I name the hour and she is there to receive me--smirking, blind, deaf and dumb. A foretaste of my queenship paradise! No one will boss me, no one will dare talk about me, everything I do will be good, even sublime. I made up my mind as to Frederick Augustus. "Frederick Augustus," I will say to him, "now that we are King and Queen, let's enjoy to the full the thing's emoluments; otherwise, what's the use? You will allow me to go my way and I will certainly shut both eyes as to your doings, even if you follow in the footsteps of your namesake of the three-hundred-and-fifty-two." Of course, I will say it differently, but my husband will understand. The main thing: the royal family and court must stop hurling at me the long, watery _haussez les mains_ of narrow-minded, provincial inquisitiveness, which both oppresses and goads me. Frederick Augustus has too much respect for the kingly dignity to impugn his partner, the Queen. Will I revive, then, the seraglios of the Russian Anns and Elizabeths, or start a new _Parc aux Cerfs_ with strong men and Marathon winners for inmates? Thank you, a miniature _Petit Trianon_ will be good enough for me. The Tisch entered a minute ago and respectfully remains at the door, though she sees I am engaged on my Diary. I watch her in the mirror. She would travel bare-foot to Kevlaar, of which Heinrich Heine sung, for a glimpse of what I wrote. Her variegated grimaces give her the appearance of a carved wooden devil, sprinkled with holy water. At last I deign to inquire: "What is it, Baroness?" "The Crown Prince wants to see Your Imperial Highness. May he come in?" "Since when does my husband send you to announce him?" "Pardon, Your Imperial Highness, I meant Prince George." Designating my first-born Prince Royal, means recognizing me as Queen. And, but ten days ago, this same viper refused to address me by my _proper_ title. CHAPTER LXIV THE KING IS ALIVE AND PUNISHMENT NEAR My queenship postponed--King George publicly acclaimed--Cuts me dead in church--Frederick Augustus's disappointment--Terrible power of a king over his family, and no appeal--I am like the nude witch of old. DRESDEN, _November 10, 1902_. The King has taken nourishment. The King will not die--he will live and punish me. Still, I must not complain. I had a respite and Richard says, "when one rises from the dead, one is less inclined to be severe with the living." But he grew rather despondent immediately. "_La liberte est une garce, qui ne se laisse monter que sur des matelas des cadavres humains!_" he quoted _Comte_ Mirabeau. Our corpse was alive, our liberty is dead for the time being. * * * * * DRESDEN, _November 15, 1902_.