there," I said to him in an undertone when he seemed ready to go to pieces at the entrance of the King's grand marshal, Count Vitzthum.

With that I advanced towards His Excellency and, holding out my hand to be kissed, took care to say to him with my most winning smile,

"I trust His Majesty will be pleased with me, for of course our grand reception was but a reflex of the love the people have for their King. I never for a moment took it as a personal compliment."

My smart little speech disconcerted the official completely. Maybe he had orders to say something disagreeable, but my remark disarmed him, forestalled any quarrel that might have been in the King's or Prince George's mind.

Frederick Augustus, who is no more intelligent than a future king should be, was so amazed, he had to think hard and long before he could even say "Good evening" to the Count. As for the latter, he hawed and coughed and stammered and cleared his throat until finally he succeeded in delivering himself of the following sublime effort:

"I will have the honor to report to His Majesty that during the time of your Imperial Highness's entry, your Imperial Highness thought of naught but the all-highest approval of His Majesty."

Whereupon I shook his hand again and dismissed him. "It will please me immensely, Count," I said, "immensely."



CHAPTER XII

ROYAL DISGRACE—LIGHTNING AND SHADOWS

Ordered around by the Queen—Give thanks to a bully—Jealous of the "mob's" applause—"The old monkey after 'Hochs'"—Criticizing the "old man"—Royalty's plea for popularity—Proposed punishments for people refusing to love royalty.

DRESDEN, September 8, 1893.

Thrice twenty-four hours of royal disgrace and I am—alive. This morning: "All-highest order," signed by Her Majesty's Dame of the Palace, Countess von Minckwitz: "The Queen is graciously pleased to invite your Imperial Highness to audience."

Of course her pleasure is a command. I dressed in state and ordered all the ladies and gentlemen of my court to attend me to the royal chambers.

Queen Carola was very nice, giving the impression that she would be more lovely still if she dared.

"Prince George has just commanded your husband," she said,—"the King ordered this condescension on my brother-in-law's part. You will have to thank him for it."

Isn't it amusing to be an Imperial Highness and a Crown Princess to be ordered around like a "boots" and to be "commanded" like an orphan child to say thanks to one's betters!

I promised and the Queen, assuming that I intended to act the good little girl, took courage to say—for she is the biggest of cowards—"You are too popular, Louise. Such a reception as you had! All the papers, even the Jew-sheets, are full of it."

And before I could make any excuses for my popularity she added in sorrowful, half-accusing tones: "I lived here ever so many years and the mob never applauded me."

"It's so fickle," I quoted. I had to say something, you know.

"And contemptible," added the Queen heartily. "But how is baby?"

I begged permission to send for him. Her Majesty was pleased to play with the little one for a minute or two and that secured me a gracious exit. The Queen attended me to the door, opening it with her own royal hand, thereby rehabilitating me with my entourage waiting outside.

Meanwhile Frederick Augustus had a "critical quarter of an hour" with father-in-law, who assumed to speak on behalf of the King.

"The King," he said, "despised 'playing to the gallery' worse than the devil hated holy water." (This court is overrun with Jesuits, and we must needs adopt their vernacular.)

The King, he repeated, thought it very bad taste for anyone to take the centre of the stage in these "popularity-comedies," and he told a lot more lies of the same character. Then he bethought himself of his own grieved authority.

"Tell your wife," he said, "that I, her father-in-law, and next to the throne, do everything in my power to escape such turbulent scenes, and that I would rather ride about town in an ordinary Droschke (cab) of the second class, preserving my incognito, than in a state carriage and be the object of popular acclamation."

When Frederick Augustus repeated the above with the most solemn face in the world, I thought I would die with laughter and actually had to send for my tire-woman to let my corset out a few notches.

"The old monkey," I cried—"as if he wasn't after 'Hochs' morning, noon and night; as if he thought of anything else when he mounts a carriage or his horse."

"You forget yourself, Louise," warned Frederick Augustus in the voice of an undertaker, and I really think he meant it. But I wasn't in the mood to be silenced.

"And as if I didn't know that, like Kaiser Wilhelm, he keeps a record of towns and villages that were never honored by one of his visits, intending to make his ceremonial entry there at the first plausible opportunity."

"It isn't true," insisted Frederick Augustus.

Then I got angry. "It may be thought polite in the bosom of your family to call one another a liar," I retorted, "but don't you get into the habit of introducing those tap-room manners in the menage of an Imperial Highness of Austria. I forbid it."

And then I gave rein to some of the bitterness that had accumulated in my heart against the old man. Didn't I know that George was mad enough to quarrel with his dinner when, on his drives about town, he observed a single person refusing to salute him? And wasn't it a fact that the Socialists had combined never more to raise their hats to him just because he insisted on it? And wasn't that one of the reasons why the government was more hard on them than happened to be politic?

"You mustn't say these things," pleaded Frederick Augustus.

I pretended to melt. "May I not quote your father's own words?"

"What my father says is always correct," replied the dutiful son.

"Well, then, this is what he told House Minister von Seydowitz a couple of weeks ago: 'When I see one of these intending destroyers of the state and social order staring at me, hat on head and cigar in face, I doubly regret the good old times when kings and princes were at liberty to yank a scoundrel of that ilk to jail and immure him for life, giving him twenty-five stripes daily to teach him the desirableness of rendering unto Caesar that which is Caesar's.'"

Frederick Augustus was holding his hands to his ears when I finished. He ran out and slammed the door behind him.



CHAPTER XIII

UNSPEAKABLE LITTLENESSES OF PETTY COURTS

Another quarrel with my husband—Personal attendant to a corpse—Killing by pin pricks—The mythical three "How art thou's?"—Unwanted sympathy from my inferiors—Pride of the decapitated Queen of France is in me—Lovers not impossible—Court to blame for them—My husband acts cowardly—Brutalizes my household—I lock myself in.

DRESDEN, December 1, 1893.

I saved myself the trouble to record events for two or three months. I expect my child by the end of the year and, believing in prenatal influence, it would be a shame, I think, to poison the unborn baby's mind by dwelling on the unspeakable littlenesses that make up and burden life at this petty court.

But I may die in the attempt of presenting Saxony with another candidate for appanages and honors, and this threat, hanging over every expectant mother, makes me take up my pen again. If I perish, let there be a record of my sufferings and also of my defiance.

It turned out that the Queen's and George's apparent acquiescence to my sinful popularity marked the deceitful calm before the storm. Frederick Augustus has not succeeded in gaining the King's and his father's forgiveness even now. As a military officer he is shunted from pillar to post, and the generals and high officials of the court treat him like a recruit in disgrace. Of course he blames me, shouting that I wrecked his career.

As if a future king need care a rap whether, as prince, he got a regiment a few months earlier or later.

"When you are King," I sometimes say to him, "you may nominate yourself Field-Marshal-General and Great-Admiral above and below the sea—what do you care?"

"It isn't the same," he moans. "I would like to have my patents signed by uncle or father."

"Antedate your papers," I advised, "who dare dispute the king? Didn't the Kaiser nominate himself Adjutant-General to his grand-dad long after William I lay mouldering in Charlottenburg?"

But Frederick Augustus takes colonel-ships and his petty kingship of the future too seriously to see even the humor of appointing oneself personal attendant to a corpse.

As for me, if I weren't enceinte, they would send me to some lost-in-the-woods country house to die of ennui. But respect for public opinion forbidding drastic measures, George relies on a Russian expedient to humble my proud self and force me to submit to his meddling.

