THE SECRET MEMOIRS OF BERTHA KRUPP (continued 2)

Her assertiveness, newly acquired, but all the stronger for that, made her give a vicious pull to the bell-rope. She hardly noticed that it came off in her hand when a lackey, scenting baksheesh, responded.

"My servants, quick!" she ordered.

"Beg Fraulein's pardon, they haven't yet arrived from the station."

"Didn't Count Keller provide a conveyance for them?" she demanded peremptorily, hoping that her words would reach that worthy. "They must be sent for instantly."

There were sounds of carriage wheels in the courtyard below.

"Wait," cried Bertha; "there they are at last!" She handed the servant a small gold coin. "For the driver; let him keep the change."

The footman withdrew with a broad smile. No doubt he robbed the cabman of half the generous tip.

Torrents of "Ohs!" and "Ach Gotts!" when the Essen contingent came in. They had waited more than half an hour for the expected royal carriage, and then in despair took the only public vehicle available.

Bertha's tirewoman inspected the apartment while giving vent to her outraged feelings. "Darling Fraulein can never sleep in that bed. It's as hard as rocks."

"I know," said Bertha. "But what is to be done?"

"I will send Fritz to fetch in the car your own bed, all except the frame," decided the tirewoman after reflection.

"But wouldn't that be an insult to my hosts?" Bertha asked.

"Rubbish! The late Queen Victoria always carried her bed along, even when she came to visit her own daughter in Berlin. Besides, we can plead doctor's orders," said Frau Martha; and when the heiress still seemed doubtful she added: "On my own responsibility, of course; you don't know anything about it. The Baroness will back me up, I'm sure."

The Krupp footman was accordingly dispatched, and returned two hours later with the bed-furnishings.

Meanwhile Bertha, all in white silk—according to the Court Marshal's command—was waiting upon Her Majesty, who fondly kissed her and inquired most affably after her mother—a regular set of questions afterwards repeated by the War Lord, all his sons, and daughter. They are not very original, these Hohenzollerns.

The Krupp heiress, who, as intimated, was first inclined to be rather proud that the guards were called out in her honour, loathed herself for that weakness ten minutes after penetrating the Imperial circle, for the incessant reference about that piece of pomp made by the royal family and their titled attendants was simply maddening. "Unheard-of honour"; "Must remember it to the end of your days"; "Most unique spectacle in Europe"; "How thoughtful of Majesty"; "Too bad madame, your mother, didn't witness it," were among the least stupid comments assailing Bertha's ears on all sides. The War Lord himself went into raptures of delight, being as pleased with his surprise, as he called it, as a schoolboy with a new top, and then forestalled possible further speculations on the matter of his dispensations of honour by announcing that, in honour of Bertha, he would partake of the family luncheon.

More effusions of delight, more congratulations showered on Bertha: "He must love his godchild very dearly"; "He wouldn't have done that for the Emperor of China." ...

Luncheon at Court! Bertha had pictured to herself a grand function: courtiers in gold lace, swords at their side; ladies in grand toilettes; swarms of servants in showy liveries; a dozen or more courses, under the direction of the Lord Steward of the Household; golden dinner service à la American multi-millionaire; "heavenly music," and so forth.

Alas! And Bertha had brought her appetite along, the appetite of a growing, young, country lass from a food-worshipping household!

The ladies were dowdy, the gentlemen in ordinary uniform or dressed in abominable Berlin taste; over-loud music, with which the War Lord persistently found fault with both time and execution. The average Kapellmeister "had not the shadow of a perception" of the composer's artistic intentions. His views were "plebeian, necessarily—maybe his mother was a washerwoman, poor wench"; and, after all, the War Lord himself must conduct to "get proper results." Of course, everybody was "convinced" of that.

"Majesty" was too "lenient." It was "truly heartrending" to hear music so "butchered," etc.

"En famille," they called it, and Bertha sat at the end of the table between two cadets, younger sons of a principality not much larger than Richmond Park.

"Fraulein," whispered one, forgetting, under the impetus of youthful confidences, to speak through his nose; "Fraulein has dined beforehand, of course?"

"Why, no," she replied innocently, "and I am powerfully hungry."

"Then you will stay so"—this from the loquacious petty prince.

At that moment the soup was put before the War Lord, and he fell to demolishing it at starving bricklayer's rate. When he had about half finished, the family and guests were served, and when he was through, his plate was removed and so were the rest. Bertha had had two spoonfuls, and the petty prince, who had gulped down four or five, grinned broadly.

Fish, entrée and fowl were offered, and ruthlessly yanked away in the same rapid gunfire fashion. To an empty stomach this teasing with coveted food was uncanny!

"I hope you have dined well," said the Empress, after the party adjourned to the "Cup Room" for coffee. "Was the service satisfactory?"

"Excellent," lied Bertha.

The coffee had an abominable oily taste. "From my colonies," explained the War Lord. "Mighty good, when one gets used to it."

But Bertha noticed that while his guests were served en bloc, he brewed coffee for himself and wife in a silver Vienna machine.

Desultory conversation: church building, social reform, Bismarck, orphans, knitting socks for soldiers' children. Ill-concealed yawns. The War-Lord would have a game of billiards, and then off to the park on Extase (his favourite saddle-horse).

"Ride or drive, which do you prefer, Bertha?" he said to the Krupp heiress, going out.

"As Uncle Majesty commands," lisped the young girl, very much embarrassed.

"I promised Louise a sleigh ride. Perhaps she would like to go with her," suggested the Empress.

"All right. Two horses and outrider."

An outrider—something, to be sure, but going to the park "with that kid."

Princess Victoria Louise was eleven then, and intellectually no more advanced than a child of four. Poor child! her father's ear trouble seemed only one of the dreadful inheritances that stamped her a sufferer from Hohenzollern disease. And Bertha had fondly imagined that she was to be classed with grown-ups!

"Did Fraulein enjoy her lunch?" asked the motherly Frau Martha, when summoned to help her young mistress change for the outing.

"Plenty to eat, but no chance to eat it," replied the Krupp heiress sullenly. "Get me a sandwich or two, or I shall faint."

"We were told," wailed Frau Martha, "that lunch was dinner for servants, and this was the menu: half-bottle of small beer each, yellow peas in the husks, three inches of terribly salt boiled beef, three potatoes each, two carrots, and no bread."

The Krupp servants, it seems, were no better treated than those of the Prince of Wales (afterwards King Edward) and the untitled attendants of other royal highnesses and majesties, those of the King and Queen of Italy, for instance.

