Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe

Chapter Twenty Three.
Her Highness’s Warning

The grey morning mist hung over the Tiber and over the Eternal City, but outside the town it was bright, crisp, and sunny.

Away at Frascati on the pleasant mountain slopes with those lovely views over the Campagna, fifteen miles from Rome, the day was charming, and at noon quite warm and delightful.

Perhaps of all the contorini of Rome the Frascati is the most attractive. By road and rail it is easy of access, and perhaps this fact had induced Lola to telephone to Hubert and give him an appointment in the beautiful grounds of the Villa Aldobrandini, where there certainly would be no other person, save perhaps a few odd British tourists who would not recognise either of the pair.

At noon, therefore, both having arrived by train from Rome, they had met at a spot appointed by Her Highness, and were standing together against an old broken piece of statuary under a high hedge of dark ilex. The great old sixteenth-century villa, built by Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini, nephew of Clement VIII, is now, alas! falling into decay; its fountains are dilapidated; its statuary broken; its terraces, once trod by papal dignitaries, moss-grown; while over the steps of its principal entrance the green lizards flash in the sunshine.

Its grounds, however, are still the delight of the traveller, with their terraces, their fantastic grottos, their fountains and rocks, their great oaks, their funereal cypresses, and their splendid extensive views.

From where the diplomat stood beside the Princess he could see far away across the plain to where the great dome of St. Peter’s rose in the blue-grey mists of the panorama, while on the other hand lay the ancient Tusculum, and the range of blue hills dominated by the Corbio – as the Italians call the Rocca Priora – while a little to the right shone the Lake of Albano, lying like a mirror in its basin in the sunshine.

Lola had arrived there first, but as he came swinging along the path a flush of pleasure mounted to her pale cheeks, and she put out her gloved hand, greeting him warmly.

Dressed in dark grey, and wearing a magnificent set of blue fox, she presented a very different appearance to that of the previous night when she had worn the old dress and close-fitting bonnet of Renata’s.

Hubert Waldron thought he had never seen her looking so charming, yet he wondered why she had made that appointment so far away from Rome. He was still wondering, too, why that letter of Henry Pujalet’s should have had such an effect upon her. With her last strenuous effort, however, she had destroyed it. Why?

“Your man seemed awfully dense this morning,” the Princess laughed. “When I telephoned he thought it was the manageress of your fishmonger, and told me that you required nothing to-day! Your English servants are horribly abrupt, I assure you.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, hastening to apologise. “I fear abruptness is one of his failings, but he is honest. I’ve reprimanded him lots of times.”

“Ah! I expect he hears a good many female voices on the ’phone,” she laughed, teasing him; “and he has orders to what you call it in English, to choke them off – eh?” and she laughed.

Together they walked along the gravelled path to where, beneath a tall cypress, was an old semicircular stone seat, one of those placed there when the great cardinal laid out the grounds of his princely villa. Upon that they seated themselves when suddenly Her Highness, with an anxious look upon her face, turned to her companion and said, still speaking in English.

“I fear that we may be watched, therefore I made this appointment with you here.”

“Watched?” he echoed. “Who by? Old Ghelardi, I suppose?”

“No. I have no great fear of him,” she answered. “But you have enemies here, in Rome,” she went on very seriously. “I have discovered that they are desperate and intend to do you some grievous harm. Therefore I urge you to make some excuse to leave Rome at once.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Princess?” he asked, staring at her.

“How often have I forbidden you to use that title to me?” she cried petulantly. “To you I am Lola, plain Lola, as always,” she said, looking very gravely into his eyes. “We are friends. That is why I am here to warn you.”

“But I really don’t understand,” he protested. “What enemies can I have here? And if I have, what harm can they possibly do me? I’m not afraid, I assure you.”

“Ah! I know you are not afraid,” she answered. “But from what I have heard, it seems probable that these people, whoever they are, must be in fear of you – they suspect you are cognisant of some secret of theirs.”

The word “secret” held him speechless for some seconds. She knew nothing of the theft that had been committed at the Ministry of War. The only “secret” which he had tried to discover was the identity of the thief.

“But how came you to know this?” he asked at last.

“I – well I heard a rumour last night,” was her vague reply; “and I thought it my duty, as your friend, to warn you lest you should be entrapped or taken unawares.”

“Then you really and honestly believe that these mysterious, unknown persons, whoever they are, mean mischief?” he asked, looking anxiously into her pale, anxious countenance.

