I hear disquieting news about my lover's character—The aristocracy a dirty lot—Love-making made easy by titled friends—Anecdotes of Richelieu and the Duke of Orleans—The German nobleman who married Miss Wheeler and had to resign his birthright—The disreputable business the Pappenheims and other nobles used to be in—I am afraid to question my lover as to charges.
Loschwitz, May 15, 1901.
The Vitzthums have been visiting for a week. Henry lodges in the village, but spends nearly all his time in the castle and grounds. We play tennis, polo, ball; we drive, ride, go bicycling, we dine and sup together.
I ought to be the happiest woman in the world, but a shadow dims the ideal picture my mind's eye drew of the lover.
I have it recorded somewhere—I wish I hadn't, so I might doubt my memory—that Henry told me he never borrowed from his sister. Countess Vitzthum's confidences to me show that he did repeatedly, that, in fact, he is forever trying to borrow.
"He is a spendthrift; he cannot be trusted," said his sister, who loves him dearly. "He will wreck his career if he continues at the pace he is going. Some day we may hear of him as a waiter or cab-driver in New York."
These disclosures frightened me. I might forgive him the lie, but what is he doing with the money?
Spending it on lewd women like Bernhardt, I suppose.
I said: "Oh," and Madame von Vitzthum seemed to catch its significance. It occurred to her at once that she had said too much and she tried to minimize her brother's delinquencies. But I know.
Maybe some of my money went to pay hotel expenses for——