In the Czar's country, when a village resolves on the death of some obnoxious individual, they take him, or her, and bind the body naked to a tree. Then several papers of pins are distributed among the inhabitants, and each man, woman and child is asked to put a pin in the lady or gentleman, whom they must approach blindfolded. They stick the pin wherever they touch the body and if the thing leaks out are able to swear by all the saints that they don't know where it struck. The pin pricking is continued until the obnoxious one expires amid awful tortures and, while all contributed to the murder, none can be hanged for it.

In like manner George and his minions are trying to reduce me to the position of social and political corpse.

Court festivities and public acts, attended by the court, seem to be specially arranged to pillorize me and husband. We are invited, of course. We are next in importance to Prince George. Our entourage is more numerous and more richly costumed than that of the other princes. Four horse coaches for us; Ministers of State waiting on us. I have train-bearers, pages, what-not.

But the King and Prince George cut me and Frederick Augustus in sight of the whole court, of the public in fact!

I don't mean to say that the "All-highest Lords," as they call themselves, treat us as air, or offer insult plain to the ear and eye—they couldn't afford to—nevertheless the stigma of royal disfavor is stamped on us. This is the mode of proceedings: Ceremony obliges the King to address each member of the royal family with the words: "How do you do?", in the German fashion, "How art thou?"

To princes and princesses that are in disgrace, this momentous question is put only once. Those in good standing are asked three times.

Ever since that September day when all Dresden did me honor, the King and Prince George have said "How art thou's?" to me and mine but once, whenever and wherever we met, and be sure there were always listeners to report the double omission.

At first it amused me; then enraged me; I don't care a fig now. But Frederick Augustus! Poor imbecile, he is eating his heart out about those two missing "How art thou's?" and though he looks splendid in gala uniform he acts in the royal, but ungracious, presence like a green recruit expecting to be kicked and cuffed by his noncommissioned officer on getting back to the barracks.

As to my entourage, it surrenders to royal disfavor even as Frederick Augustus: depressed faces, pitying glances. I could box their ears for their sympathy.

Am I not the great-granddaughter of that mighty Maria Theresa that ruled Austria and Hungary with an iron hand, lined with velvet. "Moriamur pro rege nostro" (We will die for our King), cried the Hungarians, when she appealed to their chivalry, her new-born babe at her breast. "Rege," not "Regina." They called her King. They forgot the woman in the monarch, yet I am treated like an insipid female always, never as the Crown Princess!

Let them beware. My full name is Louise Marie Antoinette. I was named after the Marie Antoinette of history—another ancestor of mine—and the pride of the decapitated Queen of France is in me! My namesake was satisfied when she read the Saint-Antoine placard of June 25, 1791: "Whosoever insults Marie Antoinette shall be caned, whosoever applauds her shall be hanged." Some day I will dismiss the cattle that now grudge me the people's applause and punish those that insult me.

Come to think of it, Marie Antoinette had not only pride and defiance, she had lovers too. Well, some day this Marie Antoinette may have lovers, and if it's wrong, let the recording angel debit my sins to the Saxon court.

Thank God, I am blessed with that truly royal attribute, ability to dissimulate. "Qui nescit dissimulare nescit regnare" was all the Latin Charles VIII knew, yet he made a pretty successful king for one who died at the age of twenty-seven.

I always act as if the King, and father-in-law George, had asked me not once, or three times, but a dozen times "How art thou?" I don't know anything about being in disgrace, I don't anticipate being snubbed and when I am snubbed I don't see it.

The "all-highest Lord" looks daggers at me—I curtsy and smile!

Father-in-law Prince George exhibits the visage of a poisoned pole-cat at my table—I congratulate him on his good digestion!

Majesty pays no more attention to my presence than if I was a pillar, or a lackey; I greet him with my most devoted genuflections, rise from the carpet smiling all over the face and begin a frivolous conversation with the nearest man at hand, who in his fright acts as if he had taken an overdose of physic.

If Frederick Augustus only had an inch of backbone, a pinch of ginger in his constitution! But he always stands around with a red face and the mien of a penitent. No dog, accustomed to daily beatings, follows his master's movements with more anxious looks than the Crown Prince of this realm bestows upon the goings and sayings of the King and Prince George.

Then, as recompense for his royal feast of toads, he plays the tyrant at home. Jellyfish in the state apartments, a brute in our own and—on the drill grounds, I am told! He is always finding fault with the servants, and cares not whether he calls his Court Marshal, or a groom, "Lausbub." Poor Chamberlain von Tumpling earned that scurvy epithet the other day and he prides himself on being a nobleman and an army officer! Only this morning the prince roared and bellowed at one of my ladies, I thought she would have a stroke from righteous anger and vexation.

When he attempted to address me in the same fashion, I simply turned my back on him, went into my boudoir and locked the door. I will keep him "guessing" for two days, sending for the court physician every little while.

When he has to eat his meals alone and sleep alone for twice twenty-four hours, it will occur even to him that Louise is not made of the stuff that stands for being bullied.



CHAPTER XIV

IMPERIAL RUSSIAN ETHICS TRANSFERRED TO DRESDEN

My husband's reported escapade—Did he give diamonds to a dancing girl?—His foolish excuses—"I am your pal"—A restaurant scene in St. Petersburg—The birthday suit.

DRESDEN, December 3, 1893.

After all, Frederick Augustus has more spirit than I gave him credit for. Isabelle just told me that he has a new love, and a very appetizing piece of femininity she is, Fraeulein Dolores of the Municipal Theatre.

"She's as well made as you, Louise, and rather more graceful," she said, "only her expression is somewhat inert. She lacks animation. Of course, she hasn't your attractive bust."

That devilish Isabelle sowed her poisonous information rather than pronounced it. "She has been seen with a new diamond-studded bandeau," she added.

At that moment the Schoenberg came to say that baby wants me. Isabelle went along to the nursery, but I managed to take the Schoenberg aside.

"I must know, before dinner, who gave the Dolores woman the new jewelry she is displaying; likewise whether His Royal Highness is sweet on that hussy. No half-truths, if you please. I want to know the worst if there be any."

The Schoenberg has a cousin who is a Councillor in the office of the police president, and the police president keeps a detailed record of the love affairs of all the actresses and singers employed in Dresden,—a relic of the time when stage folks, in European capitals, classed as "the King's servants."

The Councillor came himself to report and, after listening to what he said, I raised the boycott on Frederick Augustus without further ado, inviting him to my bed and board once more.

"So you went slumming with Kyril," I said after we had retired for the night.

"Who told you?" stammered the big fellow, reddening to the roots of his hair.

"Never mind. I know all! About the Dolores woman, her brand new diamonds, the pirouettes she did on the table and the many lace petticoats she wore."

"My word, I didn't count them," vowed his Royal Highness.

"Neither would I advise you to do so," I warned sternly, though as a matter of fact I was near exploding with laughter. "Now make a clean breast of it."

"I swear I was only the elephant. The King himself would excuse me under the circumstances," whimpered my husband.

"You big booby," I interposed, "can't you see that I'm not angry? I blab about you to the King? What do you take me for? I am your pal, now and always, in affairs liable to prove inartistic to the King's, or Prince George's, stomach. To begin with, what has an elephant to do with supping with a dancing girl?"

Frederick Augustus explained that the name of the pachyderm applies to a third party, who attends a couple out for a lark until he proves a crowd. Our cousin, Grand-duke Kyril of Russia, visiting Dresden incognito, had prevailed on Frederick Augustus's good nature to serve him and the Dolores.

"The Dolores is prettier than I?" I inquired.

"Not at all. She has a black mole under her left bosom."

"You saw that?"

"How could I help it? Russian Grand-dukes never allow a girl to wear corsets at supper. Kyril says it interferes with digestion."

How considerate of His Russian Imperial Highness!