How handsome she was! How deeply, too, was he in love with her. He held his breath, remembering how frantically he had kissed her hand; how he had told her of the great burning passion within his heart, though she had lain there with all consciousness blotted out.

“If I had any doubt, Signor Waldron, I should not trouble to raise this alarm,” she answered in a tone of slight reproach.

“But how can I leave Rome?” he asked, for he was reflecting that to adopt her suggestion was impossible. His duty to the King, as well as his duty to the British Service, precluded it at present. “Cannot you go on leave again? Or – or cannot you get appointed to another post for six months – or a year?”

He was silent, his eyes fixed upon hers.

“Are you so very anxious then to get rid of me?” he asked gravely.

“To get rid of you?” she echoed blankly. “To get rid of you – my most sincere and devoted friend! How can you suggest such a thing?”

“Well, it almost seems so,” he answered with a smile.

“My dear Signor Waldron, I warn you most seriously that you are in grave personal peril, and that – ”

“But you do not tell me how you know this, Lola,” he interrupted. “I am naturally most curious to know.”

“Without doubt,” she responded, her eyes cast down. “But the information is from a source which I have no desire to divulge. I learnt it entirely by accident.”

“It was not contained in that letter I brought you from Brussels?” he asked very slowly, for of that he held a faint suspicion. He looked her straight in the eyes.

“Oh no,” was her reply. “That letter – ah! it was about something – something which affected me very closely. I know that I was very foolish to allow it to upset me so. It was absurd of me to faint as I did. But I could not help it. I suppose I am but a woman, after all.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to describe how old Ghelardi had discovered them together in the room of the Minister of the Household, but he hesitated, fearing to unduly cause her annoyance. He had defied the chief spy of Italy, but was as yet uncertain whether the crafty old fellow had not gone secretly to the King and told him the story – with many embellishments, perhaps.

“Your indisposition was not your own fault, Lola,” he answered in a voice of deepest sympathy. “No doubt Monsieur Pujalet’s letter contained something to cause you the gravest disconcern.”

“Disconcern!” she cried, starting up wildly, her big expressive eyes full of anxiety. “Ah! you do not know – how can you know all the tortures of conscience, of the daily, hourly terror I am now suffering! No! You cannot understand.”

“Because you will explain nothing,” he remarked with dissatisfaction.

“I cannot, I dare not – even to you, my most intimate friend!”

“Well, Lola, I confess that each time we meet you become more and more mysterious.”

“Ah! Because I am compelled. Surrounded by enemies, even my association with you seems to have placed you also in a deadly peril. That is why I am appealing to you to leave Rome.”

“I can’t,” he said. “That is entirely out of the question. But now that you have warned me I will be wary – and will carry my revolver, if you think it necessary.”

“Cannot you leave Italy? It would be far safer.”

“And leave you in this perilous position? No,” was his prompt and decisive answer.

“But I beg – nay, I implore you to do so,” she cried, holding out both her hands to him.

He shook his head slowly.

“It is quite impossible. If danger really exists, then I must face it.”

For some moments she remained silent.

“Have you seen Ghelardi lately?” she asked quite suddenly.

Her question surprised. What, he wondered, could she know?

“I saw him the day before yesterday,” was his vague reply.

“Has it not struck you that he is very ill-disposed towards you?” she exclaimed.

“Certainly. I have always known that – even while we were up the Nile, and he was passing as Jules Gigleux. He objected to our friendliness. Yet he never seemed to discover that you were acquainted with Henri Pujalet. That was curious, was it not?”

She smiled.

“Perhaps because I was extremely careful not to betray it – eh?” But next second she glanced at the little diamond-studded watch upon her wrist, and rising quickly, declared that it was time for her to catch the train back to Rome.

“There is a luncheon to the Grand Duke of Oldenbourg to-day, and I shall be in horrible disgrace if I’m absent,” she explained. “But it will be best for you to travel by the next train. It is injudicious for us to be seen together, Mr Waldron, especially if we are watched – as I believe we are.”

“Ghelardi’s secret agents may lurk anywhere,” he said, as they walked together to the great gateway of the villa.

“No, I do not fear them, I tell you,” she said.

“But just now you told me that he is ill-disposed towards me – a fact of which I am well aware.”

“I tell you it is not Ghelardi that I fear, but certain persons who, for their own mysterious purposes, intend to make an attack upon you when fitting opportunity offers.”

