"My dear child," continued Auntie Majesty, "you ought to thank God on
your knees for permitting you those grand opportunities to do good."
"I hope I am duly grateful, Auntie Majesty."
"And, of course, next to God, it is your Uncle Majesty to whom you are
most indebted."
Bertha curtsied with the readiness peculiar to German girls, whose left
knee seems always on the point of "knixing," which word signifies an
arrested attempt at kneeling. Since Napoleonic times kneeling before
royalty has gone out of fashion, even in Spain, where the Prime Minister
was formerly obliged to play chess with the King while down on his
knees, and woe to the excellency who attempted to sit on his haunches.
Bertha assured Auntie Majesty how much she appreciated the War Lord's
efforts on behalf of the Krupp works. Her own father could not have
done more. Truly wonderful orders are coming in, the Herr
Director-General had informed her this very morning. East, west, north
and south--everybody seemed to want Krupp guns now.
"All your Uncle Majesty's doings," insisted the "crowned auntie." "His
ambassadors and consuls in all parts of the world have orders to drum up
trade for you, and those that do not succeed pretty soon find themselves
A.D. (retired), they say."
"I hope not!" cried Bertha, emphasising the last word. "I don't care
for people to lose their positions on my account, and will speak to
Uncle about it."
To say that Her Majesty was amazed at the outburst is putting it mildly.
She had been given to understand that Bertha was tractability
personified, and here she was talking in "Majesty's" own vein, a thing
Augusta had never dreamt of doing in all the years of her married life.
"Fraulein Krupp," she said very seriously, "shall have to report to your
mother what you have said."
"Mamma has nothing to do with affairs of that sort. They rest entirely
with Uncle Majesty and myself!" said Bertha.
What language, and to her! And from a mere child, too! Auntie Majesty
opened her mouth for a sharp rebuke, when she remembered what the War
Lord had said about a certain lady.
"Vulgar," had been Her Majesty's estimate.
"_Non olet_," corrected Wilhelm. "If her words are offensive, let the
jingle of her millions drown them; if she insists upon eating peas with
her knife--why, remember that Croesus ate with his fingers."
And Count Wedell (Minister of the Royal House) had only recently told
her (with a thousand apologies, to be sure) that Bertha's income was
larger than the War Lord's.
Besides, "Auntie Imperial" had promised a portion of Bertha's vast
income to "her God." She uses the personal pronoun in connection with
the Deity without blasphemous intention, of course, nor does she allow
herself to speculate on the War Lord's theory that the Hohenzollerns
control a god of their own, and that another god is keeping a benevolent
eye on Prussian baby-killers.
Augusta Victoria decided, after reflection, to give the subject a turn
favouring her pious schemes.
"Remember what the fathers of the Church have said: 'Women have no
voice'--they certainly should not meddle in administrative matters."
Her Majesty affected a smile. "Leave these to your guardian, and, when
at times his measures seem harsh or incomprehensible, acquiesce
nevertheless, for in the end it's results that count."
The Queen of Prussia is a good woman at heart. She wouldn't hurt a fly,
but a million men put under the sod roused no squeamish sentiments; for,
of course, if the War Lord makes war, it is for God's greater glory, and
did he not tell the recruits the other day that it was inexpressibly
sweet to die for him? So let the million perish.
Auntie Majesty was careful not to mix blood and iron with her arguments
in favour of gun-making and explosives. If Essen manufactured Nuremberg
toys or Munich honey cake, she could not have used more innocuous terms
referring to its death-dealing industry. At any rate, it must be kept
up--nay more, its output must be doubled and trebled to continue the
charities and works of benevolence inaugurated by the Krupp family on
the present grand scale and to extend them farther, as Bertha had
planned.
It all sounded good to the young War Lady. With Zara's perturbing
admonitions still fresh in her mind, she welcomed justification of the
course mapped out by Uncle Majesty, and the conference closed to mutual
satisfaction.
Augusta Victoria received the promise of an annual subscription of
50,000 marks for her church-building schemes, and Bertha that of Her
Majesty's hearty co-operation in Essen's social-work campaign. More
than that, Her Majesty would come to inspect Bertha's hospitals,
schools, old people's homes and asylums.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*HOW FRANZ FERDINAND WAS FOOLED*
Vienna's Opinion of the Kaiser--Afternoon Tea for the War
Lord--Playing Up to Ferdinand--When Britain Slammed the
Door--The Archduke is Not Satisfied
"There goes our Lady of the Guns," whispered the War Lord to Franz Este,
as they stepped from the private gate into the palace yard, where their
entourage, already mounted, was awaiting their advent.
