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."