Chapter Twelve. The King’s Confidences.

At that moment there was a discreet tap at the door and Peters entered, saying:

“An aide-de-camp of His Majesty wishes to see you on a matter of great importance, sir.”

For a second Waldron stood confused.

“Oh! he must not find me here,” whispered the Princess, starting up in quick alarm. “Where can I go?”

“In this room,” the diplomat replied quickly, opening a door which led to his small dining-room. He switched on the light, and she passed within, closing the door noiselessly. It was all done in a few seconds, and then Hubert said in his natural voice:

“Oh, show him in.”

Next moment a tall, good-looking, dark-moustached officer, wearing his grey military cloak, entered jauntily, saying in Italian with a merry twinkle in his eyes as he grasped the other’s hand:

“Sorry to disturb you at this hour, friend Waldron—especially when you have a lady visitor.”

“Lady visitor! What do you mean?” he asked, for Count Guicciolo was an old friend of many years.

“Well, your man told me that you could not be disturbed, so I naturally formed my own conclusions,” replied the aide-de-camp airily, pointing to the muff. “But I apologise. Here is a message for you from His Majesty. I was to deliver it into your hands,” and from beneath his cloak he produced a letter which upon the flap bore the neat royal cipher of the House of Savoy.

In surprise the diplomat broke the seal and read the following formal words:

“His Majesty the King commands to private audience the Honourable Hubert Waldron, M.V.O., this evening and immediately,” followed by the date.

Hubert noticed the neat handwriting. It had been penned by His Majesty King Umberto himself.

“Well!” he asked the Count.

“I was sent to bring you at once to the Palace, my friend,” replied the other.

“What is amiss? Surely it is strange that I should receive a command at this hour!”

“Yes. But His Majesty works very late sometimes.”

“Is anything seriously wrong?”

“Not that I am aware of. I was simply summoned to the private cabinet, and His Majesty gave me that letter, and ordered me to find you at once,” and he took a cigarette from the silver box which Waldron handed him, and holding it in his white-gloved hand slowly lit it.

“Will you come with me now?” he asked as he cast away the match. “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you,” he added with a laugh. “But it is His Majesty’s orders.”

“Oh, don’t apologise,” was the diplomat’s reply. He was annoyed, for he knew what a sad gossip was Guicciolo, and that on the morrow half Rome would know that a young lady had been found in his rooms. At all hazards her identity must be concealed. Therefore, making an excuse to obtain his coat, Waldron passed into the dining-room where the Princess was standing in anxiety, whispered to her an explanation how he would have to leave unceremoniously and urging her to leave five minutes later.

“We will resume our conversation to-morrow,” he added. “But not here. It is far too dangerous.”

“Where then?” she asked eagerly in a low whisper. “I will meet you anywhere after dark.” He reflected a second. Then said:

“Do you know Bucci’s little restaurant in the Piazza delle Coppelle?”

“Yes, I know. Quite a quiet little place. I will never be recognised there.”

“Well, at half-past eight. The dinner will be over then, and the place will be empty.”

“Agreed. Addio,” she said, and they grasped hands quickly. Then he put on his overcoat, and went out with the Count, while five minutes later Peters, ignorant of her identity, showed the Princess out, and accompanied her downstairs to the door.

As Waldron and the Count entered the fine Quirinale Palace they were challenged by the sentries at the great gateway, whereupon the aide-de-camp gave the password and they saluted.

Then, crossing the great handsome courtyard, they entered by one of the smaller doors, and passing round the gallery to the huge gilded staircase where two servants in the royal livery stood on either side like statues. They ascended, and passing along a well-carpeted corridor, halted at last before a heavy mahogany door outside which stood a sentry on duty—the door of the King’s private cabinet.

Again the Count uttered the password, was saluted, and was then allowed to knock.

A deep voice gave permission to enter, whereupon Hubert Waldron crossed the threshold and bowed low in the presence of a rather short, middle-aged man of smart military appearance, though he wore civilian evening dress with a single decoration on the breast of his coat, the Star of the Order of the Crown of Italy, of which he was Master.

The room was not large, but was tastefully, even luxuriantly furnished. In the centre stood a great mahogany writing-table piled with papers, from which he had just risen, while at the side was set an armchair for those to whom His Majesty gave audience.

“Ah, Waldron, I am very glad they have found you so quickly,” he exclaimed, putting out his hand in gracious welcome. “I want to have a confidential chat with you. I want you to assist me, for I feel sure you can.”

“If I can serve Your Majesty in any way,” replied the British diplomat, “I am, as you know, only too anxious and too willing.”

“Ah! I know. I know that,” replied King Umberto briskly. “Good! Sit down.”