In the 'nineties it was common report in Berlin diplomatic circles that the Prince of Wales kept away from Berlin because he "could not induce any of his favourite servants to be of the party," these favourite servants being the same whom the then Court Marshal, von Liebenau—a drill sergeant with a gold stick—designated "as the hungriest and most impudent set of menials" he ever had the misfortune to encounter in the exercise of his duties.

Why the epithets?

His Royal Highness's valet and his grooms had politely asked for eggs and bacon for breakfast, and they would not have cold pork and potato salad for supper, even though that be the Empress's favourite menu to go to sleep on.

And those "impudent Englishmen" had the temerity to ridicule the solitary bottle of small beer graciously allowed them by His Prussian Majesty; and about this and more the first groom of His Britannic Highness and the Berlin excellency had an exciting passage of words, memorised, rightfully or wrongfully, as follows:

The Englishman: "The other attendants and myself cannot possibly worry along on the breakfasts furnished, rolls and bad tea; and salt pork and lentils for dinner is not what we are used to."

The Prussian Bully: "Nor do you seem to be used to household discipline. But I will have no more of your English impudence. I will inform the Prince of his servants' unruly behaviour."

The Chief Groom: "Thank you. His Royal Highness will then engage board for us at a hotel, and there will be an end to starvation diet."

On another occasion pease pudding, pork, roast potatoes and beer were sent to the rooms of Queen Marguerite's chief tirewoman for dinner, at the Neues Palais, a couple of hours before she was expected to dress Her Majesty for a State banquet. The dame refused it, and sent for the Empress's chief titled servant, Baroness von Hahnke, stating in plain terms that, unless she were furnished with food suitable to her rank and station, she would drive into town to dine, even at the risk of being late for Her Majesty's service.

The Baroness, frightened out of her wits, told the Empress the facts, and the Imperial lady gave Count Puckler (responsible for the sins of the kitchen) a terrible talking-to before her other titled servants. At the same time she ordered a suitable dinner for the Italian lady from her own cuisine—a dinner the extras of which upset the budget for some weeks to come.

CHAPTER IX

WHAT THE MAID SAW AND HEARD

Revelations—Sauerkraut and Turnips—What the Dachshunds Did

FRAU MARTHA to FRAU KRUPP, née BARONESS VON ENDE.

BERLIN, SCHLOSS, Christmas.

GRACIOUS LADY,—May it please the Gracious Lady, we arrived safely and sound, and Fraulein just started off on a sleigh ride with the little Princess, who is as foolish as the poor Mueller orphan in our hospital, but, mind, she had something warm before I let her go.

Fraulein don't want me to say nothing, but duty compels me. Gracious Lady, I must tell you that Fraulein got up still hungry from table and ate four ham sandwiches, three doughnuts and a cream tart, which I bought for her with my own money (no matter about that) ere I let her go. After I made her warm inside, I made her warm underneath, and put on her the beautiful sables the late Gracious Gentleman, God rest his soul, got given to him in Russia. With all respects to Majesty, the little Princess, in her cheap iltiz (patois) garment, looked like a mere rag doll compared with our Bertha, please excuse me, Gracious Lady.

Gracious Lady will forgive an ignorant girl, but the three of us, Fritz and Lenchen and me, call the Schloss Starvation Hall.

Except Fraulein and Fritz and Lenchen, I haven't heard a decent word since we left home. They just snarl and hiss. Because Fraulein is called the richest girl in the world, they fetch and carry for her, like the mealy-mouthed menials they are; but if it wasn't for the tips, I don't think they'd do a thing for her.

Fraulein won't tell you, so I do, that the three of us rode to the Schloss in a hired coach, because Uncle Majesty was too mean to send a carriage for us—and to think of what at home we always provide for his twenty and more attendants and the fine time we give them!

I see now why they are always so greedy in Essen. They never get such meat and vittel as we give them, in Berlin or Potsdam; they hardly have enough peas in the husks and potatoes in the jackets.

Gracious Lady can't imagine their meanness in the Schloss. I am told there isn't enough linen to give Majesties a daily change. And how the hundreds of menservants keep clean, with only two bathrooms, and hot water which must be carried up four flights of stairs, I can't make out. As to the maids, they don't.

But the poor things can't help it; all they get is two marks fifty (half a crown) a day for from twelve to sixteen hours' work, and not a cup of coffee or a spoonful of soup in this fierce, cold weather. And think of it, they don't get their wages weekly, as the law allows, but on the third day of the month. The poor wretches haven't even got a place to eat.

I won't say a thing about Fraulein's rooms.

Thought Gracious Lady would be pleased to know that I am looking after the child, trying to keep her in good health, no matter what trouble and expense, and I remain, with respects from Lena and Fritz, the Gracious Lady's most obedient servant,

MARTHA.

P.S.—I had to send for towels to the car, for the ones given to Fraulein were as hard as boards and there were only two, and the maids said they would be changed every second day; and I beg the Gracious Lady's pardon, but myself and Lenchen and Fritz were given two small huckaback towels to last through the week, and a tin wash-bowl no larger than those we feed the Great Dane out of at the villa, and no pitcher or foot-tubs. What are we going to do?

MARTHA.

Letter from FRAU MARTHA to HERR L——, Superintendent of the Household, Villa Huegel.

BERLIN, SCHLOSS, Christmas.

HONOURED HERR L——,—This Schloss is a big pigsty, excuse the hard words, and I can tell Gracious Lady only half our troubles. There is no bathroom for Fraulein, no running water—our poorest cottagers in Essen are better off. It takes about half an hour to get a cupful of lukewarm water from the kitchen, and the maid looks daggers if you don't tip up the tin every time.

If we could only get Fraulein's car into the courtyard (there is plenty of room) and live in it, we would be all right, for Fraulein's meals I could cook on the new-fangled kitchen range, which makes no smoke, and she could have her bath regularly.

Gracious Lady will have told you about Fraulein eating at Uncle Majesty's table. What do I say—eating? Fraulein comes back every time half dead of hunger. Bertha says it's the quick serving, but I had a talk with the stewardess last night, and she told me things. The allowances even for Majesty's table, she said, are cut so fine, there is never enough for all, family, officials and guests; and, to cover up the shortness, the courses are served quickly as if shot from the new machine-gun I have heard Herr Franz talk about. Some of the guests get skipped, others are given just a mouthful, and part of the food is carried out again for the hungry wolves of lackeys.

