Matters were now hastening to a crisis.  Hopelessly in debt, scorned by his subjects, and hated by his wife, Milan’s plight was pitiful.  The scenes between the King and the Queen were becoming more violent and disgraceful every day.  “There was no peace anywhere, nor did anyone belonging to the Court enjoy a moment of tranquillity.”  So intolerable had life become that, early in 1887, Milan decided to dissolve his marriage; and it was only at the pleading of the Austrian Emperor that he consented to abandon this design, on condition that his wife left Servia; and thus it was that one day in April Queen Natalie left Belgrade, accompanied by her son “Sacha,” ostensibly that he might continue his education in Germany.

But, although husband and wife were thus at last separated, Milan’s resolve to divorce her remained firm.  “I have to inform you,” he wrote shortly after her departure, “that I have this day sent in my application to our Holy National Church for permission to dissolve our marriage.”  And that nothing might be lacking to Natalie’s suffering and humiliation, he sent General Protitsch to Wiesbaden with a peremptory demand that his son, “Sacha,” should return to Servia.

In vain did Natalie protest against both indignities.  Milan might divorce her; but at least he should not rob her of her son, the only solace left to her in life.  And when General Protitsch, seeing that milder measures were futile, gave orders for the Prince to be removed by force, the distracted mother flung one protecting arm round her boy; and, pointing a loaded pistol with the other, threatened to shoot dead the man who dared approach her.

Opposition, however, was futile; the following evening the boy-Prince was in his father’s arms, and the weeping mother was left disconsolate.  Thus robbed of her darling “Sacha,” it was not long before the second blow fell.  The divorce proceedings were rushed through the Synod.  A deaf ear was turned to Natalie’s petition to be allowed, at least, to defend herself in person; and on the 12th October, 1888, the “marriage between King Milan I. and Natalie, born Ketschko,” was formally dissolved.  Well might this most unhappy of Queens write, “The position is embittered by my conscience assuring me that I have neglected no duty, and that there is not a single action of my life which could be cited against me as a grave offence, or could put me to shame were it brought before the whole world.  My fate should draw tears from the very stones; but I do not ask for pity; I demand justice.”

If anything could have increased Milan’s unpopularity it was this brutal treatment of his Queen.  The very men who, at his coronation, had taken off their cloaks that he might walk on them, and the women who had kissed his garments, now hissed him in the streets of his capital.  In his own Court he had no friend except the infamous Christitch; the general hatred even took the form of repeated attempts on his life.  If he would save it, he realised he must abandon his crown; and one March morning in 1889, after informing his ministers of his intention to abdicate, he awoke his twelve-year-old son with the greeting, “Good morning, Your Majesty!” Milan was no longer King of Servia; his son, Alexander, reigned in his stead.