* * * * *

LOSCHWITZ, October 10, 1894.

Letter from Leopold. He is going to church and—they leave his mistress in peace.

He is paying banal compliments to the noble-women of his garrison and pinches the officers' wives when he finds one in a corner—and they seem to live in corners when His Imperial Highness is around—hence, no more anonymous letters!

The spy planted in his household by the Emperor is allowed to see much of the "innocent" correspondence passing between me and Leopold. He has reported to Francis Joseph that the Prince turned over a new leaf.

Result: Leopold's debts have been paid and he got about two thousand marks over and above his wants.

Further results: A gracious letter from the King's House Marshal, Baron Carlowitz, praising me for "the good influence I am exercising on Leopold."

Truly the world wants to be deceived.



CHAPTER XXVII

PRINCE MAX MAKES LOVE TO ME

Wants me to consult him on all spiritual matters—Warns me against the Kaiser, the heretic bishop—Princes as ill-mannered as Russian-Jew up-starts.

DRESDEN, November 15, 1894.

Prince Max called on me the day of my arrival and promised me an armchair in Paradise for "reforming" Leopold. "I understand that your family life is ideal now," he added. "What bliss!"

"Oh, Louise," he continued, with the face of a donkey withdrawing his nozzle from a syrup barrel, "whenever doubtful of the right way, of the Lord's way, come to me."

It would have been un-politic to repulse the grotesque ape, and I said: "I will. I will even give you the preference over the Kaiser, who asked me the same thing—as summus episcopus, of course."

Max looked about the room. We were alone, yet he lowered his voice to a faint whisper. "William is a heretic. Don't trust him in religious matters," he breathed stealthily. And this devilish Max began to stroke my hands and admire a bracelet I wore above the elbow.

The Kaiser wouldn't have gone much further under the circumstances. Maybe he would have kissed my arm, though, from wrist to pit.

* * * * *

Tonight family tea in the Queen's salon. The King an icicle, but polite as a French marquis. He gave me the three "How art thou's" in the space of five minutes, asked after the babies and promised to come and look them over.

Frederick Augustus, half insane with delight, pinched my arm and squeezed my leg under the table. I felt like boxing his ears.

My father-in-law had to behave in the presence of the King and said a few commonplaces to me.

Johann George and Isabella talked automobiles, not to let us forget they are millionaires.

"How much did you pay for my blue car?" asked Isabella.

"Not much," replied Johann George; "sixty thousand francs, if I recollect rightly."

"My allowance for a whole year." I smiled my sweetest, and the King looked disapprovingly at the braggarts.

For ill manners recommend me to a Russian-Jew upstart or to a Royal Highness.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SHAH OF PERSIA FALLS IN LOVE WITH ME

The "animal" and his show of diamonds and rubies—Overcome by love he treats me like a lady of the harem—On the defensive—The King of kings an ill-behaved brute—Eats like a pig and affronts Queen—-Wiped off greasy hands on my state robe—When ten thousand gouged-out eyes carpeted his throne—Offers of jewels—"Does he take me for a ballet girl?"—The Shah almost compromises me—King, alarmed, abruptly ends dinner—I receive presents from him.

DRESDEN, November 20, 1894.

Lover No. two. Very much in earnest, like the first, but I—extremely distant this time, though I accepted some emeralds and sapphires as big as dove's eggs. The Shah of Persia is the happy-unhappy man.

The King and all the Princes went to the railway station to receive him. The Queen and Princesses, our entourage behind us, assembled in the throne room to do honor to the "animal." To designate him otherwise would be callow flattery.

But his diamonds and rubies fairly dazzled us. Nothing like it in Europe, and our gala uniforms, compared with his, like stage tiaras to the Russian Crown jewels!

Though he had eyes for me only, I didn't like him a bit. He is a little fellow, unsecure on his pins. And like the Balkan princeling I met in Vienna, looks as though there was a strain of Jewish blood in his veins.

Like a true Oriental potentate, he wasted not a minute's time on the Queen and my sisters-in-law, but began making love to me as soon as he entered. The King had to take him by the arm to remind him that his first greetings were due to her Majesty. Poor Carola! Her face looked like parchment, much interlined, and the point of her nose was as conspicuous as usual.

There's nothing elegant about this "King of kings," and his French, like his manners, is atrocious. He addressed a few set phrases to the Queen, then attacked me—"attacked" is the right word. If I hadn't been on the defensive, I think he would have handled my charms as unceremoniously as Frederick Augustus when in his cups. As it was I escaped but by the length of an eye-lash.

State dinner at five. I never saw such an ill-behaved brute, yet he intended to be most agreeable. We are very pious at this court, but on occasions like this even an old woman like the Queen is obliged to denude herself like a wet-nurse on duty.

His Majesty had the Queen on one side; me on the left. The King of Saxony was opposite.

After we sat down the Shah examined Queen Carola from the point of her chin to the edge of her desolate corsage and had the effrontery to express disapproval in all but words. Then he turned to me. His gaze became admiring. He was evidently delighted with his discoveries and, true despot that he is, turned his back on the Queen, while paying extravagant court to my charms.

The King, the whole vast assembly, the surrounding splendor were lost on this mutton-eater of a barbarian. He saw only me, m-e, ME, and I'm sure would have consigned all the rest to some unspeakable Oriental death for five minutes' tete-a-tete with Louise.

"You are neglecting Her Majesty," I whispered to him over and over again. This seemed to enrage him, but at last he turned to the Queen, expecting her to begin a conversation with him. Of course, Her Majesty thought he would take the initiative, which led to mutual staring, the Shah's eyes growing wickeder every second. Then he began to devote himself to the food and, be sure, there was small pleasure in watching him. He fed more like a dog than a human being and actually had the effrontery to wipe his sauce-spattered hands in the lap of my state robe.

Then, before his mouth was empty, he began talking again.

"Which of the princes is your husband?"

I singled out Frederick Augustus. "He isn't a beauty by any means," he said, after examining him like a horse for sale.

The next second his eyes were wandering over my body; I felt as if I was being disrobed.

"You will attend the opera?"

"I'll have the honor."

"I will send you a little present after dinner," he said. "If you wear it tonight, I will regard that as a sign of hope." The beast affected a sentimentality to which he must be a stranger.

I recalled that he was the monster who carpeted the steps of his throne with the gouged-out eyes of ten thousand enemies of his regime when he was crowned. On twenty-thousand human eyes he trod with naked feet as he acclaimed himself "King of kings" and the "true son of God." And Juggernaut was in love with me!

I was speechless. Did he take me for a dancing girl? I narrowed my shoulders and gave him a look of disdain. House Marshal Baron Carlowitz, standing behind the King's chair, took in the situation and whispered to King Albert.

The King immediately rose from table and the state dinner came to an abrupt end.

An hour later, while I was dressing for the theatre, a big jewel box was handed in. "From the Shah."

Despite my disgust with the fellow, I opened it in feverish haste. There was a bracelet set with rubies, sapphires and emeralds of fabulous size.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE SHAH COMPROMISES ME IN PUBLIC

Has only eyes for me at the grand manoeuvres, and I can't drive him from my carriage—Ignores the King and the military spectacle—Calls me his adored one—Court in despair—Shah ruins priceless carpets to make himself a lamb stew.

DRESDEN, December 1, 1894.

I am in disgrace again and that uncouth animal, the Shah, is responsible.

The dinner episode was bad enough, but he carried on worse at the grand parade next day.

Six or eight regiments, Horse, Foot and Artillery, had been moved to do him honor, but he flatly refused to accept a mount for the occasion. Like the ladies of the royal family, he drove to the parade field in a coach and four, and no sooner did he clap eyes on me at the rendezvous in another vehicle than he left his and shambled over to me. He stood at the carriage door, chanting love and devotion, and if I hadn't been all ice, I have no doubt he would have jumped in and ordered the coachman to drive to a hotel.

Meanwhile the King trotted around the manoeuvre field in honor of his "sublime guest." Evolutions, Parade-marsch, attacks, saluting the colors, Persian and Saxon, what not? Imagine the feelings of the old King when he rode up to the Shah's gala coach and found it empty.

The marching past had begun, and still the "King of kings" turned his back on it all, while trying to persuade me to be Queen of his seraglio.

Our courtiers, the princes, the Queen, the generals were in despair. They took counsel with each other, disputed, advised, got red in the face. The Shah's gentlemen alone kept cool. They probably argued: If our master prefers the company of a pretty woman to looking at ten thousand men, he shows his good taste.

I tried to shake him off. He stood his ground and smiled.

"The Grand March has begun, Your Majesty."

"Bother the Grand March."

The King began to bombard me with ungracious, glances, and of course everybody stared. Three times I asked the big booby to return to his carriage to oblige his host. "Not while I may look at you, adored one."

His love-making became desperate. The Crown Princess of Saxony, the Imperial Highness of Austria, the "adored one" of this butcher, who was ruining twenty-five thousand marks' worth of carpets in his apartments at our palace by using them as a shambles to prepare his breakfast of lamb stew. It was contemptible,—nay, ridiculous. Surely there was nothing to do but laugh. And I laughed and laughed again.

Only when the last battalion had marched by and the music ceased, the "King of kings" returned to his carriage and drove back to Dresden with the most bored looking visage of the world.



CHAPTER XXX

MY LIFE AT COURT BECOMES UNBEARABLE

Laughter a crime—Disappointed Queen lays down the law for my behavior—Frederick Augustus sometimes fighting drunk—Draws sword on me—Prince George would have me beaten—To bed with his boots on.