Mean, now, isn't it, Herr L——? But we, I mean Fraulein, has to put up with it while here. As to grub allowed to Fritz, me and Lenchen, it's sauerkraut and turnips and herrings and black bread; but we don't mind, as we can buy outside. But I can't take Bertha into eating places, and make up for what she goes short at the royal table; she has to live on sandwiches and cake for the most part. Other arrangements as bad. I would be ashamed to tell you of the servants' accommodations: back-stairs, rotten-smelling oil lamps. We won't be comfortable until we get back home once more.

For Fraulein's bed I got the linen from our car, but as we took just enough for a night's run and back you must send some more. I wanted to save you the trouble, and asked the housekeeper to have some washed. Not here, she said; too few in help, no extra tubs, no place to dry. When I offered to pay for the soap, that seemed to tickle her immensely, but she had to refuse in the end.

Honoured Herr L——, tell the servants at the Villa they don't half know how well they are off. I never did until coming across all this high-sounding stop-a-hole-in-the-sieve business.

You cannot imagine, worthy Mr. Superintendent, too, what funny things there are too—the War Lord's dachshunds, for instance, all jaws and stomach. They look like those yellow-skinned truffle Leberwursts held up by Frankfurters, and—what do you think?—have been taught to snap and nibble the calves of people of quality only.

Mine they leave severely alone, thank God; but I told Fraulein not to put on too many "lugs," lest they mistake her for a "von."

Of course I can't swear to it, but they do say that "Uncle Majesty" has a way, by a mere look, of setting the dachshunds on people he dislikes; they must be as smart as Herr Director-General's French poodles, I reckon. Anyhow, they seem to know when "Uncle Majesty" is cross with someone and go for him.

I heard you tell Herr Franz of meeting Count Posadownk in Bielefeld and what a great man he was. And surely he is a man with a lot of authority, but here no one is bigger than a ten-pin before "Uncle Majesty."

George, the chief Jaeger who stands behind his chair at table and knows everything and everybody, has become quite friendly-like with me. Well, George says Count Posadownk "gets the War Lord's goat" every time he reads those long-winded reports of his. But the War Lord must listen, says George; "part of Majesty's business to hear the ministers' gab." And listen he does—the Lord knows how he manages—but ten minutes is his limit; after hearing someone else talk approaching a quarter of an hour, he is "ready to explode," says George.

By that time the Count is just warming up, and you would think nothing short of an earthquake could stop him. But the dachshunds are as good as the fire-spitting mountain we saw in Italy—or was it Switzerland?

A wink from "Papa"—"raising or wagging an ear," says George—shows the dachshunds that Posadownk ought to make himself scarce, and in a twinkling they get ready for attack round the short clothes and silk stockings.

While the Count talks his head off, first one, then the other bowwow sets up a dismal howl. Posadownk raises his voice, the dachshunds yelp more loudly, and Majesty, pretending to call them off, makes the hullabaloo worse still.

Just the same the Count is crazy to finish, and the dachshunds go on inspecting his legs. Maybe he gets in a good kick or two, but the hounds are experts in pulling at silk stockings without drawing blood. Once or twice his Excellency went away with stockings in ribbons.

The same thing happened to others having business at the palace; the wonder is that no one poisons the beasts. If they bit me—a dose of something strong for them, you bet.

Remember, nothing about Bertha-and-nothing-to-eat to Her Ladyship.—The Herr Superintendent's very humble servant,

MARTHA.

CHAPTER X

THE ENTANGLING OF ARCHDUKE FRANZ FERDINAND

Discussing the Archduke—"Intoxicate with Promises"—A Look at the Map—The War Lord's Miscalculation

"What do you think of number one?" asked the War Lord, when the door had closed upon Bertha at the old Chancellor's Palace.

The diplomat performing the duties of deputy-head of the Empire is tall, inclined to corpulence, grey moustached and bright eyed. He knocked his heels together like a recruit trembling before the drill-ground bully. "Majesty refers to Fraulein Krupp?"

"Quite correct."

"She has the benefit of Majesty's personal guidance—there's no more to be said," declared von Bülow, with conviction. "But who may number two be?"

"Not quite the figurehead of number one. I refer to the gentleman coming to see you."

"The Archduke? I was going to beg your Majesty for instructions concerning His Imperial Highness."

"Plain Franz Este, if you please; his incognito must be taken very literally."

"At your Majesty's orders."

"He is number two," emphasised Wilhelm; and while pretending to look out of the window replaced his left hand, which had slipped, upon the hilt of his sword. Then, fully accoutred, he resumed: "Number one furnishes my arms—

"And those of the world," put in the Chancellor.

"That's where you and all of you are mistaken. My gun works arming my enemies? As intimated, number one helps to disarm my enemies."

When he saw blank amazement on the Chancellor's countenance, he added: "Don't ask how, for in this case purpose sanctifies the means. Number one, then, is my right arm, while number two I intend to make one of my men-at-arms."

Another pause for effect.

"I am all ears, Your Majesty," said von Bülow.

"Well, then, bear this in mind: Franz Ferdinand has to be indulged despite his marriage to the little school marm. He is a fool, of course. Well, the Chotek being an encumbrance to Franz Ferdinand, we must make her into a quarry for our own good. What do you think?"

"I am afraid I lack capacity to follow the trend of Your Majesty's grand ideas this morning," replied the Chancellor, remembering that he had been chosen, not to think, but to carry out orders.

"Well, as you know, I persuaded Francis Joseph to wink at the Chotek indiscretion. The decree elevating the ex-governess, and making her brats of princely estate, ought to have been dated from Berlin instead of Ischl, for it was I who placed that plum in Her Ladyship's pie, the Olympian Emperor notwithstanding. Hence Prince Hohenberg—for Franz Ferdinand is more or less his wife's husband—is beholden to me for such recognition as his marriage received, and Sophie will not let him forget it either. Accordingly, I call him 'number two' in my combination."

"If the children of this union——"

"Disunion," interrupted the War Lord, applauding his irony with a loud guffaw.

"Disunion," von Bülow obediently repeated, "lay claims to the throne, is it Your Majesty's intention to support them?"

"All Archdukes look alike to me," replied the War Lord with fine disdain; "all fools, bigots, or both. Rudolph was an exception. At all events, it is to our interest to give Herr von Este to understand that, if he is determined to make Sophie both Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, Germany will support his mad scheme."

