I am undone.
They tried to obtain a picture of Louise in the nude—Louise as she paints Herself—this Diary, in fact—and, though I foiled them, the King now has in his hands my entire correspondence—every letter from every man that ever approached or possessed me.
And be sure he won't use them for curl papers as did the Duke of Richelieu with the remnants of his ladyloves' billets doux that escaped confiscation.
"My collection is incomplete. I have to begin another," he said.
Alas, my collection was only too complete!
As I was in the act of retiring last night, a clairvoyant's vision seized me. "Somebody meddling with your papers!" "They are breaking into your secrétaire," the voices said.
I slipped on a pair of bath sandals and stealthily opened the door of my boudoir.
My writing desk was open, all the drawers ajar and in disorder; the Baroness bending over this, my Diary. She was reading like mad, her eyes danced with lust of revenge.
With one bound I was at her side and she was so frightened at first, I thought she would drop. Her chest seemed to draw inward; she swayed to and fro. But only for a second or two. Then, recovering her self-possession, her fighting harness was in place again.