DRESDEN, January 5, 1895.

Ever since the Shah left I have been the object of criticism, suspicions and down-right attacks by the pretty family I married into. These pages witness that I tried to conform to the absurd notions and comply with the narrow-minded idiosyncrasies of the Royal Wettiners. I give it up. It can't be done, and I won't make another effort at pleasing my relatives-in-law, who adjudge laughter a crime and the desire to make friends a bid of lewdness.

Prince George invented the phrase, "Louise is over-desirous to please," and Queen Carola paid me a state visit to acquaint me with the new indictment.

"Good gracious," I said to Her Majesty, "is that all? I thought of being accused of 'sassing' the Archangel Gabriel. As to desire to please, that's exactly what ails me. I love to please. I love to see people happy. I love to make friends."

"My dear child," said the Queen, "you haven't the slightest notion of royal dignity. You talk like a cocotte. It's a Princess's place to be honored, to be held in supreme esteem."

Poor old woman! She was never pretty, never was made love to, never had admirers, legitimate or otherwise; she thus became impregnated with the fixed idea that to be fair and to be loved for one's fairness is frivolous, if not altogether reprehensible.

* * * * *

March 10, 1895.

Frederick Augustus drinks. He says I drive him to drink by my attitude towards his beloved family. What the beloved family does to me doesn't count, of course.

Drinking was one of the vices of his youth. Love for me cured him of the dreadful habit. As this love wanes, the itch for alcohol increases.

I can't do anything with him when he is drunk, and at such times I am afraid of him. He both nauseates me and frightens me. Sometimes he comes home "fighting drunk." The fumes of wine, beer and Schnapps, mixed with tobacco, upset my stomach and I try to avoid his coarse embrace as any decent woman would.

What does this royal drill-ground bully do? He unsheathes his sword and threatens to cut my liver out, unless I instantly doff my clothes and go to bed with him.

Prince George's evil counsel wasn't powerful enough to procure me beatings, but my husband's military education, his love of discipline, backed by alcohol, thrusts a sword into his hand, and, if I refuse to comply with his atrocious demands, I am liable to be treated like so many "mere" civilians that are sabred in the public streets for refusing to do some spurred and epauletted blackguard's bidding, or entertain his insults.

If the Socialists, who are forever railing against these self-same army poltroons, only knew it! An Imperial Highness threatened like a small "cit" with a four-foot sword in the hand of a drunken Royal Highness and dragged to a couch with no more ceremony than a street-walker passing a Cossack barracks!

The howl that would go up in the Diet, or the Reichstag, the fulminant denials by prince and king and government! And if I really did get hurt in one of these fracases, Frederick Augustus would be sure of a "severe reprimand" by father and uncle, and perhaps by the Kaiser, too, but would that heal my wounds, would it save me from death? Would it even prevent Prince George from saying that I myself was to blame?

No, no, I like a whole skin and prefer an embrace to a sword-thrust any day, like my ancestress, the Queen of Naples, who consummated the marriage forced upon her on the spot and in sight of the army rather than have her head cut off. Too bad she was hanged in the end despite her complacency.[5]

Indeed, if Frederick Augustus shows the mailed fist, I don't stand on ceremony, but I do wish he would take his boots off.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: Joanna I, Queen of Naples, a pupil of Petrarca and in many respects an enlightened ruler. She issued the first laws and regulations regarding prostitutes. Hanged by order of King Louis of Hungary, after her defeat in battle, July, 1381.]



CHAPTER XXXI

PRISON FOR PRINCES THAT OPPOSE THE KING

Duke of Saxony banished—Cut off from good literature even—Anecdote concerning the Grand Dauphin and his "kettledrums"—A royal prince's garrison life—His association with lewd women.

DRESDEN, September 1, 1895.

I have once more come to the conclusion that the agreement I made with Leopold, to dissimulate my real feelings, was the sanest decision I ever formed, for, while lettres de cachet are a dead measure as far as ordinary mortals go, kings still wield that awful and mysterious abuse of power in the family circle.

There is a distant connection of our "sublime master," the King, lingering, without process of law, in a state prison. Duke of Saxony is his title, and he is quite rich in his own right. Some six or eight years ago he raised his hand against the King after the latter struck him.

It was suggested that he had better make away with himself, and a revolver and poison were conspicuously displayed in the room where he was held captive.

The Duke said "nay." He thought he could "brass" it out. But the assembled family council taught him that, while the world at large was fin-de-siecle, royalty still lived in the traditions of the eighteenth century. It empowered the King to banish his kinsman to a lonely country house, styled castle by courtesy, and he is confined there even today, with the proviso, though, that he may use the surrounding hunting-grounds. Otherwise he lives in complete seclusion, separated not only from all his friends, but from the very classes of society to which he belongs by birth and education. And he is still a young man.

I believe they are trying to drive him mad, once as a punishment, and again to secure his fortune the quicker. To the latter end, he is denied all books that give him pleasure and are liable to improve his mind. Bibles, Christian Heralds, the Lives of the Martyrs, or the Popes, galore, but never a Carlyle, Shakespeare or Taine, which he demands regularly.

The Duke is dying of ennui, they say, and to kill time engages in all sorts of manual labor. When he gets tired of that he blows the trombone.

"Of course he would prefer a pair of kettledrums," said my cousin Bernhardt of Weimar, to whom I am indebted for the above.

"Kettledrums?" I asked.

"I mean those the Grand Dauphin, called 'Son of a king, father of a king, never a king,' was so fond of, and which he finally married in secret."

I looked bewildered.

"You are a very ignorant girl," said Bernhardt. "Never heard of the prodigious bosoms of Mademoiselle Chouin?"

"They won't let the Duke marry?" I queried.

"Not even temporarily," said Bernhardt. "And they are trying the same game on me. My garrison—a dung-heap. The people there, males and females, entirely unacquainted with soap and water. Nothing in the world to do but drink and gamble."

"That reminds me. What are you doing in Dresden?"

"With Your Imperial Highness's permission, I came to see my girl."

"Who is the lady?"

"No lady at all. Just an ordinary servant-wench, but prettier and more devilish than a hundred of them."

"Bernhardt!"

"What would you have me do, Louise? I haven't money enough to keep a mistress, and King and Queen certainly won't keep one for me. I wish I had lived a hundred and fifty years ago, when every lady of the court was expected to entertain the royal princes, the Palace footing the bill."



CHAPTER XXXII

PRINCE GEORGE SHOWN THE DOOR BY GRAND-DUCHESS MELITA

A royal lady who walks her garden attired in a single diaphanous garment—Won't stand for any meddling—Called impertinent—My virtuous indignation assumed—A flirtation at a distance—An audacious lover—The Grand Mistress hoodwinked—Matrimonial horns for Kaiser—The banished Duke dies—Princes scolded like school-boys.

DRESDEN, February 5, 1896.

At last Prince George got his deserts, and got 'em good and heavy. There had been rumors for some time that Grand-duke Ernest Ludwig and his bride, Victoria Melita of Saxe-Coburg, the English branch, didn't get along together. Ernest Ludwig is a serious-minded, modest and intelligent man, but a good deal of a sissy. Victoria Melita is a spit-fire, very good-looking and anxious to let people know about it. She rides horseback and fences to show off her figure, and someone called her a Centaur.

"Be in the palace gardens tomorrow at eleven," answered Melita, "and you will be convinced that I am not half-horse, even if my husband is a ninny."

She kept the rendezvous, attired in a single garment of diaphanous texture.

When Prince George heard that she had a lover, he went to Darmstadt to "correct her," as he expressed himself with much self-satisfaction.

But Victoria Melita proved to him that English princesses are made of sterner stuff than the German variety.

"I will have none of your meddling," said the bride of two years.

"I came here to make peace between you people."

"Play the dove to your daughter-in-law," quoth the Grand-duchess. "I hear you are fighting like Kilkenny cats."

"You are impertinent, Madame," cried George furiously.

"You will oblige me by showing this man the door," demanded Victoria Melita, addressing her husband.

"Not until I have explained the situation," answered Ernest Ludwig quietly. "Listen, then, cousin! While I am by principle opposed to divorce, I won't force my wife to live with me."

"And now be so kind as to withdraw," said Victoria Melita, opening the door for Prince George. Poor as I am, I would have given five thousand marks to have seen the meddling pest exit in that fashion, and I love Victoria Melita for the spirit she displayed, even if I don't approve of her liaisons.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, February 10, 1896.

A mighty virtuous remark escaped me on the last page, and I almost feel like asking the Grand-duchess's pardon, for, whatever I am, I'm no hypocrite. Melita is said to have a lover; I have an admirer. Up to now I don't care a rap for him, but who knows?

It's Count Bielsk of the Roumanian Embassy. I can't remember whether he was ever introduced to me. Most probably he was, but I forgot.

An elegant fellow—always looks as if he stepped out of a tailor's shop in Piccadilly.

Every single night I go to the theatre the Count occupies an orchestra chair that affords the best possible view of the royal box. It happened too often and too persistently to be accidental. Moreover, I observe that he pays no attention to the play. He has eyes for me only.

Impertinence? Decidedly, but I can't be angry with the fellow. On the contrary, I am flattered, and the kind face and the fine eyes he's got!

Poor stupid Tisch doesn't approve of the theatre, of course, and usually begs to be excused on the plea of religious duties. "What a sinner you must be," I sometimes say, "when you are obliged to forever bother God with prayers."

