Plausible reasons, all of these, and possibly true. But consider, if you will, the rumors that followed Victoria all her life—the story of an early attachment to the Count Seckendorf, her husband’s associate during the Seven Weeks’ War of 1866—the reports, sometimes denied but generally believed, of her marriage to the Count not long before her death. Consider, too, the dissimilarity between the Kaiser and the other men of his race—big, slow-minded, amiable men—so unlike Wilhelm II, with his aggressive, alert personality, his quick mind and his Piedmontese face. And can you not imagine the attitude of a woman who had been guilty of infidelity and yet retained her sense of national honor—the hesitancy she might feel at seeing the child of this infidelity upon the throne, and so perpetrating a gigantic fraud upon a people and a husband whom she respected if she did not love? And have not women been known to hate, rather than love, the offspring of a guilty union? True or not, these suppositions—what does it matter? You can see, can you not, why I believed that my letter told the truth, and why I knew that here was a plaything which would astound the world, if made public? But what to do with this letter to which I attached so much importance? Something impelled me not to speak of it to my family. But who else was there? In my perplexity I did an utterly foolish thing. I put my whole confidence in a man’s word. There was, serving at a nearby fortress, a General Major von Dassel, who was in the habit of coming to our house quite regularly. To him I went, and under pledge of silence I told him my story. Of course, he broke the pledge and left immediately for Berlin. All doubts, if I had any, as to the importance of the document vanished with him. And if I had any misgivings concerning my own importance they quickly vanished, too. Back from Berlin, with General Major von Dassel came an agent of the _Reichs Kanzler_. He did not come to our house; instead von Dassel sent for me to go to his headquarters in the fortress. I met there a solemn frock-coated personage who, so he said, had come down from Berlin especially to see me. Imagine my elation! I was in my element; what I had hoped for had at last happened. The pages of Richelieu and of my secret histories were coming true. Another man and I were to lock our wits in a fight to the finish—that pleasure I promised myself. He was a worthy opponent, an official, a professional intriguer. As I looked into his serious, bearded face, I built romances about him. The agent of the Chancellor wanted my document and my pledge to keep silent about its contents. Through sheer love of combat, I refused him on both points. He tried persuasion and reason. I was adamant. He tried cajolery.