LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      CHAPTER IX

      LOVE-MAKING

      The fascinating Baron – The man's audacity – Putting the question boldly – Real love-making —Risqué 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 roué 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 fête and at last, at nine o'clock in the evening, reached the palace of Compiègne. 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

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