Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe

Chapter Twenty Nine.
Reveals the Bondage

On his return home Hubert sat at his table, and very carefully broke open the stolen envelope.

To his surprise, he found that it merely contained several pieces of tracing linen upon which were many lines, angles, and numbers, all of which were quite unintelligible.

There were four small sheets, each about twelve inches square and as far as he could make out, they related to certain plans – or else they were plans in themselves. The scale seemed very small; therefore, after a long examination, he came to the conclusion that they must form the key to other plans, and had been reduced purposely, so that they could not be used without considerable preparation.

If they formed a key, this, no doubt, would be done in order that no improper use might be made of them.

The four pieces of tracing linen were practically covered with cabalistic signs and numbers, short lines, long lines, and all sorts of carefully ruled angles at various degrees. Yet there was nothing whatever upon them to show what they were.

There, during the night, beneath his shaded reading-lamp he strove to puzzle out their import.

Upon one he discovered that the various calculations appeared to be heights in metres and centimetres, and certainly in another were measurements concerning reinforced concrete.

Suddenly a startling thought flashed across his mind. The plans of the new fortresses on the Austrian frontier had been stolen, but as far as he could gather no use had been made of them. True, the army of Austria-Hungary had been mobilised and was held in secret, hourly ready for attack. Yet no formal representations had been made from the Vienna Foreign Office to Rome, and all inquiries had failed to establish that the reason of the secret mobilisation was actually due to the alleged act of war on the part of Italy.

Was it possible, therefore, that the plans stolen were worthless and conveyed nothing without that neatly executed key which lay spread on the blotting-pad before him? Would Her Highness, when she met him next day, reveal to him the truth?

For the present he had imposed silence upon his enemy, the crafty old Ghelardi. But how long would that last – how long before Italy, and indeed the whole of Europe, rang with the terrible scandal of a Royal House!

That night he locked away the envelope with its precious contents safely in his steel dispatch-box and still in his clothes, cast himself upon the bed to sleep. But it was already nearly five in the morning, and he failed even to close his eyes.

The discovery of Lola’s treachery had utterly bewildered and unnerved him. Surely she could not want money – and the temptation of money alone makes the traitor. He loved her still. Yes, after that first revulsion of feeling at the moment when he had caught her in the very act it had become more than ever impressed upon him that by her sweetness and beauty she held him in her toils – that he loved her with a mad, profound passion, a deep and tender love, such as he had never before experienced, not even in the case of that brilliant-eyed Andalusian who had been so near dragging him down to his ruin.

Ay, he loved her, even though the bitter truth how stood revealed in all its naked hideousness. Yet, alas! he could not tell her of his love. No. He dare not! Between them there existed a wide barrier of birth that was of necessity unsurmountable. She, a princess of the blood-royal, could never be permitted to marry a mere diplomat, any more than she could marry the man to whom she had given her heart, Henri Pujalet.

Thoughts of the latter brought reflections that he was in Rome. That fact was very curious, to say the least.

Had not the Frenchman urged him to keep his presence a secret from Lola? Why? He had, he said, arranged to meet her.

Feelings of the most intense jealousy and hatred arose within Hubert’s heart, for did he not remember that passionate love-scene he had witnessed beneath the palms in far-off Wady Haifa.

At nine o’clock the telephone bell rang, and he replied to it.

It was Renata, Lola’s maid, who explained that Her Highness would be unable to go out to Frascati, but would call upon him at noon – an appointment which he eagerly confirmed.

Just before eleven Waldron called upon General Cataldi and was shown at once into the Minister’s private room.

Without much preliminary he said in Italian:

“I am anxious to know whether another document of very great importance has disappeared from Your Excellency’s safe?”

The General looked at him keenly, in wonder at his meaning.

“I confess I scarcely follow you,” he replied.

“Well, I have suspicion that, during the reception last night another valuable confidential document was abstracted – an envelope containing several sheets of tracing linen.”

His Excellency, quickly taking the safe key attached to his watch-chain, rose eagerly and opened the big steel door.

“Yes,” he gasped, turning pale, “it’s gone! What do you know about it, signore?”

“No,” laughed the Englishman; “this is not quite so serious, for though it was actually stolen last night I already have it safe in my possession.”

“You!”

“Yes. I recovered it. But first please tell me to what the tracing refers.”

