COUNT BIELSK MAKES LOVE TO THE CROWN PRINCESS
Fearless to indiscretion--He "thou's" me--Puts all his chances on
one card--Proposes a rendezvous--Shall I go or shall I not
go?--Peril if I go and peril if I don't.
DRESDEN, _April 26, 1897, Night_.
We went to the ball as His Majesty's representatives, Frederick Augustus
and I, and were obliged to say a few nothingnesses to a hundred paltry
persons or more. When the Ambassador introduced Count Bielsk, I said in
the most careless voice of the world, "I hear you love the theatre,
Count."
"I don't care a rap for the theatre," he replied. "I go to opera and
operetta simply to see you, Imperial Highness."
Such audacity! And he spoke quite loud.
Frightened, I turned to the next person presented, saying something
imbecile, no doubt.
Later I withdrew upon the dais to watch the dancing, and at a moment
when I was quite alone, he came up to me, making it appear as if I had
commanded his attendance.
"I have much to say to Your Imperial Highness."
I didn't have my wits about me and didn't know how to act. He repeated
twice or oftener: "Pray, Your Imperial Highness, I have something to say
to you," until, at last, I threw etiquette to the winds and asked:
"Why should you wish to talk to me in private, Count?" No royal woman
indulging in lovers ever encouraged a rogue more carelessly.
"Because my life and happiness depend on what I have to say to you."
And, weaker still, I assented by the tone of my voice rather than words:
"You make me curious, Count. Whatever you have to say, say it now."
He raised his eyes to me, with a soul and reputation-destroying look.
"Thanks!" Then wildly, clamorously: "Louise, I love you."
Instinctively I thought of flight, but his eyes wouldn't let me rise.
From that moment on he dropped my title.
"Stay," he whispered, "I beseech you, stay. Don't you see that I love
you to distraction? I have kept silent these many months. Now I must
talk. I love thee, Louise."
I tried in vain to collect my thoughts while his love talk fanned my
blood. Finally I managed to say: "Can't you see that you are playing _va
banque_?"
"I know, but it doesn't interest me. Let my career be wrecked, I care
not; I've got only one thought in the world--thee, only one wish--thee.
And I must either love thee or die."
I turned my eyes away and rose abruptly. As he bowed to kiss my hand, he
whispered, still "_thou'ing_" me: "I expect you tomorrow at the end of
the Grand Boulevard. Come when you please. I will wait all day."
* * * * *
And here I am thinking, thinking, thinking.
"The end of the Boulevard" is the beginning of Dresden's _Bois_. Does
this madman really suppose that Her Imperial Highness, the Crown
Princess of this kingdom, will lower herself and respond to his demand
for a rendezvous?
Yet, how he must love me to risk saying what he did say to me. He is no
ill-balanced youth; he is a man of ripe judgment. His passion got the
better of him.
I adore passion.
I must go no more to the theatre. Impossible for me to see him nightly.
But it's a fine thing to be loved as I am. The most beautiful thing in
the wide, wide world!
* * * * *
DRESDEN, _April 27, 1897. In the Morning._
He is waiting. Doubtless he expects me. What a persuasive thing love
is, to be sure! Because he loves me, he argues that the Crown Princess,
the wife and mother, will rush to meet him, fall into his arms.
Of course, he will be most unhappy if I don't go, for I am sure he is
not your ordinary "petticoat-chaser." He will suffer, he is suffering
now while I sit here quietly.
Am I quiet? If I weren't determined to stay at home, I would half-admit
to myself that my soul is obsessed with longing for this man.
A diplomat, who has seen much of court life, assumes that a woman in my
position is at liberty to keep rendezvous! Let's reason it out.
To begin with, Lucretia has to be won over. That's easy enough, but the
coachman and lackey! They must be told that Her Imperial Highness is
graciously pleased to _walk_ in the _Bois_, the carriage waiting at the
end of the Grand Boulevard.
* * * * *
_After Luncheon._
I ought to have said to him, I won't come. It's cruel to let him wait on
a street corner and not even send notice, and to tip him off is
impossible.
And come to think of it, if Lucretia and I were promenading in the
_Bois_ and met the Count by accident, where's the harm? And if I don't
go--Good Lord, he might kill himself. He is desperate enough for that.
And he might leave letters compromising me.
I will go to give him a piece of my mind. I will be very harsh with him,
very adamant.
And I will try to find out how he manages to select always the same
theatre as I.