ike most royal palaces, ours at Dresden has a secret staircase and exit
for emergencies. It is never used by ladies; only the princes have
recourse to it, occasionally, to drop out of sight in _mufti_, for, of
course, royal incognito is more or less legitimate.

"In the evening, after our card party was over, Catherine was seen
to dismiss her court and retire to her private apartments with the
new favorite," say the Secret Memoirs of the Court of St.
Petersburg.

Less publicly, perhaps, but even more illegitimately, I walk the secret
staircase _en route_ for my lover whenever I please nowadays.

I go veiled and--make the Grand Mistress open the door for me. She knows
that I am on sweet pleasure bent and--smiles.

"When will Your Imperial Highness deign to return?"

I name the hour and she is there to receive me--smirking, blind, deaf
and dumb.

A foretaste of my queenship paradise! No one will boss me, no one will
dare talk about me, everything I do will be good, even sublime.

I made up my mind as to Frederick Augustus.

"Frederick Augustus," I will say to him, "now that we are King and
Queen, let's enjoy to the full the thing's emoluments; otherwise, what's
the use? You will allow me to go my way and I will certainly shut both
eyes as to your doings, even if you follow in the footsteps of your
namesake of the three-hundred-and-fifty-two."

Of course, I will say it differently, but my husband will understand.
The main thing: the royal family and court must stop hurling at me the
long, watery _haussez les mains_ of narrow-minded, provincial
inquisitiveness, which both oppresses and goads me.

Frederick Augustus has too much respect for the kingly dignity to impugn
his partner, the Queen.

Will I revive, then, the seraglios of the Russian Anns and Elizabeths,
or start a new _Parc aux Cerfs_ with strong men and Marathon winners for
inmates? Thank you, a miniature _Petit Trianon_ will be good enough for
me.

The Tisch entered a minute ago and respectfully remains at the door,
though she sees I am engaged on my Diary. I watch her in the mirror. She
would travel bare-foot to Kevlaar, of which Heinrich Heine sung, for a
glimpse of what I wrote. Her variegated grimaces give her the appearance
of a carved wooden devil, sprinkled with holy water.

At last I deign to inquire: "What is it, Baroness?"

"The Crown Prince wants to see Your Imperial Highness. May he come in?"

"Since when does my husb