Then, when His Majesty had settled himself again in his padded writing-chair—at that table where for many weary hours each day he attended to matters of State affecting forty millions of his subjects—he looked straight at the man before him, and asked suddenly in Italian:

“Signor Waldron, can you keep a Secret?”

“That is my profession,” was the other’s calm reply. “And any secret of Your Majesty’s will, I assure you, be safe in my keeping.”

The King paused. He was dressed plainly, for after the banquet given that night to a Russian royalty he had changed from his striking uniform into easier clothes before commencing work. Yet in his face was a deep, earnest, noble expression, for he was a monarch who had the welfare of his nation very deeply and genuinely at heart. His dark, deep-set eyes, his slightly sallow skin, and the three lines across his brow told their own tale. Though a King, the crown bore heavily upon his head, for the responsibilities of a State run by a Ministry which was not above suspicion weighed very heavily upon him.

The Cabinet was, alas, composed mainly of men with axes to grind. Of financial scandals there had been many, and more than once there had been a public outcry when Ministers had been tried as criminals and convicted of bribery, and of peculation of the public funds.

Yet as monarch his hands were tied, and perhaps no ruler in all Europe had so many sleepless nights as he.

The silence was broken by a bugle in the great courtyard below. The Palace guard were changing.

“Listen, Waldron,” he said at last in a low voice of deep earnestness after he had ascertained that the door was closed, “I have asked you here to-night because I feel that I can trust you. My father trusted your father, and I have known you ever since we were lads. I know how shrewd and painstaking you are, and what a high sense of honour you possess.”

“Your Majesty is far too flattering,” Hubert replied modestly. “I know that my dead father always held yours in the highest esteem. And you have shown towards myself a graciousness that I never expected.”

“Because I know that you are my friend,” he said. “Even a King must have a friend in whom he can at times confide. That is why I have asked you to come and see me.”

“You do me too great an honour,” declared the diplomat.

“Not at all. It is I who am asking your favour in your assistance,” was His Majesty’s quiet response. “Let me explain the situation of which you, as a British diplomat, will at once recognise the extreme gravity.” And then drawing his white hand wearily across his brow, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. In that gay, brilliant Court—one of the gayest in all Europe—His Majesty always presented a brilliant and kingly figure in his splendid uniforms and dazzling decorations, but at heart he hated all pomp and show, and as soon as a ceremony was over he always changed into evening-clothes, or else into a navy serge suit which, being an old friend, was slightly shiny at the elbows.

A high-minded, God-fearing ruler, he carried out to the letter all the traditions of the House of Savoy and worked incessantly and untiringly for the welfare of his nation, and for the benefit of the sweated factory-hand, and the poor, half-starved contadino. For certain Hebrew financiers who had tried to grip the country and strangle it, he had nothing but hatred. For the present Cabinet, mostly composed of commercial adventurers and place-seeking lawyers, he had the most supreme contempt, and daily he sighed that he was not an autocrat, so that he could sweep away with a single stroke of the pen all those who stood in the way of his beloved Italy’s prosperity.

True, by dint of his own business acumen and his resolute firmness against the various Ministers of Finance who were too often rogues, many of whom ought long ago to have been in prison, he had himself placed the finances of Italy upon a sound basis. The lire was now almost equal in value to the French franc. By this, commercial industries had been encouraged, foreign capital had been invested in Italy, the railways had been taken over by the State, and a wave of prosperity had swept upon the nation such as had never hitherto been experienced.

But this had not suited the Cabinet, every man of whom could be bought at a price. Hence he stood alone as ruler, compelled daily to combat the intrigues of that unscrupulous horde of adventurers which composed the Chamber of Deputies, and to continue the policy he had marked out as his own.

As a diplomat Hubert Waldron knew all this and deeply sympathised with him. Truly, the Palace of the Quirinale was not a bed of roses for its Sovereign.

Again the bugle sounded, and from below came the regular tramp of armed men.

The little buhl clock upon the mantelshelf chimed the hour upon its silver bell, the big fire burned cosily, and over the great writing-table the two green silk-shaded electric lamps threw their mellow glow.

“Waldron, my nation is to-day in gravest peril,” the King said at last, looking straight into the other’s eyes very gravely. “A secret—one which I foolishly believed to be safe from our enemies—has been betrayed! You are shrewd, cautious, and far-seeing. I will reveal the whole ghastly truth to you—for you must help me. I rely upon you, for though I am King of Italy you are, I know, my friend, and will help me through the most critical crisis that has occurred since my accession to the throne. Listen,” he urged, “and I will relate the whole of the remarkable circumstances.”