CHAPTER XVII
THE ROYAL PRINCE, WHO BEHAVES LIKE A DRUNKEN BRICKLAYER
I face the music, but my husband runs away—Prince George can't look me in the eye—He roars and bellows—Advocates wife-beating—I defy him—German classics—"Jew literature" Auto da fé ordered.
Dresden, April 2, 1894.
Chamberlain Baron Haugk, of the service of Prince George, called at nine A.M. and insisted upon seeing me. I sent out my Grand-Mistress, Baroness von Tisch, to tell him that "Her Imperial Highness would graciously permit him to wait upon her at half past ten."
"But my all-highest master commands."
I was listening in my boudoir and I went out to him only half-dressed, a powder-mantle over my shoulders.
"Her Imperial Highness will not have her commands questioned by servants," I said in my most haughty style. The Kammerherr knocked his heels together, bowed to the ground and retired. That's my way of dealing with royal flunkeys, no matter what their title of courtesy.