"The Krupp heiress I heard about? You are her godfather, are you not?"
"More!"
Franz was so taken aback that he forgot for the moment to swing his
right leg, whereupon Umberto, objecting to such left-sided proceedings,
reared and would have thrown him, had not two energetic grooms pounced
upon the charger.
"Be careful, it's Italy you are riding," chaffed Wilhelm, when the
cavalcade was safely under way. Quite a stately procession: masters of
horse in scarlet and gold; the adjutants on duty, outriders, grooms and
a platoon of gendarmes.
"How so Italy?" queried Franz.
"Victor Emmanuel's father used him on his several visits to Berlin, and
he has been reserved for heavy-weights like yourself ever since. A
wilful beast, even treacherous."
"Hence well named," said Franz sententiously, at the same time locking
his thighs more closely. "As to the Krupp girl, what were you going to
say?"
"First tell me what Vienna thinks of my connection with Krupp affairs."
"You won't take offence?"
"Not a bit."
"And won't be annoyed even if it smacks of _lese-majeste_?"
"Rot and nonsense. Go on."
Franz drove his brute nearer to the War Lord's side.
"They _do_ say," he whispered, "that you sort of kidnapped Bertha
against her mother's will, and are now conducting the business solely
with an eye to dividends."
"They think me Leopold II.," quizzed the War Lord, alluding to the
business methods of the late King of the Belgians. "Excellent; a lie to
be encouraged! But as a matter of fact--_entre nous_, of course;
strictly _entre nous_--I acted upon the principle of _jus primae
noctis_. In olden times, when the vassal died, the liege lord assumed
charge of the property for the dead man's eldest son, presumably his
lordship's, which action forestalled wastage of the estate. As liege
lord of Prussia I deemed it my duty to prevent the disintegration of the
Fatherland's war machinery, and had myself appointed Bertha's guardian,
with full power to act. Of course, the Baroness does not like that;
neither did the vassal's widow cherish the idea of becoming a chattel."
"And is she easily managed?" asked Franz, as he dealt the fractious
Umberto a vicious blow between the ears.
"Not that fashion," replied the War Lord, when he had caught up with his
guest; "flattery is the thing with girls. That and a certain amount of
unctuousness, backed by divine right, I found quite an irresistible
combination."
"You mean to say that you flatter where you can command?" asked Franz.
"Certainly not," replied the War Lord, pulling himself up straight. "I
merely insinuate that my wishes with regard to the running of the plant
are her own; consequently, I do as I like at Essen."
The War Lord raised his riding-whip in the direction of the Master of
the Horse, trotting behind, whereupon that functionary gave spur and
galloped ahead. Thirty seconds later the advance guard wheeled right
and left, drawing up at the sides of the avenue, and leaving a clear
space for Wilhelm and Franz.
"May they enjoy the dust we are kicking up," laughed the War Lord, as
they pressed on. When, on their return to the palace, the General Staff
building was in sight, Wilhelm consulted his wristwatch. "Gottlieb's
tea hour," he said quite incidentally. "Suppose we stop and have a
cup!"
He referred to Count Haeseler, sometimes called the German Galliffet,
though as a cavalry officer in active service his epaulettes never knew
more than two stars. However, subsequently he won much fame as an
administrator and organiser, and, by catering to the War Lord's love for
mounted rifles, dragoons, hussars and uhlans, enjoyed rapid and steady
advancement. Still, having a will of his own and small hesitation to
state it when goaded to opposition, he might never have achieved the
supreme honour of field marshalship had he not been in his youth the
favourite adjutant of the War Lord's "sanctified uncle," the Red Prince
Frederick Charles, father of the Duchess of Connaught.
In the War Lord's opinion, Frederick Charles ranked next to his _Herr
Grossvater_ (Mister Grandfather), and whenever Wilhelm became too
insistent on some strategic madness of his own, Haeseler had but to say:
"That's one of the things His Royal Highness was most strenuously
opposed to," to cause the Imperial nephew to cave in.
Of course, the meeting with Franz Este had been prearranged, but
Haeseler played the surprised to perfection: Too bad Imperial Highness
was incog.; otherwise he might run over to Posen to inspect his
regiment, the Tenth Hussars. He (Haeseler) had just had that pleasure.