Well, they had a good time and I guess the Dolores earned her diamonds. A fair exchange is no robbery. "But in St. Petersburg," said Frederick Augustus, "they do these things better." And he gave an elaborate description of a famous restaurant there, where the princes of the imperial family hold high carnival occasionally.

"The upper tier of dining rooms is reserved at night for any Grand-duke who promises his visit," quoted my husband, "and the broad marble stairs leading to them must not be used by others. Well, one fine evening Grand-duke Vladimir and a crowd of nobles and officers supped at the 'Ermitaj' and when they were all good and drunk, one of Vladimir's guests, Prince Galitzin, bet the host the price of the supper and a champagne bath for all, that he could induce the famous danseuse Mshinskaya to descend the stairs stark naked and walk among the tables below without anyone offering her insult.

"The bet was accepted and the girl sent for. She was found in a near-by theatre and rushed to the 'Ermitaj'. Of course, seeing that His Imperial Highness wished it, she consented to pull off the trick and—her clothes, but she made a condition."

"She demanded tights," I suggested.

"Pshaw, she is a sport, says Kyril." This in a tone of disgust from Frederick Augustus. He continued: "She merely begged his Imperial Highness to have it announced that she, Mshinskaya, was acting under the Grand-duke's orders. Done. 'By His Imperial Highness's leave,' shouted the Maitre d'Hotel from the top of the stairs, as Mademoiselle descended in her birthday suit. And the Mshinskaya made the tour of the restaurant as unconcernedly and as little subject to protests, or remarks, as if she had been muffled up to her ears.

"That's what I call freedom—discipline," concluded Frederick Augustus. "Think of doing anything like that in a Dresden restaurant."

"I would gladly give a year's allowance to the poor if you could manage it here while Prince George was masticating a Hamburg steak at a table opposite the grand staircase," said I.



CHAPTER XV

ROYALTY NOT PRETTY, AND WHY

Fecundity royal women's greatest charm—How to have beautiful children.

DRESDEN, February 25, 1894.

Behold the mother of two boys in a twelve-month! Frederick came just in the nick of time, Sylvester Eve (December 31, 1893), to gain me a little brief renown, for royalty likes its women to be rabbits and, in the reigning houses at least, we are esteemed in proportion to our fecundity.

"January 15—December 31," not half bad! Even Prince George had to admit that. And the Kaiser remarked: "Louise, if she keeps it up, bids fair to break de Villeneuve's record. Let me see, Sophie's first child was born January 9—a girl" (with a sneer); "her next, the Hereditary Count, on December 28th of the same year."

The "de Villeneuve" is Sophie, Countess of Schlitz. Wilhelm made her celebrated by his gallantries and Lenbach by the great portrait he painted of her wondrous loveliness. If I ever have a daughter, I will have a copy of the Lenbach canvas placed in baby's room. Come to think of it, I will have one made right away to hang in my own boudoir.

As stated, I believe in prenatal influence, and am more than convinced that the portraits of Saxon and Prussian princesses frowning from the walls of our palaces are calculated neither to promote beauty nor gentleness.

If I had my way, I would send the whole lot to the store-room and fill the space they occupy with the present store-room treasures, old time portraits of August the Physical Strong's favorites, Aurora von Koenigsmark, Countess Cosel, Princess Lubomirska, Fatime, the Circassian, the Orselska and—who can remember their names?

As a rule, queens and princesses are conspicuous for lack of beauty, while kings and princes cut most ordinary figures in mufti. Only their uniforms, the ribands and decorations, the mise-en-scene render them tolerable imitations of the average military man.

Why?

Because their mothers and fathers, their sisters, cousins and aunts see nothing but painted and photographed and sculptured frights and grotesques. So much ugliness of the past must needs cause ugliness of the present and future.

In a century the thrones of Europe have known but two beauties, both plebeians, the Empress Josephine and the Empress Eugenie. My aunt, the Empress Elizabeth, is only good-looking, the German Empress was just an ordinary German Frau even in her salad-days.

Well, my little girls, if I have any, shall profit by the lessons of the past. As expectant mothers in ancient Greece were wont to walk in the temple of Athene Parthenos, filled with the greatest sculptures the world has ever seen (ruins of them I admired in the British Museum), so I intend to have a gallery of my own for beauty's sake, even if every female figure be a harlot's likeness.



CHAPTER XVI

MORE JEALOUSIES OF THE GREAT

Men and women caress me with their eyes—Some disrespectful sayings and doings of mine—First decided quarrel with Frederick Augustus—I go to the theatre in spite of him.

DRESDEN, April 1, 1894.

I am afraid I wrote down some wicked things—wicked from the standpoint of the Saxon court—and though Queen Carola and father-in-law George know naught of my scribblings, punishment was meted out to me in full measure.

Of course, it's my "damned popularity," as the King calls it, that got me into trouble again. My carriage happened to follow one occupied by the Queen at a distance of some hundred or more paces along the avenues of the Grosser Garten. I had no idea that Her Majesty was out at the time, and certainly was dressed to please the eye. I can't help it. It's a habit with me.

Well, the optics of a good many of my future subjects grew long and cozening, like gipsies', when they beheld their queen-to-be; there was many a "flatteringly protracted, but never a wiltingly disapproving gaze," and those who liked me—and they all seemed to—shouted "Our Louise," and Hurrah. They shouted so loud that poor Queen Carola got plenty of auricular evidence of how her successor-to-be was loved by the people, by her, Carola's, people. And the poor old girl got so "peeved," she ordered her coachman to turn back and proceed to the palace by the shortest route, through the least frequented streets.

Frederick Augustus knew all about it before I reached home and was in a terribly dejected state.

"This has to stop," he said with a fine effort at imitating authority. "On Sunday, when we drove home from High Mass, you got an ovation while the King's carriage passed almost unnoticed. And now this affront to the Queen."

"Bother the old girl," I replied, stamping my foot.

Frederick Augustus got as white as a sheet. "That's the language of a—a—" He knew enough not to finish.

"It's the title by which Queen Victoria is known to many of her subjects."

"Who told you that?"

"I often run across it in the English newspapers."

"Jew-sheets!" roared Frederick Augustus.

"Since you don't understand a word of English, you couldn't distinguish the London Times from the Hebrew At Work." After this sally, I added maliciously: "I'm going to the Opera Comique tonight. Come along?"

"You are not going to the Opera Comique," shouted Frederick Augustus.

"You don't want me to go, papa don't want me to go, uncle and aunt and cousins don't? So many reasons more why I shall go. I announced my coming and I will go, if I have to tear the ropes, by which you might bind me hand and foot, with my teeth."

I rang the bell and ordered dinner served half an hour earlier than usual. Then I went to my dressing room to inspect the new gown that I intended to wear at the theatre.

Girardi night! Girardi, the famous Vienna comedian! I never saw him. His humor will act as a tonic. Just what I need. I will die if I breathe none other but the air of this palace, that reeks with cheap pretensions, Jesuitical puritanism, envy and hatred, where every second person is a spy of either the King or George.

I must escape the polluted atmosphere for a few hours, at least, and laugh, laugh, LAUGH.

* * * * *

11:30 P.M.

I have seen Girardi. I have laughed. I saw the Dolores. And I don't blame Kyril a bit.



CHAPTER XVII

THE ROYAL PRINCE, WHO BEHAVES LIKE A DRUNKEN BRICKLAYER

I face the music, but my husband runs away—Prince George can't look me in the eye—He roars and bellows—Advocates wife-beating—I defy him—German classics—"Jew literature" Auto da fe ordered.

DRESDEN, April 2, 1894.