The Schoenberg I send into the next box, for she is no spy and never watches me. But if I must take Tisch, I always command her to sit behind me. Etiquette forbids her the front of the box and from the rear she can see only the stage.

What fun to carry on a flirtation right under the nose of that acrid-hearted, snivelling bigot, who would mortgage part of the eternal bliss she promises herself for a chance to catch me at it!

Am I flirting, then?

To spite the Tisch I would plant horns on the very Kaiser.

* * * * *

April 1, 1896.

The Duke of Saxony is dead—the man who at one time offered violence to His Majesty. Bernhardt was mistaken; he left a wife and three children. Of course, no recognized wife. Just the woman he married. Unless you are of the blood-royal, you won't see the difference, but that is no concern of mine.

Novels and story books have a good deal to say on the subject of inheritance-fights among the lowly. Greed, hard-heartedness, close-fistedness, treachery, cheating all around! See what will happen to the Duke's widow and her little ones.

According to the house laws, a regular pirate's code, his late Highness's fortune reverts to the family treasury. Prince Johann George will derive the revenues from the real estate the Duke owned privately. He is already rich,—sufficient reason for his wanting more. I shudder when I think what they will do to the woman the Duke married.

The most notable thing about the funeral was the "calling down" Prince Bernhardt got.

"You will go to my valet and ask him to lend you one of my helmets. Yours is not the regulation form, I see," said the King to him in the voice of a drill-sergeant. And Bernhardt had to take to his heels like a school-boy caught stealing apples.

I had to laugh when I observed the meeting between my erstwhile admirer, the Prince of Bulgaria, and His Majesty.

Ferdinand's broad chest was ablaze with orders and decorations, but his valet had forgotten to pin onto him the Cross of the Rautenkrone, the Royal Saxe House decoration. There were plenty of others, but the King had eyes only for the one not dangling from a green ribbon. Consequently, Ferdinand, though a sovereign Prince, got only one "How art thou?" If we were living in the eighteenth, instead of the nineteenth, century, his valet's neglect would constitute a prime cause for war between the two countries.



CHAPTER XXXIII

MELITA'S LOVE AFFAIRS AND MINE

The Grand Duchess tells me how she cudgeled George—Living dictaphone employed—Shows him who is mistress of the house—Snaps fingers in Prince George's face—Debate about titles—"A sexless thing of a husband"—Conference between lover and husband—Grand Duke doesn't object to his wife's lover, but lover objects to "his paramour being married."

DRESDEN, April 15, 1896.

Melita conducted herself at the funeral and in our palace as unconcernedly as if she and George were fast friends. She smiled every time she saw him, and he cut her dead to his heart's content. During the three days' stay of the Hesses, I had many a good talk and many a good laugh with Melita, and now I got a true and unabridged record of what happened at Darmstadt during George's meddling visit there.

The Grand-duchess, who can be as catty as they make 'em, had her secretary sit behind a screen to take stenographic notes.

Saxon kings and princes always roar and bellow when, in conversation or otherwise, things go against their "all-highest" grain. As soon as George felt that he was losing ground, he began to bark and yell, whereupon Melita interrupted him by saying, "I beg you to take notice that you are in my house."

George grew so red in the face, Melita hoped for an apoplectic fit. But after a few seconds he managed to blurt out: "It's your husband's house."

"While I am Grand-duchess of Hesse it's my house, too. Moreover, this is my room and I forbid you to play the ruffian here."

Prince George looked at the Grand-duke, but Ernest Ludwig said nothing.

"I am here as the King's representative. I represent the chief of the Royal House of Saxony."

"A fig for your Royal House of Saxony," said Melita, snapping her fingers in George's face. "Queen Victoria is my chief of family, and, that aside, Ludwig and I are sovereigns in Hesse and have no intention whatever to allow anyone——"

"Anyone?" repeated George aghast. "You refer to me as anyone?"

"In things matrimonial," said Melita, "only husband and wife count; all others are 'anyone.' You, too."

"She calls me 'you,'" cried George, white with rage, looking helplessly at Ernest Ludwig. When the latter kept his tongue and temper, George addressed himself to Melita once more.

"I want you to understand that my title is Royal Highness."

"And I want you to understand that I am Her Royal Highness the Grand-duchess of Hesse, Royal Princess of Great Britain and Ireland, Duchess of Saxony," cried Melita, stamping her foot.

With that she went to the door, opened it and said, "I request Your Royal Highness to leave my house this very second."

And George went.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, June 1, 1896.

Poor virtuous me, to chide myself, and call myself names for flirting with Count Bielsk—at a distance of twenty feet or more! "I could kick my back," as the Duc de Richelieu—not the Cardinal, but the lover of the Regent's daughters and "every wife's husband"—used to say (only a bit more grossly) when I think what I miss in this dead-alive Dresden.

Darmstadt isn't half as big a town, and the Hesse establishment doesn't compare with ours in magnitude, but what fun Melita is having!

Of course, it isn't all fun, for her husband is a "sexless" thing, and, like the Grand-duchess Serge of Russia, she would be a virgin, though married for years, if it wasn't for the other.

"The other" is none other but Kyril, the lover of our Dolores,—Kyril isn't exactly pining away when separated from Melita.

Well, Melita wants him all to herself. She wants a divorce. The complacent husband, who is no husband at all, doesn't suit her. Exit Ernest Ludwig—officially. Enter Kyril—legitimately.

She made me reams of confidences, indulged in whole brochures of dissertations on the question of sex. What an ignoramus I am! I didn't understand half she said and was ashamed to ask.

Ernest Ludwig is the most accommodating of husbands. Knows all about Kyril and would gladly shut both eyes if they let him. Melita might, if pressed very hard, for adultery has no terrors for her, but Kyril affects the idealist. Sure sign that he really loves her. If he was mine, I would be afraid of this Kyril. No doubt he is jealous as a Turk.

Last week the three of them had a conference. Lovely to see husband, wife and paramour "in peaceful meeting assembled" and talk over the situation as if it concerned the Royal stud or something of the sort.

No recriminations, no threats, no heroics; only when Ernest Ludwig submitted that divorce be avoided to save his face as a sovereign, Kyril got a bit excited.

"This is not a question of politics," he said, "or what the dear public thinks. Your wife don't want you; as a matter of fact, she isn't your wife, and since we are in love with each other, we ought to marry."

"Marry, marry, why always marry?" demanded the Grand-duke. "I acknowledge that I haven't the right to interfere in my wife's pleasure—I am not built that way. Well, I don't interfere. What more do you want? You don't deny that I am the chief person to be considered."

"You?" mocked Kyril. "You with your sovereignty are not in it at all. If it wasn't for you, Melita and I could marry and say no more about it."

"But I don't prevent your enjoyment of each other," pleaded the ruler of the Hessians.

Now the idealistic Kyril got on his high horse. "Grand-duke," he said, "if you don't object to your wife having a lover, that's your business. For my part, I object to my paramour having a husband."

And so on ad infinitum, and a goose like me abuses herself for a bit of goo-goo-eyeing.



CHAPTER XXXIV

MORE ABOUT THE SWEET ROYAL FAMILY LIFE

"Closed season" for petty meannesses—A prince who enjoys himself like a pig—Why princes learn trades—A family dinner to the accompaniment of threats and smashing of table—The Duke's widow and children robbed of their inheritance by royal family—King confiscates testament.

LOSCHWITZ, September 13, 1896.

They are treating me like a laying hen. Expect another golden egg in December. Hence, "closed season" for imperious commands, "all-highest" orders and petty meannesses.

When I learned that Bernhardt was in Dresden, I phoned him to come out and see me—without asking either royal, princely, or the Tisch's permission.

A junior prince, without fortune or high protector, is really to be pitied. His title, the vague possibility that some day he may be called to the throne, stand between him and enjoyment of life as a man. Nothing left, but to enjoy himself like a pig.

Bernhardt admits it. "They planted me in the God-forsakenest hole in the kingdom. If I saw a pretty woman in my garrison from one year's end to the other, I would die of joy. And the newspaper scribblers wonder why we are all Oscar Wildes.

"Just to kill time, I am learning the carpenter's trade—this Royal Highness, you must know, lives in a carpenter's house, as innocent of sanitary arrangements as a Bushman's hut. Of course, I run away every little while to Dresden, incog. to pay my respects to Venus.

"Louise," he cried with comic emphasis, "may the three hours you steal from my girl, by way of this visit, be deducted from your eternal beatitude."

I lent the poor fellow five hundred marks and he rushed back to Dresden.

Tonight I told Frederick Augustus of my interview with Bernhardt, not mentioning the five hundred, of course.

He laughed. "He's no worse than the rest of us used to be," he said. "I did exactly like him, and father and uncle and brothers and cousins, ditto. Behold—your husband-locksmith! Max spent all his time reading the Lives of the Popes. That made him the dried-up mummy he is. But, believe me, I gave the girls many a treat. All the money I could beg, borrow or steal went for girls."

Which explains Frederick Augustus's bedroom manners—sometime transplanted to the parlor.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, January 1, 1897.

I gave Saxony a third prince on December 9, and really I wasn't quite in condition to be scolded at today's family dinner. But since, with three boys growing up, the succession is more than guaranteed, the season for insults is again open.

His Majesty, our most gracious, sublime, etc., sovereign, sulks. Consequently the family looks glum, down in the mouth, utterly unhappy.

