Chapter Thirty Four. The Truth is Told.

At the Quirinale the last State Ball of the season was in full swing.

The Palace was ablaze with light. In the great courtyard, where the sentries paced, there were constant arrivals and departures. All aristocratic and official Rome was there. Smart uniforms were everywhere, and in the great ballroom with its wonderful chandeliers the scene was perhaps the most brilliant of any to be witnessed in the whole of Europe.

In a small salon in the private apartments far removed from the music and glitter of the Court—a delightful and artistic room with white-enamelled walls, and furniture and carpet of old rose—stood Hubert Waldron, who had only arrived back in the Eternal City an hour before. He had hastily changed into uniform, and stood there with Her Royal Highness, Princess Luisa, whose slim figure was a tragic one, notwithstanding her handsome Court gown of white satin, and the black watered ribbon of her decoration in her corsage.

He had just related, as briefly as he could, the exciting chase from Orvieto, a thousand miles, to Paris, and the dramatic meeting in the frowsy little hotel in the Rue d’Amsterdam.

“And here, Lola, are your letters,” he said calmly, drawing from his tunic the envelope which he had sealed in Paris without prying into its contents, save to reassure himself that they were letters in the handwriting of the woman he loved so devotedly.

“My letters!” she gasped, casting her ivory fan aside and eagerly taking them in her gloved and trembling hands. “Then—then you have recovered them!” she cried in sudden glee. “You—you have saved me, Mr Waldron, for to-night I—I confess to you, my friend—I had the fixed intention to end it all. I could not bear to live and face the terrible exposure, for I knew not from day to day if one of the scurrilous papers in Paris might print my letters—the confession of a woman who, though a Princess of a Royal House, was also a spy, because she was fooled—tricked into love!”

“Lola,” he said, still speaking earnestly and very calmly, “you need have no further fear of that man. He came near bringing you to ruin—nay to death. But the peril is now at an end.”

“At an end—how?” she asked.

“I begged of you to leave all to me—that I would settle the account with him. I have brought you back your letters,” he said, very gravely. “You need have no further fear, because the scoundrel who made such dastardly pretence of loving you, Lola, is dead!”

“Dead!” she gasped with startled, wide-open eyes.

“Yes; shot dead by the Paris police who had wanted him for espionage. He fired at them, and they retaliated in self-defence.”

“Then my enemy is dead!” she exclaimed in a whisper, standing motionless, her big, expressive eyes fixed straight before her.

“Yes. The peril which threatened you, Lola, and the very existence of the Italian nation, is at an end.”

“And you, Mr Waldron,” she cried in a voice broken by emotion, turning to him suddenly with hand outstretched, “you have risked your own life and have averted a war in Europe, of which I, in my unfortunate ignorance, was so nearly the cause.”

“Because your actions and your movements have been—well, just a little too unconventional,” he laughed, bowing gallantly over her outstretched hand and kissing it fervently.

She knew the truth. She knew how devotedly the Englishman loved her. And she, in return, reciprocated his affection. Had she not, in that moment of her ecstasy, responded to his well-remembered kisses?

He was holding her hand, gazing long and deeply into those fathomless eyes of hers. He was about to speak—again to confess to her his great all-consuming passion, when a hand was placed upon the door knob and they sprang apart, as of a sudden His Majesty the King, a brilliant figure in his uniform and glittering decorations, entered.

“Ah, Waldron?” he cried in his usual cheery way, “I received your message, and came here to find you. They told me that you were here, with Lola. Well? You have a report to make, I suppose. What is it? Lola,” he said, addressing Her Highness, “I fear I must ask you to leave us. I have some business to talk over with Mr Waldron.”

“I ask Your Majesty’s pardon,” the diplomat said; “but I would beg that Her Royal Highness be allowed to remain. My report closely concerns her.”

“Concerns her! How?”

“If Your Majesty will have patience with me I will explain,” Hubert replied, and then, as briefly and tersely as possible, he related to the King the series of startling and exciting events recorded in the preceding chapters—how Lola, at the instigation of the Austrian spy, Flobecq, in guise of lover, was induced to go in secret to the private safe of the Minister of War and thence abstract the plans of the new frontier defences. He explained, too, how these being found useless without the key—though in secret Austria mobilised her army in readiness for a descent upon her neighbour at the moment that key was forthcoming—Flobecq, the cunning scoundrel in the employ of the Vienna Foreign Office, had blackmailed the unfortunate Princess by threatening to publish her letters if she did not dare further—and steal the key plan.

“And you, it seems, entered His Excellency’s cabinet just in the very nick of time,” the King said, both surprised yet gratified. “Yes, Waldron, I am seldom mistaken in my man,” he went on, “and when I called you and asked you to assist me, as your respected father assisted my own father, I felt that I could trust you. My confidence has not been misplaced. By your staunch friendship to me—not loyalty, because you are loyal only to your own Sovereign, my good brother—you have saved my beloved nation, saved an international complication which must have cost Europe a terrible war. And more—you have saved my madcap little niece’s honour. And why?” he demanded suddenly.

Hubert did not answer for several moments.

“Well, I will be frank, Your Majesty,” he responded. “Because ever since we met in Egypt and I believed her to be Lola Duprez, niece of the cantankerous old Gigleux, we have been most excellent friends. I have only done my duty towards her as a friend, and towards you as Sovereign of Italy, at whose Court I am humbly attached as servant of my own King.”

“Waldron!” exclaimed His Majesty, “to-night I sleep securely for the first time for several months. The war-cloud has been dispersed—and by you. You have my heartfelt thanks—the thanks of a man who has the misfortune perhaps of being born a King.” And he gripped the diplomat’s hand warmly in his own, and looked into his face as only one man can look at another who returns thanks from the very depths of his heart. “We can only reflect, Waldron,” added the King in a low, earnest voice, “upon how many lives might have been sacrificed, of what ruin and desolation must have resulted and of the terrible horrors of modern warfare that have been averted by your devotion to Lola, to myself, and to my own beloved Italy!”

