Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe

“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.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Reveals an Intrigue

Hubert Waldron, a smart figure in his diplomatic uniform, strolled along the corridor, followed at a respectable distance by the neatly-dressed waiter until, at a convenient point, the diplomat halted at the junction of two corridors, as though in doubt. Pucci was at his side in an instant.

“I learnt only half an hour ago, signore, that there is a plot against you!” he said. “Signor Ghelardi is your enemy. You were attacked by the two assassins whom he bribed, but the conspiracy failed. Be careful. Exercise the greatest caution, signore – I beg of you.”

“This is not news to me, Pucci,” replied the diplomat, pretending to button his white glove. “I am keeping observation upon His Excellency the Minister, so be near me to-night, and keep a sharp look-out. It is in the personal interests of His Majesty. Is he here?”

“Si, signore. He arrived a quarter of an hour ago. I saluted him and he recognised me – even in this garb. His Majesty never forgets the faces of those whose duty it is to be his personal guardians.”

“All right, Pucci. Be near in case I require you – I trust you.”

“Bene, signore. I shall be there if you want me, never fear,” was the reply; of the faithful police agent.

And then the British diplomat strolled up the corridor, leaving the waiter to bustle along in the opposite direction.

Pucci was full of resource. He had been attracted to Hubert Waldron because he had seen that he was a fine, strong character, a man of high ideals, of dogged courage, and of British bull-dog perseverance. Waldron, of the stock that had made the Empire what it is, commanded respect. He was a man of action and of honour. Though clever, far-seeing, and with a keen scent for mystery, yet he was honest, upright, and once he made a friend that friend was his for always. His only fault was that he was too generous towards his friends, or to those who were in want. He would give his last half-sovereign to anyone who told him a tale of poverty.

In this connection he had often been imposed upon. He knew it, but always declared that, after all, he might have done one really charitable action, though others who had told their stories were impostors.

Like most men possessed of keen wits, he had been very badly imposed upon at times. Yet often and often, by his sympathetic feelings, he had spent the greater part of his pay in the relief of real cases of distress.

The Waldrons had ever been charitable, for they were always English gentlemen in the truest sense of the word.

In the great Council Chamber with the huge crystal chandeliers, where the walls were hung with the ancient tapestries brought from the Palazzo Communale at Siena – the chamber in which the sittings of the Council of Defence were held, and where the lost plans had been discussed – the King stood, the brilliant, imposing centre of His Excellency’s guests.

The assembly was a somewhat mixed one, though mainly military, and uniforms of every description were there, while every second man wore decorations of one kind or another. The ladies were mostly wives of high officers of State, of prefects and of military men. Yet there was also the usual sprinkling of wives and daughters of deputies and senators. Monte Citorio is always much in evidence in every public function in Italy.

Twice each year was the great imposing Ministry of War – or at least the public portion of it – thronged with officials from every corner of the kingdom, for His Excellency, General Cataldi, sent invitations broadcast, as he found it a cheap way of returning the hospitality daily offered to him – especially as the entertainment was paid for out of the public purse.

Waldron, on entering the Council Chamber, made his bow before His Majesty, and then, after nodding acquaintance with many persons he knew, crossed to where the Princess Luisa was standing in conversation with a stout old General, the commandant on the Alpine frontier. He bowed over her hand, and then all three began to chatter, while a few moments later the secretary, Lambarini, approached and found the little group.

Presently Lola, who was wearing a beautiful gown of pale carnation pink, and who looked inexpressibly sweet as she smiled, bent and whispered to Hubert:

“We had better not be seen together to-night, I think. Let us meet to-morrow at noon, out at Frascati, as before. I must see you. It is most important.”

“Good,” he replied. “That is an appointment,” and bending over her hand he passed across the great apartment, and was soon laughing merrily with Suderman, secretary of the Swedish Embassy.

He was rather annoyed that Lola – whom he had come there expressly to meet – should have ordered him to remain apart from her. What, he wondered, did she fear?

When in her presence, the world was, to him, full of bright gladness, but when they were apart, he only moped in silence and despair.

Did she know the truth, he wondered. Had she, by her woman’s keen, natural intuition, discovered that he loved her – that he was hers, body and soul?

Though he laughed lightly with the tall, fair-haired Swede at his side, his thoughtful eyes were still upon her, full of supreme admiration. And once she glanced furtively at him, as though in fear, it seemed, and then he saw her accompany the fat old General out into the ante-chamber adjoining.

For half an hour, or more, he remained talking with men and women he knew – the same old weary chatter of which the diplomat serving his country abroad grows so unutterably tired.

Who, of all that gay throng save His Majesty himself, dreamed of the sharp-edged sword of war suspended above them? Who knew of the black peril which threatened the fair land of Italy, or of the carefully prepared plot which her enemies in Vienna had prepared against her.

As Waldron stood chatting with a stout woman in black – the wife of one of the great Hebrew financiers of Genoa, he saw His Excellency enter and take his stand near the King, smiling serenely and bowing graciously to those about him – he, the man who was feeding the army upon tinned meat that had been rejected by the German authorities, and who signed contracts in return for bundles of bank-notes. Ah! what a world is ours!