_Schneidig, grossartig_ (cutting, immense), and Haeseler knocked his
heels together. "Horses, men, uniforms, drill, perfect as new-laid
eggs."
"Hard boiled, I hope," said the War Lord; and all three shook with
laughter.
"And what may my marshal have been doing?" asked the War Lord.
"Reading up the testament of Frederick the Great."
"Any relation to the testament of Peter the Great?" asked Franz
anxiously.
"Imperial Highness is pleased to jest," replied Haeseler. "Peter the
Great's last will, so called, was an invention of Napoleon to justify
his making war on his friend Alexander, while the third Napoleon revived
the fraud for purposes of the Crimean campaign."
In his surprise the War Lord, who knows history only as taught in
school, dropped a bit of marmalade on his white cloth tunic.
"Unless you can prove these statements, you will have to pay for
cleaning this," he said, looking sharply at Haeseler.
"May it please Your Majesty, I will consult the card index." The
marshal pulled out a drawer. "Here it is," he said: "'_Napoleon Auteur
du Testament de Pierre le Grand_,' and here is another volume: '_Les
Auteurs du Testament du Pierre le Grand_.'"
"Authentic?" queried the War Lord.
"Abundantly so. Shall I send these volumes to the Schloss?"
"No; I have no time for reading _olle scharteken_" (ancient tomes).
"In that case I'll want them," said Franz, who was of a studious nature.
"Have you got anything more on the subject?"
"Only an essay printed in the _Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung_."
"Send that too." The Bavarian town being a stronghold of Catholicism,
Franz evidently concluded that anything printed there was akin to
gospel.
"But you referred to the testament of Frederick the Great." The War
Lord's voice betrayed impatience, and Haeseler made haste to explain,
i.e. repeat his lesson, as it were.
"May it please Your Majesty and His Imperial Highness."
"'Herr von Este,' if you please," interrupted Franz.
"Herr von Este," repeated the marshal obediently, bowing low, "the most
precious inheritance come to us from the hero of the Seven Years' War is
his admonition that Prussia must correct her coast line. He had
intended doing so himself, but time and opportunity were unfavourable,
and so his plans for blazing a road to the oceans are awaiting our
initiative. By grasping it we will carry out the last will of Frederick
the Great."
"And what were his late Majesty's plans?" asked Franz.
"To move Prussian mile-posts up to the Channel and ocean, to plant
ourselves in the sea area between the English, French and Belgian
coasts, the waters through which most of the world's trade must pass,"
cried Haeseler enthusiastically.
"But that would mean annexation of Belgium and Holland," demanded Franz.
Count Haeseler, having instructions not to answer questions of that
kind, bent over a series of maps illustrating the history of Frederick
the Second, while the War Lord, disregarding the question, commanded
curtly: "The strategic points, please."
Count Haeseler traced them at the end of a blue pencil:
"King Frederick planned a quick march from the Rhine through Belgium,
forcing Liege, then the capital of an ecclesiastical principality, and
pouncing upon Nieuport on the North Sea. Next, he intended to attack
Dunkirk and Gravelines. Then to Calais. His final objective point was
Paris, of course."
"Never heard of such a plan," said Franz.
"Because at Frederick's time these territories were an apanage of the
Habsburgs," volunteered the War Lord. "Proceed, Haeseler."
"I can only reassert what I have submitted to Your Majesty more than
once--namely, that King Frederick's plan is as sound to-day as at the
time----"
"When Prussia presented England with Canada and made secure her Empire
in India," interrupted the War Lord. "And isn't she grateful for the
inestimable services rendered by us with a generous heart?" he
continued, warming his thighs and his wrath at the gas logs. "Won't
allow us to acquire coaling stations in any part of the world. Shuts
the door in our face in Africa, Asia and America, and supports with
treasure and blood, if necessary, any scheme intended to impede
Germany's progress, territorially and economically.
"We depend for our very life on foreign trade, yet England would
restrict us to the Baltic and a few yards of North Sea coast.
"Franz," he cried, rising and holding out his hand, "I will turn the
Adriatic into an inland lake for the Emperor of the Slavs if you will
help me secure the French Channel coast line, the north-eastern
districts and the continental shores of the Straits of Dover. Is it a
bargain?"
Franz, too, had risen, and was about to clasp the War Lord's hand when
his eye lit upon the field-marshal. "You bound me to secrecy," he said
doggedly, "yet our private pourparlers seem to be property of your
General Staff."
