THE NEW LOVER, AND "I PLAY THE HUSSY FOR FAIR"
Who is that most exquisite _Vortaenzer_?--A lovely boy--"Blush, good
white paper"--I long for Henry--My eyes reflect love--"I must see
you tonight. Arrange with Lucretia"--Sorry I ever loved a man before
Henry--Poetry even--I try to get him an office at court--Afraid
women will steal him.
PILLNITZ, _September 5, 1900_.
Dance at the royal summer residence. Concentrated _ennui_ as a rule, but
a complete success this time.
I have seen Him,--capital "H." He is the one man for me.
I am happy; I am myself again. All sorrows are forgotten. I am ten years
younger.
Love at first sight. I the aggressor. I must be getting very clever
since I managed to hide it from hundreds of searching eyes, even from my
entourage.
"Lucretia," I whispered breathlessly to my confidante, "find out the
name of the _Vortaenzer_, quick."
The _Vortaenzer_, at royal courts, is a sort of official master of the
dance, who sets the pace for the company, combining the duties of
master of ceremonies and of dancing master.
The more I looked at the _Vortaenzer_, the more he enchanted me. Taller
than any other man present, elegant, blonde, clean-shaven. Not an ounce
of superfluous flesh, I judged. Might be the reincarnation of the _Duc_
de Richelieu, who seduced my three cousins d'Orleans.
His face is livid with white and carmine tints; his eyes glow with an
irresistible charm. That figure of his! The elegance of the palm tree,
both straight and flexible. And the infinity of grace as he waltzed that
little Baroness around.
"Baron Bergen, of the Guards," breathed Lucretia into my ear.
"My Master of Ceremony will command Baron Bergen at the end of this
dance."
When he stood before me, bowing and smiling, the idea that he was
Richelieu reincarnated became almost a certainty with me.
Like Richelieu, his face has the refinement that we admire in women (I
forgot to say that I became infatuated with him merely from seeing a
back view of the man. When he turned around, I was lost).
While he chanted the usual compliments, my eyes hung upon his cherry
lips, reveled in his white, strong teeth. The man I want. I say it
without shame, without care.
Blush, good, white paper! I am giving an account of my feelings, and if
they be impure, there's something wrong with nature.
Even as I write, I tremble with longing, with desire for Henry.
Ten days since we first met. It might have been this morning, so lively
and overwhelming is the recollection. I am impatient for his kisses, for
his blonde loveliness, for his whole self,--just as if we hadn't loved
and kissed scarce an hour ago.
"My horse, Lucretia. We'll go for a canter. I must have air and plenty
of it."
* * * * *
PILLNITZ, _September 10, 1900_.
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.
I am racking my brains for a pretense to have him appointed to court
duty,--anything to give him the _entree_ to my apartments. But he is far
too beautiful. The sanctimonious cats that envy me my happiness, that
look upon love as a crime, would at once combine to destroy him.
Well, we'll have to bear with the difficulties of the situation forced
upon us by these moral busy-bodies. As for me, I'll be thrice careful,
for if He was taken away from me, all the joy would go out of my life.