“Trust me to remain wary,” replied Hubert with a smile, and then after they had stood together in the winter sunshine for several moments near the gate he lifted his hat, bowed low over her hand, and then stood watching until she, pulling her splendid furs about her shoulders, had disappeared into the road which led down to the rural station.

Ah! how he loved her! But he sighed and bit his lip.

To Hubert, the object of Her Highness’s warning seemed both mysterious and obscure. Did she, for some hidden purpose of her own wish to get rid of him. If so, why?

The story that an attempt might be made upon him he was inclined to discredit, especially as she had refused to reveal the source of her information.

He lunched at the little albergo above the steps leading to the station, and by half-past two found himself back again in Rome where, in his rooms, he found Pucci, the brigadier of police, awaiting him.

“I have a curious fact to report, signore,” said the man when they were alone together with the door closed.

“Well,” asked Hubert, “what is it?”

“That your movements are being closely watched by two well-known characters – criminals.”

Waldron started, staring at the man, for had not Lola warned him that very morning.

“Do you know them?”

“Quite well. One is called ‘The Thrush’ by his associates, and has served several long terms of imprisonment for theft. Indeed I arrested him three years ago for attacking a policeman in the Piazza Farnese and using a knife. The other is Beppo Fiola, who has been sentenced several times for burglary.”

“Professional thieves then?”

“Two of the worst characters we have in Rome, signore.”

“I wonder what they want with me – eh?” asked Hubert, lighting a cigarette, perfectly unperturbed.

“They mean no good, signore,” declared the man very gravely. “Perhaps they intend to commit a burglary here?”

“They are welcome. There’s nothing here of any great value, and if they do come they’ll get a pretty warm reception,” he laughed.

“Ah, signore, it is a very serious matter,” protested the detective. “These two men would, if it suited them, take life without the slightest hesitation. In a case four months ago where a Russian diamond-dealer was robbed of his wallet and his body found in the Tiber stabbed to the heart, the strongest suspicion attached to the two men in question, though we have not yet been able to bring home the crime to them.”

“But I haven’t any diamonds or valuables,” replied the diplomat.

“No, but perhaps you, signore, may be in possession of some secret or other concerning them,” the detective said. “Perhaps even they may be employed by some enemy of yours to watch an opportunity and close your lips.”

Hubert looked at the man in surprise without replying.

“Yes, signore,” Pucci added very gravely, “such a thing is not entirely unknown in Rome, remember. Therefore I would urge you to exercise the greatest caution; to beware of any trap, and always to carry arms. It would be best, I think, to report to the Questore, and arrest both men on suspicion.”

“No, Pucci,” Hubert replied quickly. “No. Watch closely, but make no move. Their arrest might upset all my present plans.”

Chapter Twenty Four.
Room Number 164

Days, many anxious, fevered days, passed – bright winter days during which Hubert was frantically active in his efforts to discover some clue to the mystery of the stolen plans of the frontier fortresses.

Not a stone did he leave unturned in his quiet, patient endeavours, and aided by the faithful Pucci – to whom he still hesitated to reveal the exact object of his search – he kept constant watch upon the actions of His Excellency the Minister of War.

Suspicions were very strong against the latter. He had discovered one important point, namely, that within a week from the loss of the documents the sum of one hundred and sixty thousand lire was paid into the General’s account at the Banca Commerciale, and, further, that it appeared to have come from an unknown source.

Agents employed by Pucci had also watched the two secretaries, Lambarini and Pironti, but against neither was there any suspicious circumstance.

Several times had Waldron had audience with His Majesty, but was compelled to confess that he had nothing to report, while from Vienna came the secret information daily that, though a great army had been mobilised, the “manoeuvres” had not yet commenced.

The very silence was full of menace.

More than once – at Court, at the Embassy, and in the princely drawing-rooms of Rome – Hubert had met Her Highness. He had stood beside her full of love and admiration, at the same time puzzled at the paleness of her countenance and the constant anxiety which seemed ever expressed there. Since that night when he had delivered Pujalet’s note to her she had never seemed the same.

Yet she would tell him nothing – absolutely nothing. It was her secret, she said – a secret which she steadily declined to divulge.

“Why do you not take my advice and leave Rome?” she asked one night when she was dancing with him at a great ball at the Rospigliosi Palace. “You are in constant peril.”

“I have my duties here,” was his answer. “I cannot leave.”

She sighed, and as he held her in his arms he felt that she was trembling.

“Why won’t you heed me?” she implored, looking up at him with those wonderful eyes of hers. “Do.”

“Because I am not my own master,” was his reply. “Because I cannot.”