"The heads of my General Staff know as much as I want them to, Herr von
Este, no more, no less," replied the War Lord in a strident voice. Then,
in less serious mood: "Come, now, the _Kapellmeister_ does not play
_all_ the instruments, does he? and don't you think I have more
important things to do than worry over charts and maps and figures.
That is _his_ work," inclining his head toward the field-marshal.
When Franz the Sullen still withheld acquiescence the War Lord continued
in a bantering tone: "He is preparing the way, is Haeseler. While at
Strassburg and neighbourhood, take a look at his sixteenth army corps,
kneaded and knocked into invincibility by him. If there is a superior
war machine, then our Bluecher was beaten at Waterloo. Let his boys
once get across the French frontier--they will never again leave La
Belle France. Haeseler catechism!"
And more in the same boastful martinet vein, winding up with the promise
of sending to the Austrian heir _de luxe_ editions of Haeseler's
contributions to the General Staff history of the Franco-German War and
of his technical writings on cavalry exercises and war discipline--a
sure way of pleasing Franz. Yet it was patent enough that the Jesuit
disciple was only half mollified. Desperate means were in order!
"I tell you what"--the War Lord dropped his voice--"I will lend you
Haeseler for a fortnight or a month. Invite him to Konopischt" (the
Austrian heir's Hungarian seat) "and find out everything. What he
doesn't know about horse, foot and artillery, especially horse, is not
worth knowing."
At last Franz's face lit up. "I'll take you at your word," he said
warmly.
Franz's thirst for military knowledge was insatiable. He had read most
of the books, ancient and modern, on the science of war; had consulted
all living army leaders of the day; was, of course, in constant
communication with his own General Staff; and knew the methods of the
Austrian, Russian, German and Spanish cavalry, both by practice and
observation, since he took his honorary proprietorship of the Bavarian
Heavy Troopers, the Saxon Lancers, the Russian 26th Dragoons and the
Spanish Mounted Chasseurs very seriously. But to have Haeseler for
private mentor and adviser, to be hand and glove with the premier
cavalry expert of the world, at one time apprentice of Frederick
Charles, the Red Prince, was indeed a priceless privilege.
"Will you come?" he asked Haeseler.
"Oh yes, he is coming, don't you worry," cried the War Lord, even before
Haeseler finished the phrase: "At your Imperial Highness's command."
"His Excellency shall demonstrate to me that the offensive partnership
you propose will be to mutual advantage," said Franz quickly, to
forestall possible further arguments on the exchange of the Italian
Adriatic for the French-Belgian-Dutch Channel coasts.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND*
The War Lord's Secret Staircase--Some Outspoken Opinions--Royal
Fisticuffs--Otto of Bavaria--A Secret Service Man--More Dreams
The reports of two meetings between exalted personages, held on the eve
of the day memorable for the conference at the General Staff building,
would furnish a clever editor with "deadly parallels" of vast interest.
_Dramatis personae_ of one meeting: The War Lord and Buelow. Scene: The
library of the Frederick Leopold Palace, nearly opposite the
Chancellory.
Meeting number two: Franz von Este and Lorenz Schlauch, Cardinal
Archbishop of Gross Wardein, Hungary. Scene: A private parlour in the
Hotel de Rome, near the Schloss.
The pall of secrecy hung over both trysting places. Cardinal Schlauch,
of his Hungarian Majesty's most obnoxious Opposition, would have lost
caste with his followers if seen with the "Habsburg Nero," and the
latter would have had a strenuous _quart d'heure_ with Francis Joseph
had "Uncle" known of his intimacy with Schlauch. Hence the room at the
hotel, and Adolph Muehling, guard of honour, outside the door.
Why press the old proprietor into service, when a word to the Commandant
of Berlin would have brought sentinels galore?
Because Count Udo von Wedell, head of the German Secret Service,
occasionally unloads a uniformed stenographer on an unsuspecting, but
suspected, visitor to Berlin; and, Udo failing, Captain von Tappken, his
right-hand man, might be tempted to do so. Spy mistrusts spy, you know.
On his part the War Lord was as anxious to keep his conference with
Buelow from Franz, as Este was to invent excuses for wishing a night
free from social duties or official business. Accordingly Wilhelm had
twice changed the programme.