Chamberlain Baron Haugk, of the service of Prince George, called at nine A.M. and insisted upon seeing me. I sent out my Grand-Mistress, Baroness von Tisch, to tell him that "Her Imperial Highness would graciously permit him to wait upon her at half past ten."

"But my all-highest master commands."

I was listening in my boudoir and I went out to him only half-dressed, a powder-mantle over my shoulders.

"Her Imperial Highness will not have her commands questioned by servants," I said in my most haughty style. The Kammerherr knocked his heels together, bowed to the ground and retired. That's my way of dealing with royal flunkeys, no matter what their title of courtesy.

He was back at the stroke of the clock to announce his "sublime master" for one in the afternoon.

"I will be ready to receive his Royal Highness. My household shall be instructed," I answered coldly, though I dread that old man.

"You are not wanted," I told Frederick Augustus. "Better make yourself scarce." He didn't need to be told twice. "Undress-uniform," he shouted to his valet. "And send somebody for a cab."

"Why a cab?" I inquired.

He looked at me in a pitying way. "Women are such geese," he made answer. "Don't you see, if I left the palace in one of our own carriages, the King, or father, might notice and call me back."

"Oh, very well. And don't 'celebrate' too much while you are out."

I had the lackeys line the staircase and corridors. My military household stood in the first ante-chamber, my courtiers in the second, my ladies in the third when Prince George walked into my parlor. At first he acted in no unfriendly manner. He kissed me on the forehead and asked after the babies, and if he hadn't riveted his eyes all the time into some corner of the room—his stratagem when in an ugly mood—I might have persuaded myself that he wasn't on mischief bent.

But he soon began pouring out his bile. With a face like a wooden martyr he announced that he was not pleased with me.

"You are too much of a light-weight, too vivacious, too attractive to the mob," he said in his bitterest tones. "You are forever seeking the public eye like—an actress."

"I beg your Royal Highness to take notice that Imperial Princesses of Austria"—I put some emphasis on the Imperial—"while popular, never descend to jugglery," I answered politely, but firmly.

"No offence to your Imperial Highness," said George, "but you must understand once and for all that Saxon princes and princesses are bound by our house laws to the strictest observance of precedence. The love of the people naturally goes out to the King and Queen. Junior members of the Royal House must not seek to divert to themselves the popularity that is the King's own."

"I have always been taught to respond to popular greetings offered me. My aunt, the Empress Elizabeth, in particular instructed me to that effect," I submitted with great deference.

"Her Majesty didn't instruct you to make a show of yourself every hour of the day," hissed George, his eyes devouring the stove.

"I drive out twice, in the morning to go shopping, in the afternoon to air my babies."

George, unable to dispute me, abandoned pretensions of politeness or manners. He fairly roared at me: "You are travelling the streets all the time. It has to stop."

Whereupon I said in as sharp a voice as I could manage: "And Your Royal Highness has to stop bellowing at me. I'm not used to it. In Salzburg and Vienna gentlemen don't use that tone of voice and that sort of language to gentlewomen."

"Salzburg," cried George, "in Salzburg you got your ears boxed, but it didn't do much good to all appearances."

"Your Royal Highness," I answered, "my mother has her faults, but it's no one's business outside of her immediate family. And no one at this court has a mother's authority over me."

I saw that George was beside himself with rage. "If your husband," he snarled, "was as free with his hand as your mother, there would be an end to your frivolities."

"Your Royal Highness forgets what you admitted yourself, namely, that the indignities offered me while I was a child were bereft of beneficial results. And please take notice," I added, raising my voice, "I won't stand violence from anyone, neither from my husband—as you kindly suggest—nor from you, or the King."

George was too surprised to even attempt a reply. He evidently didn't know what to say or do. To avoid my eyes that were seeking his, he turned his back on me and stepped up to a little table laden with books. He studied the titles for a while, then, turning suddenly, held a small volume towards me. His arm was out-stretched as if he feared to contaminate his uniform.

"What have we got here?" he cried.

It was my turn to be astonished. "Why, according to the binding, it must be Heine's Atta Troll."

"Atta Troll," cried George, and opening the book at random he read half to himself:

"This bear-leader six Madonnas Wears upon his pointed hat, To protect his head from bullets Or from lice, perchance, it may be."

He fired the volume on the floor and grabbed another. "What's this?"

"As the title will indicate to your Royal Highness, Nietzsche's Zarathustra." For the life of me I couldn't see any harm in this portion of my library.

George continued to rummage among the books. He acted like a madman. "What's this, what's this?" he kept on saying, turning them over and over. I thought it beneath my dignity to answer. I just stared at the fanatic.

After he finished his hurried examination, he took one book after the other and tossed it violently at my feet.

"Heine, the Jew-scribbler," he cried, aiming a kick at Atta Troll.

"Don't you dare," I said, "that book was given me by Her Majesty, the Empress of Austria."

"I can't believe it," shouted George, "that Jew-scribbler, the reviler of kinship."

"He never lampooned the kings of Saxony," I calmly remarked, picking up the volume. "Here is Her Majesty's dedication to me."

"Everybody knows the eccentricities of Her Majesty of Austria," shouted George. "Anyhow, who gave you permission to read such rotten stuff as this at our court?"

"Prince George," I answered, taking two steps towards him, "Duke of Saxony, the Archduchess of Austria takes pleasure to inform you that in her house she asks no one's permission what to read or do."

At this he turned drill-ground bully. "You are in the King's house," rang out his voice in cutting tones, "and at this moment I represent the King. And in the King's name I forbid you to read these obscenities, and in the King's name I hereby command that these books be destroyed at once."

Well, since he talked in the King's name I had no leg to stand on. I merely bowed acquiescence and he strutted out, turning his back on me as he went without salutation of any sort. I ran into my room, locked the door and had a good cry.



CHAPTER XVIII

I DEFY THEM

Laughter and pleasant faces for me—Frederick Augustus refuses to back me, but I don't care—We quarrel about my reading—He professes to gross ignorance.

DRESDEN, May 1, 1894.

What's the use keeping a diary that is nothing but a record of quarrels and humiliations? After I finished the entry about my scene with Prince George, I felt considerably relieved. I had held my own, anyhow. But fighting is one thing and writing another. I am always ready for a fight, but "war-reporting" comes less easy.

The unpleasantness with George brought in its wake, as a natural consequence so to speak, a whole lot of other squabbles and altercations, family jars and general rumpuses, which I cared not to embalm in these pages at the time. However, as they are part and parcel of my narrative, incomplete as it may be, I will insert them by and by according to their sequence.

After George was gone I made up my mind that, his commands and threats notwithstanding, I must continue to live as I always did: joyful, free within certain limits and careless of puritan standards. If the rest of the royal ladies, and the women of the service, want to mope and look sour, that's their affair. Let them wear out their lives between confessional, knitting socks for orphan children, Kaffe-klatsches, spying and tale-bearing and prayer-meetings,—it isn't my style. I'm young, I'm pretty, I'm full of red blood, life means something to me. I want to live it my own way.

I want to laugh; I have opinions of my own; I want to read books that open and improve the mind. I want to promote my education by attending lectures, by going to the theatre—in short, I don't want to become a dunce and a bell-jingling fool like the others.

If that spells royal disgrace—be it so. Louise won't purchase two "How art thou's?" at the price their Majesties and Royal Highnesses ask.

Of course, it would come easier with Frederick Augustus's help and support, but since he chooses to be bully-ragged and sat upon and, moreover, finds pleasure in licking the hand that strikes at his and his wife's dignity, I will go it alone.

I defy them.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, June 16, 1894.

