"If he dies, I will be Queen the sooner," thought I,—but happily I didn't think aloud.
CHAPTER XI
SCOLDED FOR BEING POPULAR
Entourage spied upon by George's minions—My husband proves a weakling—I disavow the personal compliment—No more intelligent than a king should be.
Dresden, September 5, 1893.
I wrote the foregoing at one sitting, without interruption. It's not so easy a matter to put down the consequences of our triumph, or rather mine and baby's.
When I entered my apartments, I met a whole host of long faces. The Commander of the Palace, in great gala, offered a most stiff and icy welcome. The adjutants, the chamberlains, the maître d'Hôtel, all looked ill at ease. They evidently felt the coming storm in their bones and didn't care to have it said of them, by George's spies, that they lent countenance, even in a most remote way, to my carryings-on. Even the Schoenberg—my own woman—shot reproachful glances at me when the Commander of the Palace happened to look her way.
Frederick Augustus looked and acted as if he was to be deprived of all his military honors.