His first idea was to receive Buelow at the Schloss. No; Franz might
hear of it. His valet (Father Bauer) was singularly well supplied with
money, and royal lackeys (confound them!) prefer _trinkgeld_ to medals,
even. Again, he might drive to the Wilhelmstrasse himself, if it were
not for those penny-a-liners at the Kaiserhof, a whole contingent of
them, bent on getting coin out of nothing. Already vague hints at an
incognito royal visitor had appeared in one or two gutter journals.
"Augustus tells me that Frederick Leopold had his Berlin house
thoroughly overhauled. Nothing unusual about inspecting the renovated
lair of the Prussian Croesus?" suggested Prince Phili Eulenburg. He
referred, of course, to the Grand Master of Ceremony and the Lord of
Klein-Glenicke, the War Lord's cousin and brother-in-law.
"By Jove, you are almost too smart for an ambassador, Phili," cried
Majesty; "you deserve a wider field, the Wilhelmstrasse or the
Governorship of Klein-Popo should be yours. Meanwhile, and until one of
those posts becomes vacant, 'phone Buelow to meet me in Leopold's
library at nine sharp. Moltke shall send six men of the First Guards to
investigate garden and all, and they will remain for corridor duty.
Augustus, of course, must communicate with Leopold's _maitre d'hotel_."
At 8.55 P.M. the War Lord, in mufti, fur collar of his great-coat
hugging the tops of his ears, slipped down the secret staircase leading
from his apartments to a side door, and into Count von Wedell's quiet
coupe. The Secret Service man who acted as groom had mapped out a
circuitous route, avoiding the Linden and Charlottenstrasse.
When the carriage passed the Kaiserhof the War Lord could not resist the
temptation to bend forward. "Udo," he said, "are you not ashamed of
yourself, robbing these poor devils at the journalists' table? If they
knew how I am suffering in your springless cab--oh, but it does
hurt!--it would mean at least ten marks in their pocket."
"Confound their impudence," said Count von Wedell. "But Your Majesty's
criticism of the coupe is most a propos--just in time to insert the item
for a new one in the appropriation."
"The devil!" cried the War Lord. "I thought this ramshackle chariot
your personal property."
Wilhelm likes to spend other people's money, but with State funds it is
different, for every _pfennig_ spent for administration reduces the
total His Majesty "acquires."
True, Prussia spells despotism tempered by Parliament, but her kings can
never forget the good old times when appropriations for the Court were
only limited by the State's utmost resources.
"My own!" gasped Wedell. "Would I dare worry Your Majesty's sacred
bones in an ark like this?"
The carriage entered the palace stableyard, the gates of which opened
noiselessly in obedience to a significant crack of the whip.
Sentinels posted inside and out, civil service men in frock-coats and
top-hats, who muttered numbers to their chief, replying in kind!
"Everything all right, Buelow upstairs," whispered Udo in Russian. He
went ahead of the War Lord through lines of his men, posted at intervals
of three paces in the courtyard and at the entrance. The vestibule was
splendid with electric light for the first time in the history of the
old palace.
As the suspicious War Lord observed, Marshal Augustus had been busy
indeed. Heavy portieres everywhere, over doors, windows, and
_oeils-de-boeuf_; to passers-by the Leopold Palace was as dead and
forlorn as during the past several years.
Up the newly carpeted grand stairway the War Lord rushed. The smiling
Buelow stood at the library door. Wilhelm merely extended his hand; he
was too full of his subject to reply to Buelow's respectful greetings
and inquiries after his health.
"Wedell will stay," he said, "for our talk will concern his department
no less than yours."
Buelow had arranged arm-chairs about the blazing fireplace, but the War
Lord was in no mood to sit down.
"Here's a devil of a mess," he said, "just discovered it in time. That
confounded Este is too much of a blackleg to be trusted."
"Too deeply steeped in clericalism," suggested Buelow.
"That and Jesuitism, Romanism, Papism and every other sableism. Found
him out in our first confab, and to-day's meeting with Haeseler
confirmed it. He will never consent to a Roman Empire of German
nationality. Wants all Italy for himself and Rome for his Church.
Intolerable!" cried the War Lord, as he strode up and down. "Twenty
marks if Otto were in his place."
The War Lord's joke drew tears of appreciative hilarity from the
obsequious eyes of the two courtier-politicians.
"Your Majesty's remark reminds me of a patriotic speech made by the
Prince of Bueckeberg at the beginning of the railway age: 'We must have
a railway in Lippe, even if it costs five thousand thalers,' said His
Transparency, amid thunderous applause."
