The Yard was an immobile sea of faces. As far as eye could reach,
soldiers were drawn up in close formation. It was clear that this was
no ceremonial parade. The men were in full marching order; their
field-kitchens were smoking in the background. They had the look of
troops equipped for action, expecting to take the offensive at any
moment. This much he saw as he was hurried into the Palace, before the
great doors clanged behind him.
He found himself on the threshold of a magnificence that he had not
imagined existed. Everywhere his eyes rested, they encountered riches
accumulated through the centuries. Pictures and tapestries gazed down on
him from the walls, chronicling the glory of the bygone Hapsburgs. Suits
of mail, gold-inlaid and gem-studded, stood like knights of old, leaning
on their swords. He followed his escort up a marble staircase, along
endless corridors, from which doors opened into silent apartments,
giving yet fresh vistas of royal splendors.
At last, in the far distance, the passage was blocked by a gigantic
figure that might have escaped from Grand Opera; it stood so stiff
and motionless that he mistook it for a wax-work. It was garbed as a
halberdier, in parti-colored hose and shining armor. Only when the eyes
moved did he realize that he was gazing at one of the Palace-guards.
When the password had been given, they were allowed to slip behind
a curtain. In the ante-room he was told to wait. His escort vanished
through the inner-doors. A moment later the doors reopened and his
escort beckoned.
He was aware of a blaze of light, lofty walls, tall windows, a
tapestried room ornately furnished and a treacherously polished expanse
of floor. A man was rising from behind an ormolu table. He was a man
utterly simple and modern--the last man one would have expected to find
in the pomp of medieval surroundings. His face was clean-shaven, bluff
and wind-tanned. In his navy-blue suit he looked more like a yachtsman
than the Governor of a State.
He was approaching with his hand outstretched. “I couldn't do less than
receive you,” he was saying.
The words, though spoken pleasantly, sounded like a dismissal.
“Perhaps your Excellency has forgotten the purpose of my errand?”
“Not in the least. Let's sit down; we can talk more informally. The
trouble is that you've come too late. Crises as acute as ours have a
knack of settling themselves.”
Hindwood accepted a cigarette that was proffered. He took his time
while he lit it. “Your solution is mustering in the Palace-yard. My
food-supplies are no longer needed. Is that what you intend me to
understand?”
“Exactly.”
“Your Excellency spoke just now of crises settling themselves. Did you
mean that so many of your countrymen have died that at last there's
sufficient food to go round?”
“Far from it. Our shortage is greater than ever.”
“I judged as much.” Hindwood tapped his ash casually. “I only arrived
last night, but in the time I've been in Budapest I've seen the
death-train, the bread-lines, the utter destitution. I've reason to
believe that Bolshevism has collapsed and that millions of outcast
Russians are marching. They're moving westward.”
He paused, himself skeptical of the preposterous assertion he was about
to make. Then he remembered the words he had learnt from Captain Lajos
and repeated them like a lesson.
“They're sweeping westward like a pestilence. They're loping like gaunt
wolves. They're drawing nearer, like Death swinging his scythe. Poland
will go down before them first. Its famished people will join them. Your
turn will come next. The march will never halt till the empty bellies
have been filled. They can't be filled till the whole of Europe has
been swamped by revolution, unless----” He paused again, waiting for
encouragement. When the steady gray eyes still regarded him attentively,
he continued, “Unless I fill them.”
“Or unless,” said his Excellency like a man commenting on the weather,
“I destroy them.”
There was a deep quiet. So Varensky had been a true prophet. It was the
end of the world they were discussing--the end of truth, justice, mercy,
everything that was kind.
Across the silence a bugle-call spurted like a stream of blood.
“You see my position?” his Excellency resumed reasonably. “If I buy from
you, I prolong the agony; worse still, I run my country further into
debt. If I give the call to arms, many of us will die; but it's better
to die fighting than from hunger. Besides, in the topsy-turvydom of war,
who knows, we may find ourselves arrayed on the winning side.” Hindwood
was too stunned to think quickly. He was still refusing to believe the
worst. “I miss your point. Would your Excellency mind explaining?”
“My point's simple enough. The condition of Hungary and of the whole of
Central Europe is due to two causes: the first that we made a world-war;
the second that we lost it. The victors had a right to exact a penalty,
but look at what they've done. We were exhausted; nevertheless, if
they'd told us what we owed them, we'd have paid them. Instead of
that, they cloaked revenge with idealism. They constituted themselves
evangelists, fore-ordained to reform us. With their gospel of
self-determination, they gave every racial hostility within our borders
a voice. They carved us up into bickering factions, which they called
nations, and bestowed on them the power to make themselves annoying
behind new frontiers. They dipped their hands into our national
resources and made gifts to their favorites. Transylvania was our
granary; it went to Rumania. Bohemia was our coal-supply; the Czechs
have it, Hungary is no longer self-supporting. We have our factories,
but no fuel to run them; our skilled workmen, but no means of employing
them. On every side we're fenced in by mushroom democracies drawing
sustenance from what was once our body. The wrong they have done us
is the motive of their hate. We European countries fall into three
categories: the robbers, the receivers of stolen goods and the pillaged.