"Your Majesty thinks Hungary will accept her as Queen?"

"She has to, for a morganatic marriage is a real marriage according to Hungarian law."

"Which suggests the possibility of grave internal dissensions," said the Chancellor.

"Quite so; to Pan-Germanism this little governess is worth five army corps. If her marriage causes a split in the Dual Monarchy, why, we will annex German Austria and leave the Hungarians to die, if they choose, 'pro Regi nostro, Sophia.' But that's quite a long way off. What concerns us at present is getting solid with that chap. I know what you want to say: A brute, a beast. But so long as the Chotek is satisfied, I am."

The latter in response to an indication on von Bülow's part that he meant to put in a word or two.

"When I come to think of it," continued the War Lord, "neither Alexander, nor Charlemagne, nor Napoleon were what you call gentlemen overflowing with the milk of human kindness. As I see it now—my plans are not quite matured, of course—but this is certainly beyond question or dispute: As my ally in the conquest of the world, a namby-pamby partner would be of confounded little use. Besides, for sentiment I have Victor—darling fellow!"

Saying this, the War Lord gripped his sword so hard that the point of the scabbard threw a statuette of the King of Italy off an étagère, smashing it.

"There he goes," he sneered, kicking at the broken china; "uncertain commodities at best, these Dagos. Always fishing outside the three-mile limit, and everlastingly ogling with England and France."

"Majesty is pleased to under-estimate King Victor's devotion to German interests," ventured von Bülow warmly.

"When you were in Rome you used to sing a different tune," said the War Lord severely. "But revenons à nos moutons: Franz Este is a bit of a mutton thief himself"—Wilhelm laughed heartily at his quibble—"very fond of Hungary and Bohemia. We must intoxicate him with the promise of great things to be accomplished by the union of German arms—German-Austrian, of course."

"May I remind Your Majesty that Franz is rather a fanatic in religious matters?" suggested the Chancellor.

"I was coming to that," snarled the War Lord—it simply maddens Wilhelm to find that someone, beside himself, has an idea in his head. Whether the religious aspect had occurred to him before we don't know, but he pounced upon it with vulture-like gusto, adopting it in toto as it were.

"You will say to him: 'Brothers in arms and in faith—the Protestant and the Catholic Church, or the Catholic and the Protestant,' I don't care. Remind him that Prussia offered the Pope an asylum before the invasion of Rome by the Italians.

"Yes," he continued, "curse the Italians as much as you like; promise him Venice and the Balkans up to the gates of Constantinople."

The War Lord pressed a button underneath a large table fronting the Chancellor's desk, whereupon the mahogany top disappeared and another marked off in geographical divisions, representing the map of Europe and part of Asia, replaced it—the Kriegsspiel; Europe in battle-array.

The Kriegsspiel—War Game—shows the military strength of each country in plain, movable figures, horse, foot and artillery, navy and aircraft—the figures liable to correction from time to time; the exact location of the forces is apparent at a glance too.

The same applies to fortresses, letters designating the origin of the artillery equipment.

Above each country wave its colours in the shape of a tiny silk flag, fastened to bead-headed pins, easy to stick in anywhere.

The War Lord pulled out a drawer and took a handful of German flags, but before using any a new thought struck him.

"Send for Kast," he commanded curtly.

Adjutant Baron Kast appeared as if catapulted into the room.

"I forget the lettering combination—I want 'k' for Belgium. You are sure the other equipments are marked according to latest reports."

"At Your Majesty's service."

The adjutant fixed the 'k' as required and stood at attention.

"I will call in case I need you further."

The officer was drawing backwards towards the door when the War Lord stopped him.

"One second. I want a cross fixed to letter 'k.'"

Kast, a martinet without ideas of his own, a mere mannequin moving on the strings of discipline, looked blank astonishment.

"If it can't be done, send for the mechanic; he shall fix the new combination overnight."

"May I try, Your Majesty?"

Kast succeeded in quick order.

"Why did you hesitate, if it's so easy?" demanded the War Lord.

"With Your Majesty's permission, I was wondering whether it was your pleasure to have a cross placed against all the 'k's' on the map."

The War Lord looked at von Bülow, who dismissed Kast by a look.

"Out of the mouths of fools and sucklings," misquoted Wilhelm under his breath, while a cruel sneer played about his lips. Then, to the Chancellor, aloud: "Inborn stupidity or low cunning?"—referring to Kast.

"The first, Your Majesty, the first. Your Majesty will agree, when I say that I myself do not see the significance of the cross."

"You will—in time," said the War Lord brusquely. "But to continue."

He took a German flag and placed it on the spot marked Rome. "The Holy Roman Empire of German nationality," he said.

"Which Voltaire designated as neither holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire," remarked von Bülow drily.

"Time's passed, time was, time is," quoted the War Lord, "or rather will be." For awhile he remained in silent reverie, then turned upon the Chancellor suddenly. "You asked the other day how to mark the English Channel. Gott! it's worth five million men to Edward. No, don't mark it at all; for if the distance between Calais and Dover can be bridged only half-way by our guns—no impossibility, you know—that strip of water won't amount to more than a few army corps."

Again the War Lord remained in deep thought. "Noah's ark," he demanded after a while.

The Chancellor pulled out a drawer at the side of the Kriegsspiel table. "At Your Majesty's service." The War Lord picked figure after figure, dropping them on the floor, until he got hold of a small white object.

He held it between two fingers, eyeing it curiously; then moved it deliberately across the Channel, holding it aloft, and planted it on the spot marked "London."

"The Dove of Peace," he said; "for in London we will dictate peace to the world. Tell Franz."

CHAPTER XI

THE CROWN PRINCE ON A LARK

A Gallop with the Crown Prince—On the Way to Surprise

Letter of BERTHA KRUPP to FRANZ.

BERLIN, SCHLOSS.

DEAR FRANZ,—When I promised to write, I expected to put a school-girl's ability at composition to the test, being half afraid that my description of Berlin and the Court might not pass muster with so severe a critic as my dear half-brother. But something has happened that makes living in the shadow of the throne and royal intimacies and reviews and State balls, even the Grand Council of the Knights of the Black Eagle, look insignificant.

Listen! Yesterday after luncheon the Crown Prince came to me with a mysterious air. "Bertha," he said, for he is quite familiar, "you look like a good, sporty girl; let's fool those fogies, and have a lark all by ourselves."