But alas! is there not corruption in every Ministry of every European Power. What contractor to-day can hope to do a legitimate business without placing apart a sum for palm-oil? Disguise it as you will, business morality is in these days of grab and get-rich-quick, at a very low ebb, for too often, alas! honesty spells bankruptcy.

A pretty young Countess was talking with Hubert as he stood watching His Excellency. Was the General, he wondered, the man who had hired the two ruffians, Merlo and Fiola, to make that murderous attack upon him? Or was it Ghelardi, as the detective, Pucci, had that night declared.

Was it possible that the Chief of Secret Police had now found out the strenuous efforts he was making towards the elucidation of the problem of the stolen plans, and in consequence his jealousy had been aroused.

Of which theory to accept he was utterly undecided.

He was listening to the pretty woman’s inane chatter, hardly aware of what she said. His mind was far too full of the grave peril of the international situation.

Suddenly his eyes wandered around to find Lambarini. He was there a few moments before, but he seemed to have left and passed into one or other of the ante-rooms. A point had arisen in his mind regarding the plans earlier that evening, and upon it he wished to ask him a question.

The Council Chamber was now hot and stifling, and the mingled odours of the chiffons of the women nauseated him. He would have preferred to be in the quiet comfort of his own rooms, now that Lola had sent him away. Yet was not his duty to be seen at that official reception?

Dawson, the British military attaché, conspicuous in his Guards’ uniform, came up to him, saying in a low voice:

“Hallo, Hubert, you look a bit bored, my dear boy. So am I. Couldn’t we clear out, do you think? I’m going to play bridge down at the club. Come?”

“Not to-night, old chap,” Hubert answered. “I shall stay another quarter of an hour, and then toddle home.”

“Sure you won’t – eh?”

“No, not to-night. I’m tired.”

“Right-ho! Good night,” answered the attaché cheerily, and was next moment lost in the crowd. Waldron pushed his way through the throng into the ante-chamber, vainly searching for Lambarini. Pironti, the unscrupulous secretary of the Minister was there, surrounded by women – wives of officers and others who hoped to secure the man’s good graces to procure better appointments for their husbands. In the army it was openly declared that Pironti was necessary in order to secure His Excellency’s ear, and many a man had been passed over his superior’s heads and given lucrative jobs because Pironti’s palm had been crossed by a few bank-notes.

Presently, tired to death of the incessant laughter and chatter, Hubert left by a door which he knew led to a long corridor, which ended with a flight of stairs to the first floor.

On the nights of Ministerial receptions the sentries had orders to allow guests to pass without hindrance and unchallenged throughout the building, therefore, as Hubert ascended the stairs the soldier stood at attention.

Above, was another wide corridor leading right round the first floor to where was situated General Cataldi’s private cabinet in the centre of the huge, handsome pile overlooking the broad Via Venti Settembre.

To that part of the building few of the guests penetrated, save perhaps some officials who took their wives to see the fine suite of rooms occupied by His Excellency the Minister.

Hubert was still in search of Lambarini, and was wondering if he had gone in that direction.

At some distance down the corridor from the door of His Excellency’s private cabinet two sentries, their duties relaxed that night, stood at ease chatting, but as Hubert passed they drew themselves to attention, while around a corner from another corridor which ran at right angles a waiter with a silver salver in his hand hurried by.

The man’s face struck Waldron as peculiarly familiar, yet he saw it only for a second, as the man seemed in a great hurry.

It was not Pucci, for he had not seen him since he had first entered the building.

Hubert halted and looked after the receding figure, much puzzled. His clothes did not fit him, for the tails of his dress-coat were too long, and the trousers also were too big. Apparently, he seemed of middle-age, with a short moustache turning slightly grey, yet in his eyes, in that brief second when their glance had met, there was an expression that was familiar.

“Who can he be?” murmured Hubert to himself. “I know him. But for the life of me I can’t recollect where we’ve met before.”

The man who travels comes frequently across familiar waiters in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. Therefore, after reflection, he came to the conclusion that it must be a man who had served him somewhere or other in the past.

And he went forward to His Excellency’s rooms – that room wherein, on the last occasion, he had discussed the stolen plans with Cataldi and the two secretaries.

No one was nigh. The sentry still stood gossiping at the other end of the corridor. He would enter and have yet another look at that big safe which had been so mysteriously opened, though no one appeared to have entered there.

He turned the handle of the big door of polished mahogany. It yielded noiselessly, and pushing it open, he stood upon the thick, Oriental carpet in the too familiar room.

He halted upon the threshold, scarce believing his own eyes.

Before the Minister’s safe – the same one from which the plans had been stolen – stood a woman – Lola!

The safe door stood open, and as he looked he watched her abstract an envelope, which she folded hurriedly with nervous hands and thrust into the breast of her gown, at the same time producing a similar envelope which she put in the place of the one she had stolen.

So noiselessly had he entered that she was all unconscious of his presence.

His heart gave a great bound and he held his breath. His senses were frozen by the amazing and horrifying discovery.

With staring eyes he watched her breathlessly, as with hurried hands she closed the heavy safe door, turned the small key twice and then slipped it into her long white glove, at the same time crushing the stolen envelope deeper down into the breast of her low-cut dress.