This from the Chancellor, who, like Talleyrand, delights in quotations
and has a knack of introducing other people's witty, or stupid, sayings
when desiring to remain uncommittal on his own part. In this instance
he would rather exhaust Bartlett and his German confrere Hertslet than
discuss that Prince of _mauvais sujets_, Otto of Austria.
At the time of the discussion (it was in 1903--three years before the
royal degenerate died) the father of the present heir to the Dual
Monarchy was on the apex of his ill-fame.
He beat his wife and his creditors, he disgraced his rank, his manhood,
and, though thirty-eight years of age, was frightened from committing
the worst excesses at home only by the threat of corporal punishment at
the hands of his uncle, the Emperor. For Francis Joseph, most Olympian
of monarchs, according to the upholders of Spanish etiquette at the
Hofburg, is very apt indeed to give a good imitation of the petty
household tyrant when roused. For this reason, probably, his late
consort, the Empress Elisabeth, used to liken him to a cobbler.
Francis Joseph's most recent fistic exploit at Otto's expense was still,
at that time, the talk of the European Courts. It appears that His
Imperial Highness, at dinner with boon companions, had emptied a dish of
spinach over the head of uncle's marble statue, and prolonged the fun by
firing over-ripe tomatoes, pimentos, spaghetti and other dainties at the
already abundantly decorated effigy.
When finally he ordered Count Salm, his Court marshal, to send for a
"mandel"--fifteen pieces--of ancient eggs to vary the bombardment, Salm
refusing, of course, he assaulted the Excellency, sword in hand, and a
general medley ensued, in which considerable blue blood was spilt. No
lives lost, yet the innocent bit of _passe-temps_ brought the Emperor's
fist and cane into play again.
But our mutton is getting cold.
"Unfortunately," said von Buelow, "Franz Ferdinand is a particularly
healthy specimen of humanity."
"And even should he die like a Balkan royalty----" suggested von Wedell.
"I thought you had been unable definitely to trace Russia's fine Italian
hand in the Belgrade murders?" demanded the War Lord sharply.
"For which many thanks," murmured Buelow.
"With Your Majesty's permission, I referred to the older generation of
Balkan assassins," said Udo.
"Well, let it pass, Monsieur le Duc d'Otrante." The War Lord frequently
addressed his Minister of Police by Fouche's title, while commenting
upon Napoleon's bad taste in raising that functionary to so high an
estate. "After all," he used to say, "he was nothing but a spy, and as
treacherous as the Corsican himself."
This, it will be observed, came with peculiar ill grace from Wilhelm,
who, like the first Emperor of the French, demeaned himself to direct
personally his Secret Service, and to associate with the cashiered army
officers, _agents provocateurs_, etc., of this branch of government.
"What if Otto, as Emperor of the Slavs, sets up a claim for all Poland,
Your Majesty's with the rest?" Buelow had asked.
"I would rather see my sixty millions of people dead on the battle-field
than give up an inch of ground gained by Frederick the Great and the
rest of my ancestors!" cried the War Lord, as if he were haranguing a
mob. "Besides, why should Otto, more than Franz, covet my patrimony?"
"Because of his relationship with the Saxon Court through her Imperial
Highness Josepha."
"Pipe-dreams----" snarled the War Lord contemptuously. Then, seeing
Buelow redden, he added: "On Otto's part, I mean."
"I beg Majesty's pardon--not entirely," quoth Wedell. "Dresden is still
making sheep's eyes at Warsaw, and when Your Majesty spoke about a grand
Imperial palace to be built in Posen, King George remarked: 'Suits me to
the ground. I hope he'll make it after the kind American
multimillionaires boast of.' This on the authority of a Saxon noble
whose family established itself in the kingdom long before Albert the
Bold."
"Children and disgruntled aristocrats tell the truth," commented the War
Lord; "sometimes, at least," he added after a while. Then suddenly
facing Buelow, he continued in an angry tone: "That black baggage,
wherever one turns. Unless there be a Lutheran Pope, Monsieur l'Abee de
Rome will try and catholicise Prussia, even as Benedict XIV. tried to do
through Maria Theresa."
"It was another Benedict, was it not, who offered public prayers that
Heaven be graciously pleased to foment quarrels between the heretic
Powers?" suggested Buelow, pulling a volume on historic dates from the
shelf as if to verify his authority.
"What of it?" demanded the War Lord impatiently.
"One of the heretic Powers prayed against was England, Your Majesty."
"And you want to insinuate that I must pocket all the insults Edward may
find it expedient to heap upon me?"