You may be sure, Franz, I was frightened, and looked it I suppose, for he added quickly: "Upon my word as an officer, your Mamma may know about it." And then he unfolded his plan.

"I am tired to death of the baggage that attends our rides, watching with as many eyes as a centipede has feet; this afternoon I will lend you one of my swift English hunters, and I will ride Circe, a devil of a horse that can outdistance father's Extase any day. Flottwitz—you know he is Master of Horse—promised to give the others the slowest plugs in the stables, and we will humour their dog-trot as long as the public gaze is upon us. But once beyond the dear public's reach, off we are, rein and spur. Don't be afraid; the grooms, too, will be mounted on grandmothers; they won't catch us."

I felt quite relieved. "It will be jolly," I said.

The Crown Prince laughed immoderately. "What a little innocent you are," he cried; "running away is only the beginning. As soon as we are out of sight, we will turn and gallop to Castle Bellevue. There we will dismount, and I will punt you across the river. It is but a stone's throw to the gipsy's cottage, and that is where I will take you."

I became apprehensive again. "I am afraid of gipsies," I faltered.

"Afraid in my company?" cried Wilhelm. "I forbid you to be afraid of the very devil when I am around. I am your cavalier," he added; "you must do as I tell you." Then his tone became coaxing again. "Don't you like to have your fortune told, Bertha? She is a 'bird at it'—makes your flesh creep and all that sort of thing."

"But does Auntie Majesty approve?"

"Bother, Mother; I am not under her thumb," he answered, and I thought it very horrid of him.

Well, Franz, everything came off according to programme. For a young girl from Essen to ride down The Linden with the Crown Prince, masters of horse, maids of honour, chasseurs and grooms is lots of fun, and I don't know that I ever enjoyed anything so much as the throngs of people in the streets and on the sidewalk cheering and waving hats and handkerchiefs. But, of course, they thought me a Royal Highness or some sort of princess, the very least.

"Can't you ride astride?" whispered the Crown Prince as we passed through the semi-shadows of the Brandenburger Thor.

"What is that?" I asked, and somehow got the feeling that his question was not the correct thing. So I touched my horse with the spur and cantered away. Wilhelm joined me quickly. "Dog-trot now," he said, and we jogged along like Herr Director-General's family on their old brown mares.

After passing Castle Bellevue, promenaders became few and far between, and then the long-legged hunters increased the distance between ourselves and the rest of the party very considerably. Suddenly Wilhelm—he asked me to call him by his first name, but I always prefix his title—whispered: "Now, ventre à terre." Setting the example he jumped a hedge, I after him—a fine race we ran for the next ten minutes.

Then back to Bellevue. We galloped right through to the water's edge, and were half across the river before the stablemen had caught the horses.

Lieber Franz, you must excuse; I can't write a word more. Too tired and too excited. So good night for to-night and pleasant dreams.—Always your good sister,

BERTHA.

CHAPTER XII

THE FORTUNE TELLER SEES BERTHA IN A HAZE OF BLOOD

Mother Zara Speaks—Ghosts of Infamy—What the Blackbird Foretold—The Crown Prince Stands Aloof

BERTHA to FRANZ.

DEAR FRANZ,—The gipsy Wilhelm and I visited is not at all like the ones that occasionally come to Essen at fair-time or by way of caravans. You know we always thought them impostors and, small doubt, they were, for the same yarn had to do for everybody: the tall, dark man, that would come into one's life, was conjured up even for little Barbara at the rate of ten pfennigs.

Mother Zara is a hundred years old if she is a day; a face the colour of an old green-back American bank-note crumpled up—thousand and one crow's-feet to the inch. Dress: rusty black silk, edged with moth-eaten sable; sugar-loaf hat, filigreed with zodiacal signs; white mice following her wherever she goes.

This much I observed while waiting. She was in an adjoining room and, as I observed through the glass door, in no hurry to meet her visitors, even though the servant had recognised the young master of Bellevue Castle.

Meanwhile the Crown Prince was walking up and down, smacking his high boots with the riding-whip. I believe he was looking for a mirror—vain boy—and was furious at not finding one. Young Wilhelm affects to be as nervous and impatient as Uncle Majesty, and won't sit down a second if there is room to move about.

At last the door opened and the stooping figure of the clairvoyante appeared on the threshold, a blackbird perching on her left shoulder and half a dozen white mice circling round her feet, or riding on the train of her dress.

"Mother Zara," cried Wilhelm advancing, "I brought my cousin——"

She shut him up with an imperious gesture. "Hold your tongue, young braggart, for this is serious business."

She spoke in a high-pitched, authoritative voice, and I tell you, Franz, I was all a-tremble when Zara fixed her eyes upon me—eyes that looked you through, like the eyes of a sorceress you read about in the story books.

"What do I see?" she murmured to herself, drawing figures on the sanded stone floor.

"A deuced pretty girl," remarked the Crown Prince gallantly.

The clairvoyante shook her stick at Wilhelm. "Leave us alone," she cried; "I want no interference."

When the door had closed Zara turned upon me like some wild thing, and I tell you, Franz, I wished myself at our little bower at Villa Huegel, playing dominoes with you or Mamma.

"Who art thou?" she cried. "So young, so gentle, so kind of aspect, yet I see thee in a haze of blood."

She walked around me in a circle, dragging her terrible crutch, the mice capering and vaulting.

"I can't make it out," she kept mumbling; "looks the German, but here men do the ruling, and her power for destruction—— Where does it come in?"

Of course I was too frightened to utter a word. I merely gazed upon my tormenter and trembled.

The soothsayer drew her garments around her bones and settled down on a low stool before the hearth. With her crutch she stirred the ashes, separating them from live coals and addressing each heap in turn as if they were human beings. As I perceived with horror, poor me was the subject of her monologue.

"Keep to your hell-hole, Mother Toffana," she muttered, sending a half-dead coal into the corner (I ought to tell you, Franz, that I have been reading Alexandre Dumas of late, otherwise I wouldn't have understood half the things she said). "Toffana, you are not in it with this child," she continued. "And Joanna of Naples, husband-killer and warrior, the number of men and women and children that died by you and for you is nothing compared with the hosts she will send to slaughter."

"Madame la Marquise de Brinvilliers," she said to a live coal, drawing it nearer, "come and feast your eyes on this girl. You did your work all right for undertakers, but were a pitiful slacker just the same."

She rose and bowed ceremoniously.

