German Court functions have all the incomparable splendour that the magnificent imperial uniforms give them. I was almost blinded by the amazing display of blue, red and black tunics, bedecked with fur and sparkling with gold. The hedge of Lautenburg Hussars presented swords. The Grand Duchess Aurora came first on the arm of the King of Würtemberg. A draped gown of dark green velvet, amazingly _décolleté_, left one shoulder absolutely bare. Behind her trailed her long train, with a wonderful design in silver embroidery. On her right hand she had a single diamond set in platinum, on the left an emerald set in a circle of brilliants. I had not seen her hair in the morning, but now I beheld that cloud of tawny gold, fashioned in great coils round her head, beneath a gold-lace cap surmounted by a strange barbaric tiara of emeralds. For one second her eyes met mine. I had an intuition that what she read there did not displease her. I was probably the only human being in that etiquette-ridden concourse who dared gaze thus frankly at that woman. Do you remember Gustave Moreau's _Fée aux Griffons_? You will recall the fantastic creature in a vivid blue landscape--that colour is less intense than the green of Aurora of Lautenburg's eyes. The picture will give you a dim idea of the Grand Duchess. There was the same ethereal atmosphere, the same haunting mystery of outline. Melusine, exquisite, even unnerving as she was, seemed almost commonplace beside that Titania. What Moreau's picture does not explain is the blending of ingenuousness and resolution which is the whole charm of this princess. She has something of the northern Creole, at once listless and impulsive, and again something of snow in sunshine, sparkling and hard on the surface, soft in substance. Her waist, perhaps a little too slender, is rather high. You _knew_ how delicately lovely her waist would have been if she had cared to lace it in, for the velvet gown moulded the form in a way that is only possible when there is direct contact with the flesh beneath. The thought that that form could emerge from its sheath like a cold, pure lily sent the blood surging to one's brain. Among all those faces, on which wine had already begun to leave its purple traces, that pale statue, half unrobed, was miraculously white and pure. Her lips were rouged, her eyes darkened, and, to tell the truth, her nails were unnaturally pink. But you felt she made light of these adventitious aids on which others rely for beauty. You could imagine her smiling at resorting to them. She only uses them to show that she can just as well dispense with them.