Henry W. Fischer

The fascinating Baron—The man's audacity—Putting the question boldly—Real love-making—RisquÉ stories for royalty.

Castle Wachwitz, May 1, 1893.

I am in love but, like a prudent virgin, I admitted the fact to myself only shortly before we departed for Salzburg. After I put several hundred miles between me and my fascinating Baron, all's well again.

My first love, and it was the man's audacity that won the day!

Imagine an Imperial Highness, decidedly attractive, eighteen, and no tigress by any means, wheeling at the side of a mere lieutenant who has nothing but his pay to bless himself with and nothing but good looks to recommend him. And, as before stated, he wasn't even my style.

Anna pedalled ahead some twenty-five paces; our ladies wheezed and snorted that many behind. This devil of a lieutenant took a chance.

"Imperial Highness," he commenced, "I wager you don't know what love is."

It was the one theme I was aching for, scenting, as I did, the odor of forbidden things. Never before had I the opportunity.

"R-e-a-l love," he insisted.

"Do you blame me?" I asked, vixen-like. "Would be a poor specimen of Guard officer who didn't know more about real love than a mere girl of eighteen and a princess at that."

"Will your Imperial Highness allow me to explain?" This, oh so insinuatingly, from the gay seducer.

"Why not?" I asked, with the air of a rouÉ and hating myself for blushing like a poppy—I felt it.

"Charmed to enlighten you—with your Imperial Highness's permission," whispered the Baron, his knee crowding mine as he drew nearer on his wheel.

"Explain away."

"Not until I have your Imperial Highness's express command and your promise not to get angry if I should offend."

Anna, always an enfant terrible and invariably in the way, was waiting for us in the shadow of a tree and now rode by the Baron's side. She had evidently heard part of our conversation.

"Permission and pardon granted beforehand," she cried. "Go ahead."

The Baron looked at me, and not to be outdone by the parcel of impudence in short petticoats, I said carelessly: "Oh, tell. I command."

The Baron began to stroke his moustache and then related a story of Napoleon and our ancestress Marie Louise, the Austrian Archduchess, not found in school books.

On the day before her entry into Paris, he 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 fÊte and at last, at nine o'clock in the evening, reached the palace of CompiÈgne. 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.