I had another tiff with Frederick Augustus, but the cause is too insignificant to deserve record. I will rather tell about our grand quarrel following Prince George's visit. We dined alone that day, as he was eager to hear the news. The preliminaries didn't excite him much, but when I mentioned the book episode, he bristled up.

"You won't allow the King, or Prince George, to dictate what I shall read or not read?" I demanded. "My house is my castle and I won't brook interference in my menage."

"Do you really suppose," replied Frederick Augustus, "that I'll court royal displeasure for the sake of those Jew-scribblers? I never read a book since I left school and can't make out what interest books can have to you or anyone else. Where did you get them, anyhow?"

I told him that Leopold supplied my book wants. "My brother is a very intelligent man," I said, "and the books he gives me are all classics in their way."

"Go to with your book-talk!" he mocked in his most contemptuous voice. "I asked the director of the royal library and was told that each of the books, to which father objects, was written by a Jew. Let Jews read them. It isn't decent for a royal princess to do so."

"My brother isn't a Jew."

"But in utter disgrace in Vienna. No one at court speaks to him. He is head over heels in debt and the next we know he will be borrowing from us. As to those books, don't bring any more into the house. Royal princes and princesses have better things to do than waste time on Jew-scribblers."

With that he violently pushed back his chair and left me, a very much enraged woman. He didn't give me the chance to have the last word.



CHAPTER XIX

ATTEMPTED VIOLENCE DEFEATED BY FIRMNESS

Frederick Augustus seeks to carry out his father's brutal threats—Orders and threats before servants—I positively refuse to be ordered about—Frederick Augustus plays Mrs. Lot—Enjoying myself at the theatre.

DRESDEN, June 17, 1894.

The chance came later and with it the conviction that His Royal Highness, Prince George, didn't quite believe me when I told him that I wouldn't stand for violence, for tonight Frederick Augustus attempted something of the sort.

I had ordered my carriage for seven o'clock to drive to the theatre, and had just finished dressing when he stormed into my boudoir and demanded to know if I had taken leave of my senses.

"Not that I am aware of."

"But I hear you intend to go to the theatre—a princess in disgrace going to the theatre!"

"Aren't you coming along, Frederick Augustus?" I asked naively.

"I have no desire to lose my regiment."

"And I have no desire to sit at home and talk nothingnesses with the fools His Majesty appoints for my service."

"Take a care," cried Frederick Augustus.

"Don't be a noodle and a coward," I answered hotly.

"Louise, remember that I am an army officer."

"What has that to do with my going to the theatre?"

"It's the height of audacity to defy the King."

"It would be the depth of cowardice to stay at home."

"Take back that word, or——"

"I wish Your Royal Highness a very pleasant evening," I said, indulging in a low genuflexion.

Frederick Augustus got blue with rage. I saw him clench his fists as I swept out of the room, making as much noise with my train as I could manage.

"An out-rider," I commanded the Master of Horse who stood in the ante-chamber awaiting me.

"At your Imperial Highness' commands," bowed the Baron with the most astonished face in the world. We use out-riders, that is grooms in livery, to ride ahead of the royal carriage, only on state occasions in Dresden. But, of course, my orders would be obeyed even if I had demanded twelve grooms to attend me.

I was just going out, preceded by my Chamberlain and followed by my ladies, Baroness Tisch and Fraeulein von Schoenberg; there were two lackeys at the door and in the corridor stood the groom-in-waiting, holding several lap-robes for me to decide which to take, when the Prince caught up with me.

"I forbid you to go to the theatre," he bawled in the presence of my titled entourage and three servants.

I realized at once that this was the supreme moment of my life at the court of Saxony. Either bend or break. If I allowed myself to be roared at and ordered about like a servant-wench—goodbye the Imperial Highness! Enter the Jenny-Sneak German housewife, greedy for her master's smile and willing to accept an occasional kick. The Prince had begun this family brawl in public. I would finish.

"I won't take orders," I held forth. "No commands, understand, princely, royal or otherwise. And be advised, now and for all time, that I will answer any attempt to brutalize me by immediate departure, or by seeking refuge with the Austrian Ambassador."

If Frederick Augustus had suddenly become Mrs. Lot he wouldn't have been more conspicuous for utter petrification and silence. He stared at me with wide-open, bleary eyes and if I had taken him by the neck and feet and dropped him out of the window, as his ancestor Augustus of the three-hundred and fifty-two took the "spook" sent into his bedroom by Joseph the First, he wouldn't have offered the ghost of resistance, I dare say.

"Your arm, Mr. Chamberlain, since His Royal Highness doesn't wish to accompany us." And I swept out of the ante-chamber and through the corridor, triumphant.

"Gipsy Baron" was the bill of the play. I knew only a few of its waltzes and I drank in the comedy and the pretty music like one desperately athirst. Kyril's girl, the Dolores, was very chic and looked ravishingly pretty, and brother-in-law Max isn't the dunce I took him for.

His Theresa is a droll dog, fair to look upon, dark and fat. It will take a lot of holy water to save her from purgatory.

Girardi made me screech with laughter. He is as funny as my father-in-law is mournful—a higher compliment to his art I cannot pay. Of course, actor-like, he appreciated an Imperial Highness' applause and looked up to my box every little while. I wish, though, he hadn't acknowledged my plaudits by bowing to me. It attracted general attention and soon the whole house was staring and smiling. The people seemed to be glad that their Crown Princess was enjoying herself.



CHAPTER XX

TITLED SERVANTS LOW AND CUNNING

George tries to rob me of my confidante—Enter the King's spy, Baroness Tisch in her true character—Punishment of one royal spy.

DRESDEN, August 1, 1894.

Prince George is planning a devilish revenge. He threatens to separate me from my Secretary and confidante, little Baranello, whom I brought with me from Salzburg. She is an Italian, and, unlike most of them, as faithful as a dog. A connection of the Ruffo family, princes and dukes that gave the world more than one pope, the small fry Saxon nobility hate her, and George knows that he can't corrupt Lucretia by his paltry presents and ridiculous condescension.

They would send her back to Salzburg, if they dared,—anyhow, Baroness von Tisch is to be both Chief Mistress and confidential secretary. If she died of the first confidence I make her, she wouldn't live five minutes.

The King's House Marshal, Baron von Carlowitz, came to announce the change to me, but I knew, of course, that it was George's doings.

"Tell Prince George," I said icily, "that I appreciate the fact of being deprived of the services of an honest woman in favor of a spy."

I will "show" this Tisch woman, as my American friends say. Some three years ago Emperor Francis Joseph appointed a spy as attendant to my brother Leopold. Schoenstein, Baron or Count, was his name, I think. Schoenstein would rather bear evil tales of his young master to his old master than eat, and nothing would please him better than to meddle with Leopold's correspondence.

He stole as many letters as he could lay his hands on. Fished them even from slop-pails, or pieced together such as Leopold tore up and dropped in the cuspidors. When brother observed this, he used to tear up bills and the most innocent writings of his own and other people into little bits and planted them in Schoenstein's hunting-grounds. Appropriate work for a lick-spittle to pull them out. But Leopold got tired of playing with this vermin, and it tickled him to make an example of the scamp. Hence, he allowed it to be observed by Schoenstein when he, Leopold, locked a parcel of letters from his girl in the cash-box.

The toad-eating Schoenstein burned with desire to copy these letters and send the transcript on to Emperor Francis Joseph. They would have made interesting reading to my old uncle who has given up cracking nuts since his teeth fell out. There is Kati Schratt, you say. Pshaw, Kati is as old, or nearly as old, as his Majesty and she isn't a Ninon de l'Enclos by any means.

To cut a long story short, Schoenstein could see but one way for getting those compromising letters: steal the keys and borrow the parcel for a short while. That's what Leopold was waiting for. Not half an hour after the keys had been abstracted, he raised the alarm. He had been "robbed." The archducal safe had been rifled. And he managed to catch Schoenstein red-handed.

