Filthy lucre, or the want of it, oppressing my boy. Money, miserable money, caused me to doubt his very loyalty.
"How much?"
He stuttered and denied and swore it was all a mistake and that I had misunderstood him. "As an army officer——"
"Don't talk like Frederick Augustus. It will give me the greatest pleasure in the world to arrange your affairs, dearest."
I got him to name the sum after a while. What a pity I am not rich. As Catharine sent her Orloffs and Potemkins and Zoritchs to the State Treasury to help themselves as they saw fit, so I would gladly turn fortunes over to Henry, never asking for an accounting.
But this Imperial Highness is wretchedly poor, like most royal women not actually seated on the throne. I can't offer my paramour financial independence, not even luxury, but, thank heaven, I saved up enough to provide for his present needs, even if my treasury be drained to the last twenty-mark piece, and I will have to cut short my charities for the next quarter of a year. But he must not know these sordid details.
Some day I will be Queen. I will reimburse the poor and I will be a true Catharine to Henry.
Dresden, January 16, 1901.
I brought my mite to our rendezvous. Mostly in small bills and twenty-mark pieces. If Henry knew that many of these were earned in the right royal fashion of having them slipped down one's stocking by a husband, too drunk to distinguish a royal palace from a dance-hall!