eir beds May 29, 1903, ten years after the above was written.]

CHAPTER IX

LOVE-MAKING

The fascinating Baron--The man's audacity--Putting the question
boldly--Real love-making--_Risque_ 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 _roue_ 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