Chapter Twenty Six. Gathering Clouds.

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 Hôtel 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 entrée 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.