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.