The Duchess had a baby and asked me to be godmother to the little girl. The King, eager to oblige his rich cousin, favored the journey. I insisted that Ferdinand accompany me. "Marie," I said, "hates Tisch, and she must, under no circumstances, be commanded to attend me." Lucretia would do. It would be cheaper. The King first wouldn't hear of Dr. von Barthels going. People might think I had some chronic disease. But he finally gave in for the sake of the child I expect. "We need a few princes more from you," said His Majesty benignly. "When you got about a dozen boys, you can rest." Pleasant job, that of a Crown Princess. * * * * * ----R, _July 16, 1899_. The Duchess is a pretty woman, her face a lovely oval. She has small eyes, the color of amethysts. Her complexion is as white and harmonious as if she washed in sow's milk, like the late Ninon. Her mouth is sweet, but certain lines indicate that it can bite as well as smile. She has abundant hair, the color of Ferdinand's. This dainty, albeit voluptuous, little person, is mated to a bull-necked He, pompous, broad and full of the conceit of the _duodez_ satrap. Marie was forced to marry him; their honeymoon scarcely lasted a fortnight and he treated her shamefully after that. Of course, babies she must bear like any other "royal cow." Gradually, very gradually, she got over her disappointment and shyness, developing into a cunning, world-wise woman. Then came the man she was bound to love, even as the violet is bound to be kissed by the sun. She had no scruples about accepting him, thinking herself entitled to compensation for the sorrows of her married life. And revenge is sweet. The Duke found them out in the first month of their young love, walked into her boudoir one fine afternoon and remarked casually that none of his hats would fit him,--"on account of the horns you kindly planted on my forehead." Marie was more dead than alive when he asked her for the key of her writing desk. She lied and lied; to no purpose. He kicked open the writing desk, and with his iron fists broke the shelves and pigeon holes, laying bare a secret drawer and stacks of love letters it shielded. These he confiscated. Then locked himself into his room to enjoy his disgrace. This monster is a _Masochist_ and Sadist combined. He loves both to inflict suffering upon himself and upon others. What monsters royalties be! In the meanwhile Marie experienced all the tortures of purgatory; she thought of flight, of suicide. Before she could indulge in either her husband was back: Othello in the last act. Marie was frightened stiff, her brain a whirl, her limbs inert. Rape most foul this crowned satyr committed. "He fell upon me as a pack of hounds overwhelm a hunted, wounded she-stag," she said.