"When will Your Imperial Highness deign to return?"

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

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

I made up my mind as to Frederick Augustus.

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

Of course, I will say it differently, but my husband will understand.

The main thing: the royal family and court must stop hurling at me the long, watery _haussez les mains_ of narrow-minded, provincial inquisitiveness, which both oppresses and goads me.

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

Will I revive, then, the seraglios of the Russian Anns and Elizabeths, or start a new _Parc aux Cerfs_ with strong men and Marathon winners for inmates? Thank you, a miniature _Pet.i.t Trianon_ will be good enough for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, but ten days ago, this same viper refused to address me by my _proper_ t.i.tle.

CHAPTER LXIV

THE KING IS ALIVE AND PUNISHMENT NEAR

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

DRESDEN, _November 10, 1902_.

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

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

DRESDEN, _November 15, 1902_.

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

_After Supper._

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

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

DRESDEN, _November 16, 1902_.

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

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

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

_November 20, 1902._

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

Old Andrew, my confidential servant, told me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER LXV

FISTICUFFS DON'T SAVE MY CROWN