nection with the case, was in reality the proprietor of the white villa, then occupied by the Crown Prince Frederick. It was she who had furnished it, arranged it, and engaged and trained the admirably discreet corps of servants and attendants that surrounded the sick Prince. It was she who had daily access to the interior of the Imperial habitation, and who was consulted hourly, day and night, as to what had best be done or left undone. It was she whom Prince William had visited during his stay of two days at San Remo, and to whom as a token of gratitude and friendship he had given his autographed photograph. Naturally, she knew the truth about the San Remo tragedy; and there, in her parlor, she gave us all the details.

The white villa was indeed the scene of a terrible drama. The sick man had brought with him a suite of German doctors, among whom was Professor Bergmann, and English doctors, the most prominent of whom was Sir Morell Mackenzie. And between these physicians the quarrel was almost tragic in its intensity. The English doctors accused Professor Bergmann of inefficiency; and the Germans accused Sir Morell Mackenzie of speculating in the Stock Exchange on the ups and downs of the Crown Prince's malady. The servants and attendants, who were all either German or English, reflected the dissension that reigned among the physicians. Not a moment of peace reigned between the parties. The struggle was silent but cruel. The two camps attacked and dishonored each other at every turn. They quarreled over everything. The sick man said nothing. He contented himself with gazing quietly upon the Princess, his wife, with his soft eyes, and looking to her for aid with tender confidence. He did not see save through her eyes, nor speak except through her lips. As she had placed all her confidence in the English physicians, he too placed his confidence there; and he often repeated to Sir Morell Mackenzie: "I ask but one thing, that you keep me alive long enough to permit me to give her courage and her devotion a proper recompense."

On November 9, 1887, at about 6.30 in the morning, he, who several months later became William II, got off the train at San Remo. The local authorities, Prince Henry of Prussia, and the

aides-de-camp of the Crown Prince Frederick, met him at the station. With his usual spontaneity, Prince Henry rushed forward to throw himself into the arms of his older brother, as he had not seen him for some weeks. Prince William stopped this fraternal gesture with his usual vainglorious pride. He showed himself proud, official, and hierarchic. In one minute everybody present understood that it was the master of the morrow who had arrived and that the man who had descended from the train was not a devoted child who was anxious to see his sick father, but a visitor who merely desired to see the progress of events for himself. When he arrived at the villa, he was ushered into the sick-room, and remained with his father about ten minutes, showing himself deferential but cold. He then announced: "I want to see the doctors."

He called them into conference and, after listening to the explanations of Sir Morell Mackenzie with indifference, and to those made by the German physicians with interest, he concluded the discussion brusquely: "If my father is suffering from a cancer in the throat," he declared, "it is something that never relents. He cannot survive."

That afternoon he took a walk with his brother and sisters, Prince Henry, Princess Victoria, then engaged to Prince Alexander of Battenberg, and Princess Sophie, now Queen of Greece. He walked in front of them, as if he were alone and his companions were but his simple servitors. At times he turned to them and spoke with brief brusqueness in jerky, impatient expletives. He was particularly exalted and animated as he spoke of Bismarck. The name fell ceaselessly from his lips. He professed a profound admiration for the Iron Chancellor, and praised everything he did. He was a great patriot, a grand diplomat, a splendid orator, a wonderful economist, and even an excellent general; he was force personified; he knew everything. "Our mother," he said, "has shown herself strangely shortsighted in placing English science above German science, which Bismarck, who is never mistaken, has placed above all the others." The following day, German science had spoken! At a medical council held under the presidency of Prince William, which lasted two hours, the German doctors had triumphed in

their views. They claimed that the Crown Prince suffered from a cancer in the throat, and that it was necessary to perform the operation of tracheotomy. At the same time that this grave decision had been taken, Prince William announced that he would leave the following day, November 12, at 9 o'clock in the morning. He thus stayed with his dying father but forty-eight hours.

That evening he visited Mme. Zirio in her small villa, near that where his father lay in agony, and at the same time gave her the autographed photo that we had seen in her parlor.

"Your leaving so soon," Mme. Zirio remarked, "is very reassuring. It no doubt means that the condition of the Crown Prince is better, and that the consultation at which you presided this morning was favorable."