But Hubert Waldron was thinking only of Lola. His Majesty’s eulogy was lost upon him.

He bowed low, and declared himself as the devoted servant of Italy and her Sovereign, as his father had been before him.

Again the King grasped his hand, and then and there declared that he bestowed upon him the coveted Grand Cross of the Order of Saints, Maurice and Lazarus, an order which very few of the Italian Cabinet Ministers possessed, and one of the principal distinctions of Italy.

Afterwards His Majesty bade him a cheery addio, and, turning, left the room.

For some moments Hubert stood facing Lola, without speaking.

What could he say?

“Lola,” he exclaimed at last, “there is one point which still remains to be cleared up. Tell me. How did you manage to enter the General’s room while the corporal, Tonini, was there on sentry duty?”

“Tonini knew me well. He is engaged to marry my maid, Renata. I entered the room on pretence of paying a visit to General Cataldi, and finding that His Excellency was not there, I waited in the room a few minutes, during which time I opened the safe. Then I called him in and made him promise solemnly to tell no one that I had paid the General a visit, explaining that I had come to crave the promotion of one of my friends—a captain of cavalry—and was not desirous of the fact becoming public property. He understood the scandal at which I hinted, and therefore loyally preserved silence—even when he knew that the plans had been stolen. Imagine my horror when I realised the full gravity of my action. I had handed over the plans to Austria! At once—ignorant of the inquiry you were making—I called a man I knew, Pietro Olivieri, an ex-police officer, and begged him to assist me to recover the plans. But, alas! he failed. And then Flobecq, holding out the threat to publish my letters, forced me to make an attempt to gain the tracings which formed the key.” And she drew her hand wearily across her brow as though to clear her brain of those terrible memories.

A few moments later Hubert stretched forth his hand in farewell.

He loved her with all his heart and all his soul, but, alas! he knew too well the wide barrier of birth that lay between them.

He saw, too, in Lola’s face a sweet, passionate love look, that one expression which a woman can never feign. By that alone he knew his affection was reciprocated.

The cup of bitterness was at his lips. But with supreme self-control he dashed it from him.

To speak would only bring upon her grief and sorrow. Yes. Silence was best, after all, even though it cost him all that he held most dear in the world—best for her sake, and for his.

He took her white-gloved hand in his, and bowing over it till his lips touched its back, wished her a courtly addio.

“But how can I ever thank you sufficiently for saving me, Hubert?” she cried, addressing him by his Christian name, hot tears welling in her great dark eyes.

“I desire no thanks, Lola,” was his low, earnest reply. “If sometimes you remember me as your friend—as your most true, and most devoted friend—then that is an all-sufficient recompense for me.”

His voice trembled with emotion and she saw a strange expression at the corners of his mouth.

“But I will see you soon—to-morrow—eh? Where?” she said eagerly.

“No,” he answered briefly. “I am leaving Rome.”

“Leaving Rome!” she echoed in dismay.

“Yes. I am applying for transfer to another post. There are reasons why I cannot remain here any longer. I could not bear it. You know why.” And he looked her straight in the face, still holding her hand strongly in his.

She averted her gaze and sighed deeply.

He saw the hot tears upon her cheeks, therefore slowly he drew her towards him in his strong arms, and impressing one last fervent kiss upon her cold white brow, released her, and with bowed head left the room with a whispered:

“Addio—addio, my own beloved!”

The door closed, and for a moment she stood motionless as a statue.

Then in sudden frenzy, with wild despair in her eyes, she threw herself upon her face on the rose-coloured silk couch, and there burst into a fit of violent sobbing—sobbing as though her young heart would break.

The sun of her life had, at that moment, been suddenly extinguished.

Several years have now brought their changes.

A new King rules in Italy. He has a new entourage and a new Cabinet, but the Princess Luisa stills lives at the Palace, sweet, handsome, yet ever pale and thoughtful.

Her acts of charity and her blameless life have rendered her highly popular in the Eternal City, and when she drives out in one of the royal automobiles the men raise their hats and the populace cry after her, “Viva Luisa! Viva Luisa di Savoia!”

The giddy world of Rome has often wondered why Her Royal Highness, so bright and vivacious, has never married, though her name has frequently been coupled by gossips with that of one or other of the eligible Royal Princes of Europe, notably the Crown Prince of Saxony.

The truth, however, has never leaked out, for his late Majesty, King Umberto, who alone knew his niece’s secret, never betrayed it, even to his Queen.

Sir Hubert Waldron, K.C.M.G., is now British Ambassador at St. Petersburg, yet still a bachelor. In diplomatic circles it has long been a matter of surprise that he has never taken to himself a wife, for many wealthy women are known to have set their caps at him.

However, the world is in ignorance that the plain disc of gold which he wears upon his watch-chain, though it has not the appearance of a locket, nevertheless is one, and opens with a cunningly concealed spring. Within, on one side, is an exquisite little ivory miniature of the Princess Luisa, while on the other two simple words are engraved upon the gold case—“For Ever.”

Her Royal Highness wears an exact replica—except that it contains a portrait of Hubert Waldron—concealed beneath her corsage, the one talisman which never leaves her either by night or by day.

Though Europe divides them, and the barrier of birth can never be bridged, the little golden lockets form the hidden link which still connects their lives.

When either gaze upon the other’s pictured face, as oftens happens, memories from out the misty past arise. Those engraved words are as a message passing between them—a promise that will never be broken, the pledge of a passionate and unsuspected royal romance—

“FOR EVER.”

The End.