General Cataldi was there, in his fine uniform resplendent with stars and ribbons, and it chanced that at that moment his eyes fell upon the handsome pair.

He regarded them suspiciously, thoughtfully stroking his white moustache.

“That Englishman, Waldron, seems on very friendly terms with the Princess Luisa,” he remarked to the brilliant, handsomely dressed young woman at his side – the Countess Cioni.

“Yes,” was the answer of the lady in pink in the glittering tiara. “I, too, have noticed it. But Luisa is always making queer friendships.”

“He was whispering to her a moment ago, just before they commenced to dance,” the General remarked. “Has Her Highness ever mentioned him?”

“Oh yes. They met up the Nile, I understand, when Luisa was sent away from Court in disgrace.”

“Ah! then the friendship has been of some duration – eh?” grunted His Excellency, casting another strangely suspicious look at the pair as he turned away.

Late one night, about a week later, Hubert had been to an official dinner at the Russian Embassy, in the Via Gaeta, and the weather being bright and starlight he threw his cloak over his uniform and, lighting a cigar, started to stroll home.

It was past one o’clock and few people were astir in those narrow, ill-lit Italian streets with their high, dark houses. He had turned from the Via Gaeta into the narrow Via Curtatone on his way towards the Piazza del Cinquecento – which was the shortest cut to his rooms – when, ere he was aware of it, a dark figure lurched suddenly out of a doorway and he was dealt a stunning blow at the back of the head, causing him to reel, stumble, and fall.

His assailants, of whom there were two – who had apparently been lying in wait for him – bent quickly over his prostrate form with keen knives drawn, when Hubert’s hand shot out and next second one of the men staggered back with a revolver bullet in his stomach. So swiftly had the Englishman defended himself that the second man, ere he could use his knife, received a bullet in the cheek, whereupon the pair both wounded and in fear because of the alarm caused by the report of the explosions, slipped round the corner and were well out of sight before a policeman from the neighbouring piazza came running up eagerly to discover what was wrong.

The whole affair happened within a few seconds, but never had Hubert Waldron been nearer death than at that moment.

His presence of mind to draw his weapon which he had carried loose in the pocket of his cloak, and at the same time to fall heavily as though stunned and unconscious, had saved his life. Had he simply fallen back against the wall his assailants’ knives would, no doubt, have been buried in his heart ere he could have fired.

He had escaped death by an ace.

The policeman, on arrival, found him standing with his back to the wall, recovering from the sudden shock.

“Two men knocked me down,” he replied in answer to the police agent. “But I fired at them. Hit both the brutes, I believe,” and he laughed.

“Dio! Which way did they go?” asked the man.

“Round there, to the left, into the Via Vicenza, I believe. But you’ll never find them. Besides I didn’t see them well enough to be able to recognise them again.”

“The signore is a diplomat, I see. May I not know his name, for the purpose of my report?”

“No,” replied Waldron, for he was not anxious that Ghelardi should learn of the incident, as no doubt he would, if formal report were made that a British diplomat had been attacked in the streets. “It’s nothing,” he said. “They tried to rob me, that’s all.”

And then placing ten francs in the man’s hand he picked up his cocked hat and went his way.

What Lola had told him was the truth. But how could she possibly have known that such a desperate attempt was about to be made?

What motive could there be to seal his lips, save because he was endeavouring to see a solution of the mystery of the missing plans!

Was it possible that those two assassins whom Pucci knew to be two of the most desperate characters in Rome were the hirelings of General Cataldi?

On his way homeward that theory became more than ever impressed upon him. His Excellency was guilty of connivance at the theft, and knowing that he was near arriving at a solution of the mystery, intended that his mouth should be closed.

After he had bathed the injury to his head, he threw himself into his chair and sat for a long time pondering, trying to make up his mind how, in face of the present situation, he should act. Was it possible that Lola, being friendly with the Countess Cioni, had somehow learned of the General’s fears, and had obtained information as to the projected plot? If so, why did not Her Highness, so friendly was she, reveal to him the whole strange truth?

No. There was some curious element of mystery in her attitude towards him. She was concealing something – but what it was he could not in the least discern. He loved her – ay, better than any man had ever loved a woman. He regarded her as his sole ideal, for before her all other feminine beauty faded. He, who had run the whole gamut of gaiety in the exclusive Society of the capitals; he who had trodden the diplomatic stage of Europe ever since a child, had at last met the one woman who was sweet perfection; the one woman before whom he had thrown himself upon his knees and worshipped – on that fatal night when his enemy had, alas! discovered him.

