spy.

DRESDEN, _August 1, 1894_.

Prince George is planning a devilish revenge. He threatens to separate
me from my Secretary and confidante, little Baranello, whom I brought
with me from Salzburg. She is an Italian, and, unlike most of them, as
faithful as a dog. A connection of the Ruffo family, princes and dukes
that gave the world more than one pope, the small fry Saxon nobility
hate her, and George knows that he can't corrupt Lucretia by his paltry
presents and ridiculous condescension.

They would send her back to Salzburg, if they dared,--anyhow, Baroness
von Tisch is to be both Chief Mistress and confidential secretary. If
she died of the first confidence I make her, she wouldn't live five
minutes.

The King's House Marshal, Baron von Carlowitz, came to announce the
change to me, but I knew, of course, that it was George's doings.

"Tell Prince George," I said icily, "that I appreciate the fact of being
deprived of the services of an honest woman in favor of a spy."

I will "show" this Tisch woman, as my American friends say. Some three
years ago Emperor Francis Joseph appointed a spy as attendant to my
brother Leopold. Schoenstein, Baron or Count, was his name, I think.
Schoenstein would rather bear evil tales of his young master to his old
master than eat, and nothing would please him better than to meddle with
Leopold's correspondence.

He stole as many letters as he could lay his hands on. Fished them even
from slop-pails, or pieced together such as Leopold tore up and dropped
in the cuspidors. When brother observed this, he used to tear up bills
and the most innocent writings of his own and other people into little
bits and planted them in Schoenstein's hunting-grounds. Appropriate work
for a _lick-spittle_ to pull them out. But Leopold got tired of playing
with this vermin, and it tickled him to make an example of the scamp.
Hence, he allowed it to be observed by Schoenstein when he, Leopold,
locked a parcel of letters from his girl in the cash-box.

The toad-eating Schoenstein burned with desire to copy these letters and
send the transcript on to Emperor Francis Joseph. They would have made
interesting reading to my old uncle who has given up cracking nuts since
his teeth fell out. There is Kati Schratt, you say. Pshaw, Kati is as
old, or nearly as old, as his Majesty and she isn't a Ninon de l'Enclos
by any means.

To cut a long story short, Schoenstein could see but one way for getting