Max gets up to make a speech and one could fairly see the lies wriggle out of his mouth full of defective teeth: exemplary family life; traditional friendship of all members for each other; perfect unity; the King and all the princes brave as lions; the Queen and all the princesses paragons of virtue. And the fatherly love with which the King embraces us all; his more than royal generosity; his mildness, his Christian virtues!

The Queen is a goose. Max's lying commonplaces make her forget her many years of misery spent at this court, and she grows as sentimental as a kitten. Fat Mathilda, Isabelle and Johann George applaud Max despite their better understanding, and now the King rises to make his usual New Year's address.

The gist of his long-winded remarks is this: "I am the lord, your master, and I will see to it that you—wife, brother, nephews and nieces—will dance as I whistle.

"For obedience to the King is the highest law," he paraphrases Wilhelm,—"strictest, unconditional obedience" (and he gave me a poisoned look) "and let no one forget it, no one." With that he beat the table with his clenched fist, and the whole assemblage turns an accusing eye on me.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, April 6, 1897.

They have driven the late Duke of Saxony's wife and children from house and home—put her on the high-road, piling her personal belongings, trunks, wardrobe and knick-knacks outside, too.

She arrived in Dresden and sought refuge with her widowed mother. Her father, a Court-Councillor, dismissed because of the relations between the Duke and his daughter, died of grief and mortification, almost penniless. And the Ducal widow is as poor as the mother—and three children to bring up! Children of the royal blood of Saxony, children sanctioned by the Church of which they prate so much, for there is no doubt that the pair married in secret.

The late Highness kept all his papers in a strong-box, and it's said the King's representative, who searched the safe by Royal orders, found neither acknowledgment of the marriage, nor a last will in favor of the widow and children. Hence, all the Duke's belongings revert to the royal family, and the estate he lived on goes to his next of kin, Johann George.

Johann George, who has more money than he knows what to do with, promptly sent the bailiff after his cousin's wife and children.

"Noblesse oblige,—the way you interpret the old saying, will advance the cause of monarchy immensely," I said to the official heir.

"Is it any business of mine to support my relatives' mistresses?" I saw he was mad clean through.

"You know very well that she was his wife."

"There is apparently no official record of the marriage."

"Maybe not in Dresden, as the nuptials were solemnized abroad. But what about the testament?"

Johann George grew very red in the face. "If there is one, the King must have confiscated it. That often happens in royal houses."

"And you mean to say that, with all your riches, you are heartless enough and contemptible enough——"

"Take a care, Your Imperial Highness. The Duke's strumpet was today indicted for lese majeste in connection with the testament matter." This junior prince dared to speak thus to me, the Crown Princess.

"Johann George," I cried, "forget not that sooner or later I will be at the head of the royal family of Saxony. I forbid you to introduce your mess-room jargon into my parlor; at the same time I am sincerely sorry that a Prince of Saxony should stoop to buy cigarettes and gasoline with the pittance stolen from his cousin's widow and her three little children."

I went to the door and told the lackey on duty to fetch his Royal Highness's carriage.



CHAPTER XXXV

FLIRTATION DEVELOPS INTO LOVE

At the theatre—My adorer must have felt my presence—Forgot his diplomacy—The mute salute—His good looks—His mouth a promise of a thousand sweet kisses—Our love won't be any painted business.

DRESDEN, April 6, Night, 1897.

The talk with Johann George had excited me so, I wanted a diversion. Frederick Augustus sent word that he wouldn't be home for dinner. Hence, I decided to go to the theatre after an absence of months. It was after six when I telephoned that I would occupy my box at the Royal Opera. If I should see Him there, in the absence of announcements in the newspapers!

He was there. In his usual seat. I won't rest until I find out how he manages to get wind of my theatrical ventures at such short notice. The Opera, Faust, had been in progress for ten minutes when I arrived. I espied him at once, but kept well behind the curtains of the box for a second or two. Then, suddenly, I dropped into the gilded armchair and the very same moment our eyes met.

I am sure he expected me; he must have known I was near when I entered the house. To his ears the hundred and one melodies of Gounod's masterpiece were naught compared with the music of my silken skirts.

He was so overcome, he forgot his diplomacy. Twice he pressed his right hand to his heart, then bowed his head in a mute salute.

Fortunately the house was dark at the time and the audience, unacquainted with my visit, paid strict attention to the stage. No one but him saw my heart leap within me and the blood mount to my cheeks. Presently his diplomatic tact got the upper hand again, and he fixed his eyes on the score. That afforded me the chance to take a pictorial inventory of my lover-at-a-distance. I used my opera-glasses unmercifully.

He's a fine looking man—if he were a woman he would be hailed a beauty. His forehead is a dream of loveliness; his mouth a promise of a thousand sweet kisses.

If this man wants me, I mean if he wants me badly, our love won't be any painted business, I assure you.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, April 25, 1897.

Ball at the Roumanian Embassy. Royal command to attend.

As if it needed a command to throw me into the arms of Bielsk.



CHAPTER XXXVI

COUNT BIELSK MAKES LOVE TO THE CROWN PRINCESS

Fearless to indiscretion—He "thou's" me—Puts all his chances on one card—Proposes a rendezvous—Shall I go or shall I not go?—Peril if I go and peril if I don't.

DRESDEN, April 26, 1897, Night.

We went to the ball as His Majesty's representatives, Frederick Augustus and I, and were obliged to say a few nothingnesses to a hundred paltry persons or more. When the Ambassador introduced Count Bielsk, I said in the most careless voice of the world, "I hear you love the theatre, Count."

"I don't care a rap for the theatre," he replied. "I go to opera and operetta simply to see you, Imperial Highness."

Such audacity! And he spoke quite loud.

Frightened, I turned to the next person presented, saying something imbecile, no doubt.

Later I withdrew upon the dais to watch the dancing, and at a moment when I was quite alone, he came up to me, making it appear as if I had commanded his attendance.

"I have much to say to Your Imperial Highness."

I didn't have my wits about me and didn't know how to act. He repeated twice or oftener: "Pray, Your Imperial Highness, I have something to say to you," until, at last, I threw etiquette to the winds and asked:

"Why should you wish to talk to me in private, Count?" No royal woman indulging in lovers ever encouraged a rogue more carelessly.

"Because my life and happiness depend on what I have to say to you."

And, weaker still, I assented by the tone of my voice rather than words: "You make me curious, Count. Whatever you have to say, say it now."

He raised his eyes to me, with a soul and reputation-destroying look. "Thanks!" Then wildly, clamorously: "Louise, I love you."

Instinctively I thought of flight, but his eyes wouldn't let me rise. From that moment on he dropped my title.

"Stay," he whispered, "I beseech you, stay. Don't you see that I love you to distraction? I have kept silent these many months. Now I must talk. I love thee, Louise."

I tried in vain to collect my thoughts while his love talk fanned my blood. Finally I managed to say: "Can't you see that you are playing va banque?"

"I know, but it doesn't interest me. Let my career be wrecked, I care not; I've got only one thought in the world—thee, only one wish—thee. And I must either love thee or die."

I turned my eyes away and rose abruptly. As he bowed to kiss my hand, he whispered, still "thou'ing" me: "I expect you tomorrow at the end of the Grand Boulevard. Come when you please. I will wait all day."

* * * * *

And here I am thinking, thinking, thinking.

"The end of the Boulevard" is the beginning of Dresden's Bois. Does this madman really suppose that Her Imperial Highness, the Crown Princess of this kingdom, will lower herself and respond to his demand for a rendezvous?

Yet, how he must love me to risk saying what he did say to me. He is no ill-balanced youth; he is a man of ripe judgment. His passion got the better of him.

I adore passion.

I must go no more to the theatre. Impossible for me to see him nightly.

But it's a fine thing to be loved as I am. The most beautiful thing in the wide, wide world!

* * * * *

DRESDEN, April 27, 1897. In the Morning.

He is waiting. Doubtless he expects me. What a persuasive thing love is, to be sure! Because he loves me, he argues that the Crown Princess, the wife and mother, will rush to meet him, fall into his arms.

Of course, he will be most unhappy if I don't go, for I am sure he is not your ordinary "petticoat-chaser." He will suffer, he is suffering now while I sit here quietly.

Am I quiet? If I weren't determined to stay at home, I would half-admit to myself that my soul is obsessed with longing for this man.

A diplomat, who has seen much of court life, assumes that a woman in my position is at liberty to keep rendezvous! Let's reason it out.

To begin with, Lucretia has to be won over. That's easy enough, but the coachman and lackey! They must be told that Her Imperial Highness is graciously pleased to walk in the Bois, the carriage waiting at the end of the Grand Boulevard.

* * * * *

After Luncheon.

I ought to have said to him, I won't come. It's cruel to let him wait on a street corner and not even send notice, and to tip him off is impossible.

And come to think of it, if Lucretia and I were promenading in the Bois and met the Count by accident, where's the harm? And if I don't go—Good Lord, he might kill himself. He is desperate enough for that. And he might leave letters compromising me.

I will go to give him a piece of my mind. I will be very harsh with him, very adamant.

And I will try to find out how he manages to select always the same theatre as I.



CHAPTER XXXVII

RAPID LOVE MAKING IN THE BOIS

A discreet maid—"Remove thy glove"—Kisses of passion, pure kisses, powerful kisses—I see my lover daily—Countess Baranello offers "doves' nest"—Driving to rendezvous in state—"Naughty Louise," who makes fun of George.

DRESDEN, June 1, 1897.

A month of untold happiness. I went to the Bois and I am going there every afternoon.

He was splendid; he was modest, quiet. He seemed to exude happiness.

