The King has taken nourishment. The King will not die—he will live and punish me. Still, I must not complain. I had a respite and Richard says, "when one rises from the dead, one is less inclined to be severe with the living." But he grew rather despondent immediately.
"La liberté est une garce, qui ne se laisse monter que sur des matelas des cadavres humains!" he quoted Comte Mirabeau. Our corpse was alive, our liberty is dead for the time being.
Dresden, November 15, 1902.
The King went driving this morning and I am told that he came home well pleased, for there was lusty cheering along the line. Frederick Augustus hasn't mentioned my affair at all. Disappointment made him rather gloomy and he begins to treat me again in the right royal Saxon fashion: I am air for His Highness.
After Supper.
The family will wait upon His Majesty in a body tomorrow, to congratulate him on his recovery. After that, Te Deum in the cathedral, which the court and authorities must attend by command.
"Your Imperial Highness's pew will be in readiness, but my sublime master has not deigned to graciously announce that he wishes to receive Your Imperial Highness,"—this from the toad Baumann, who but yesterday licked my boots.