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.