But we fin de siècle women are cowards. All I said to him was: "I must see you tonight. Arrange with Lucretia."
Dresden, September 30, 1900.
Summer heat continues, but no country-seat for me! The town is a much safer place for lovers, and old Countess Baranello keeps open house for us all the year round. We meet daily. I persuaded Henry's colonel that the lieutenant would never be a courtier unless he saw more of court life and was relieved, to a certain extent, of duties on the drill ground.
We see each other mornings or afternoons at the Countess's. The evenings we spend at the theatre together, I in the box, he in the fauteuil once sacred to Romano. Every Saturday afternoon we concoct the repertoire for the week following, and he goes at once to secure tickets for the various entertainments I intend to visit for his sake.
Dresden, October 1, 1900.
I wish I had never loved any man before Henry. I wish he had known me as an innocent girl. I wish I wasn't royal. Then I could get a divorce and marry him, but now, if I got ten divorces, he would always be the insignificant Baron, I the Princess of the Blood.
And I couldn't see my love humiliated!
As a talisman he wears on his chest a golden locket with my miniature. In exchange he gave me a Portebonheur with his picture and a few sweet words.