ust bear like any other "royal cow."

Gradually, very gradually, she got over her disappointment and shyness,
developing into a cunning, world-wise woman. Then came the man she was
bound to love, even as the violet is bound to be kissed by the sun. She
had no scruples about accepting him, thinking herself entitled to
compensation for the sorrows of her married life. And revenge is sweet.

The Duke found them out in the first month of their young love, walked
into her boudoir one fine afternoon and remarked casually that none of
his hats would fit him,--"on account of the horns you kindly planted on
my forehead."

Marie was more dead than alive when he asked her for the key of her
writing desk. She lied and lied; to no purpose.

He kicked open the writing desk, and with his iron fists broke the
shelves and pigeon holes, laying bare a secret drawer and stacks of love
letters it shielded. These he confiscated. Then locked himself into his
room to enjoy his disgrace. This monster is a _Masochist_ and Sadist
combined. He loves both to inflict suffering upon himself and upon
others.

What monsters royalties be!

In the meanwhile Marie experienced all the tortures of purgatory; she
thought of flight, of suicide. Before she could indulge in either her
husband was back: Othello in the last act.

Marie was frightened stiff, her brain a whirl, her limbs inert. Rape
most foul this crowned satyr committed. "He fell upon me as a pack of
hounds overwhelm a hunted, wounded she-stag," she said.

Afterwards he commanded her to describe minutely every detail of her
relations with the other. He was primed with the letter-accounts; he
made her dot her amorous I's and cross her bawdry T's. And every attempt
at omission he punished with kicks and cuffs; no drayman or brick-layer
could give a more expert exhibition of woman-beating! And he violated
her again.

This was the beginning of a series of outrages of the same gross
character. Marie suffered for years and years that His Royal Highness
may gratify his unclean fancies: he the pander; she the Cyprian.

"If I ceased having lovers, I think he would kill me," says Marie.

Alas, such is the stuff "God's Anointed" are made of! In the face of
such, we pronounce a hypocritical _j'accuse_ upon the Louis's and
Pompadours, upon Marie Antoinette even.

The Duchess, who knows, gave Ferdinand an apartment near my own. We are
living here like man and wife. He sometimes calls me "_Frau Pro