When his sword was finally sheathed, if not with honour, he returned to Belgrade to resume his gambling, his dallyings with fair women—­and his daily quarrels with his Queen, whose bitterness absence had done nothing to assuage.  So far from Natalie’s spirit being crushed, it was higher and prouder than ever.  She would die before she would yield; but she was in no mood to die, this autocratic, fiery-tempered, strong-willed daughter of Russia.  She gave literally a “striking” proof of the spirit that was in her at the Easter reception of 1886, when the wife of a Greek diplomat—­a beautiful woman, to whom her husband had been more than kind—­presented herself smilingly to receive the “salute courteous” from Her Majesty.  With a look of scorn Natalie coolly surveyed her rival from head to foot; and then, in the presence of the Court, gave her a resounding slap on the cheek.

But the Grecian lady was only one of many fair women who basked successively (or together) in Milan’s favour.  A much more formidable rival was Artemesia Christich, a woman as designing as she was lovely, who was quick to envelop the weak King in the toils of her witchery.  Not content with his smiles and favours she aspired to take Natalie’s place as Queen of Servia; and, it is said, had extorted from him a promise that he would make her his Queen as soon as his existing marriage tie could be dissolved.  And to this infamous compact Artemesia’s husband, a man as crafty and unscrupulous as herself, consented, in return for his promotion to certain high and profitable offices in the State.

In vain did the Emperor and the Crown Prince of Austria, with many another high-placed friend, plead with Milan not to commit such a folly.  He was driven to distraction between such powerful appeals and the allurement of the siren who had him so effectually under her spell, until in his despair he entertained serious thoughts of suicide as escape from his dilemma.  Meanwhile, we are told, “a perfect hell” raged in the castle; each day brought its scandalous scene between his outraged Queen and himself.  His unpopularity with his subjects became so acute that he was hissed whenever he made his appearance in the streets of his capital; and Artemesia was obliged to have police protection to shield her from the vengeance of the mob.

As for Natalie, this crowning injury decided her to bear her purgatory no longer.  She would force her husband to abdicate and secure her own appointment as Regent for her son; or, failing that, she would leave her husband and seek an asylum out of Servia.  And with the object of still further embittering his subjects against the King she made the full story of her injuries public, and enlisted the sympathy, not only of Milan’s most powerful ministers, but of the entire country.

“The castle is in utter confusion,” wrote an officer of the Belgrade garrison, in October, 1886.  “The King looks ill, and as if he never slept.  Poor fellow! he flies for refuge to us in the guard-house, and plays cards with the officers.  Card-playing is his worst enemy.  He loves it passionately, and plays excitedly and for high points—­and he always loses.”