said, and when they were
destined to meet for the first time, Napoleon waylaid his bride-to-be at
Courcelles and without ceremony entered her carriage. They rushed past
villages, through towns _en fete_ and at last, at nine o'clock in the
evening, reached the palace of Compiegne. There the Emperor cut short
the addresses of welcome, presentations and compliments, and taking
Marie Louise by the hand conducted her to his private apartments. Next
morning they had breakfast in bed. The marriage ceremony took place a
few days later.

"That's love," said the Baron, shooting significant glances at me.

"Henry _Quatre_ did the same to Marie de Medici--an Italian like you,
Imperial Highness."

Anna didn't know what to make of it, and as for me, my tongue stuck to
the roof of my mouth.

The impudent fellow seems to have misinterpreted our silence, for,
brazen like the _Duc de_ Richelieu, who boasted of sleeping in the beds
of queens, he continued:

"Catharine the Great, too, knew what love was. One fine afternoon when
she wasn't a day older than you, Imperial Highness, she looked out of
the window of her room at Castle Peterhof. In the garden below a
sentinel, very handsome, very Herculean, very brave, was pacing up and
down. Catharine, then Imperial Grand-duchess and only just married, made
a sign to the soldier. The giant, abandoning his rifle, jumped below the
window and Catharine jumped onto his shoulders from the second story.

"That's real love," concluded the Baron.

Anna got frightened and fled down the avenue, but I had the weakness to
remain at the Baron's side until we reached the palace.

Alas, Frederick Augustus wasn't as good a talker as the Baron.

[Illustration: FREDERICK AUGUSTUS, REIGNING KING OF SAXONY

Louise's Ex-Husband]

CHAPTER X

MY POPULARITY RENDERS GEORGE DYSPEPTIC

The Cudgel-Majesty--Prince George's intrigues--No four-horse coach
for Princess--Popular demonstration in my favor--"All-highest"
displeasure.

DRESDEN, _September 1, 1893_.

I haven't lived up to my promise to keep a daily record, or even a
weekly one. Those tales of my girlhood days disgusted me with diary
keeping as far as my early experiences at home went and I reflected that
many of the subsequent happenings in my life might be safer in the
shrine of memory, than spread over the pages of a blank-book, even
though no one sees it and I carry its golden key on a chain around my
neck.

We are