"Have I Your Majesty's permission to enter?" she asked, in her high-pitched voice.
"Of course, of course," replied the Emperor, turning in his chair. "Come in and close the door. It has turned quite cold to-night. Well?" he asked, looking at her inquiringly.
The Emperor is a man of very few words, except when he tells a story.
The Court dancing-mistress hesitated for a second. Their eyes met, and in that glance I saw complete understanding.
"May I speak in confidence with Your Majesty?" she asked, advancing into the room, her stiff, wide skirts rustling. Except the Court ladies she was the only female at Court whom the sentries stationed at the end of the corridor allowed to pass to His Majesty's private cabinet.
But Frau Kleist had access everywhere. Her eyes were the eyes of the Emperor. Many a diplomat, financier, military or naval commander has been raised to position of favourite because he first secured—by payment, of course, according to his means—the good graces of the ex-ballerina. And, alas! many a good, honest man has been cast out of the Potsdam circle into oblivion, and even to death, because of the poisonous declaration of that smiling, bejewelled old hag.
"Of what do you wish to speak?" inquired the Emperor, who, truth to tell, was very busy upon a most important matter concerning the building of new submarines, and was perhaps a little annoyed by the intrusion, though he did not betray it, so clever was he.
"Of the Reitschel affair," was the old woman's low reply.
At her words the Kaiser frowned slightly, and dismissed me. I bowed myself out, and closed the door upon the Emperor and his clever female spy.
That she should have at that late hour come from Potsdam—for, looking down into the courtyard, I saw the lights of her big Mercédès—showed that some underhand work was in progress.