Ludwig himself, fed by continual flattery and admiration and with a morbid idea of his own dignity, was deeply injured by the supposed faithlessness of his _fiancée_. In the first transports of his rage he seized the bust of the Princess and flung it out of the window, dashing it to pieces on the stones of the courtyard. Even at the beginning of his reign he had shown signs of mental unsoundness, but from this time he began to shun the society of his fellow creatures and lived a solitary life. He would have nothing more to do with women, and except for a few chosen companions would see no one. Even when obliged to receive his ministers, he would hide behind a screen. The only exception he made was in favor of his cousin Elizabeth, with whom he was a great favorite in spite of his erratic ways, and who also was devoted to him until his death. They were much alike in temperament as well as in appearance, and he always looked forward to her arrival each summer at Feldafing, near which was one of his favorite retreats, “Roseninsel,” a small island shut in by dense shrubbery and lofty trees. In olden times it had been the site of a heathen temple which was replaced later by a Roman Catholic chapel. The gardens, which were laid out by King Maximilian Second, were greatly enlarged and beautified by his son Ludwig and are said to contain sixteen thousand of the choicest varieties of roses, the perfume of which is wafted far out across the lake. The Hermitage, a small villa in the Italian style, and the gardener’s cottage are now the only buildings left in this wilderness of flowers, so overgrown that it is almost impossible to approach the little wharf where King Ludwig used to land from his yacht _Tristan_. Here he collected all his favorite authors and spent long happy days dreaming over them or working in the garden, and here too he and Elizabeth would meet and pour out their hearts to each other, alone and undisturbed.