"Send for the police," thundered my brother, "and meanwhile watch the thief well." Schoenstein was given no chance to explain and deemed himself lucky to escape arrest. My brother suspended him from service and made him go to a hotel while he telegraphed the story of the attempted theft to Vienna, asking the Count's immediate dismissal.

Of course, Vienna disavowed the dunderhead—royalty has no use for persons that allow themselves to be compromised—and he has been in disgrace ever since. Nor can he get another courtly office, for Leopold threatened the moment he sees him with a Highness to warn everybody: "Look to your watch and purse, we have a thief with us."

I jotted this down to remind me that Prince George's spy deserves no better than the Emperor's.



CHAPTER XXI

BANISHMENT

I am ordered to repair to a country house with the hated spy as my Grand Mistress—My first impulse to go home, but afraid parents won't have me.

DRESDEN, August 10, 1894.

Order from the King that myself and children spend the rest of the summer at Villa Loschwitz, to remain until I get royal permission to return to Dresden,—the Tisch to act as chief of my household.

Banished! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Smile, because I escaped the ennui of attending court at the summer residence of Pillnitz; weep, because my absence from court would be interpreted as a disciplinary measure.

I know Pillnitz is about as gay as a Trappist feast of carrion and ant's milk, but this princess doesn't want to be disciplined.

I shall tell them that I want to go home, but will they have me in Salzburg? Papa, of course, but if mother hears of my acquaintance with Heine, "who doesn't love Jesus,"—her own words,—she will undoubtedly side with Prince George against her daughter. It was Heine who wrote of one of her ancestors, King Louis of Bavaria: "As soon as the monkeys and kangaroos are converted to Christianity, they'll make King Louis their guardian saint, in proof of their perfect sanity." And you don't suppose for a moment that mamma forgets a thing like that. As to Nietzsche, he will give her no conscientious qualms, for I'm sure she never heard of the gentleman, but my going to the Gipsy Baron "where two princely mistresses are gyrating"—horrible!

I hear her say: "I think Prince George is most considerate sending our daughter to Loschwitz. She deserved to be put in a nunnery and made to kneel on unboiled peas three times a day." And when it comes to an eclat, even papa may have to abandon me. Emperor Francis Joseph holds the purse-strings; and papa always lives beyond his means and Francis Joseph, King Albert and Prince George are fast friends. If papa quarrelled with the two latter gentlemen, they would immediately denounce him to the Emperor. The rest can easily be guessed.

Sorry, but papa is no hero in his daughter's eyes.



CHAPTER XXII

"POOR RELATIONS" IN ROYAL HOUSES

Myself and Frederick Augustus quarrel and pound table—The Countess Cosel's golden vessel—Off to Brighton—Threat of a beating—I provoke shadows of divorce—King threatens force—More defiance on my part—I humble the King and am allowed to invite my brother Leopold.

VILLA LOSCHWITZ, September 1, 1894.

Father had to give in. He is the poor relation, and a poor relation in royal circles doesn't amount to more than one among well-to-do merchants and farmers. He has no rights that others need respect and if he shows backbone he is given to understand that the head of the family has other uses for the palace or hunting grounds lent him.

"I would love to have you with me in Salzburg," he wrote, "but, dear child, it's for your best to learn to obey. Do it for your old father's sake."

Still I wouldn't give in at once. "I won't go to Loschwitz," I declared. And gave a dozen reasons besides the paramount one that I wouldn't go, because Prince George wanted me.

"I'm no trunk to be shipped hither and thither at someone's behest," I said.

Frederick Augustus took umbrage at the "someone," which he pronounced lese majeste, and to emphasise the fact hit the table with a bang, whereupon I pounded the table twice: bang-bang!

It hurt my hand, and didn't do Frederick Augustus any good. Nor was the discussion advanced thereby. For the rest: an exchange of names and epithets that smacked of the kitchen rather than the salon.

"Too bad you exhaust all your energy with me," I said among other things, "while in the royal presence you act the docile lamb's tail."

He began prating about his character as an army officer again, and I reminded him that I wasn't the Countess Cosel.

"Who's that?" asked the big ignoramus.

"Never heard of the lady that refused to accompany Augustus to the Camp of Muehlberg unless he brought her a certain intimate golden vessel costing five thousand Thalers?"

"A loving cup?" asked my husband.

"If you like to call it so."

"But why did you say you are no Cosel?"

"I meant to imply that I am not a prisoner of state and don't want to be treated like one. Hence, since a visit to my parents would greatly embarrass them, I decided to go to Brighton for the season."

"Brighton," he repeated, "and where will you get the spondulicks?"

"I saved up quite a bit of money. Guess I can manage the expense alright."

"Lip-music," cried Frederick Augustus in his polite way. "You have no idea what such a trip costs."

I assured him that I had made every inquiry and was able to meet all expenses. "We will go incog.," I added, "the babies and nurse and Lucretia. The Tisch woman shall have a furlough even before she asks for it."

"Is that so?" Frederick Augustus laughed brutally. "You seem to forget that you are subject to our house laws."

"And you seem to forget that I have a will of my own," I almost shouted.

Frederick Augustus jumped up. "Not another word on the subject," he commanded. "The incident is closed."

It suddenly occurred to me that Prince George had been talking once more to Frederick Augustus about the pugilistic performances of my mother. Perhaps he was trying to pluck up courage to beat me, a diversion not altogether unknown in the House of Saxony, according to the Memoirs of the famous Baron Schweinichen, Court Marshal and Chroniqueur.

His diaries, covering a number of years, have many such entries as this: "His Royal Highness hit the Princess a good one on the 'snout' by way of silencing her tongue." Doubtless George would be delighted to have me "shut up" by some such process, but Frederick Augustus lacks the sand.

When he was gone, I indicted a letter to the King, advising him in oily, malicious, yet eminently respectful language that, not wishing to figure as a prisoner of state, I had decided to spend the rest of the summer abroad with my children. At the same time I intimated that I was well aware of being in disgrace and being regarded with ill favor by the several members of the royal family.

"If it pleases your Majesty," I added, "I will relieve a most unhappy situation by giving back his liberty to Frederick Augustus. I'll promise not to oppose divorce, or allow my family to interfere."

This letter I sent to the King, sealing it with my personal arms, of which there is no duplicate at court. After that I sent three telegrams. One to papa, announcing that I was going to Brighton; another to the Palace Hotel in Brighton; a third to the Minister of Railways, commanding that my saloon carriage be coupled to the Continental express night after next. I knew, of course, that the King would be informed of these messages in a twinkling.

I waited an hour for the Powers to move; as a rule it takes them a week or ten days. Exactly sixty-five minutes after sending my letter to the King, Frederick Augustus rode into the courtyard like a madman. He had been hurriedly summoned from the drill-grounds, I heard afterwards. He dismounted at the stairs leading to the King's apartments. Half an hour later, he slunk into my room, as serious as a corpse. There wasn't a trace of brutality in his voice as he said:

"A fine row you kicked up."

I didn't favor him by questions, but kept looking out of the window. He walked up and down for five or six minutes, boring his eyes into the corners of the room. Suddenly, at a safe distance, he delivered himself of the following:

"His Majesty interdicts your plans in toto. You will be conducted to Loschwitz tonight. Don't put yourself to the humiliation of trying to disobey. You are being watched."

"His Majesty's own words?"

"He refused to see me," answered Frederick Augustus, dejectedly. He acted as if pronouncing his own death warrant. "Baumann told me." (This is the King's Secretary.)

