Ever since that September day when all Dresden did me honor, the King and Prince George have said "How art thou's?" to me and mine but once, whenever and wherever we met, and be sure there were always listeners to report the double omission.
At first it amused me; then enraged me; I don't care a fig now. But Frederick Augustus! Poor imbecile, he is eating his heart out about those two missing "How art thou's?" and though he looks splendid in gala uniform he acts in the royal, but ungracious, presence like a green recruit expecting to be kicked and cuffed by his noncommissioned officer on getting back to the barracks.
As to my entourage, it surrenders to royal disfavor even as Frederick Augustus: depressed faces, pitying glances. I could box their ears for their sympathy.
Am I not the great-granddaughter of that mighty Maria Theresa that ruled Austria and Hungary with an iron hand, lined with velvet. "Moriamur pro rege nostro" (We will die for our King), cried the Hungarians, when she appealed to their chivalry, her new-born babe at her breast. "Rege," not "Regina." They called her King. They forgot the woman in the monarch, yet I am treated like an insipid female always, never as the Crown Princess!
Let them beware. My full name is Louise Marie Antoinette. I was named after the Marie Antoinette of history—another ancestor of mine—and the pride of the decapitated Queen of France is in me! My namesake was satisfied when she read the Saint-Antoine placard of June 25, 1791: "Whosoever insults Marie Antoinette shall be caned, whosoever applauds her shall be hanged." Some day I will dismiss the cattle that now grudge me the people's applause and punish those that insult me.
Come to think of it, Marie Antoinette had not only pride and defiance, she had lovers too. Well, some day this Marie Antoinette may have lovers, and if it's wrong, let the recording angel debit my sins to the Saxon court.
Thank God, I am blessed with that truly royal attribute, ability to dissimulate. "Qui nescit dissimulare nescit regnare" was all the Latin Charles VIII knew, yet he made a pretty successful king for one who died at the age of twenty-seven.
I always act as if the King, and father-in-law George, had asked me not once, or three times, but a dozen times "How art thou?" I don't know anything about being in disgrace, I don't anticipate being snubbed and when I am snubbed I don't see it.
The "all-highest Lord" looks daggers at me—I curtsy and smile!
Father-in-law Prince George exhibits the visage of a poisoned pole-cat at my table—I congratulate him on his good digestion!