There's no intercourse between us; confidence is at an end. Our currency
has become worthless as the paper on which it's printed. There's no flow
of trade. We each have too much of one commodity and none whatsoever of
others--too many factories here, too much wheat there, too much coal in
another place. We're rival storekeepers, overstocked in certain lines,
who refuse to take down our shutters. If we could forget our quarrels
and club together, we'd have all the means of life. We deserve our
fate, you'll say. But no--it was the Allies' surgeons who carved us into
impotence and on top of that imposed indemnities. We have nothing to
eat, so we prefer to fight.”
“But what do you gain by it?”
His Excellency smiled. “Everything or nothing. We can't be worse off.
The Russian menace may prove to be our salvation. The Red Terror has
vanished; the Famine Terror has taken its place. If the starving hordes
pouring westwards aren't halted, civilization will be blotted out by
savagery. And who's to halt them? Not the Allies. Their common people
are rebellious; they know that in the last war they were as much cheated
and exploited as any of the enemy whom they routed. And not their
politicians and profiteers; they're too bloated with their spoils. It's
the story of Rome repeating itself. The obesity which follows victory
has conquered the conquerors. Their fighting days are ended; they'll
have to hire mercenaries. The only mercenaries available are the nations
they have trampled. Hungary holds herself for hire at a price.”
“What price?”
“The restoration of her old frontiers.”
Hindwood spoke eagerly. “No one shall die. We've had enough of dying. I
have a better solution--bread. My food-trains should be arriving tonight
or to-morrow. I wired for them before I left Vienna. I'll build a wall
of bread from the Black Sea to the Baltic.”
“And who'll pay you?”
“No one.”
The answer had been totally unexpected. His Excellency glanced sharply
across his shoulder as though seeking advice. Hindwood followed his
direction and saw to his amazement that the tapestry, hanging behind the
ormolu table, was agitated. Throughout the interview an unseen audience
had been present. His Excellency turned back.
“You shall neither give nor sell. I may admire your humanity, but in
Hungary I forbid you to build what you so picturesquely call your wall
of bread. Austria, as I know, has already refused you; in Poland you
will receive the same answer. Things have advanced too far for there
to be any harm in telling you; moreover, I owe it to you to be frank.
I represent a class which the democracy of the Allies has totally
disinherited--the class of the landed gentry and the old nobility.
However matters might improve in our respective countries, our lot would
be in no way benefited. The Peace of the Allies uprooted aristocracy
and planted in its stead a raw Republicanism. The estates of men like
myself, whether Austrian, Polish, Russian or Hungarian, have been in
our families for centuries. They were grants from Kings for loyalty
and services. Now that our Kings have been sent into exile, our entire
status is in jeopardy. Our rank and privileges have become a jest.
To-morrow or the next day, where it has not happened already, we shall
join our Kings in banishment; our wealth will be confiscated. The excuse
of a new war is the chance of European Monarchists. Banded together, we
may snatch back our authority and set up the thrones which the Allies
have toppled. So long as the people starve, they will follow us.
Monarchy is the symbol of their lost contentment; they'll fight for
it if we make its restoration their battle-cry. But if once we were to
allow you to give them bread----”
Hindwood sprang to his feet. The time had come to play his winning-card.
“They would lay down their arms,” he cried triumphantly. “They shall lay
them down. By to-morrow they shall be fed.”
Again the tapestry rustled. For a moment it seemed that some one was
about to disclose himself. Then all grew quiet.
“I have given you your answer,” said his Excellency.
Hindwood laughed. “And I can force your hand. I shall appeal to the
people over your head.”
Without further ceremony, he swung round on his heel and departed.
On regaining the hotel he went in search of Santa. She was not there.
He betook himself to her room to await her coming. One hour, two hours
slipped by. He began to be anxious. In the appearance of the room there
was nothing to distress him; all her belongings were intact. When he
made inquiries of the hotel staff, they professed entire ignorance of
her whereabouts.
Apart from the concern he felt for her safety, she was utterly essential
to his plans. It was necessary that he should get in touch with
Varensky; without Varensky and his four hundred veterans he was
helpless. When his food-trains arrived, he would need them. He made
repeated efforts to rediscover the mildewed barracks; every time he
missed his direction. For fear of spies, he did not dare to ask; he
remembered Santa's warning, that to be seen with Varensky meant death.
Day faded. Darkness fell. She had not returned.
It was nearing midnight when word reached him that the first of his
trains was in the freight-yard. It had been given the right of way from
Holland and had been rushed straight through under an armed guard. He
was powerless to turn the information to account. Wearied with anxiety,
he had begun to prepare for bed, when, without knocking, the door was
burst open. Captain Lajos entered. His face was haggard. He was fierce
and breathless.
“You've heard?”
“I've heard nothing.”
“She's been captured.”
“By whom?”
“Prince Rogovich.”
Hindwood clapped his hand to his forehead. Either he or this man was
mad.
“It's impossible. Rogovich is dead.”
“And I tell you he's at the Palace. He was there behind the tapestry
this morning. She's with him now and he's torturing her.”
“Then why are you here, if you care for her so much?”
“That you may help me rescue her.”