I almost pitied the poor fellow, but I had to hold my own.

"My dear Frederick Augustus," I said, "you can tell Baumann from me that I won't go to Loschwitz tonight; that for the present I intend to stay here and that, if they force me, they'll need plenty of rope, for I will holler and kick and do all I can to attract attention."

Maybe Frederick Augustus wanted to say something in reply, but open his mouth was all he could manage. Seeing him so bamboozled, I continued: "It is decided, then, that I stay, but I give you fair warning that I will skip to England sooner or later. I don't want you to get into trouble, Frederick Augustus, therefore inform Baumann without delay."

Frederick Augustus got blue in the face. He seemed ready to jump on me, crush me between his cuirassier fists. I held up my hand.

"Did Baumann tell you that I offered to accept divorce if it pleases the King?"

Frederick Augustus changed color. White as a ghost, he fixed his eyes upon mine, momentarily, and murmured: "Have we got to that point?"

He ran out of the room and a minute later was tearing up the stairs leading to the King's apartments. Lucretia says he returned within a quarter of an hour and tried my door. But I had locked myself in and refused to open. We didn't meet until dinner. Neither of us ate a bite, or said a word. Baumann was announced with the ice. He was all smiles, all devotion.

"His Majesty will be pleased to see your Imperial Highness in a quarter of an hour," he said sweetly.

Frederick Augustus was a painted sepulchre when I coolly replied: "Pray inform His Majesty that I am not well and about to retire for the night."

At this Baumann looked like a whipped dog. He probably thought it impossible for anyone to refuse to answer the summons of His Majesty. With the most downcast mien in the world, he seemed singularly anxious to render himself ridiculous. "Maybe the Crown Prince will do in my stead," I suggested maliciously.

Baumann grabbed at the straw and withdrew. A little while later a lackey came, summoning Frederick Augustus to Prince George. When he came back, he was all undone.

"Father treated me very well," he said. "He says the King regrets that your uncontrollable temper causes so many misunderstandings, and both His Majesty and father have no objection to your staying in Dresden if you like. Loschwitz was suggested because you and the children seem to need country air.

"As to your proposed visit to England, the King begs you to consider that such a journey at this time is liable to provoke a scandal which would reflect not only on you, on us, but on your poor parents."

The old story of the penurious relations, I thought bitterly, but on the whole I was well pleased. I had beaten and out-generaled them all.

"If Loschwitz isn't meant for punishment, I accept with pleasure," I said. "It's a very pretty place." Poor Frederick Augustus' face lit up. "But there must be an end to the talk about I being in disgrace. If the King is as friendly to me as he makes out, let him come and see me and the babies. As to summonses by Baumann or others, I won't accept them."

"Very well," said Frederick Augustus, and I saw that I had risen mile-high in his estimation, "when will it be your pleasure to leave for Loschwitz?"

"Tonight, if I have permission to invite Leopold for a week or so."

"Are you stark, staring mad?" shouted my husband,—"Impose conditions after the King moderated?"

"Go and tell Baumann I'll have Leopold or all is off," I said.

Next morning: Ceremonial visit from the Queen. The tip of her nose was redder than ever and she seemed prepared to weep at the flicking of an eye-lash. She gave me a list of her troubles, mental, physical, political, matrimonial and otherwise, since the day she was born, but said: "Obedience to my father, the King, and obedience to my husband, the King, has enabled me to weather all storms. You, too, must learn obedience, Louise. It's women's only salvation and especially a princess's."

I answered that I fully recognized my obligations to the King. "I only object to being buffeted around like a piece of furniture."

"I know, I know," said the Queen, "and hope all is arranged satisfactorily. The King will be glad if you invite your parents to Loschwitz."

"I asked permission to invite Leopold."

"But, no doubt, your parents would take more interest in the children than your brother."

"I don't dispute that, Your Majesty. But if my parents joined me at the present time, people might think they came to condole with me or else to scold me. I want Leopold."

The Queen said she wouldn't dare mention Leopold to His Majesty.

"Well, then," I concluded, "I shall stay in Dresden, regarding Baumann's fine promises as mere talk."

The Queen went away with the air of a martyr, but three days later Baumann came and said His Imperial Highness was welcome.

A triumph all along the line. I left Dresden without seeing the King.

Frederick Augustus is at the manoeuvres.

The Baroness is acting as my Grand Mistress.

I expect Leopold in a fortnight.



CHAPTER XXIII

A SERVANT-TYRANT

My correspondence is not safe from the malicious woman appointed Grand Mistress—Lovers at a distance and by correspondence—Fell in love with a leg.

LOSCHWITZ, September 8, 1894.

Baroness Tisch, now that she attained the height of her ambition, is beginning to show her claws. She is an infernal cat. Her skinniness makes her repulsive to me and her face gives everyone the impression that she just sucked an enormous lemon. She lisps and that makes me nervous. I feel like aping her when she isn't around.

She's after me like the devil chasing a poor soul and as I never address her except to command or reprimand, she tries to find out any secret doings, or thinkings, I may be guilty of by way of letters I write or receive.

According to the laws of most countries private correspondence is sacred, legally and morally. The late Field-Marshal, Count Blumenthal, wrote to his wife of the Crown Prince, afterwards Emperor Frederick, that he was a "d——fool," but "as communications between husband and wife are privileged," no official cognizance was taken.

Otherwise in this petty kingdom and, as already told, in Austria, whose monarch, in family matters at least, holds to the "L'Etat c'est moi" maxim.

The King's spy, the Tisch, constituted herself post-office of Villa Loschwitz—a duty appertaining to her rank—and I wager she works the "Black Cabinet" to perfection. Of course, I am now careful in all I write and advise my friends to be, but I sometimes get letters from Unknowns, people that sympathize with me or have fallen in love with me. All women in high station have lovers among the lowly. I recall the Cardinal Dubois' yarn about Salvatico, envoy of the Prince of Modena, my kinsman of yore. The Italian was sent to Paris to conduct home his master's lovely intended, Mademoiselle de Valois, daughter of the Regent. It happened that the emissary was introduced to Mademoiselle's room an hour before the time set, when she was lying on a lounge "with one leg, almost naked, hanging down." Salvatico fell in love with the leg and exhausted himself in so many "Ah, ah's" of admiration and other love-sick stunts that the Duke of Richelieu, having older rights, said to him: "Rogue, if you had your deserts I would cut off your two ears!"

No man, except my husband, has seen my legs, which is a pity, perhaps, but the extreme decollete demanded at certain court functions, especially in Berlin, gained me many epistolary lovers, whose homage I accept gracefully, but in silence, of course.

Still, a malicious thing like the Tisch, if one gives her enough rope, might arrange, on paper at least, to get me with child by a Lothario a hundred miles off, even as the children of Madame de Montespan and Louis XIV were credited to the Marquis, her husband, residing a hundred leagues away, at Guienne. Let me find her red-handed and she will fare even worse than Schoenstein.



CHAPTER XXIV

MORE TYRANNY OF A TITLED SERVANT

My daily papers seized, and only milk-and-water clippings are submitted—"King's orders"—Grand Mistress's veracity doubted—My threats of suspension cow her.

LOSCHWITZ, September 10, 1894.

This morning there were no newspapers at the usual hour. Instead, the Tisch furnished a heap of clippings carefully pasted up—the veriest milk-and-water slush "ever." Instanter I sent for my tormentor.

"What's this?" I demanded.

"Today's papers, Your Imperial Highness."

"You made these clippings?"

"At Your Imperial Highness's commands."

"And you think me ninny enough to be satisfied with reading no more than what you consider proper for me to see?"

The Tisch wavered not a bit. "His Majesty the King is served the same fashion."