Lucretia is discretion itself. She kept behind us, but out of ear-shot.

"I came to tell you that you acted like a madman last night, and that the offense must not be repeated," I said sternly to Bielsk.

"I am a madman—in love," he replied, looking at me with big, soulful eyes.

I chattered a lot of nonsense, prohibitions, commands, entreaties.

"Remove thy glove," he begged.

"You mustn't 'thou' me."

"Remove thy glove," he repeated.

Why I complied, I don't know, but I ripped off my glove, and he held my hand in both his hands and kissed it and kissed it.

"What right have you got to treat me like a woman unmindful of her duties?"

"I know that thou art lonesome, forlorn, Louise."

He struck at my heart as he spoke these words, and my eyes filled with tears. He pressed his warm, pulsating lips on the palm of my hand, covering it from wrist to finger-tips with wild kisses.

We were standing among the trees, and Lucretia, at a little distance, was plucking flowers. The remnant of common sense I mustered told me: "He is dishonoring you, repulse him," but his "I love thee, Louise," rang like music in my ears. However, I tore myself free at last. "Farewell, we must never meet again."

And then I lay in his arms, on his broad chest, and he covered my face with kisses, not passionate or insulting kisses. His lips touched lightly my eyes, my cheeks, my own lips—recompense for the long fast he had endured during all the months he had loved me at a distance.

Marvelous kisses kissed this man, pure kisses, lovely kisses, powerful kisses. And I thought the whole world was falling to pieces around me and I didn't care as long as only he and I were living. He himself freed me.

"Tomorrow," he whispered.

I awoke confused, ashamed of my weakness, trembling.

"I'll never see you again. Never," I said as if I meant it.

"Tomorrow, love," he repeated. And I ran and joined Lucretia.

When we were riding home I told Lucretia to draw the curtains, and fell upon her neck and told her all.

The good soul was nearly frightened to death and we cried a good deal.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, January 5, 1898.

I neglected my diary, I neglect everything, for I'm in love. What care I for the King, Prince George and the rest who are trying to make life miserable for me? I laugh their pettinesses to scorn, for I have no other thought now but Romano Bielsk, no other interests. He is my all, my happiness.

Of course, his "Tomorrow, love," prevailed and it has been "Tomorrow, love," ever since. On the day after our first meeting I actually thought I was warring against nature if I resisted his entreaties. It seemed to me that I had always known him, that we were predestined for each other. I still think so.

Lucretia has a relative here, an aunt, member of the court set. Old Countess Baranello delights in intrigue and hates Prince George. When I told her of my affair, she placed her palace at our disposal, saying:

"Bielsk shall have a key to the garden gate and to the pavilion inside the walls, which connects, through a subterranean passage, with my sun-parlor. You can meet your love there any time. I will see to it that none of the servants or workmen disturb you."

A capital arrangement, worthy of an old lady who has seen many gallant days! There can be no possible objection to my visits at her palace, and the grounds to which Romano has the entree fronts on a street unfrequented by society or carriages.

I descend from my carriage at the palace gate; a knot of people, a small crowd, perhaps, collects to salute me and gape at the horses and livery. I sweep up the stoop, lined by my own, and the Countess's, servants. The bronze doors open. The Countess advances with stately curtsy; a few words sub rosa, and I—fly into the arms of love, while faithful Lucretia mounts guard at the street side, and Her Ladyship's spy glasses cover the garden;—needless precautions, but——

It's rare fun, and, after all, where's the harm?

I made good as propagatrix of the royal race, and a union of soul such as exists between me and Romano never entered into my relations with Frederick Augustus.

Romano is very intelligent. I can learn from him; Frederick Augustus taught me only coarseness, and if it came high, double entendres. Yet my lover is only a Councillor of Legation! Because his superiors, fearing his adroitness, keep him down.

My children! Have I ever been allowed to be a real mother to them? The King, the nation, owns my little ones. I see them at stated intervals for half an hour or so, and romp with them as I do with my dogs.

Still, I don't altogether approve of Louise, malicious girl! When I am at the top-gallant of my happiness I sometimes say to myself: "Oh, if only George could see me now!"

Naughty Louise—it's unworthy of thee. What do I care for George, what do I care for the world?



CHAPTER XXXVIII

"IN LOVE THERE ARE NO PRINCESSES, ONLY WOMEN"

A diplomatic trick—Jealous of Romano's past—The pact for life and the talisman—If there were a theatre fire the talisman would discover our love to the King—Some ill-natured reflections—Bernhardt's escapades cover up my tracks—The "black sheep" jumps his horse over a coffin—King gives him a beating—Bernhardt's mess-room lingo—Anecdotes of royal voluptuaries—Forces animals to devour each other—Naked ballet-girls as horses—Abnormals rule the world.

DRESDEN, May 20, 1898.

Romano learned about my theatre going by a diplomatic trick. He told one of the minor attaches of the Embassy that he had orders to watch me—"all-highest command." The official, consequently, negotiated with the box offices of all the theatres to phone him the moment Her Imperial Highness ordered seats.

I am crazy to know how many women Romano loved in the twenty or more years since he grew to man's estate, and how many he seduced. It agitates and pains me to think of it, but all my questions are barren of results.

Yesterday I asked him whether he ever knew a Princess of the Blood before me—"knew" in the biblical sense.

"In love," he said, "there are no princesses, there are women only."

He saw that I was hurt and added quickly: "Now don't be unreasonable, Louise—no prejudices. With the thought in my mind that you are an Imperial Highness, or that you consider yourself of better clay than I, I couldn't love you as I do."

* * * * *

DRESDEN, July 1, 1898.

We made a life-pact. Romano cut a gold piece in two and bored a hole in each half. He drew thin gold chains through the holes, gave me one of the amulets, and kept the other. Our combined monograms were already engraved on the bits of gold en miniature. Each swore to wear the talisman on the naked body for life, but we exchange amulets daily, or as often as we meet.

When I am enthroned in the royal box and look down upon my lover below, I think all the time of this, our secret understanding, and it sometimes occurs to me, that the opera house might get on fire and both of us perish.

Next day our bodies would be found. In or near the royal box, that of a woman, burned so as to be unrecognizable at first. ("We are all of the same clay," says Romano.)

And down in the orchestra floor they would find Romano's body, likewise unrecognizable.

And on my charred breast they would find the half of a twenty-mark piece. And on his charred chest they would find the half of a twenty-mark piece.

And they would put the two together and discover that they match.

Consternation, speculation!

Someone suggests that the mysterious gold pieces be photographed for publication and the engraver who made the monogram, and the jeweler who sold the two chains come forward as witnesses.

Meanwhile the identity of my body is established. That of Romano's follows. Scandalum magnatum! But what are you going to do about it, Messieurs?

If you had only known it a week ago! A prison a la Princess Ahlden, or the Danish Queen Caroline Matilda, for me, disgraceful dismissal for Romano, for times are happily past when comely gentlemen, who have the wit to amuse royal ladies, durst be murdered in cold blood like Koenigsmarck, or be-handed, be-headed and cut into ninety-nine pieces as Struensee was in Copenhagen market-square.

What are you going to do about it, King, George, Frederick Augustus?

I'll tell you. You will bury me with the pomp of kings; and your sycophants will print beautiful stories about me, asserting that I died trying to rescue others, or did something of the sort; and your Court Chaplains will weep and pray and lie for me. And the tip of Queen Carola's nose will be redder than ever.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, September 1, 1898.

My young friend Bernhardt is doing me a great service and himself a lot of harm.

A good-natured, tractable boy au fond, they made him a poltroon and worse by their persecutions, their meanness, their petty tyranny. He is proud, and they sent him to reside on a village manure heap; he is ambitious, and must drill raw recruits from morn till night; he is eager to learn and they try to embalm his intellect with tracts and kill his initiative by the endless, watery ennui of tu-penny environment.

Of course, he gets desperate and kicks over the traces, and while attracting the dear family's disapproving attention, I am more free than ever to devote myself to my Romano.

Bernhardt's "latest" is really inexcusable. "I wonder we don't turn tigers with the education we receive," said one of the brothers of Louis XVI when upbraided for thoughtlessness and lack of consideration for the feelings of others—but Bernhardt seems to qualify for a vulture, and no original one at that, for a like offense as he is charged with was, several years ago, laid at the door of my cousin, Archduke Otho of Austria.

Observe half a dozen young officers riding horseback in the neighborhood of their garrison town, Bernhardt at the head. At a bend in the road, a rural funeral cortege hoves into sight: coffin borne on the shoulders of half a dozen peasants; weeping relatives; friends promising themselves a good time at the widow's expense on returning home. A black cross lifted high; priest and choir-boys in their robes.

"Halt," thunders Bernhardt, blocking the way.

The priest tries to expostulate with the half-drunken fellow.

"Shut up, black-coat. I am His Royal Highness, Prince Bernhardt."

Then—the devil must be riding him—he orders the coffin put down on the ground.

"Out of the way, yokels."

And he leaps his horse three or four times across the coffin.

The outrage is duly reported in the newspapers and Bernhardt is summoned before the King. "Don't you dare to appear in uniform," Albert added in his own hand.

"What has happened?" I asked the ne'er-do-well, when he begged for an audience after meeting the King.

He pointed to a swollen cheek.

"He hit me three times in the eats." (I beg the Diary's pardon for the language; I report literally.) "Three times," repeated Bernhardt, "that's the reason he wanted me to appear in mufti. As I went out one of the lackeys said: 'I never heard His Majesty rave so.'"

