Dust had once more been thrown into the eyes of Europe.
Weeks had gone by, spring came, and the Roman season was on the wane.
The month of May--the Primavera--with all its blossoms and ceremonies
had opened.
As far as the world knew not a cloud obscured the political horizon. In
the chancelleries of Europe there were no sinister whispers, in the
Embassies they danced and dined, the Archduke Francis Ferdinand had made
a placid speech from the Throne, and Count Berchtold had declared the
foreign policy of Austria-Hungary unchanged, and further, that the
changes in the Near East had created new interests common to the Dual
Monarchy and to Italy, and that their policy was leading them together
along the path of co-operation, and also that their attitude towards
each other tended to preserve the peace of Europe and to assure freedom
and equilibrium in the Adriatic.
It is always so. The calm is followed by the storm. At Vienna they
were secretly completing their plans for a sudden coup against their
neighbours, yet the true facts were known only in our own Intelligence
Department in Whitehall, and the information had in turn been sent in a
cipher dispatch to the Embassy in Rome.
It was this dispatch which the Ambassador, receiving it one evening from
the hand of the King's messenger, who had brought it in hot haste direct
from Downing Street, passed over to Hubert to decipher.
The information was highly alarming, to say the least.
The British secret agent--a responsible Austrian official in the
Ministry of War--reported that the great army massed in the Tyrol for
manoeuvres was being kept there. A secret order had been issued to the
Eighth, Tenth, and Thirteenth Army Corps to concentrate from the
Adriatic across to the Danube, and at the same time the Ministry of
Marine had issued orders to the navy recalling the Adriatic fleet which
had been manoeuvring between Cattaro and Ragusa up to Trieste.
The wireless stations at Sebenico and Pola had been taken over by the
navy, and operators placed there sent expressly from the Ministry of
Marine in Vienna.
All tended to a secret attack--to war--a war in Europe with
dreadnoughts, high explosives, aeroplanes, seaplanes, submarines, and
wireless conditions never before imagined either in the wildest dreams
of novelists or the ever-active brains of place-seeking party
politicians.
Preparations were slowly but surely being made in Vienna, and the blow
would surely soon be struck.
For an hour Waldron remained in consultation with his Chief. Then,
regardless of Downing Street regulations, and only hoping to prevent the
conflagration, he went back to his rooms on the ground floor of the
Embassy, scribbled a hasty copy of the secret information, and with it
walked direct to the Quirinale.
Events would, he saw, very soon be moving fast.
About six o'clock he entered the private room of the Minister of the
Royal Household, that cosy, well-remembered apartment in which Ghelardi
had discovered him on his knees beside Her Royal Highness. The Minister
himself was not in, but his secretary went immediately along to the
private apartments and asked His Majesty for audience on Waldron's
behalf.
The request was immediately granted, and he was at once shown up the
long corridor, past the sentries guarding the door leading to the royal
apartments, and on into the King's private cabinet, where His Majesty,
plainly dressed in dark blue serge--for he discarded uniform whenever he
could--stood eagerly awaiting him.
"Well, Waldron?" he exclaimed, stretching out his hand warmly, "I've
been expecting you for days. Anything to report--eh?"
For answer his visitor drew out the rough memorandum from his pocket,
and after brief explanation regarding its source, proceeded to read it.
His Majesty's handsome, clear-cut face fell. He grew pale, but remained
silent till the end.
Then with his hands behind his back, he strode slowly across the soft
carpet to the heavily curtained window and back again.
Twice he paced the room in silence.
"Strange, Waldron!" he said, pausing and standing before the diplomat.
"Very strange that you get this information, yet Ghelardi is in
ignorance of what is happening?"
"He may not deem it wise to report to Your Majesty," Hubert suggested.
"Wise!" he echoed. "In the interests of the country's safety it is his
first duty! He reports to me sufficient regarding trivial matters--the
irresponsible vagaries of my niece, Lola, and things of that sort. Yet
he knows nothing of what is in progress across the frontier," the King
cried in anger. "Again, he has discovered nothing regarding the theft
of those plans. If we could but find out the truth we might easily face
our friends in Vienna, and prevent this attack. Diplomacy could avert
the explosion even now, if we only knew the identity of the spy."
"I have made every inquiry, Your Majesty, but I have, alas! failed."
"I can only suppose that the conspiracy must have been formed in our own
camp," was the King's hard remark, and his visitor knew what was passing
in His Majesty's mind. Though Sovereign, he was not blind to the
corruptness of his Ministry. Yet, as monarch, his hands were, alas!
tied, or he would have long ago cleaned out the Augean stable.
For an hour he remained with the King, discussing the seriousness of the
international situation.
