"Go to your room, Royal Highness," she said in a tone of command. "These papers are confiscated in the name of the King."
I was beside myself with rage. "My Diary," I cried; "instantly return it to me."
More I couldn't say, for I had neither breath nor voice. My right hand was on the book when she attempted to seize it.
I struck her hand with Richard's ring—I wish it was bigger, I wish it had a good diamond point—but she wouldn't let go. Then, before one could count one, two, three, I had hold of her—Heaven, how I enjoyed it; the satisfaction I had in giving rein to my passion, for all was up now, anyhow.
With the left hand I caught her by the throat, while my good right boxed her ears after the homely manner mamma had taught me. Good, sound cuffs, I assure you, each liable to dislocate a tooth.
"Canaille," I cried, "miserable canaille." I pushed her into a corner and recovered the Diary, folding it up quickly. I was holding the book close to my bosom when I crossed the room to regain my bedchamber.
The Tisch after me, trying to snatch it back. I caught her on the chest and sent her flying. Then, with the manuscript, I made good my escape, leaving for the contemptible bird of prey all my love letters, reams of them, the oldest fifteen or more years old, the latest bearing yesterday's date.
Once in my room, I recollected and made a grab at my throat. The key to my Diary was gone. They stole it, chain and all, while I was asleep, no doubt.
Dresden, November 28, 1902.