"But why did you make a beast of yourself?" I asked.

"To force the King to transfer me to another garrison, of course. I can't remain where I am, for the people are terribly incensed against me."

"Did you tell His Majesty?"

"Not on your life," answered Bernhardt. "If I did, I would have to stay there until my last tooth falls out. As things are, the Colonel will insist upon my speedy transference, and that's worth the three slams on the face I got in addition to the various Lausbubs."

"He called you, an army officer, a 'Lausbub.' Where is his vaunted respect for the uniform?"

"Didn't he hit me in the eats?" lamented Bernhardt tragically in his terrible lingo. "I responded both to insult and injury by knocking my heels together and saying: 'At Your Majesty's commands.'"

Of course, I told Romano. "Royalty," he said, "has only, on the face of it, advanced beyond the pirate and robber-baron period. Au fond all princes and kings would be criminals if they happened not to be crowned heads."



He told me of a Balkan prince—young Alexander of Servia, the same mamma Natalie intended for my consort—whose chief amusement consists in having mice and rats chased by ferocious tom-cats in a big cage made for that purpose. Once, growing tired of that sport, he incarcerated ten tom-cats in the same cage without food many days in succession, visiting the prison hourly to see whether they wouldn't take to devouring each other.

When, in the end, they did, tearing one another to pieces, His Majesty danced around the cage in high glee, pronouncing the battle of the poor beasts a bully spectacle.

"You visited Castle Sibyllenort a week ago," continued Romano—"a most proper place, this royal residence, is it not? You ought to have seen it before your puritan King inherited it, ten years ago, upon the death of the last Duke of Brunswick. At that time it was a veritable museum of pornography, the apotheosis of Paphian voluptuousness. The palace, which has over four hundred rooms and halls—not one which a decent woman might enter without a blush—acquired its equipment as a lupanar and its reputation for debauchery under the famous, or notorious, 'Diamond Duke,' a brother of the Highness who left the estate to King Albert. Both Dukes held high carnival in its gilded halls, but he of the diamonds rather outdid William in outraging decency.

"One of his chief amusements was to hire a drove of ballet girls for parlor horses. He had a carriage constructed no bigger or heavier than a Japanese jinrickshaw, and to this hitched ten or twenty ballet girls in their birthday suits, walking on all fours, himself rider and driver.

"Gracious—how he lashed his treble and quadruple teams of human flesh as they pulled him from room to room, and his was no make-belief ferocity, either. He was a niggardly rake, but in order to indulge his Sadist tendencies, agreed to pay one Thaler (Seventy-five cents) for every drop of blood shed by the girls.

"To make the count easier, white linen sheets were spread over the carpets, and the sum total was paid over to the two-legged horses after each entertainment, the girls showing the sorest stripes or wounds getting the larger share."

Romano, who lived at half a dozen courts and is primed with the scandalous gossip of them all, could certainly write an entertaining book on the fallacies and vices of the world's Great.

It's most indelicate, to be sure, but I laughed long and hard over the sexual specialty of my uncle, Archduke Karl Ludwig, who is bad, anyhow, as everybody knows.

One morning His Highness rose at an unusually early hour, even before the scrub-women made their exit. In the corridors, in the parlors, everywhere blonde and dark percherons, cleaning away for dear life and courting housemaid's knee!

Karl Ludwig has no more use for women than the late Chevalier de Lorraine, the President of the Mignons, but the exaggerated protuberances he met so unexpectedly on all sides, appealed to his sense of humor, or some other sense which I would hate to name. Anyhow, he ran into the garden and cut himself a switch. And ever since then his chief amusement is to switch scrubbing percherons. If he succeeds in dealing one a blow unforeseen by lying in wait for her, or coming upon her all of a sudden, he is particularly satisfied with his day's work and is liable to give a beggar a copper instead of the usual demi-copper.

And of such abnormals the rulers of the world are recruited.



CHAPTER XXXIX

MY PUNISHMENT

I lose my lover—Quarrels with me because I did my duty as a mother—Royalty extols me for the same reason—My pride of kingship aroused by Socialist scribblers—Change my opinion as to Duke's widow—Parents arrive—Father and his alleged astrolatry—His finances disarranged by alimony payments—My uncle, the Emperor, rebukes mother harshly for complaining of roue father.

DRESDEN, Christmas, 1898.

God punished me for my sins. My children, one after the other, were ill with scarlet fever, and the youngest is only now out of danger. Of course, I abandoned all my frivolities. I can say without boasting that the mother atoned for the short-comings of the wife and princess.

Hence I thought justified to arrange for a right royal Christmas present: Romano.

Lucretia went to see him. He received her coldly, hardly vouchsafed a word. From a secret drawer of his desk he took a letter, ready written, dated and gave it to Lucretia. "It explains," he said curtly, as he opened the door for her.

He has abandoned me. Because I loved my children better than him, because I am a mother first, Lais second, he throws away his Imperial fille de joie like a lemon sucked dry and prates of tendernesses and heavenly fancies that he alone feels, that are outside the pale of my understanding.

He even refuses to thank me, this proud wooer of the royal bed. He "has given me the best that is in man to give to a woman," etc., etc.

Be it so! God desired to punish me and, because I loved much, he meted out to me mild chastisement.

He stole my lover, but I have my children.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, January 15, 1899.

The King, Prince George, my brothers-in-law, my cousins and aunts are trying to make a hero of me. Because I followed the inclinations of my heart and helped to save my children, there's no end of their praise and admiration. Did they take me for a raven? I am disgusted with so much unctuousness.

Nevertheless I changed my mind about the Duke's widow. When I felt friendly towards her and quarrelled with Johann George for taking her money and with the King for embezzling the testament and offering accommodation at the poor-house for his kin's children, I thought it a family affair, but now that the Socialist papers meddle with the case, which concerns the royal house and the royal house alone, it's time for the Crown Princess to stand by her colors.

Those Jews have actually the audacity to reprimand the King and the royal princes, to impute ignoble motives to us all! They talk of us as if we were Messieurs and Mesdames Jones or Browns, trying to enrich ourselves at the expense of a corpse!

They call us "inheritance-chasers," "purloiners of pupillary funds," "starvers of innocent children."

The Duke's kept-woman is "a lady of the highest character" and we are not; her children are of the blood royal—only better for the dash of plebeian.

It makes me boil to read such things; to see the reverence due the throne set aside, the royal banner dragged into the mire, and of course it's the kept-woman to whom we are indebted for this pretty kettle of fish. It is she who set the press against us, and it's me, Louise, who protests with all her might that her demands and petitions be denied.

Let her starve with her brats. If she was sent to the poor-house she might make anarchists out of loyal paupers.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, April 1, 1899.

My parents came to see the children and make merry because I am basking in the sun of royal grace. Mother has a new maid of honor, as ugly as the Tisch, and when we are entre nous every second word is: "when Louise is Queen." They know to a penny what our inheritance from the King, the Queen and Prince George will amount to and are forever making plans and specifications how to spend the money for the glory of Saxony and of our own family.[6]

Mother's scare-crow of a maid of honor had at least sense enough to tell Lucretia of a few scandals that happened at home, which mother never intended for my ears.

It seems that papa, some few months ago, suddenly became possessed of the ambition to become an astronomer. Nothing would do, but he must buy a heap of instruments and set them up in a distant tower of Salzburg Castle. And there he spent all his evenings—star-gazing, he gave out.

He seldom reached the nuptial couch before one or two in the morning,—utterly exhausted by the night's work.

Well, mamma thought he labored too hard, and one forenoon when he had gone hunting, climbed up many stairs to investigate. Imagine her surprise when she found, in the astrolatry, a young lady in the act of getting out of bed, a girl, by the way, whom I used to know.

Mamma had the mauvais genre to report the case to Emperor Francis Joseph, while papa sought another climate, remaining away until mother begged him on her bended knees, so to speak, to come home. Nor did she get satisfaction from Vienna. That great moral teacher, the Emperor, told her not to make a scare-crow of herself, but on the contrary make herself pretty and agreeable for, and to, her lord and master. I understand now why mamma says: "All men stick together like gypsies."

As a matter of fact father's limited resources are considerably affected by the various alimonies he has to pay to his own mistresses and those of my brothers. The third born of our boys, only a week ago, made too free with the fiancee of the pastry-cook, who threatened to kill him. It cost father several thousand florins to appease the ruffian and Heinrich Ferdinand renewed acquaintance with mother's boxing proclivities.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: The fortune of the present King of Saxony (Louise's ex-husband) amounts to 25 million marks ($6,225,000)—no more than many an American parent paid for his daughter's seedy coronet. It will be remembered that Gladys Vanderbilt and Anna Gould brought to their husbands fifteen million dollars each, and the Castellanes and Szechenys are only nobles of the second class, their ancestors never having possessed ever so small a territory as sovereign lords. The bigger half of the Saxon King's fortune comes from the Brunswick inheritance already mentioned.]



CHAPTER XL

A PLEBEIAN LOVER

In need of a friend—My physician offers his friendship—I discover that he loves me, but he will never confess—I give him encouragement—We manage to persuade the King to further our intrigue—Not a bit repentant of my peccadilloes—Very submissive—Introduced to my lover's wife.

DRESDEN, in May, 1899.

Privy Councillor von Barthels, my body physician, is a very agreeable man. I have no use for his services, professional services at present, yet insist upon receiving him daily. Still I love him not. Only esteem him as a friend, I need a friend. Physicians can keep secrets, and I have many of them. I look upon Barthels as my Father-confessor.