"Nothing is farther from my mind, of course. I merely meant to point to
the historic fact that the Catholics always pool their interests, always
fight back to back, while the disunity and open rivalries among
non-Catholic Powers----"
"I know the litany," interrupted the War Lord rudely; "but let's return
to Este. What do you intend to do with that chap?"
"Make him work for us tooth and nail," said Buelow, "and as for any
extra dances with the Saxon or His Holiness--well, Udo will keep an eye
on him. From this hour on he must be kept under constant observation,
whether at home or abroad, in his family circle or the army mess, at
manoeuvre or the chase, at the Hradschin or at Konopischt."
The War Lord, visibly impressed, laid his massive right hand on Count
von Wedell's shoulder.
"Where is Este now?" looking at the clock.
"Suite eighteen, Hotel de Rome."
"With whom?"
"Cardinal Schlauch."
"Bishop Tank of Gross-Wardein? And who is watching them?"
"Number 103, garlic and _bartwichse_ to the backbone."
"Under the bed?"
"No, Your Majesty; in it. I varied the programme for His Highness's
sake. Like an old maid who persists in the hope of catching a man
sometime, he never misses looking under the bed."
"I will examine '103' in Koeniggraetzerstrasse at 9 A.M. to-morrow,"
commanded the War Lord; "and, Udo, if you love me, have him well aired.
An hour or two of goose-step would do the garlic-eater the world of
good."
The number, of course, referred to a Secret Service man. They have no
names so far as the Government knows, or wants to know, and, despite
their usefulness, are looked upon as _mauvais sujets_. To make up for
this their pay is rather better than that of the average German
official. They get a little less than the equivalent of L4 a week and
10s. a day for expenses. These sums constitute the retaining fee; their
main income depends on the jobs they are able to pull off. They get
paid for all business transacted, in accordance with its importance.
When on a foreign mission, they may send in bills up to L2 per day for
personal expenses, but in all ordinary circumstances the 10s. per diem
must suffice.
The War Lord turned once more to Buelow. "You said: 'Make him work for
us.' I would willingly sentence him for life to the treadmill. What's
your idea of work for Franz?"
"I refer to Your Majesty's complaint that the Austrian army is in a
state of unreadiness, of unpreparedness for war. Now, while I have no
opinion whatever as to Herr von Este's capacity as a general, I do know
that organisation and discipline are ruling passions with him."
"He would rather beat a recruit than go to Mass," interpolated Udo.
"The right spirit," approved the War Lord, "and it shall serve my
purposes. I taught the Bavarians to out-Prussian the Prussian; the
Austrians shall follow suit, or Franz will know the reason why.
"A drill-ground bully by nature and inclination, he will know how to
make an end to Blue Danube _saloperie_; and if strap and rod won't do,
he will use scorpions, like that ancient King of Judea--or did he hail
from Mecklenburg, Buelow?" Autocratically ruled Mecklenburg is Buelow's
own particular fatherland.
"I am sure the riding-whip always sufficed in our domains," smiled the
Chancellor; "but Your Majesty is right: rose water wouldn't make much
impression on Slovaks and Croatians."
"Well then," said the War Lord, "here is the programme: No more about
Lutheran popeship, Holy Roman Empire of German nationality, future of
the Holy See and so forth. Nauseate him, on the other hand, with
Austrian military _schweinerei_ (piggishness), which ought to disappear
from the face of the earth in the shortest possible order to make room
for the glories of Prussian drill, discipline and efficiency.
"With von der Goltz knocking the Turk into shape and Franz Este driving
the devil of irresolution and maniana out of the Dual Monarchy, we will
be in a position to defy the world--and to fight it, too."
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*A SECRET SERVICE EPISODE*
No. 103 Arrives--The Spy's Report--The Archduke and the
Cardinal--The Ruling of the Church
Count von Wedell's office on Koeniggratzerstrasse.
Royal coupe driving up and down the opposite side of the street. No
groom--dismounted chasseur with feather hat stands guard at the big
oaken door entrance.
Long-legged brown horses, evident habitat: England. As a rule, the War
Lord drives with blacks or greys; likewise the wheel-spokes of the
vehicles used by him are gilded. Those of the carriage we observe are
chocolate colour, with just a thin silver line. Wilhelm sometimes
travels incog. in his own capital. By the way, why always
chocolate-coloured carriages when royalty does not wish to radiate
official lustre? In the reminiscences of the third Napoleon "the little
brown coupe" figured largely when the Emperor of the French went
poaching on strange preserves, and other monarchs had the same
preference.
