Pillnitz, May 26, 1901.
This morning I awoke a mental and physical wreck, but determined to solve those vexatious questions: "What do the King and Prince George know?" "What have they found out?"
I slipped on a dressing-gown, fetched my small revolver from its hiding-place in the boudoir and rang for the Tisch.
I received her politely enough. I was quiet, cold, calculating. She gave a start as she observed my stony countenance.
"Baroness," I said, motioning her to come nearer, "explain the attitude assumed by His Majesty, Prince George and the rest."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I want to know. Do you hear, Grand Mistress? I command you to speak," I cried.
A sneer of contempt hovered about her lips. She is a viper, this woman, but has the courage of the rattle-snake in action.
I turned the keys in the several doors and threw them under the bed. From under the pillow I drew my revolver.
I showed her the weapon and calmly announced, accentuating each word: "You won't leave this room alive until the question I put to you is answered to my satisfaction. I want the whole truth. You needn't excuse your own part in the business. As Henri Quatre said to the lover of Diane de Poitiers, secreted under her bed, as he threw him half a cold bird: 'We all want to live, some honestly, some dishonestly.' You choose the dishonest road. Be it so.