I must give some additional account of our first meeting at the court ball. Ah, I was the hussy for fair! He couldn't help seeing the impression he made upon me. My eyes must have reflected it in letters of flame. I wish he were as bold as the _Duc_, who slept on a pillow stuffed with the hair of his mistresses, past and present. I never made such advances to any man. I was gone clean off my head. When he reddened and when his left hand, resting on the hilt of his sword, trembled, I became intoxicated. And I danced with him, and I was angry with myself for lacking the courage to say: "Feel my heart beat." My great-great-aunt and namesake, Marie Antoinette, did and won the love of her life,--Fersen. But we _fin de siecle_ women are cowards. All I said to him was: "I must see you tonight. Arrange with Lucretia." * * * * * DRESDEN, _September 30, 1900_. Summer heat continues, but no country-seat for me! The town is a much safer place for lovers, and old Countess Baranello keeps open house for us all the year round. We meet daily. I persuaded Henry's colonel that the lieutenant would never be a courtier unless he saw more of court life and was relieved, to a certain extent, of duties on the drill ground. We see each other mornings or afternoons at the Countess's. The evenings we spend at the theatre together, I in the box, he in the _fauteuil_ once sacred to Romano. Every Saturday afternoon we concoct the repertoire for the week following, and he goes at once to secure tickets for the various entertainments I intend to visit for his sake. * * * * * DRESDEN, _October 1, 1900_. I wish I had never loved any man before Henry. I wish he had known me as an innocent girl. I wish I wasn't royal. Then I could get a divorce and marry him, but now, if I got ten divorces, he would always be the insignificant Baron, I the Princess of the Blood. And I couldn't see my love humiliated! As a talisman he wears on his chest a golden locket with my miniature. In exchange he gave me a _Portebonheur_ with his picture and a few sweet words. So help me, God, I am in love with this man,--love him to the verge of poetry. Indeed, I am writing silly verse in his honor, and later haven't the courage to show it to him. _Par example_: I want you most, dear, when the sunset bright Makes of the hills a glorious funeral pyre, So die the love-light in your eyes, if die it must, And leave the wondrous, throbbing silence of the night. Henry isn't very intellectual, I am afraid, but he is the finest horseman in the world. If I were Queen, I would barter a regiment to have him appointed my Chief Master of Horse. Augustus of the three-hundred and fifty-two sold one for his first night with Cosel.