Inside the Imperial office building: sentinels with fixed bayonets at
each corridor entrance; over the coco-nut mat, covering the right-hand
passage, a thick red Turkey runner; Secret Service men in top-hats and
Prince Albert coats every ten paces. At the extreme end a big steel
double door.
"No. 103," whispered the speaking-tube into Count Wedell's ear.
"Three minutes late," snarled that official; "but I will pay him back."
"No. 103," in faultless evening dress (though it is nine in the
morning), is conducted through the right-hand passage. He is at home
here, but no one recognises him. Secret Service rule: No comradeship
with other agents of the Government. You are a number, no more.
As he is ushered through the lines of sentinels, the royal chasseur,
drawn broadsword in his right, opens the door with his left hand. Count
Wedell meets him on the threshold.
"Kept Majesty waiting," grumbled the Privy Councillor _sotto voce_.
"Cab broke down, Excellency," No. 103 excused himself.
"Don't let it happen again. You will stand under the chandelier facing
the inner room. Attention!" commanded the chief.
And at attention, every nerve vibrating with excitement and expectancy,
No. 103 stood like a statue in the Avenue of Victory, but with rather
more grace, for no man living could imitate the War Lord's marble dolls
without provoking murder. Wedell had gone into the inner room, the
entrance of which was framed by heavy damask portieres with gold lace
set _a jour_.
"Portholes," thought No. 103, sizing up the decorations; and, keyhole
artist that he is, he soon met a pair of eyes gazing at him through the
apertures.
"Majesty taking a peep," he reflected. "I wonder what he thinks of the
man who went back on his native Nero for filthy lucre."
Whether he thought well of him or not, the War Lord kept No. 103
standing full twenty-five minutes. If in his youth he had not had a
particularly cruel drill-ground sergeant, he could not have endured the
pain and fatigue.
Suddenly the portieres parted: the War Lord, seated at a "diplomat's"
writing-desk; Count Wedell, toying with a self-cocking six-shooter,
stood at his left.
"If that thing goes off and accidentally hits me," thought No. 103,
"there is a trap-door under this rug, and a winding staircase leading to
a sewer, I suppose, as in the Doge's Palace." Comforting thought, but
who cares for a spy?
"Approach," ordered the War Lord in a high-pitched voice. When No. 103
was within three paces of the Majesty, Wedell held up his hand.
"His Majesty wants to know all about last night," said the Privy
Councillor.
"Did Herr von Este really look under the bed?" queried the War Lord,
tempering the essential by the ridiculous.
"He did indeed," replied No. 103; "and I nearly betrayed my presence
between the sheets watching him."
"What happened?"
"Nothing, Your Majesty; just a thought passing through my mind."
"Out with it," cried the War Lord, when No. 103 stopped short.
The _agent provocateur_ looked appealingly at Count Wedell. "I humbly
beg to be excused."
"I command you!"
"Well then, Your Majesty, it occurred to me that I ought to have planted
a mark's worth of asafoetida under that bed."
Did the stern Majesty laugh? He guffawed and roared enough to split his
sides--the lines between the sublime and the low are not tightly drawn
in Berlin.
"This fellow has wit," said the War Lord to Udo. "When you come to
think of it, asafoetida is mighty appropriate ammunition to use against
the Jesuit disciple." Then, with a look to No. 103: "Proceed."
"Details and all," commanded von Wedell.
"The minutest," emphasised the War Lord.
"May it please Your Majesty, I was in that bed three hours before the
parties came into the room. The Cardinal had hired Suite 18 expressly
for the meeting, his lodgings being elsewhere in the hotel. He was
first to arrive, and swore lustily because there was no crucifix or
_prie-Dieu_, as ordered.
"Cursed like a trooper, eh?" cried the War Lord. "Make a note of that,
Udo. When I am Lutheran pope I will visit the grand bane upon any
cardinal guilty of saying naughty words."
"Your Majesty will have the All Highest hands full," remarked von
Wedell. "What about Prince Max?"
"I shall take devilish good care that the Saxon idiot never achieves the
red hat. Making eyes at Warsaw and a friend at the Curia! What next?"
To No. 103: "Proceed."
"An impromptu altar was quickly set up, and when Herr von Este was
announced----"
"What name?" interrupted the War Lord.
"Ritter von Wognin, Your Majesty."