"No matter. I want my papers whole, and don't you dare to mutilate them." By way of letting her down easier I added: "Don't give yourself the trouble."

"No trouble, I assure your Imperial Highness. With your permission, then, I will continue to clip for Your Imperial Highness."

I rose and, measuring her from head to toe with flaming eyes, I said: "You will do nothing of the kind, do you understand?"

The impertinent cat insisted: "But I think it proper——"

"Have you heard what I said or not, Baroness?"

She tried to save her face by asserting, "I am acting by command of His Majesty."

"I will ask His Majesty whether you spoke the truth," I said quick as a flash; "meanwhile you are suspended and will return to Dresden until recalled. Ring the bell and I will give orders to the Master of Horse to send you away."

Of course Tisch couldn't afford such an inquiry to be made, which would have exposed her clumsy hand and, as remarked, royalty doesn't care to be found out. Defeat staring her in the face, Tisch wavered: "Of course, if your Imperial Highness chooses to take the responsibility, I will be most happy to submit the papers as they arrive."

"In their wrappers," I commanded, as I dismissed her.

By distributing a hundred marks in silver, I found out that the Tisch examines my body-servants daily and that, night after night, she sits up hours writing long-winded reports. She is the King's tool, but she let the cat out of the bag when cornered. That gives me the whip hand for the time being.



CHAPTER XXV

THE TWO BLACK SHEEP OF THE FAMILY UNITED

Leopold upon my troubles and his own—Imperial Hapsburgs that, though Catholics, got divorces or married divorced women—Books that are full of guilty knowledge, according to royalty—A mud-hole lodging for one Imperial Highness—Leopold's girl—What I think of army officers' wives—Their anonymous letters—Leopold's money troubles—We will fool our enemies by feigning obedience.

LOSCHWITZ, September 15, 1894.

Leopold is with me, the brother two years older than I. They just made him a Major—a twelve-month later than his patent calls for.

Like myself, he is almost permanently in disgrace with the head of the family, even as I am with the King and Prince George. We had no sooner embraced and kissed, than I asked him for the latest gossip concerning the Crown Princess of Saxony.

"You are a tough one," he said, shaking his finger with amused mockery. According to Vienna court gossip, "I threw Prince George out of doors," when he "raised his hand against me," Frederick Augustus and myself haven't been on speaking terms for six months; and the Saxe family was actually considering the advisability of divorce.

Of course I told Leopold how things really are.

"Then there will be no divorce?" he asked.

"If the King and Prince George leave me alone,—no."

"Too bad," he said with a laugh, "that knocks me out of the pleasure of maintaining my thesis that the founder of the Christian religion didn't believe in indissoluble marriage, but, on the contrary, in divorce if such couldn't be avoided."

"Who told you that?"

"Professor Wahrmund is preparing a paper on the subject," said Leopold, who, as remarked, is a very well-read chap and a student. He named five or six emperors and kings, Catholics, some of them members of the Austrian Imperial family, who obtained divorces, or married divorced women. I jotted down the list.

Lothair II divorced his wife Theutberga and married his love, Waldrade.

Emperor Frederick I divorced the Empress Anna on the plea that she was sterile. She married a Count, with whom she had a dozen children.

Margaret, a daughter of Leopold VI of Austria, was divorced by King Ottokar of Bohemia.

John Henry, Prince of Bohemia, divorced his wife Margareta, who afterwards married an ancestor of the Kaiser, Ludwig of Brandenburg.

King Ladislaus of Sicily divorced Queen Constance and forced his vassal, Andrea di Capua, to marry her against his will. Ten years later Ladislaus married Maria de Lusignan.

* * * * *

But a little knowledge is a terrible thing, if it happens to be acquired by a prince. Princes are supposed to know nothing but the art and the finesses of destruction—war. Upbuilding is not in their line.

"I hear you are exercising a bad influence on Louise," roared our uncle, the Emperor, at Leopold when the latter took leave from him. "You furnished to her those infernal books, sowing the seed of guilty knowledge?"

Leopold so far forgot himself as to address a question to the "All-Highest": "What infernal books?"

"Books full of indecencies and obscenities, in short pornographic literature," shouted the head of the family, turned his horse and rode away in high dudgeon. Royal arguments are nothing if not one-sided!

Then Leopold told of himself. His garrison: a filthy mud-hole in Poland. One-story houses and everybody peeping into everybody else's windows. The few notables of the town and neighborhood tickled to death because they have an Imperial Highness with them, and the fool of an Imperial Highness goes and "besots himself with a mere country lass." He showed me her photograph. I like her looks. A pretty face, blonde hair and soft eyes. He was her first lover. On his account she left her family. She dotes on him as a dog dotes on his master.

Leopold is eccentric enough to jeopardize his career for this poor thing. He rented a small house for her and spends much of his time there when not on the drill-grounds.

Hence intense indignation among the "respectable ladies." An Imperial Highness within reach and he "doesn't come to our dances, he doesn't visit and sends his regrets when invited!"

Poor Marja suffers especially from the venom of the officers' wives,—cattle I detest. No royal or imperial prince is safe from them except in his mother's womb.

"From morn till night and half the night they do nothing but gossip about me and my girl," said Leopold,—"If the cats were only satisfied with that! But every little while I get an anonymous letter from one of them, denouncing her; Marja is favored in a similar way; so is my general and our uncle, the Emperor."

And needless to say Leopold can't get along on his salary and appanage. Father can't give him much. The Emperor won't, because the clergy intrigues against him as a free-thinker and non-church-goer.

We thought long and deep whether it wouldn't be possible to improve our position and we decided on this:

We will keep up each other's spirits by clandestine correspondence, carried on with the aid of a mutual friend. At the same time we will, apparently, fall in with the ideas of "our masters" and endure a few pin-pricks rather than waste our strength in useless opposition.

Let no one chide us for hypocrites, because our gentleness will be a mask, our submission a snare, our obedience a lie. It's all on the outside. Inwardly Leopold and Louise will remain true to themselves.



CHAPTER XXVI

FREDERICK AUGUSTUS CONTINUES VERY RAW

Manners a la barracks natural to royal princes—Names I am called—My ladies scandalized—Leopold turned over a new leaf, according to agreement, and is well treated—The King grateful to me for having "influenced Leopold to be good."

LOSCHWITZ, October 1, 1894.

I have tried it a fortnight during Frederick Augustus' sojourn here, and, like the French Countess who fell in love with the strong man of the circus, I am disappointed. Frederick Augustus considers my tractability carte blanche to carry into the boudoir of an Imperial Princess the license of the brothel. He treats me like a kept-woman—all with the utmost good-nature. I am called names such as the other Augustus bestowed on the mothers of his three hundred and fifty-two, and I daren't remind him that some day I'll be Queen of these realms.

This prince, like the majority of them, hasn't the ghost of an idea of a sensitive woman's nature. He paws me over like a prize cow, and as the fourteenth Louis esteemed his mistress's chamber-women no more worthy of notice than her lap-dogs, so Frederick Augustus makes love a la barracks before the Schoenberg, Countess von Minckwitz, or whatever other lady is in attendance.

Only when he does it before the Tisch I am inclined to be amused rather than incensed. Tisch, cadaverous beanpole, never felt a loving touch on her shoulder. The place where her bosom should be never experienced a friendly squeeze. No one ever cared whether she wore silk stockings or rubber boots—be amorous, Frederick Augustus, when the Tisch is 'round! Indulge your coarseness! Put twenty-mark pieces in my stockings for a kiss. Tell gay stories and don't forget playing with my corsage. It will make the old woman mad. It will remind her of what she missed—of what she will miss all her life!