This is how a daily correspondence began between the count and myself. I very soon knew what measures I should have to take, what attitude to adopt, what necessary preparations to make, whom to fear and whom to trust.
The night watchman had been gained over on our side. This brave man, like the waiter, ran a grave risk. No one will ever know the extent of the devotion which the frightful persecution to which I was a victim has evoked and still evokes!
At last I received the eagerly awaited note, which said: "It will be to-morrow."
To-morrow! To-morrow! I had only another day to wait, and then I should be free.... This was in August, 1904. For seven years I had been in captivity; I had lived among lunatics, and I had been treated as a lunatic.
One thought alone froze my blood: the count would, no doubt, make his appearance. And I remembered that quite recently my "lady-in-waiting" had shown me a revolver, and coldly warned me that she had orders—from whom?—to shoot any would-be rescuer.
Never were my prayers more ardent. Then, recovering my serenity and my confidence, I made all my preparations.
I needed a few hours in which to arrange my papers, destroy letters, and to sort what I intended to take with me. How was I to do all this without arousing suspicion?
I decided to say that instead of going out in the afternoon I would wash my hair. This proceeding, which I often did myself, afforded me the opportunity of being alone, without the "lady-in-waiting," that indefatigable spy, being alarmed. The chambermaid arranged everything that was necessary, and I made a great show of splashing with the water. But I took good care to keep my hair dry for fear of contracting rheumatism or neuralgia, which would have considerably diminished the good condition of health in which it was so necessary for me to be. I rolled a towel round my head, and I took the necessary measures without being disturbed. When evening came, rested and refreshed by the opportune "washing," I went to the theatre with my usual escort.
Of all the plays I have ever seen, none has left me with so slight remembrance as that with which the little theatre of Bad-Elster regaled its honest audience that evening. I was lost in thought concerning what was to follow, and I said to myself:
"Come what may, if life is a game let us play it to the end." When the performance was over, I returned to my hotel, without letting my secret agitation be noticed. The doctor and the other follower were amiably dismissed on the threshold of my room, and my last words added to their tranquillity: