I name the hour and she is there to receive me—smirking, blind, deaf and dumb.
A foretaste of my queenship paradise! No one will boss me, no one will dare talk about me, everything I do will be good, even sublime.
I made up my mind as to Frederick Augustus.
"Frederick Augustus," I will say to him, "now that we are King and Queen, let's enjoy to the full the thing's emoluments; otherwise, what's the use? You will allow me to go my way and I will certainly shut both eyes as to your doings, even if you follow in the footsteps of your namesake of the three-hundred-and-fifty-two."
Of course, I will say it differently, but my husband will understand. The main thing: the royal family and court must stop hurling at me the long, watery haussez les mains of narrow-minded, provincial inquisitiveness, which both oppresses and goads me.
Frederick Augustus has too much respect for the kingly dignity to impugn his partner, the Queen.
Will I revive, then, the seraglios of the Russian Anns and Elizabeths, or start a new Parc aux Cerfs with strong men and Marathon winners for inmates? Thank you, a miniature Petit Trianon will be good enough for me.
The Tisch entered a minute ago and respectfully remains at the door, though she sees I am engaged on my Diary. I watch her in the mirror. She would travel bare-foot to Kevlaar, of which Heinrich Heine sung, for a glimpse of what I wrote. Her variegated grimaces give her the appearance of a carved wooden devil, sprinkled with holy water.
At last I deign to inquire: "What is it, Baroness?"
"The Crown Prince wants to see Your Imperial Highness. May he come in?"