"Your Majesty," she mumbled, pointing with her crutch to a glowing ember, one of several detached from the rest. "You once waged war for seven years on a stretch, yet the number of Prussians you killed, added to that of your own people that perished in battle and by disease, may be expressed in six noughts. And," turning to other debris, "your record, Catherine of Russia, is quite as inadequate as Maria Theresa's compared with the prospects for manslaughter held out by this young lady!"

After an ominous silence: "Sheba, Elizabeth, Semiramis, aye, ye furies of the White Terror who dined off Lamballe's liver, miserable failures all of you——" She did not finish, but the end of her crutch continued to poke fire and ashes, separating and piling up, moving and sweeping along larger and again smaller quantities like figures on a chessboard.

She seemed dissatisfied, and as the minutes passed, her speech, or rather her mumbling, became more and more disconnected. Suddenly she drew her stick across the piles, levelling the lot. "No use," she cried, turning round and addressing me; "I can't get anything out of them. Are they holding back, or is Zara losing her cunning? But I will know," she added fiercely. "Who art thou, girl?"

I was speechless with fright, and all engrossed with her combinations as Zara was, she scarce noticed my silence and lumbered on regardless. Maybe, too, no reply was expected.

"Not the War Lord's wife," she mused. "Augusta is the mother of many children, they tell me, nor——." (I didn't catch the rest, it was a jumble of mumblings.)

After she became articulate again, I heard her say: "Oceans of blood have been poured out. But what am I saying? She is only a child."

Then out of her black silk mantle she drew a pack of cards, threw them on the table, and, resting her right hand heavily on the crutch, studied the pasteboards anxiously for a while.

"Cursed mystery," she whispered. Then to the bird: "Jezebel, help!"

The black thing hopped on the table and scattered the cards with his feet. Then he picked up one with his beak and presented it to his mistress.

"A town in flames," said Zara after scrutiny.

More cards offered by the bird!

"A thousand baby-hands raised above the waves!

"A tumbling cathedral!

"Bodies piled mountain high!

"Women, children and old men for breastworks!

"A graveyard-ditch a hundred miles long!

"Death lying in wait on the floor of the ocean!

"Fire from the heavens," read Zara, and again and again her shrill voice rang out, recording horrors even more dreadful.

When the bird of ill-omen had offered the last pasteboard, Zara shook my arms with a fierce gesture. "Fiend incarnate, thy name and station!" she yelled.

Probably Wilhelm had been listening. "How dare you touch Fraulein Krupp," he demanded, as, running in, he stepped between me and the sorceress.

At the mentioning of my name, a look of triumph came into Zara's face.

"My cards never lie, nor do the embers," she proclaimed. "The burning towns, the wails of babies rendered fatherless by your works, the waste of centuries of culture, the smoke, the fire, the calling upon all resources of nature for the wholesale annihilation of life—five letters cover it: K-R-U-P-P."

The feelings setting my head awhirl must have been pictured in my face, for eventually even this fury of wrath was moved to mercy; yet like the spirit that ever denies, Zara's pity took a cruel turn.

"Never fear," she said, with a profound curtsy; "it is written that the oceans of blood you will help spill will not even soil the hem of your dress.

"A world in arms, every mother's son turned upon every other mother's son, shooting, stabbing, bombing, suffocating. Cities laid waste, countrysides desolated, brave men changed to vultures, honest men to thieves—your work, Bertha Krupp! But the War Lady remains scathless!

"Blood's a peculiar liquor—means death to those from whom it flows, and profits to her that forges the bullets!

"Chimborazos of dead bodies: fathers, brothers, nephews and uncles; excellent manure, and your dividends, little girl, going up by leaps and bounds!

"Towns in ruins—your ruins, Bertha, but they will have to be rebuilt. More millions in your coffers!

"Ten thousands of miles of railways destroyed. Look out for big orders, Bertha!

"The world groaning under unheard-of loads of debts—debts created that Essen might flourish. Splendid opportunities for investment, eh?"

She continued a while longer in the same cruel vein, her basilisk eyes glued upon mine—I couldn't get away, try as I might—while Wilhelm, my self-proclaimed cavalier, did naught to help me. Indeed, I had to endure her abuse till Zara herself became tired of hurling invectives, and turned upon the Crown Prince with: "Twenty marks, please. I have wasted enough time."

Then, like an imprisoned wild thing, seeing the open gate, I fled.

Oh, Franz, what does it all mean?

BERTHA.

CHAPTER XIII

"WE WILL DIVIDE THE WORLD BETWEEN US"

Dazzling the War Lord—Bartering Kingdoms—Juggling with the Church

Franz Este, masquerading for incognito purposes as Duc de Lorraine, was a tall, closely-knit man, no more at home in mufti than a gorilla in pyjamas. A bronzed face, disfigured by the Habsburg lip and an air of disdain, one would have picked him out of thousands as a person to avoid!

His speech was a cross between a military command and the snarl of an angry dog when addressed to persons beneath his rank, and against such the physical advantages he boasted were ruthlessly exploited. Franz was impervious to heat or cold, hence the officers of his household and his servants had to endure both in the extreme without proper protection.

"If the master can do without an overcoat, or wear a close-fitting uniform when it is a hundred in the shade, why not you, menials?"

He had a passion for drill and for slaughter. A day on the parade ground, meddling with the mere outer film of things, seemed to him the pinnacle of military achievements. He never stalked, or took risks in the chase; the proud deer and the miserable hare alike were driven before his gun in vast numbers that he might pump lead into them, turning forest or plain into shambles.

He went to visit their Prussian Majesties with the fixed intention of dazzling the War Lord with a programme of petty regulations about military customs and appearances to be introduced at his enthronement. A slanting row of buttons was to be set in a straight line; another was to be lopped off altogether. Yes, indeed, he was considering, too, a new movement in the goose-step. And those Hungarians! They had little respect for the essentials of military obedience; but, with His Majesty's advisory help, he would pound it into them—yes, pound it!

Gentle methods might do for women when they are decidedly pretty, but not for the people as a whole, etc.

Music to the War Lord, who feeds on regulations and petty tyrannies as a boa constrictor—if the whole can't be masticated at a gulp, why, leave the rest for another "try."

Brothers in spirit and in arms!

"Franz," said the War Lord after luncheon, enlivened by French champagne with a German label—the Court Marshal's way of encouraging home industry to the naked eye: German products only for German Imperial palates, but beware lest a certain august taste be displeased! A bit of unpatriotic deception, rather than face such an eventuality!