“Why, to the plans of our new fortresses along the Austrian frontier,” was his prompt reply. “I doubt if they would be understood without that key. Pironti declares they would be valueless.”

“Then the same person who stole the key would have stolen the original plans – eh?”

“Without a doubt. Who was the thief? You know, signore! I can tell it from your face.”

“True, I do know, but at present Your Excellency must excuse me if I remain silent. I hope in His Majesty’s interest – indeed in the interest of the Italian nation to be able to avoid a scandal.”

“But surely you can tell me in confidence. Signor Waldron,” the General protested. “The plans disappeared and I know from my own personal observations that His Majesty held me in suspicion, as responsible for their safe keeping.”

“No suspicion can further attach to you, General Cataldi,” the Englishman assured him, “nor to your secretary. But I have called to ascertain exactly the nature of the key plans.”

“I am much relieved if suspicion has been lifted from my shoulders, signore,” was the General’s reply. “I know that both you and our friend, the Commendatore Ghelardi suspected that someone in the Ministry had connived at this act of espionage.”

“The theft has been committed by a person outside the Ministry.”

“Who – do tell me who, signore,” he cried eagerly.

“Not at present. I can say nothing. I am only here to obtain further information, so that I may make a complete report to His Majesty and explain of what assistance Your Excellency has been to me.”

The General – the man who had accepted bribes from every quarter – hesitated for a few seconds. This man whom he had hitherto regarded as his enemy was, he thought, evidently his friend, after all!

“The tracings of the key were purposely upon a smaller scale, so that they would have to be enlarged by photography, or re-drawn, to be of any use,” he said. “Three days ago they were examined by the Committee of National Defence in view of the theft of the plans themselves; my secretary placed them in the safe prior to being returned to the Department of Fortifications.”

“Then I take it that the missing plans are quite useless to any outsider without the measurements and calculations upon the key?”

“That is so.”

“You have never stated this before,” remarked Waldron in surprise.

“No question has been put to me.”

“But the plans were stolen and the consequences extremely grave.”

“And Ghelardi has been in search of the thief. He is no friend of mine,” said the General with an expressive smile.

“Hence you have not mentioned the key – eh?” His Excellency smiled again in the affirmative. “Then, if the key is safe, the plans are, after all, useless?”

“Exactly, Signor Waldron. Indeed I question whether a foreign Power could make out what new construction were intended – and certainly they could not – without the tracings you refer to – discover the strength of the armaments of the forts.”

“Then that is all I require to know at present,” Hubert said, and a few moments later, as Pironti entered, he took his leave.

At noon he was standing in his room when the crooked-backed Peters ushered in Her Royal Highness. She was dressed smartly, but neatly, in deep black, with a large hat which suited her admirably, though her face was white as paper.

“I was unable to go out to Frascati,” she explained, as she put out her gloved hand to him. “So I thought it better to risk being seen and to call on you, Mr Waldron.”

The door was closed and they stood alone.

His eyes were fixed upon her, and for some seconds he did not reply.

“Lola,” he said at last, “I – I really hardly know what to say. The whole affair of last night is too terrible for words.”

“I know, Mr Waldron. Ah! I – I feel that I cannot face you, for what excuse can I make? I have no excuse – none whatever.”

“But why in Heaven’s name have you betrayed your country – why have you placed yourself so utterly and entirely in the hands of your enemies?” he cried in blank dismay.

“Because – ah! because I have been compelled.”

“Compelled to hand Italy’s secrets over to the hands of her enemies?” he asked in bitter reproach.

“Yes. But, at the time, I was in ignorance of what I was doing – of the fateful consequences – until, alas! too late.”

“And then?”

“Then, when I realised what! Had done – when I knew that I had made such a terrible mistake, and, further, that you were in search of the thief, I became horrified. Ah! you do not know what I have suffered – how horrible, how awful it has all been; in what constant dread I have lived all these long months, forced as I was to betray my country which I love.”

“Forced – what do you mean?” he asked with a very grave look.

“I was forced, because I was utterly helpless,” she gasped, her gloved hand upon the back of a chair to steady herself. “Last night I failed, because – because of you, Mr Waldron, and that failure means to me but one thing – death —death by my own hand!”

He stared at her, starting at her strange words. “Why, what do you mean, Lola?” he asked quickly. “Are you really in your right senses that you should say this?”