The tears came into his eyes when I told him, and he said: "Imperial Highness, this is the most beautiful hour of my life."

He spoke with enthusiasm; there was fire in his eyes and in his voice, yet a moment later he was again the most reserved of men and conversation lagged.

It happened three days ago. He has paid me four visits since and I notice with astonishment, with curiosity and with alarm, that this man is in love with me.

How long has he loved me?

His love is like a warm mantle 'round my shoulders on a chilly night. It exudes warmth, strength, beatitude, yet there is none of the animal.

He is a good talker on a thousand and one subjects, a thinker and psychologist. Psychology is his strong point. He argues brilliantly on the subject, yet I need only look at him to upset his thesis, to make him stammer and redden.

He's no Count Bielsk and will never tell me of his own accord that he loves me. Is his admiration greater than his love? Perhaps so. It gives me a feeling of security.

Lucretia knows, but in the presence of the Tisch, he plays the servant, deeming himself thrice honored by being allowed to breathe the same air as her Imperial Highness.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, June 15, 1899.

I frequently drive to the Bois nowadays with the children, the Bois, where I was so happy with Him.

Romano was right, a thousand times right, that he abandoned me when our love was at its zenith.

* * * * *

At Midnight.

It's done.

Barthels came tonight. He was so feverish, so passionate, there was so much humble solicitation in his looks and manners, I was moved to pity.

This man is too over-awed by my rank to ever permit himself to express his feelings by word of mouth. He talked of everything but love and was in the midst of a learned dissertation when I sunk my eyes in his and said:

"Why do you try to hide things from me? Don't I know what's in your heart?"

Like a little criminal—as my oldest boy does occasionally—he turned red, then white, then red again. He buried his face in his hands. He trembled. He seemed to be crying. I arose, and lightly laid my hand upon his blonde head.

He's got the finest, silkiest hair in the world, shimmering like beaten gold.

And then he lay at my feet, covering them with kisses. And instantly all his force, his courage, his eloquence returned.

He went away like a man a-dreaming.

I long for him; I confess I long for him. Whether I love him or not I don't know. But that I know, I will love him.

And if I cannot, what matters it? I don't have to love to be happy. To be loved is enough. I want to be his Queen, his life.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, July 1, 1899.

Privy Councillor von Barthels told the King that my delicate condition needs constant watching. I go to his clinic every second day, while he visits me once or twice daily at the palace.

* * * * *

Like Melita I am never a bit repentant of my peccadilloes.

If I don't want to do a thing, neither Kaiser, King, George, Frederick Augustus, my parents, the Pope, nor the whole world, can make me. But if I resolve to follow my sweet inclinations, rueing and pining are out of question.

Ferdinand is the most devoted of lovers. He has unlimited tendernesses—a new experience for me.

The lover of my girlhood days overwhelmed me by audacity. The Shah used me like a show-girl. Romano was imperious, super-mannish. For him I was only the female of the species.

Sometimes, in the midst of an embrace, Ferdinand suddenly seems to recollect that a Queen trembles in his arms; the master turns ame damnee. I am Sultana, Louise-Catherine.

Like Catherine the Great, I would throw millions to my favorites and millions more when I dismissed one. At any rate, I would give each a hundred thousand marks "to furnish himself with linen and silks,"—a mot invented by the Semiramis of the North.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, July 5, 1899.

No more clinic for me. Ferdinand begged so hard, that I allowed him to introduce his wife. She came in after we finished our "consultation," a little heap of misfortune, execrably dressed, frightened, almost dead with submissiveness.

And I am robbing this poor creature; it's like stealing pennies from a child. And under her own roof.

It must not be. I am going to the country.



CHAPTER XLI

AN ATROCIOUS ROYAL SCANDAL

A royal couple that shall be nameless—The voluptuous Duchess—Her husband the worst of degenerates—"What monsters these royalties be"—Nameless outrages—A Duchess forced to have lovers—Ferdinand and I live like married folk—Duchess feared for her life—Her husband murdered her—I scold and humiliate my overbearing Grand Mistress—The medical report too horrible to contemplate.

——R, July 15, 1899.

I am afraid to date this entry. Another terrible indictment of royalty. And, as usual, things criminal are at the bottom of the abuse of sovereign power.

The Duchess had a baby and asked me to be godmother to the little girl. The King, eager to oblige his rich cousin, favored the journey. I insisted that Ferdinand accompany me. "Marie," I said, "hates Tisch, and she must, under no circumstances, be commanded to attend me." Lucretia would do. It would be cheaper.

The King first wouldn't hear of Dr. von Barthels going. People might think I had some chronic disease. But he finally gave in for the sake of the child I expect. "We need a few princes more from you," said His Majesty benignly. "When you got about a dozen boys, you can rest." Pleasant job, that of a Crown Princess.

* * * * *

——R, July 16, 1899.

The Duchess is a pretty woman, her face a lovely oval. She has small eyes, the color of amethysts. Her complexion is as white and harmonious as if she washed in sow's milk, like the late Ninon.

Her mouth is sweet, but certain lines indicate that it can bite as well as smile. She has abundant hair, the color of Ferdinand's.

This dainty, albeit voluptuous, little person, is mated to a bull-necked He, pompous, broad and full of the conceit of the duodez satrap.

Marie was forced to marry him; their honeymoon scarcely lasted a fortnight and he treated her shamefully after that. Of course, babies she must bear like any other "royal cow."

Gradually, very gradually, she got over her disappointment and shyness, developing into a cunning, world-wise woman. Then came the man she was bound to love, even as the violet is bound to be kissed by the sun. She had no scruples about accepting him, thinking herself entitled to compensation for the sorrows of her married life. And revenge is sweet.

The Duke found them out in the first month of their young love, walked into her boudoir one fine afternoon and remarked casually that none of his hats would fit him,—"on account of the horns you kindly planted on my forehead."

Marie was more dead than alive when he asked her for the key of her writing desk. She lied and lied; to no purpose.

He kicked open the writing desk, and with his iron fists broke the shelves and pigeon holes, laying bare a secret drawer and stacks of love letters it shielded. These he confiscated. Then locked himself into his room to enjoy his disgrace. This monster is a Masochist and Sadist combined. He loves both to inflict suffering upon himself and upon others.

What monsters royalties be!

In the meanwhile Marie experienced all the tortures of purgatory; she thought of flight, of suicide. Before she could indulge in either her husband was back: Othello in the last act.

Marie was frightened stiff, her brain a whirl, her limbs inert. Rape most foul this crowned satyr committed. "He fell upon me as a pack of hounds overwhelm a hunted, wounded she-stag," she said.

Afterwards he commanded her to describe minutely every detail of her relations with the other. He was primed with the letter-accounts; he made her dot her amorous I's and cross her bawdry T's. And every attempt at omission he punished with kicks and cuffs; no drayman or brick-layer could give a more expert exhibition of woman-beating! And he violated her again.

This was the beginning of a series of outrages of the same gross character. Marie suffered for years and years that His Royal Highness may gratify his unclean fancies: he the pander; she the Cyprian.

"If I ceased having lovers, I think he would kill me," says Marie.

Alas, such is the stuff "God's Anointed" are made of! In the face of such, we pronounce a hypocritical j'accuse upon the Louis's and Pompadours, upon Marie Antoinette even.

The Duchess, who knows, gave Ferdinand an apartment near my own. We are living here like man and wife. He sometimes calls me "Frau Professor."

* * * * *

LOSCHWITZ, July 19, 1899.

Marie is dead. "Died suddenly," said the telegram. I understand now why she begged me, with tears in her eyes, to remain at least two weeks. She was afraid that, though ill and suffering after the confinement, he would treat her as he did when he first found her unfaithful.

"Don't go," she cried. "It will be my death." And when I showed her the King's letter commanding me to return at once, she made her confidential tire-woman swear on the Bible that she wouldn't leave her for a minute, day or night, until she herself released her from the promise.

Private advices from ——r say His Highness brutally kicked the faithful maid out of his wife's bedroom and outraged his sick wife while the servant kept thundering at the door, denouncing her master a murderer.

Ferdinand says the great majority of crowned heads are sexual voluptuaries, deserving of the penitentiary or the straight-jacket.

* * * * *

LOSCHWITZ, August 1, 1899.

I caught the Tisch stealing one of my letters. Happily there was nothing incriminating in it, though addressed to Ferdinand,—just the letter the Crown Princess would write to a Privy Councillor. But the petty theft indicates that she suspects. Prince George, I am told, receives a report from her every few days.

Well, I had my revenge. The Queen called today to see the children, and when Her Majesty and myself withdrew into my closet, the Tisch, who had been spying, didn't retire as promptly as she might.

"Can't you see that you are de trop," I said sharply to her. "Please close the door from outside." The Baroness gave a cry of dismay and the Queen was scandalized.

"Louise," she said, "that is no way to treat servants. You should always try to be kind and considerate with them."

"I am, thanks, Your Majesty," I replied. "All the officials and servants love me, but I have very good reasons for treating the Tisch as I do."

Of course, George will hear of this, and the Tisch will be reprimanded by him as well. Spies that compromise themselves, compromise their masters.

The same evening I said to the Tisch in the presence of the nurses:

"My dear Baroness, I wish you would display a little more tact. Listen at my doors as much as you like, but whatever you do, don't spy on Her Majesty in my house." She exuded a flood of tears and I sent her to her room. "Don't come back until you can show a pleasant face. I want to see none other around me."

