In need of a friend--My physician offers his friendship--I discover that he loves me, but he will never confess--I give him encouragement--We manage to persuade the King to further our intrigue--Not a bit repentant of my peccadilloes--Very submissive--Introduced to my lover's wife. DRESDEN, _in May, 1899_. Privy Councillor von Barthels, my body physician, is a very agreeable man. I have no use for his services, _professional_ services at present, yet insist upon receiving him daily. Still I love him not. Only esteem him as a friend, I need a friend. Physicians can keep secrets, and I have many of them. I look upon Barthels as my Father-confessor. The tears came into his eyes when I told him, and he said: "Imperial Highness, this is the most beautiful hour of my life." He spoke with enthusiasm; there was fire in his eyes and in his voice, yet a moment later he was again the most reserved of men and conversation lagged. It happened three days ago. He has paid me four visits since and I notice with astonishment, with curiosity and with alarm, that this man is in love with me. How long has he loved me? His love is like a warm mantle 'round my shoulders on a chilly night. It exudes warmth, strength, beatitude, yet there is none of the animal. He is a good talker on a thousand and one subjects, a thinker and psychologist. Psychology is his strong point. He argues brilliantly on the subject, yet I need only look at him to upset his _thesis_, to make him stammer and redden. He's no Count Bielsk and will never tell me of his own accord that he loves me. Is his admiration greater than his love? Perhaps so. It gives me a feeling of security. Lucretia knows, but in the presence of the Tisch, he plays the servant, deeming himself thrice honored by being allowed to breathe the same air as her Imperial Highness. * * * * * DRESDEN, _June 15, 1899_. I frequently drive to the _Bois_ nowadays with the children, the _Bois_, where I was so happy with Him. Romano was right, a thousand times right, that he abandoned me when our love was at its zenith. * * * * * _At Midnight._ It's done. Barthels came tonight. He was so feverish, so passionate, there was so much humble solicitation in his looks and manners, I was moved to pity. This man is too over-awed by my rank to ever permit himself to express his feelings by word of mouth. He talked of everything but love and was in the midst of a learned dissertation when I sunk my eyes in his and said: "Why do you try to hide things from me? Don't I know what's in your heart?" Like a little criminal--as my oldest boy does occasionally--he turned red, then white, then red again. He buried his face in his hands. He trembled. He seemed to be crying. I arose, and lightly laid my hand upon his blonde head. He's got the finest, silkiest hair in the world, shimmering like beaten gold.