“I tell you quite openly and frankly, that I have come this morning to see you, because of my promise of last night – but it is to see you for the last time. Now, when I leave you I shall go back, and before to-day is out, I shall have bidden farewell to you – and to all!”

“No, no. You are not yourself to-day,” he said. “You – a Royal Princess – contemplating suicide! It’s absurd! Think of the terrible scandal – of your family, of the Royal House.”

“The scandal would be greater, if I dared to live and face exposure.”

“But why face exposure?”

“There is no other way. Last night, just as I was within an ace of releasing myself from the terrible bondage, you entered and discovered the disgraceful truth. Ghelardi, too, knows it. He will tell His Majesty – for he hates both you and I, as you well know.”

“Your Highness may rest absolutely assured that he will say no word to the King – he dare not.”

“Dare not? Why? Ghelardi will dare anything.”

“He will not dare to utter a syllable regarding the events of last night,” said Waldron. “Therefore this affair remains between you and me.”

And he looked her straight in the face, much pained at that tragic interview.

“Be frank with me, Lola – do!” he urged after a moment’s pause. “Tell me the real truth, and I may yet be able to save the situation.”

“No,” she cried, wringing her hands frantically. “You cannot. I have come to bid you good-bye – you, my good friend. Ah! I have been too foolish; I have disregarded all good counsels, and have gone down – down to my death! Yet only; because I have loved. Had I not had the misfortune to have been born a princess I should have loved and been happy. But, alas! happiness is impossible for me, unfortunate as I am – only death – death!”

And she stood, her white nervous lips moving in silence, her fine eyes fixed straight before her as though looking into the Unknown, horrified, transfixed.

Chapter Thirty.
Mijoux Flobecq

“Lola,” he cried at last, unable to stand the sight of her tears and despair, and equally unable to restrain – himself longer. “Lola! Let me help you – let me know the real facts, however ugly they may be – and I will get you out of this difficulty! I implore you to do this, because – ah! you force me to confess to you, though I have believed myself strong enough to preserve my secret —because I love you!”

She started quickly and drew back, staring at him in surprise through her tear-dimmed eyes.

“You!” she gasped.

“Yes,” he answered in a quick, low whisper, grasping her small hand in his. “I know that I have no right to speak to you thus, but I cannot hold my secret longer. My love for you is forbidden, and besides I know, alas! too well, that your affection is centred upon another – Henri Pujalet – the man who loves you.”

Mention of her lover’s name seemed to electrify her. She snatched away her hand, turned her head and ejaculated:

“No, no. Do not mention that man’s name, I beg of you?”

This caused Hubert considerable surprise. Was it actually possible that they had quarrelled? He recollected that Pujalet had told him that he had come to Rome to meet her.

“I regret, Lola, if I have annoyed you,” he said quickly in deep apology, “but the fact remains that I love only you – you, my love!”

“You have forgotten your Spanish dancer – eh?” she asked in a strange tone of reproach.

“I took your advice,” was his simple reply; “and in doing so I gradually grew to love you, Princess, yet knowing that my affection could only bring me, a lonely man, grief, pain and despair.”

She was silent. Her little, white-gloved hand was again in his, and he had raised it reverently to his lips.

Ah! that was to him a moment of extreme ecstasy, for her hand lay inert and he saw that though her head was turned to conceal her emotion, her chest heaved and fell convulsively. She was sobbing.

He placed his arm tenderly about her small waist, and slowly she turned her tear-stained face to his. Their gaze met, but no second glance was needed to show that the passionate affection was reciprocated, though it remained unspoken, unacknowledged.

For some moments he held her in his strong, manly embrace, and though no word passed between them their two hearts beat in unison.

Alas! it was but a false paradise. Yet are not our lives made up of such? And we, all of us, are prepared to sacrifice years of weariness and of grief for five brief minutes of sweet illusion.

He did not speak. He knew not what to say. The serious nature of that theft on the previous night he realised, alas! too well. Had that intricate key plan passed from her hand, then the whole truth would have been out, and Europe must have been suddenly aflame.

As it was, his duty remained towards her, to strive to stifle the scandal and prevent the story either reaching the King’s ears or becoming public property.

Cataldi knew that the key had been stolen, and would probably inform His Majesty, in which case Hubert would be hastily summoned to audience and closely questioned.