* * * * *

LOSCHWITZ, August 2, 1899.

Ferdinand received a medical report from ——r. My first private advices regarding Marie's death were correct, but the additional details given are too horrible to contemplate.

The poor Duchess was brutally murdered. She died cursing her crowned murderer.

The manner in which she was put to death can only be likened to that of the lover in Heinrich von Kleist's poetically sublime, but morally atrocious, tragedy, Penthesilcia, except that, in poor Marie's case, the woman suffered from the awful frenzy of the male, in whom the "gentlest passion" degenerated in Saturnalia of revolting cruelty. The Duke killed Marie because doing so gave him the most damnable pleasure,—her the most excruciating pain.

Yet the King's will is the highest law and criminals on thrones laugh at the criminal code.



CHAPTER XLII

I LOSE ANOTHER OF MY LOVERS

Happily no scandal—Rewarded for bearing children—$1250—for becoming a mother—Royal poverty—Bernhardt, the black sheep, in hot water again—The King rebukes me for taking his part.

LOSCHWITZ, August 10, 1899.

Frederick Augustus sent for Ferdinand and gave him to understand that he had received divers anonymous letters, connecting my name with that of the Privy Councillor. "Of course I don't believe a word of it," said my husband, "but one in my position cannot afford to flout public opinion. It will be for the best, if you cease your services to Her Imperial Highness."

Upon the same day Ferdinand received orders from the King to stop his visits.

The Baroness's doings, of course,—pin-pricks when she would like to shoot with sharp cartridges. She evidently doesn't know the full extent of our intimacy. As to Ferdinand, he acted the coward, left my letters unanswered and didn't make the slightest attempt to continue relations that might possibly turn out to his disadvantage.

He is contemptible. My heart is unengaged, but my pride sadly humbled.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, February 15, 1900.

The King sent me an emerald, one-twentieth the size of that given me by the Shah of Persia. Frederick Augustus did himself proud and, on his part, I gained a pearl necklace in acknowledgment of my renewed services to the state. Little Marguerite was born January 24.

Frederick Augustus also gave me five thousand marks spending money. Not much for a multi-millionaire's wife or daughter, I reckon, but a terrible lot for an Imperial Highness.

When I read of the sums the Vanderbilts, Astors, Goulds and other dollar-kings spend in Paris and London, and even with us in Dresden, I sometimes wish I could exchange places with an American Duchess or Countess long enough to buy all the things beautiful and pretty I would like to own. An awful thing is royal poverty, but the reputation of affluence and unlimited resources, stalking ahead of us, whenever we enter a store or bargain with a jeweler, is worse.

"Your Imperial Highness is pleased to joke," says my man-milliner, when I admit, unblushingly, that I haven't the wherewithal to buy the things I dote on.

Wait till I am Queen, modistes, store-keepers, jewelers! The new Majesty will show you that she cares for money only to get rid of it.

* * * * *

DRESDEN, February 20, 1900.

This morning Lucretia came running to the nursery and whispered to me: "Imperial Highness, quick, to the boudoir. He begged so hard, I smuggled him in."

She couldn't say more, for the Tisch was watching us. What new trouble was brewing? Could it be Romano, dare-devil, who had come back to me?

If it was that poltroon, Ferdinand, I would have him thrown out by my lackeys.

The mysterious visitor doffed wig and false moustache. "It's me," cried Bernhardt. "You are my only hope."

"What have you been doing again?"

"They threaten to banish my girl from the garrison and I won't stand for it. If they send her away or imprison her, I will kick up such a row, all Europe shall hear of it."

"But why this masquerade?"

"S-s-sh!" whispered the young prince. "I came without leave." Quickly, breathlessly, he continued: "I hear you are in His Majesty's good graces. Go and see him on my behalf. Persuade him to annul the order of banishment or render it ineffective."

"Bernhardt," I said, "why don't you marry?"

"If I could get a girl like you, Louise, I would—today, tomorrow, but the royal scare-crows that will have penniless me,—much obliged! You are a very exceptional woman," he added earnestly.

We held a council of war, discussing the situation from every view-point, and finally I agreed to see Baumann.

"I'll have to vouch for your future good conduct," I said.

"On condition that they leave my girl alone."

"Precisely. And on your part you give me your word of honor not to scandalize the people of your new garrison; to gradually break with the girl and, in the end, get married."

"You are a brick, Louise," cried Bernhardt, and before I could shake him off, he was kissing me all over my face. No cousinly or brotherly kisses! His lips were apart, there was passion in his embrace. I struggled, but his hand pressed against my back. What strength the rascal's got!

* * * * *

DRESDEN, February 21, 1900.

The King is adamant. I no sooner mentioned Bernhardt's name than his face froze.

"Does your husband know about your interference for that rake?"

When I answered in the negative, he praised Frederick Augustus for strict submission to the royal will and upbraided me for "upholding Bernhardt in his wickedness."

"The boy is desperate," I said.

"If he is desperate," cried the King, "let him do the one reasonable and honorable thing: mend his evil ways. It will come easy if he seeks true strength in prayer, in fasting and religious discipline."

"I submit to your Majesty that it might be well to send Bernhardt travelling."

"On a tour of inspection of houses of ill-fame?" interrupted Albert coldly. "This is a mere waste of words," he added, looking towards the door, "and I'm sorry that Your Imperial Highness has the bad taste to take the part of this disobedient, immoral and altogether reprehensible Lausbub."

That meant my dismissal. I shudder when I think of the consequences of the King's obstinacy.



CHAPTER XLIII

THE CROWN PRINCESS QUELLS A RIOT

Asked to play the coward, and I refuse—A hostler who would die for a look from me—Hostler marriages in royal houses—Anecdotes and unknown facts concerning royal ladies and their offspring—Refuse police escort and rioters acclaim me—Whole royal family proud of my feat.

DRESDEN, July 3, 1900.

Behold Louise, a political personage!

I was driving with my little ones in the Bois yesterday afternoon. We occupied an open court carriage, conspicuous for livery and magnificent horse-flesh, for I love display and the children enjoy it. We were driving along leisurely enough when there was hasty clatter of hoofs and wheels behind. Presently a royal coupe dashed up alongside.

The Tisch stuck her head out:

"Imperial Highness—the town's in revolt.—Socialist riot. They are marching upon the palace.—For the love of God, return at once. Your Imperial Highness must take a seat in this inconspicuous carriage. We will change to the first Droschke we meet, going through side-streets."

"My dear Baroness," I answered, "it's not in my nature to shirk peril. If I were to be hanged and quartered and could avoid that unpleasantness by changing from my carriage to a cab—I would be hanged and quartered. Take the children and return to the palace any way you like.

"As for me, I'll go back as Her Imperial Highness, the Crown Princess of Saxony, and my coachman will drive slowly."

I kissed the children, and the coupe rolled away at a sharp clip.

Calling the coachman by name, I commanded him: "You heard what my Grand Mistress said. Riot or no riot, I am solely responsible for my own safety. You will take orders from no one but me, neither from the mob nor the police."

The coachman lifted his hat respectfully and bowed a submissive "At Your Imperial Highness's orders." The groom, a young, good-looking fellow, struck the broadsword at his side.

"There is some good steel in this, Your Imperial Highness," he said with sparkling eyes. I believe this poor fellow would have died for a single look from me.

Among royal servants, the most devoted are those connected with the Marstall. No wonder so many of my sisters born on the steps of the throne, fell in love with their Master of Horse or equerries; some with mere hostlers, like Queen Christina of Spain, the mother of my aunt Isabelle, of amorous memory. Her lover, Munoz, of the Body Guards, was a famous equestrian and two years younger than Christina. He managed horses so well, she thought it would be great fun to boss this giant. But it ended by the brute lording it over her, the "Catholic Majesty." By the way, I wonder what became of Christina's and Munoz's several children. While they lived together from 1833 to 1844 without the sanction of either law or church, they were "regularly married" in the end, the hostler, Munoz, metamorphosing into Duke Rianzares. Yet the Almanach de Gotha knows not their progeny when, as "love children," they should live long and happily.

Another "hostler-marriage" occurred in the family of the proud Kaiser, the contracting parties being Princess Albrecht of Prussia and a groom, whose name I forget. This Princess, Marianne of the Netherlands, brought the first "real" money into the Hohenzollern family, and her husband, Albrecht, was long regarded the Croesus among German princes.

After the divorce, His Royal Highness forced the ex-wife to marry the hostler, and the bloom of forbidden love having worn off in the meantime, Marianne seldom passed a day without being soundly beaten by the plebeian. Maybe she liked it. Some women do.

Today her offspring with Master Fisticuffs are sturdy farmers in Silesia, but two of the three sons she had with the royal Prince, as well as the sons the royal Prince had with his second wife, Rosalie von Rauch, are degenerates. Rosalie's sons are known as Counts Hohenau and the wife of the elder, Fritz, is giving my astute and pious cousin, the Kaiserin, considerable heart-ache.

Curious, isn't it? The children of the "adulteress" are successful men and women, aids in the progress of the world; those of the blood royal, in double or single doses, a menace to public morality. This much for your royal inbred custom.

But back to Dresden. The order to drive slowly was soon rescinded, for I was burning to see a riot at close range. "Plein carriere," I commanded, and my fast Carrossiers went at a tremendous rate for two miles. The moment I saw, in the distance, knots of people standing round or moving in the direction of the palace, I cried: "Schritt," and we proceeded as leisurely as if following a funeral.