Secret Memoirs: The Story of Louise, Crown Princess Part 29

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 pa.s.sage, 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 Ladys.h.i.+p's spy gla.s.ses 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 coa.r.s.eness, 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 x.x.xVIII

"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 Emba.s.sy 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 ident.i.ty 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, a.s.serting 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.