RAPID LOVE MAKING IN THE BOIS
A discreet maid--"Remove thy glove"--Kisses of passion, pure kisses,
powerful kisses--I see my lover daily--Countess Baranello offers
"doves' nest"--Driving to rendezvous in state--"Naughty Louise," who
makes fun of George.
DRESDEN, _June 1, 1897._
A month of untold happiness. I went to the _Bois_ and I am going there
every afternoon.
He was splendid; he was modest, quiet. He seemed to exude happiness.
Lucretia is discretion itself. She kept behind us, but out of ear-shot.
"I came to tell you that you acted like a madman last night, and that
the offense must not be repeated," I said sternly to Bielsk.
"I _am_ a madman--in love," he replied, looking at me with big, soulful
eyes.
I chattered a lot of nonsense, prohibitions, commands, entreaties.
"Remove thy glove," he begged.
"You mustn't 'thou' me."
"Remove thy glove," he repeated.
Why I complied, I don't know, but I ripped off my glove, and he held my
hand in both his hands and kissed it and kissed it.
"What right have you got to treat me like a woman unmindful of her
duties?"
"I know that thou art lonesome, forlorn, Louise."
He struck at my heart as he spoke these words, and my eyes filled with
tears. He pressed his warm, pulsating lips on the palm of my hand,
covering it from wrist to finger-tips with wild kisses.
We were standing among the trees, and Lucretia, at a little distance,
was plucking flowers. The remnant of common sense I mustered told me:
"He is dishonoring you, repulse him," but his "I love thee, Louise,"
rang like music in my ears. However, I tore myself free at last.
"Farewell, we must never meet again."
And then I lay in his arms, on his broad chest, and he covered my face
with kisses, not passionate or insulting kisses. His lips touched
lightly my eyes, my cheeks, my own lips--recompense for the long fast he
had endured during all the months he had loved me at a distance.
Marvelous kisses kissed this man, pure kisses, lovely kisses, powerful
kisses. And I thought the whole world was falling to pieces around me
and I didn't care as long as only he and I were living. He himself freed
me.
"Tomorrow," he whispered.
I awoke confused, ashamed of my weakness, trembling.
"I'll never see you again. Never," I said as if I meant it.
"Tomorrow, love," he repeated. And I ran and joined Lucretia.
When we were riding home I told Lucretia to draw the curtains, and fell
upon her neck and told her all.
The good soul was nearly frightened to death and we cried a good deal.
* * * * *
DRESDEN, _January 5, 1898_.
I neglected my diary, I neglect everything, for I'm in love. What care I
for the King, Prince George and the rest who are trying to make life
miserable for me? I laugh their pettinesses to scorn, for I have no
other thought now but Romano Bielsk, no other interests. He is my all,
my happiness.
Of course, his "_Tomorrow, love_," prevailed and it has been "_Tomorrow,
love_," ever since. On the day after our first meeting I actually
thought I was warring against nature if I resisted his entreaties. It
seemed to me that I had always known him, that we were predestined for
each other. I still think so.
Lucretia has a relative here, an aunt, member of the court set. Old
Countess Baranello delights in intrigue and hates Prince George. When I
told her of my affair, she placed her palace at our disposal, saying:
"Bielsk shall have a key to the garden gate and to the pavilion inside
the walls, which connects, through a subterranean passage, with my
sun-parlor. You can meet your love there any time. I will see to it that
none of the servants or workmen disturb you."
A capital arrangement, worthy of an old lady who has seen many gallant
days! There can be no possible objection to my visits at her palace, and
the grounds to which Romano has the _entree_ fronts on a street
unfrequented by society or carriages.
I descend from my carriage at the palace gate; a knot of people, a small
crowd, perhaps, collects to salute me and gape at the horses and livery.
I sweep up the stoop, lined by my own, and the Countess's, servants. The
bronze doors open. The Countess advances with stately curtsy; a few
words _sub rosa_, and I--fly into the arms of love, while faithful
Lucretia mounts guard at the street side, and Her Ladyship's spy glasses
cover the garden;--needless precautions, but----
It's rare fun, and, after all, where's the harm?
I made good as propagatrix of the royal race, and a union of soul such
as exists between me and Romano never entered into my relations with
Frederick Augustus.
Romano is very intelligent. I can learn from him; Frederick Augustus
taught me only coarseness, and if it came high, _double entendres_. Yet
my lover is only a Councillor of Legation! Because his superiors,
fearing his adroitness, keep him down.
My children! Have I ever been allowed to be a real mother to them? The
King, the nation, owns my little ones. I see them at stated intervals
for half an hour or so, and romp with them as I do with my dogs.
Still, I don't altogether approve of Louise, malicious girl! When I am
at the top-gallant of my happiness I sometimes say to myself: "Oh, if
only George could see me now!"
Naughty Louise--it's unworthy of thee. What do I care for George, what
do I care for the world?