"Ah, Waldron," sighed His Majesty, as he stood before the fire, erect,
almost statuesque, his face pale and hard-set, "my people little know
how much responsibility rests upon me, or how heavy is the burden of my
duties towards my nation. During these past weeks I have slept but
little, and many a night have I passed in here alone, trying to devise
some scheme whereby to defeat this secret plot against us. I have
learnt how untiring have been your efforts to unravel the mystery of the
theft, and I also know that a dastardly attempt has been made upon your
life. I know how well and faithfully you have served me, even though I
am not your own King. I can only thank you most deeply. Your father
was my father's friend, and you are my friend."
"And I trust, even though I have failed to accomplish successfully the
mission entrusted to me, that Your Majesty will still allow me to be
your most faithful and devoted servant," he replied.
"I know you have done your very best, Waldron, and I highly appreciate
it," was the Sovereign's earnest reply. "Ah!" he sighed, "if we could
only discover the truth concerning those plans. Then, by prompt action,
we might save the situation. But alas! it is still a mystery."
"Has Your Majesty formed any theory?" Hubert asked, after a few
moments' hesitation.
"Only one--that Cataldi may have sought profit to himself."
Hubert Waldron nodded, but no word escaped him.
"But how can we prove it--how can we prove it?" the King said.
The Englishman shrugged his shoulders. He recollected that sum which
had come to the Minister from a mysterious source a few days after the
theft. But of that he made no mention to the King. It was, after all,
no proof. Only a suspicion.
Therefore, after yet another half an hour, he made his adieu, bowed as
he backed out of the room, and then walked home full of gravest
reflections.
That same evening he had promised to see off at the station by the Milan
express two English ladies who had been guests of Lady Cathcart at the
Embassy, and this he did, driving in the car with them, for the
Ambassador himself had to be present at an official dinner given by the
Minister of Foreign Affairs.
He had bidden the two ladies farewell and the train had moved out of the
station upon its long, northward journey when, just as he was about to
enter the Ambassador's car, standing in the piazza, he caught sight of a
familiar face--that of Henri Pujalet.
"Hallo?" he cried. "Why--you in Rome?"
"Yes. I arrived only this afternoon," responded Her Highness's lover,
halting and putting out his hand. He was well-dressed, though there
seemed to have been some slight attempt to disguise his features.
"Mademoiselle does not know I am here," he added, "so if you see her,
please do not mention this meeting. I shall not see her until the day
after to-morrow--when we have an appointment to meet."
"Very well," laughed Waldron, though, truth to tell, he was consumed by
jealousy. Then in reply to a question he told Waldron that he was
staying at the Hotel de Russie, out by the Porta del Popolo, to which
place Hubert gave him a lift, afterwards bidding him good evening and
driving back to the Embassy.
What further indiscretion, he wondered, was Lola about to commit.
His heart was bursting with unspoken love. Night after night he lay and
thought of her in wonder. Though she was in ignorance of it, she was
his all-in-all. Since he had been in Rome he had danced attendance upon
many women, as it was his duty as diplomat to do; he had laughed and
flirted, and danced and gossiped, and kissed many a woman's hand, but in
his heart he held them all in supreme indifference. His eyes and heart
were only gladdened when Her Royal Highness, the scandalously skittish
and unconventional, chanced to be present. This was fortunately often
the case, and frequently he found himself in cosy corners or in
conservatories with her as she whispered merrily behind her fan.
This Frenchman, Pujalet, still knew her by the name she had used in her
incognita in Egypt--Lola Duprez. Where, he wondered, would they hold
their secret meeting?
He bit his lip in mad jealousy as there arose before his eyes a vision
of that far-off oasis of dark palms, the steely sky with the bright
stars shining, and of two figures clasped breast to breast.
Peters, as he entered his room, placed the evening paper before him.
Taking it up mechanically he saw a heading: "Boots for the Army," and
read as follows:
"It has just transpired, telegraphs our Berlin correspondent, that the
tender for the supply of all boots to the Italian Army for the next
three years has been secured by the well-known firm of Steinberg and
Klein, of Friedenau, near Berlin. It will be remembered that last year
they also secured the contract for supplying tinned meats and leather
accoutrements for the expedition to Tripoli. The contract was signed by
His Excellency General Cataldi some weeks ago, but has not been made
public until to-day. The prices quoted by the English and French firms
were lower, but His Excellency, after various tests, decided that the
quality of the goods offered by the German firm was distinctly better."
Waldron, with bitter words upon his lips, cast the journal from him
viciously.
A letter he opened was from Beatriz, dated from Moscow. She was having
a brilliant success at the Opera there, she said. When could they meet?
He tore it into small fragments and cast it into the wastepaper-basket.
All thought of the handsome dancer who had used him merely as a
stepping-stone to fame had now passed from him. He only remembered her
with a feeling of poignant bitterness.
Upon the mantelshelf a large, imposing card of invitation caught his
eye. Peters sorted them out, and day by day placed them in that
conspicuous spot so that he might be reminded of his engagements.
