l 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."

* * * * *