"Not love you?" he breathed. "If I loved you not, I would die, Louise."
"Then why those cruel words?"
"Good heavens," he cried, "haven't I the right to be jealous? I said what I said to hear you say that you love me."
"And you will always love me?"
"Always, dearest," and he covered my face and neck with burning kisses.
Ten minutes later I was again seated at the opera.
I hear Frederick Augustus in the corridor.
Dresden, August 16, 1902.
A horrible night. Lucky that Frederick Augustus was more than half drunk when he sought "His Imperial Pleasure-trove," as he likes to call me, for I often talk in my sleep and—I dreamt of Richard. I dreamt of my enemies, too.