The presence of the Honourable Hubert Waldron, M.V.O., was requested
that night by His Excellency General Cataldi at an official reception at
the Ministry of War.
He smiled. Cataldi, the unscrupulous, corrupt member of the Cabinet,
who was feathering his nest so comfortably, had, perhaps, hired those
two assassins to take his life. And he was invited to his reception.
The situation was not without its grim humour.
Yes, he would go. He would watch further this man who was providing the
brave, patriotic sons of Italy with uneatable beef and unwearable boots,
in order that the Countess Cioni should be provided with funds.
He rung up Pucci on the telephone, telling him where he was going.
"You have entree to the Ministry, Pucci, have you not?"
He heard the detective reply in the affirmative.
"I may want you. So go there."
"I cannot go as guest, signore," came the reply. "I will arrange, if
you wish, to be on duty as a servant."
"Good. And be as near His Excellency's private room as possible. I
will meet you there at midnight and give you instructions. The
reception is at eleven--after the banquet at the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs. His Majesty will, no doubt, be there, and other members of the
Royal Family."
"_Benissimo, signore_, I shall be in the corridor at midnight, acting as
waiter."
Then Hubert rang off, and passing into his bedroom, got into uniform
with the aid of the queer, under-sized, hunch-backed little man who, for
so many years, had been his faithful servant, and whose father before
him had been valet to Hubert's father.
At eleven o'clock Waldron stood before the long cheval glass arranging
his tight uniform collar. Then he placed his decorations exactly at the
right angle, settled the hang of his pearl-handled diplomatic sword, and
took his white gloves from Peters' hand.
His face was dark and clouded. On the one hand he had no desire to meet
the corrupt Minister who was bringing disaster and defeat upon his
country, while on the other he knew that his Chief expected him to turn
up there and be on show, as is the duty of those attached to the
Embassies.
His Majesty, too, would be there. What, in face of those words of his
concerning His Excellency, could he think? Truly, the head upon which
lies a crown must, indeed, be very weary. How little does the general
public know of that narrow, glittering, fevered world which, in every
capital, surrounds a throne--that world where place-seekers intrigue,
where money brings power, where morality is so often scoffed at as
antiquated and out-of-date, and where the true, honest love of man and
woman is forbidden because of rank and blood.
How little do the readers of our daily Press ever dream of the many
bitter romances of love that are to-day being enacted beneath the
shadows of the thrones of Europe, for the social columns tell nothing
save what those mentioned desire that the world shall know, while the
scandals which find their way into print are only the sordid ones. How
little, indeed, do the public dream of the hearts which lie broken near
the thrones of Europe, of the mad passion, of the steel fetters of
royalty, or of the true, honest affection of those beyond the pale. It
is only when there is a morganatic marriage, or when a Prince or
Princess of the blood-royal renounces their royal rights that that
public pause for a second to reflect. And then, alas! they too often
put it down to mental derangement.
But the public are in ignorance of the world behind the walls of the
royal palace, the pomp, the splendour, the officialdom, and, alas! the
constant intrigue.
Only those in the immediate entourage of the Sovereign and the diplomat
know the truth. And, after all, it is that little fevered world of its
own which rules the greater world outside. And so the Powers of Europe
struggle on, one against the other, for wealth and supremacy.
At eleven o'clock Hubert Waldron's taxi drove into the great courtyard
of the Ministry of War, that huge, handsome building at the other end of
the Via Venti Settembre to where the British Embassy was situated.
As he descended, the sentries, noticing his uniform, saluted, and
returning their salute, he entered the great vestibule, threw his cloak
to one of the gorgeously dressed flunkeys, and with his cocked hat
tucked beneath his arm made his way up the great red-carpeted staircase
to the first floor where the reception was being held.
As he went up he could hear the tuneful strains of dance music being
played above by one of the military bands, bright military uniforms were
everywhere, the place, usually so dark and sombre, had been adorned by
flowers and palms, and was now brilliantly lit by festoons of coloured
electric lamps.
Italy, _par excellence_ the country of the British tourist, has its
charm even in its officialdom.
At the top of the staircase stood the Minister himself, His Excellency
General Cataldi, resplendent in his brilliant, gold-laced uniform,
glittering with decorations, saluting as he received his guests.
Hubert smiled bitterly within himself. He recollected that last
occasion when, after travelling many miles, he had seen him driving to
the Univers at Tours, and remembered the subsequent conversation when he
had accepted the bribe to place brown-paper boots upon the feet of the
Italian Army.
He saw that His Excellency wished to behave with great cordiality as he
passed. But he merely drew himself up, saluted, and passed on along the
corridor.
A second later he found himself face to face with the detective, Pucci,
who, in plain evening-clothes as a waiter, came up and bowed, and then,
with darkly knit brows, motioned that he desired most anxiously to speak
with him.