It is always a delicate matter for a foreigner to write about the
Sovereign of another country in such a way as to be acceptable to
his subjects. In case I, a citizen of the United States, should
unwittingly offend any English prejudices in the following narrative,
I can only assure my readers that I am actuated by no feeling
but that of the most sincere respect for the greatest of living
Sovereigns and the mighty people over whom he reigns.
In the summer of 1902 the whole world was dismayed by the news that
the Coronation of King Edward VII. had been postponed at the last
moment, on account of his Majesty’s grave state of health.
The Governments of the Continent, ever distrustful, and prone to
credit others with their own Machiavellian statecraft, eagerly asked
themselves if the official explanation of this event was genuine, or
whether it did not conceal some subtle political purpose.
As a result, I found myself commissioned by a certain great Power to
go over to London, and ascertain the true state of affairs.
Needless to say, my inquiries enabled me in a very short time to
report to my employers that their suspicions were groundless.
In the course of the brief investigation I was brought into personal
touch with a man of high rank, occupying a confidential position
in the Royal Household--the Marquis of Bedale. The manner in which
I carried out my delicate mission caused Lord Bedale to compliment
me highly upon my courage and discretion, and I have every reason
to think that his lordship spoke in favourable terms of me to his
exalted master.
Before I left England I was surprised and gratified to receive a
request from Lord Bedale to wait upon him in his private apartment in
Buckingham Palace, on confidential business.[1]
His lordship received me in the friendliest fashion, and talked to me
quite freely.
‘Let me begin,’ he said, ‘by asking you for your frank opinion on our
Secret Service.’
‘The Secret Service of Great Britain is the most scrupulously
conducted in the world,’ I replied discreetly.
Lord Bedale gave me a queer smile.
‘That means, I suppose, that it is the most inefficient?’ he
suggested.
‘It is the worst paid,’ I said, by way of extenuation. ‘I have
heard that the total amount voted for this purpose by the British
Parliament is only £40,000, but that sounds incredible.’
‘I am afraid it is not far from the truth,’ Lord Bedale answered. ‘We
have acted in the belief that the British Empire was too strong to
care about what its enemies were planning.’
‘I should think the Boer War must have made you realise that such a
policy was not the cheapest in the long run,’ I ventured to remark.
‘It has shown _me_ so, at all events,’ he answered, ‘and possibly
some others. You will not offend me in the least, Monsieur V----, if
you tell me plainly that you consider our Intelligence Department the
weakest branch of our Foreign Service, and utterly unworthy of an
Empire with such world-wide interests as ours.’
I was obliged to admit that such was my opinion. His lordship
proceeded.
‘This state of things constitutes a national danger. In a country
like ours, run on democratic lines, it is almost hopeless to look to
Parliament for any improvement. The only remedy is for some one who
has the interests of his country at heart to supplement the work of
the public service by a private intelligence department conducted at
his own expense, just as in the case of a newspaper proprietor.’
I gave the speaker a quick glance of interrogation. I happened to
be aware that the Marquis, in spite of his high rank, was not a
very wealthy man, and it was therefore clear to me that he was not
speaking of himself.
‘Such a person as you describe would, indeed, deserve well of his
country,’ was all I thought it prudent to say.
‘I shall be glad if you will consider me as the person concerned,’
Lord Bedale said in a tone which warned me that I was on delicate
ground. ‘I have sent for you to ask if you will accept a commission
from me to act as a Secret Service agent in the interests of Great
Britain.’
I hesitated. It is my fixed rule to deal only with principals, and I
could not escape the conclusion that Lord Bedale was merely the agent
of another.
‘Will you let me ask your lordship one question?’ I said. ‘Do you
offer me this commission as a private citizen solely, or am I at
liberty to infer, from your position in the Royal Household, that you
have no concealments from the exalted personage you serve, and that
by accepting your offer I shall, in effect, be serving his Majesty?’
The Marquis studied my face carefully before answering.
‘It seems to me that such an inference is right and natural, and one
that you are bound to make,’ he said slowly.
‘Then I shall feel highly honoured by accepting,’ I returned, bowing.
The question of terms was disposed of to our mutual satisfaction.
I came away from the Palace filled with reverence for the monarch
who, unless I were completely deceived, had decided to contribute
out of his private purse to the defence of the great Empire whose
politicians were so neglectful of its safety.
On my return to Paris I set to work to organise a special department
for the purpose of collecting intelligence likely to be of importance
to the British Empire.
I was amused to find that several of the secret agents in the service
of the British Foreign Office were receiving much larger salaries
from the Russian Government than from the one they were supposed to
act for. Among other similar discoveries my agents reported to me
that a certain British Vice-Consul in the Euphrates Valley, a Greek
by extraction, had secretly taken out letters of naturalisation as a
German subject. It was on this man’s recommendation chiefly that the
British Government had been induced to give its countenance to the
project for a German railway to Baghdad.
I duly forwarded this and other items to Lord Bedale, but I could not
perceive that any notice was taken of them by the Foreign Office.
Probably the permanent staff resented the idea that they were being
checked and inspected, and determined to show that they were not
going to let even their monarch interfere with them.
But all this was merely preliminary. I was on the eve of a discovery
of so much moment that I have often asked myself since whether, but
for me, the British Empire would be in existence to-day.
Newspaper readers may recollect that not very long ago a sharp
passage of words took place between a German Minister and an English
statesman whom I will not indicate more closely in the present
excited state of party politics. Although in appearance but a quarrel
of Ministers, it was perfectly well understood on the Continent that
the Count von Bülow was only the mouthpiece of his Imperial master
on this occasion. Europe gasped at the spectacle of this political
thunderstorm, in which the lurking hatred of Germany towards England
was for the first time brought to the surface, and exposed.
I knew the character of both of these formidable peoples too well
to believe that the incident would have no after effects. As by the
glare of a lightning-flash, there stood revealed before me the
figures of the two great protagonists, contending together for the
mastery in a war raging over three continents.
Very soon after Lord Bedale, or whoever stood behind him, had
confided the safety of Great Britain to my care, I repaired in
disguise to Berlin. My instinct taught me that this capital was the
true storm-centre, and that from here, rather than St. Petersburg,
would be directed the designs of any really dangerous movement
against the country of Edward VII.
My first visit after my arrival was paid to the Director of the
Imperial Secret Service, my old friend Finkelstein. I felt it would
be impossible for me to remain long in the German capital without my
presence becoming known to this astute chief of police, and I deemed
it the most prudent course to throw him off his guard at the outset.
I caused myself to be announced as Father d’Aurignac, of the Order
of the Assumptionists. My assumed character completely imposed on
Finkelstein, and I opened the conversation by saying--
‘I have come here in consequence of the persecution of the Order
now being carried on by the French Republic. We are obliged to seek
other homes, it being impossible for us to remain in France. A large
number of houses have been transferred to England, but my brethren
and I detest that country so much that we wish to settle in Germany
instead. I have been deputed to ascertain what treatment we are
likely to receive at the hands of the authorities.’
‘That is not in my department,’ Finkelstein answered. ‘You should
apply to the Minister of the Interior.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ I returned smoothly. ‘I do not doubt that
we shall be permitted to settle here. The question is, how much
independence we shall enjoy from police supervision. In France we
were always able to maintain exceedingly friendly relations with the
police. We are, of course, a very wealthy Order.’
Finkelstein’s eyes sparkled. I knew that he was in receipt of a
secret pension from the exiled claimant to the throne of a State
annexed by Prussia in 1866. It was evident that he was perfectly
ready to do business.
‘You will find that the Berlin police exercise the greatest tact
towards communities of high character like yours,’ he said eagerly.