Dresden, December 3, 1893.
After all, Frederick Augustus has more spirit than I gave him credit for. Isabelle just told me that he has a new love, and a very appetizing piece of femininity she is, Fräulein Dolores of the Municipal Theatre.
"She's as well made as you, Louise, and rather more graceful," she said, "only her expression is somewhat inert. She lacks animation. Of course, she hasn't your attractive bust."
That devilish Isabelle sowed her poisonous information rather than pronounced it. "She has been seen with a new diamond-studded bandeau," she added.
At that moment the Schoenberg came to say that baby wants me. Isabelle went along to the nursery, but I managed to take the Schoenberg aside.
"I must know, before dinner, who gave the Dolores woman the new jewelry she is displaying; likewise whether His Royal Highness is sweet on that hussy. No half-truths, if you please. I want to know the worst if there be any."
The Schoenberg has a cousin who is a Councillor in the office of the police president, and the police president keeps a detailed record of the love affairs of all the actresses and singers employed in Dresden,—a relic of the time when stage folks, in European capitals, classed as "the King's servants."
The Councillor came himself to report and, after listening to what he said, I raised the boycott on Frederick Augustus without further ado, inviting him to my bed and board once more.
"So you went slumming with Kyril," I said after we had retired for the night.
"Who told you?" stammered the big fellow, reddening to the roots of his hair.