"Franz," said the War Lord, after that fruitful and thought-quickening luncheon, "some day we will divide the world between us—pope-kaisers both of us."

"Pope?" gasped Franz, his mind tugging at the Jesuit swaddling clothes that he never really outgrew.

"You know," insinuated the War Lord-tempter, "there is but one way to re-establish rulership by divine right as on a rock of bronze: impregnate it with sacerdotal authority. I am already Chief Bishop of Prussia; the Lutheran popeship of the world is my game, as yours should be the Roman Catholic popeship."

"What about the Holy Father?" suggested the Jesuits, using Franz as a speaking-tube.

"Holy fiddlesticks," laughed the War Lord. "As one of the English Henrys put it: 'I will be damned ere an Italian parson dictates to me in my own realms.'"

The War Lord bowed ceremoniously. "Hail thee, spiritual and mundane lord—true Emperor of Slavs, Czechs, Magyars, Poles, Russians, Servians, Bulgarians and Montenegrins."

"But Italy—you promised me Italy," muttered Franz.

"Correct, in exchange for German Austria!" said the War Lord.

"Do I have to give up Vienna?"

"Rome is a more celebrated place, and if it gets too hot in August, Petersburg will make a splendid summer resort. There is Prague and Budapest besides. I thought you liked the Hradschin?" he added gaily.

When Franz still refrained from entering into the spirit of the proposals, the War Lord opened a miniature safe on the top of his desk.

"Have a 'genuine,' same as Edward smokes. Have to keep them in a burglar-proof safe—those thieving lackeys, you know. You have the same trouble at Bellevue" (the Austrian heir's Vienna town house) "I suppose."

"God punish the scoundrels—yes," replied the pious Franz, and, accustomed to the cheap and nasty output of the Austrian tobacco monopoly with its endless stogies, helped himself eagerly.

"A mark apiece," boasted Wilhelm, like a Jew commenting on early strawberries.

"Italy being a sort of apanage to the Emperor of the Slavs"—more bowing and scraping—"you wouldn't care to have a rival court on your hands, would you? And that's what the Vatican will always be so long as it is allowed to exist."

"You would abolish it?" cried Franz, alarmed.

"Not completely; I would retain the Holy Father as a sort of Christian Sheikh-ul-Islam, yourself to be the real responsible head of the Church."

"The Pope is not a married man."

"Alexander VI. was, and also some others. Besides, the Tsar whom you are to succeed as orthodox pope never was a stickler for celibacy."

"Orthodox pope?" echoed Franz, his Jesuit blood a-tingle.

To his pietist understanding the mere mention of a rival Church was as a red rag to a bull, and no one realised that condition of his mind more fully than the War Lord. But would he allow the even tenor of these pourparlers to be disturbed by the conscientious scruples of the surly individual smoking his echte? Not he!

Conscientious scruples, indeed, and in world politics too! He had not previously given the subject any thought, but on his desk lay a letter marked: "On the Service of the Holy See"—a happy coincidence and a suggestion.

The papal breve dealt with nothing more momentous than the shifting of the protectorate over the Christians in Turkey, but the mysterious word State-secret covers a multitude of lies.

"My dear Franz," said the War Lord, weighing the Pope's letter in his hand, "the problems you seem to approach with fears and trepidation are fully treated in this document. However, without the Holy Father's consent, I dare not reveal his intentions. But this much I can say on my own responsibility: after we get through with Russia, there will be no orthodox question. The orthodox Church will have to unite with the Catholic——"

The late Whistler would have loved to draw Franz's face while the future Emperor of the Slavs listened with covetousness and fanaticism, the zealot's ardour and the brute's vindictiveness written large in his usually stony face.

"Will have to make submission to Rome," he interrupted, pounding the table.

"As you like, King of Rome." To offset the Duke's holy fervour, the War Lord affected a tone of calmness utterly at variance with his ideas.

"The coming union of the Catholic and Orthodox Churches——" he continued.

"The absorption of the schismatic Church by the only true Church," insisted Franz.

"Will make it particularly important for you to have the office of Pontifex Maximus in addition to that of Emperor and King," said the War Lord. "I'll let Bülow talk details."

"After consultation with my father confessor?" asked Franz anxiously.

"Why not unfold our plans to a council of Archduchesses and the whole priest-ridden pest?" cried the War Lord, momentarily forgetful of his rôle. "I beg your pardon," he added quickly; "I was quoting Bismarck. What I meant to say is: that our pourparlers are strictly confidential—not a word to any one, confessor, Francis Joseph, or the Princess herself. I have your word as an officer?"

Never was a word of honour more reluctantly forthcoming than that of the prospective Emperor of the Slavs.

CHAPTER XIV

GETTING EVEN WITH THE WAR LORD

The Hungarian Nero—The Episode of the Mouse

Emperor of the Slavs, King of Rome, Avenging Angel of the Schism and its Grand Lord Destroyer—Pope even—though he had misgivings as to the propriety of the latter title—what prospects for the son of the degenerate Karl Ludwig—and the War Lord footing the bill! A Protestant, true enough, but his friends, the Jesuits, held that the purpose sanctifies means, whatever their character.

How they would rejoice at the news!

But his word as an officer! Pshaw! The War Lord calling himself "all-wise," "all-seeing," etc., had been fooled for once by the simple-minded Bohemian, for Franz's left hand was on his back when parole d'honneur was demanded, and he lost no time gripping his thumb with the other fingers and pressing it hard.

Mental reservation! That little matter was settled, and in most approved style. Honi soit qui mal y pense.

A while later Franz asked to be confessed.

"Not while your soul is in the state of disgrace," pronounced Father Bauer with impressive solemnity.

Franz's bold front melted away like butter before a blast furnace. "Pray confess me, your reverence!" he cried, terror all over his face.

"After due reflection," was Bauer's niggardly consent. "Your Highness will retire to the oratory now."

And like a schoolboy ordered to bare his skin for a birching, the Emperor of the Slavs—so proud, so adamant, so haughty before the War-Lord—went into his bedroom, where his prie-Dieu stood in front of the miniature travelling altar that accompanied His Highness wherever he went.

In respect to absolute submission to the clergy, Franz rivalled Charles and Ferdinand of Spain; he retained, too, the utmost respect for the persons of the reverend gentlemen who dominated him by virtue of their priestly office.

