And you should see the Tisch. She must have spent a month's salary on flowers for me, which I promptly sent to the nearest pauper hospital. She smiles, she nearly breaks her back genuflexing. Her every second word is "most submissive," "will the Imperial Highness deign to do this," that, or the other thing.
The terror got into her old bones and she trembles for her pension, for, of course, she knows that instant dismissal will be her portion.
Frederick Augustus talks of having some more princes and—acts accordingly. Perish the thought that his Louise is an adulteress, that she ever had a lover, has one now!
He is haunting my room, running from door to window, from window to door. Every little while he opens the portières to see if no one's coming to address him "Your Majesty."
"Your popularity with the public is a great asset," he says over and over again. "Lucky devil I, to have a wife as smart as you."
Dresden, November 2, 1902.
Frederick Augustus came running into my room and gave me a bear-hug.
"The doctors say the King is lost. Impossible to keep him alive any longer."
He rushed out.