In such circumstances what could he explain? Ay, what?

For fully five minutes the pair stood there motionless, save that with his hand he had softly stroked her cheek. Then, unable to repress the passion that arose within his bursting heart, he bent until his lips touched hers in a fierce, passionate caress.

She turned her great, expressive eyes upon his, those eyes that were so deep and fathomless, and sighed heavily as he kissed her. Her beautiful head was thrown back, displaying her slim white throat, around which was a thin platinum chain from which was suspended a tiny platinum locket encrusted with diamonds, a gift of the Tzarina. She was inexpressibly sweet and refined, her soft beauty seeming the more perfect as she stood there inert in the man’s strong arms.

Again his lips met hers. Then to his boundless joy he felt that, at the same instant she kissed him in return.

Yet next second, as though annoyed that she should have flung discretion to the winds, she gently disengaged herself from his embrace, saying in a low, pained voice:

“No, Hubert – I – I mean Mr Waldron – this is madness. I – we can never be anything but friends, alas! though I – ”

She broke off short, and hot tears again filled her splendid eyes.

Then, covering her face suddenly with her hands, she burst into a fit of sobbing.

Hubert crossed and turned the key in the door in case Peters might enter.

Then, returning to her, he strove to comfort her. He implored her, with all the pleading he could summon, to reveal to him the whole story of the plans and the reason she had abstracted them.

But she gravely shook her head, and still preserved a resolute silence.

The man stood bewildered. He saw himself in a terrible quandary. Within a few hours the King might get to know, or Cataldi might inadvertently mention the mysterious theft of the key plan.

The Press – and more especially the scurrilous section of it on the Continent – has an ingenious way of ferreting out details regarding scandals which is gravely disconcerting to those who are trying to suppress them.

Of his love Hubert Waldron made no further mention. Her mild reproof held him tongue-tied. He knew, alas! too well, the bitter truth of her simple remark. They could never be more than friends, for she must marry a Prince of the blood-royal. The pride of the Royal House of Savoy would never admit or sanction a morganatic marriage.

For fully another quarter of an hour she remained there. He saw, however, upon her face traces of tears, and when she grew calmer he opened the door of his room, into which she passed, and there bathed her eyes with eau-de-Cologne.

When she again emerged she was her old self, though still very pale and nervous, and just before one o’clock she drew on her long gloves and, taking up her blue, morocco hand-bag which bore the royal cipher in gold, bade him a low, half-whispered “Addio.”

“Not farewell,” he said, bending and kissing her hand. “Keep a stout heart, Lola. Do nothing rash. Act with great caution and discretion, and I, on my part, will do all I can to preserve silence.” She shook her head despairingly.

“That does not remove the terrible stigma upon me,” she said. “It does not remove my guilt!” And with those words upon her white lips she passed through the door which Hubert unlocked for her and down the stairs to the busy street; he following in silence.

In order not to attract notice she would not allow him to call a vettura, but preferred to walk. Therefore, slipping out of the door with another whispered adieu, she was instantly lost to his sight.

When he returned upstairs the telephone bell was ringing, and he responded.

He heard the detective, Pucci, speaking.

“You missed me, signore – eh?” he said cheerily, though the voice sounded far away. “I am at Orvieto – at the Hôtel Belle Arti – eighty miles from Rome. I could not communicate with you before leaving. Can you come here? It is most important. I cannot leave.”

“Neither can I,” Waldron replied. “Why have you gone to the country?”

“I am keeping observation upon a friend of yours, signore.”

“A friend of mine! Who?”

“The gentleman whom you spoke with at the station in Rome last night – a foreigner.”

Waldron started. Could he mean Henn Pujalet?

“A Frenchman?”

“Si, signore. His behaviour was curious, therefore I came here with him. I have made a discovery. Will you come here? If you leave by the two-eighteen from Rome – the Milan express – you can be here soon after five. I would return to Rome but I have no one here whom I can trust to follow if he leaves,” Pucci explained.

Waldron felt that in the circumstances to leave Rome was impossible – and yet on further reflection he saw that if the King summoned him to audience would it not be best to be absent from the capital and thus gain time for action? The brigadier, Pucci, was not a man ever to follow false scents. He must have discovered something gravely mysterious. Was it possible that he had found out that the elegant Frenchman was the lover of Princess Luisa!