On his part, Franz came from the oratory a much chastened Prince. Bauer was waiting to hear Franz's report of his interview with the War Lord—or as much of it as the heir thought well to divulge at the time being, for the breach of faith he had been absolved beforehand. After all, while Bauer had full charge of Franz's personal conscience, so to speak, the real powers behind the proposed Slav throne was the Cardinal Archbishop of Vienna, the Papal Legate and the Czech black aristocracy.

The latter, indissolubly wedded to Franz's interest by his marriage with the Chotek, was his chief support in the Dual Monarchy. Hungary had labelled him Nero, the Germans regarded him as a renegade, while Trieste and the Trentino suspected him of harbouring treachery against the Motherland.

That he was wedded to the idea of the restoration of the States of the Church was a foregone conclusion, and the re-establishment of the Austrian Archdukes—who forfeited their Italian thronelets under Victor Emmanuel II.—would be the logical sequence.

"Of course, there is the Triple Alliance," faltered Franz.

"Not at all binding," decided Bauer, "since one of the signatories is under the ban of the Church, and the other" (with a mock bow before a painting of the War Lord) "a heretic."

Franz reverently kissed the Jesuit's hand. "A relief, a priceless relief of grave conscientious scruples," he said warmly. "Thank you, Father Bauer." Then, giving his voice quite an Olympian intonation: "We have no further commands for you to-night."

Franz Este swore lustily when he discovered a red silk nightgown under his pillow. After a Vienna haberdasher had told him that Alexander of Servia had worn a night garment of this colour, he had banished them from his wardrobe, intending to use the supply on hand for presents.

Franz tugged viciously at the crystal knobs of the rococo chest of drawers, pulling one to the ground and dislocating the handles of others. "Confound it! All red, Alexander-red—red as blood!"

An ill omen? A thorough fanatic, Franz was the most superstitious of men. However, as subsequent events showed, in this case superstition was the mother of horrors unparalleled. Alexander's fate had been sealed eight months before, when the red-nightgowned King and his Queen were slaughtered in their bedchamber; but somewhere among the Balkan principalities the plot that eventually did away with Franz and his Duchess might have been hatching even then—who knows?

The taciturn, soured, cruel Franz forgot about the Alexander-hued nightgown when he prepared to report the day's events to his wife, for he loved Sophie. He used a small table at the foot of the big rococo couch for a writing-desk, and as he sat there, facing the silvered canopy with China silk curtains falling from a crown held aloft by cupids, his face recalled the features of a French soldier who had been condemned to death for a series of crimes, and who, to his judges and fellow-men, had boasted of his utter lack of feelings.

The soldier had never loved anyone, neither parents nor friends, neither woman nor man, neither animal, nor money, nor precious things. He hated them all, and his only aim in life was destruction. But when he lay in the sands, bleeding from a dozen wounds, as ordered by the court martial, a little mouse was seen to emerge from the sleeve of his tunic, went capering up the prostrate form, and glued his nozzle to the man's mouth. And with his last breath the apostle of hate kissed the tiny rodent.

Like the trooper, so Franz, the man who spurned a nation's love, was not entirely barren of sentiment. He had a tender spot in his heart for Sophie, even as Sophie, mouse-like, loved the man who made a point of being hated. Human nature: even Nero loved Poppæa once.

CHAPTER XV

"AUNTIE MAJESTY" AND BERTHA

A Royal "Commercial"—Blood and Benevolence

"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 lèse-majesté?"

"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 Liége, 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 Blücher 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 personæ of one meeting: The War Lord and Bülow. 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 Hôtel 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 Bülow 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 Bülow 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 Bülow 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 maître d'hôtel."

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 coupé. 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 coupé is most à 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, Bülow 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 portières 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 Bülow stood at the library door. Wilhelm merely extended his hand; he was too full of his subject to reply to Bülow's respectful greetings and inquiries after his health.

"Wedell will stay," he said, "for our talk will concern his department no less than yours."

Bülow 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 Bülow.

"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 confrère 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 Bülow, "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 Bülow.

"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 Fouché'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?" Bülow 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 Bülow 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 Bülow, he continued in an angry tone: "That black baggage, wherever one turns. Unless there be a Lutheran Pope, Monsieur l'Abée 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 Bülow, 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 Bülow, "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, Hôtel 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 Königgrätzerstrasse 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 £4 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 £2 per day for personal expenses, but in all ordinary circumstances the 10s. per diem must suffice.

The War Lord turned once more to Bülow. "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, Bülow?" Autocratically ruled Mecklenburg is Bülow'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 Königgratzerstrasse.

Royal coupé 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 coupé" 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 portières 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 portières 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."

Count von Wedell promptly explained: "One of the minor Chotek titles."

"I always said he was his wife's husband," affirmed the War Lord, with an oath. Then, to No. 103: "Well?"

"The Cardinal had taken his stand at the side of the crucifix, and when the Ritter walked in elevated his hand pronouncing the benediction, whereupon the Austrian heir dropped on his knees. The Cardinal seemed in no hurry to see him rise, but finally held out his hand, saying: 'In the name of the Holy Church I welcome thee, my son.'

"And Este kissed his hand, didn't he?" cried the War Lord.

"He certainly bent over the Cardinal's hand, and I heard a smack," replied No. 103.

"That settles it," said the War Lord; "the foot-kiss for me when I am pope of the Lutheran Church."

"May it please Your Majesty," continued No. 103, "the two gentlemen then settled down in easy chairs and engaged in a long, whispered conversation in which alleged sayings of Your Majesty were freely quoted by Herr von Este."

"Enough," interrupted the War Lord; and at a sign from Wedell No. 103 backed towards the door, which opened from outside. "You will await a possible further summons in here," said Count Wedell's secretary, ushering No. 103 into a waiting-room.

"How much has that fellow got on credit?" demanded the War Lord.

Wedell pulled out a card index drawer. "Upwards of thirteen thousand marks."

"He knows that he'll lose it to the last pfennig if he squeals?"

"The case of our man who exchanged Barlinnie Jail for the service of Sir Edward Grey brought that home with peculiar force to everybody in the Wilhelmstrasse and Königgrätzerstrasse," replied Udo.

It should be interpolated here that German spies receive only two-thirds of the bonuses accruing to them. One-third of all "extras" remain in the hands of the Government at interest, to be refunded when his spyship is honourably discharged. If he is caught and does not betray his trust, then these savings par order de mufti are paid over to his family or other heirs; if he betrays his Government, then the Government gets even with him by confiscating the spy's accumulated savings, which arrangement gives the Secret Service office a powerful hold on its employees.