Dresden, June 22, 1902.
I had an hour's talk with father. I bared my heart to him. I reported my own faults along with those of the others.
Papa understands me. He sympathizes with me, but help me he cannot.
"These are only passing shadows," he said. "Look boldly into the future. You will soon be Queen."
And he told me of his financial difficulties and of the misfortune of being a sovereign lord without either land or money.
"The Emperor ordered me to scold you hard," he continued, "and mamma wants me to be very severe. As to King George, he said he would thank God if I succeeded in breaking your rebellious spirit. 'If you don't, I will,' added his Majesty."
Then father kissed me more lovingly than ever and asked, half apologetically: "Is it true, Louise, that you had a lover?"
"I thought I had one, but he was unworthy of me," I replied without shame.
My confession seemed to frighten him.
"It's sad, sad," he said. "Royal blood is dangerous juice. It brought Mary of Scots to the scaffold; it caused your great-aunt Marie Antoinette to lose her head, only to save the old monarchies a few years later, when we inveigled the enemy of legitimate kingship into a marriage with another of your relatives. But for Marie, Louise, the descendants of the Corsican might still sit on a dozen thrones."