He had only a few seconds to make up his mind. “Very well, Pucci. If you think it necessary I will leave by the train you mention. Meet me at the station.”

“Benissimo, signore,” answered the voice faintly dying away, as it does upon some trunk-telephone lines.

Waldron tried to question him further, when the querulous voice of the female clerk at the Exchange declared that the time was up, and promptly cut him off without further ceremony. Telephone operators are no respecters of persons, whether one Is in Paris, Pekin, Petersburg, or Paddington.

Swallowing a sandwich at the station buffet, and travelling without luggage, Hubert Waldron entered a first-class compartment of the express, which that afternoon was well-filled by foreigners leaving Rome for the north – the reason being that the Roman season, now over, Society was making for Paris and London, as fast as it could. There is always a headlong rush at the end of the season, be it in Egypt, on the Riviera, from Algeria or from any French or German watering-place. It is always helter-skelter to the capitals, regardless of comfort or of expense, and the Compagnie des Wagons-lits reaps a rich harvest always.

The journey from Rome up the wooded valley of the winding Tiber, through a country rich in ruins of the ancient Etruscans, lay through the real heart of Italy, delightfully picturesque, yet for Hubert in his state of mind it held no attraction. He sat in the compartment together with two elderly Englishwomen of the quiet, pension type, and a young and rather foppish German student, impatient to meet the detective, and hear from him the result of his observations.

Orte, high up amid its most delightful surroundings, was passed at last, and then, after several stoppages – though the train was termed an express – Orvieto, situate upon the top of its steep rock was reached, a Gibraltar on land, an invulnerable fortress in the days of the Etruscan League, and in mediaeval times a great stronghold of the Guelphs, and often affording refuge to the Popes.

The station lay below the town, which latter was reached by a funicular railway through a long, dark tunnel beneath the fortress. And upon the platform, as the train ran in, Hubert discerned a rather insignificant-looking man in shabby black and somewhat down at heel – a man at whom no one would cast a second glance. It was the brigadier, Pucci.

Hubert descended and crossed towards him, but to his surprise the detective turned away and did not appear to recognise him.

Indeed Pucci hurried off quickly as though business had called him elsewhere, and ere the diplomat could approach he was already out of the station.

In a secluded corner, away from the view of other arriving passengers, the detective halted, saying with relief:

“Madonna mia, signore! That was a narrow escape of being detected.”

“Why?” inquired Hubert in surprise.

“Why, did you not see who arrived by the train with you?”

“No,” replied the Englishman. “I was not watching.”

“Her Royal Highness the Princess Luisa alighted from your train.”

“Her Highness?” he gasped utterly dumbfounded.

“Yes; but I hope she has not seen you,” Pucci remarked dubiously.

“Then Pujalet is here – still at the hotel,” said Hubert, for he at once realised the object of Lola’s visit there.

“Si, signore. Presently I will tell you what I have by the merest chance discovered,” Pucci replied. “But we must be extremely wary – or the Princess may see us. She is evidently on her way to the hotel to meet your friend the Frenchman. We will let her go, and follow quickly afterwards. Last night a complot was afoot – some desperate plot – But my suspicions were aroused, and by some action of yours – I know not what – it was frustrated.”

“But what do you know, Pucci?” Hubert Waldron demanded breathlessly. “Tell me quickly.”

“I will tell you presently – after we have ascertained the motive of this journey of Her Highness,” replied the detective quietly. “Ah! I am glad you have come here, Signor Waldron. There is something in progress which is an entire mystery to me – something which I believe that you alone will be able to explain.”

“But you have said there was a plot which was frustrated last night. Of what was its nature?” The detective did not reply. His head was turned towards the roadway, which his quick eyes were watching intently.

“Her Highness has gone up to the hotel,” he said. “Let us hasten and watch. I will explain all later. Come – we have not time to lose. This fellow, Flobecq, is a very slippery customer.”

“Flobecq!” echoed Hubert Waldron, starting in amazement.

“Yes. His name is Flobecq, yet I suppose that is not the name by which you know him – eh?”

“Flobecq!” gasped Hubert Waldron. “You are dreaming. Surely that is not his name.”

“Yes, signore, I tell you it is. His name is Mijoux Flobecq!”