The Prince looked at her sternly, and replied in a hard voice: "Not at all. My father, as was already foreseen when I left Berlin, is lost. His trouble, according to the doctors, is absolutely cancerous. His death is a question of several weeks— perhaps days. I am leaving because there is nothing more to be hoped for in prolonging my visit. The Emperor, my grandfather, is very weak. The Czar is coming to Berlin, and my presence there is indispensable. I trust that I shall still have time to come back here." There was silence. Finally, Mme. Zirio asked: "Will your Highness permit me to say, 'Au revoir, Emperorto-be'?" "Certainly," he replied; adding: “But, you know that I, when I shall be Emperor-I shall be Emperor." He then left, and the next day quit San Remo.

At 11 o'clock in the morning of February 9, 1888, the Crown Prince and Princess entered an open carriage for a short drive along the coast. Dr. Mackenzie and Dr. Bramann, aide to Dr. Bergmann, were standing in the doorway to aid the sick man. The Crown Prince was very pale, almost as white as a sheet. As a blanket was being placed over his knees, he put his hand to his throat and murmured: "I am suffering horribly."

Doctor Mackenzie looked at Dr. Bramann and made a sign to the coachman to wait. "This drive is an imprudence," he remarked. "It will be better for the Prince to re-enter." Then turning to Dr. Bramann, he whispered: "We must decide at once. It may be too late to-morrow. We must operate to-day."

"But," Dr. Bramann objected, "my chief, Professor Bergmann, isn't here. I can never take the responsibility for this operation on myself."

"Well!" Dr. Mackenzie exclaimed, "I'll take the responsibility. We shall operate this afternoon."

The Crown Prince threw aside the blanket that covered his knees, and stepped out of the carriage. He was then helped to his room. An iron bed was brought up, and the head-bar was broken in order that it might not be in the way. The bed was placed in the middle of the room, a red cushion was put on the pillows, and the instruments were prepared for the operation. Calm and energetic, the Crown Princess witnessed all these preparatives.

"I don't want anything said regarding the operation," she ordered. "At one o'clock I want all to be at the table as usual.'

Her orders were carried out to the letter, and at one o'clock, all except the doctors were at the table, knowing nothing regarding the impending operation.

At the same time, Dr. Mackenzie asked Dr. Bramann: "Are you ready?"

"Yes," the latter replied.

The operation began; and three-quarters of an hour later, the door of the dining room opened, and the Crown Princess, a bit pale, appeared in the doorway, and exclaimed: "It is over! Fritz has the tube in his throat."

After that day, the Crown Prince no longer spoke. Inarticulate sounds came from his mouth; and when he wanted to express his desires he was obliged to write them out on a piece of paper. The Princess redoubled her tender and devoted care of the sick man. A sort of fever kept her going continually. She remained beside the bed of her sick husband day and night. It was only at dawn, in the dim light of early morning, that the little door that opened on the garden saw the exit of a woman, whose heavy veil hardly hid her eyes red with weeping, and features contracted under the strain of continual mental agony. It was the Crown Princess who took the moment for exercise, while the doctors were changing the bandages and continued their arguments over the sick man.

At eight o'clock she was back, tired and dusty, and from that moment she did not quit her husband's bedside. She tried to endow him with her energy and force. She prolonged the resistance of his body by strengthening his soul. She had but one idea, but one thought—that the dying man might mount the steps of the throne. She wanted him to live long enough to be something else than merely Crown Prince Frederick.

And she succeeded!

On March 8, 1888, while I was sitting in Mme. Zirio's parlor, listening to her story of the tragedy, of which each word still sounds in my ears, a theatrical climax occurred. The parlor door was suddenly opened, and a servant rushed in all out of breath, "Madame!" she exclaimed. "Do you know the news?" "No," she replied, astonished at the sudden irruption. "What is it?"

"We received it from the White Villa," the girl continued. "The old Emperor is dead. A grand scene is taking place next to us!"

The three of us left for the White Villa at once. Night had fallen. We entered the big parlor on the ground floor, which was brilliantly lighted up, and where the entire household, now become Imperial, were gathered. Doctors, aides-de-camp, ladiesin-waiting, and servants, were all placed according to rank and honor, forming a circle. In the middle sat the man who was to be Emperor and the woman who was to be Empress.

At this solemn hour, Frederick William was as handsome as in the days of his youth. I still see his tall figure, his calm face framed by a silver beard, his sad blue eyes, and his melancholy smile. A black scarf was thrown about his neck, hiding the tube that had been placed in his throat.

He approached a small table in the middle of the room with a firm and steady step, and wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, which an officer read aloud. It was the official announcement of the death of Kaiser William I, and his own accession to the throne as Kaiser Frederick III. The new Kaiser then approached the Kaiserin and made a deep and reverent bow, as if he would pay homage to her valiant courage, and with a grave and tender gesture passed about her neck the ribbon of the Black Eagle.