And yet the situation seemed so utterly hopeless. His love was, after all, but a hollow mockery, and could only lead to grief and black despair, while his utter failure to trace the hand which had stolen the plans was, he knew, causing His Majesty to lose all faith in him. He had been in Brussels upon a mysterious errand instead of carrying out His Majesty’s desire.

Italy was at that moment menaced on every side. Complications had arisen with Turkey during the past week or two, while her relations with France were not of the best regarding certain Customs tariffs which France had suddenly risen in order to further strangle Italian trade.

Yes, indeed, the time was now absolutely ripe for Austria to strike her long-premeditated blow. And if she did, then Italy, in her state of unpreparedness, and her serious quarrel with Turkey regarding Tripoli, must, alas! succumb.

Next morning, when Peters brought Hubert the Tribuna in bed as usual, he saw an announcement that His Excellency General Cataldi, Minister of War, was leaving that evening for Lyons, to visit his brother, who was lying dangerously ill there.

Why that sudden journey? he thought. The news had no doubt been communicated to the Press by His Excellency himself.

During the day he reflected upon the matter many times, until at six o’clock that evening, dressed in an old tweed suit, and presenting the appearance of a ten-day-ten-guinea tourist, he entered a second-class compartment of the Paris rapide– having first watched the General into the sleeping-car.

That evening he dined upon a roll and a piece of uncooked ham which he bought at the station, and that night he spent crossing the wild, dreary Maremme marshes in sleepless discomfort, for the Italian railway administrative are not over-generous towards the second-class traveller.

By Pisa, with a glimpse of its white Leaning Tower, Carrara with its dazzling white marble quarries, Genoa, Turin, and the glorious scenery of the Mont Cenis, they at last gained France, until at last, late on the following day, they arrived at the long, inartistic station of Culoz, and there, watching intently, he saw the General in his fur-lined overcoat and felt hat descend, and change into the train for Lyons, an action which he himself followed.

On gaining Lyons, however, His Excellency, who was alone and quite unconscious that he was being followed, entered the big buffet of the terminus, and having waited there an hour, purchased a ticket for Tours.

The story of the invalid brother was at once exploded! He had left Italy with some other object in view.

Travelling by a slow train across the mountains, they did not arrive in the pretty capital of Touraine until early next morning, and then the General, entering the omnibus of the Hôtel de l’Univers, drove down the wide Boulevard Heurteloup, while Hubert went to a rival house, the Metropol, in the Place du Palais-de-Justice.

An hour later, however, he called at the Univers, and by means of a judicious tip to the under-concierge – the concierge being absent – discovered that the Italian gentleman who had arrived had given the name of Conio – Emilio Conio, of Milan, he had written in the register.

The Englishman now saw that the object of the Minister’s journey was, no doubt, to keep some secret appointment. Therefore he decided to risk detection and transfer his quarters to the Univers, which he promptly did.

Through all the day he watched the General very closely. During the morning, overcome by his journey, His Excellency slept, and not until four o’clock did he come down to idle in the lounge. Then after half an hour he crossed the Place and entered one of the cafés there for a vermouth.

His attitude was as though he expected someone who had not arrived.

Hubert smiled within himself when he reflected how he had followed this man who had bribed assassins to take his life, and how utterly unconscious he now was of being watched.

“The Italian gentleman is expecting a certain Herr Steinberg, of Berlin, to-night,” the assistant concierge whispered to Hubert when he entered the hotel just before dinner. “He is to arrive at ten o’clock to-night.”

And then, as his hands closed over the louis which the Englishman produced, he added:

“I will let you know, by a note to your room, m’sieur.”

Hubert, fearing to meet His Excellency in the salle à manger, went out and dined at the Curassier, a noted restaurant in the Rue Nationale, and did not return before half-past ten.

In his room he found a scribbled line as arranged.

Then, descending by the lift, he sought the assistant concierge, and from him discovered that the pair were in consultation in room Number 164.

“Yes, I believe there is a door between that and the next room, m’sieur,” the man replied.

“Good. Then get me the key for an hour or so, and I will make it all right with you.”

The profession of concierge is synonymous of bribery. No concierge in Europe lives upon his stipend. Hence within ten minutes Hubert was crouched against the door of the adjoining room, listening to the conversation of the Italian Minister of War and the stranger from Berlin – a conversation which certainly proved highly instructive.