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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
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