Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe

Chapter Nineteen.
At the Court Ball

The second Court ball – one of the most brilliant functions of the Roman season – was at its height when, having arrived direct from Paris, very dirty and weary, Hubert hastened to his rooms, washed, changed into uniform, and drove at once to the Palace.

He was all anxiety to hear what had occurred during his absence.

Pucci had left a note on the previous day saying that he hoped to call and see him immediately upon his return. Apparently he had something to communicate.

Hubert, smart in his diplomatic, gold-laced uniform, his cocked hat tucked under his arm, and wearing his sword with the Royal Victorian Order and two foreign decorations – the Spanish Order of the Toison d’Or, and the Order of the Elephant of Denmark, passed the sentries of the Royal bodyguard, and through the long lines of gorgeously dressed flunkeys in the vestibule, and up the brilliantly lit grand staircase – that same staircase which he had descended after his secret conversation with His Majesty the King.

Above showed the fine fresco of Christ in a cloud of angels by Melozzo da Forli, once in the Church of Santi Apostoli, and then as he greeted the Royal Chamberlain and entered the great ballroom he suddenly found himself in a whirl of gaiety amid the smartest and most exclusive Court circle in Europe.

The scene was one of great brilliance and animation. The huge salon with its polished floor, its great crystal electroliers, and its beautiful tapestries and paintings, was a perfect phantasmagoria of light and colour. In the gallery the Royal orchestra was playing a pretty waltz from one of the latest Viennese musical comedies, and the dancers, the women in Court gowns, and the men in uniforms and glittering with decorations were whirling round the splendid chamber.

Upon the raised dais with the purple velvet hanging, on the left sat Her Majesty the Queen, wearing a splendid tiara of diamonds and her world-renowned pearls, while across her corsage showed the parti-coloured sash of the Order of St. Elisabeth. Near by her was the King himself in his blue military tunic and pale grey trousers, wearing the collar of the Order of the Annonciade, of which he was Grand Master, while on his breast glittered the diamond stars of the Order of the Crown of Italy, St. Maurice and Lazarus, and a dozen others. With them were two foreign minor royalties, and several other members of the Royal circle, together with ladies-in-waiting and aides-de-camp and others standing at the rear.

Waldron’s eyes were searching for the Princess Luisa. At first he failed to discover her, but a few moments later he saw her take her place beside the Queen and bend to speak with her.

In white, with her hair beautifully dressed, she presented a sweet, charming picture of youthful patrician beauty, of exquisite refinement. From where he stood he could see the black watered ribbon of one of the Imperial German Orders peeping over the edge of her low-cut corsage, and from it was suspended the cross of the Order in brilliants.

She was looking unusually pale and worn. Her eyes seemed to have black rings around them which told of anxiety, perhaps of sleepless nights – different, indeed, to her appearance in those sunny, careless winter days up the Nile.

As the British diplomat made his way through the throng – for the waltz had just concluded – he bowed over the hands of a dozen pretty women, dames of high degree in the Eternal City, wives of Roman princes, of marquises, of great signori, and of diplomats. With many men, politicians, financiers, Court sycophants, and those struggling for distinction – that crowd of place-seekers and unscrupulous officials with which every European Court is surrounded – he nodded acquaintance, until suddenly espying Sir Francis Cathcart, he made his way to him.

“Hallo, Waldron – back?” exclaimed his Chief sharply.

“Yes, only an hour ago,” was the other’s reply.

“Come out into the conservatory. I want to have a word with you,” said the Ambassador, and the pair strolled together to the end of the room, where, cunningly concealed, lights showed beneath the feathery foliage of the palms of the great winter-garden.

“Well?” asked Sir Francis, when they were alone together; “I’ve heard nothing more concerning that alarming report from Vienna. Have you learnt anything?”

“Nothing,” was Hubert’s reply, “except one fact – that the rumour was also afloat in Brussels.”

“Ah! Some Bourse conspiracy, then!” was the Ambassador’s quick remark, for he was a shrewd and well-seasoned diplomat, who knew all the subtle moves in the game of international politics.

“I cannot quite determine.”

“Then you’ve been in Brussels?”

“Yes. In the interests of the matter which we were discussing.”

“Curious that what is a secret here should be rumoured there!” remarked the British Ambassador. “But a week has now gone, Waldron, therefore we can only hope the storm-cloud has blown over.”

And at that moment the Russian Ambassador, in his brilliant uniform, passed, and Sir Francis joined him, leaving the secretary again alone.

As he returned to the ballroom he met the old yellow-toothed Marchesa Genazzano face to face, and though he endeavoured to avoid her – for she was such a terrible gossip and bore – he was compelled to bend over her hand and stop to chat.

She was full of the latest titbit of scandal concerning a young and pretty French Baronne, well-known in Roman Society, and her good-looking chauffeur. It was being whispered that the lady had gone away on a motor tour with him a fortnight ago and had not returned, while the irate husband was searching frantically for the driver with a revolver.

“They were last seen in Brescia,” the Marchesa said. “Probably they are on their way back to France. I hear, too, that the Baronne, though always supposed to be of the haut monde, was, before her marriage, a variety artiste at Olympia in Paris. And” – she lowered her voice behind her fan – “and there are all sorts of queer stories going about.”

Waldron was bored. The scandals of Rome – and, alas! Florence and the Eternal City are the two most scandal-mongering centres in the whole of Europe – were frequent. There seemed to be a fresh one daily, and nobody’s reputation was sacred from the venomous tongues of the old women, of whom the Marchesa Genazzano was one.

Her Majesty had done all she could to put a stop to such gossip at Court, but, alas! only six months before, one of her own ladies-in-waiting, a pretty woman moving in the best Society, had kept a secret tryst at an obscure restaurant down near the Tiber and had been shot dead by her lover, a common soldier.

After that unfortunate scandal in her own entourage Her Majesty had been powerless to prevent uncharitable chatter concerning others.

That night the whole of the great Quirinale Palace was ablaze with light. Music and gaiety were everywhere, for through the great suite of rooms the Sala of the Ambassadors, the Sala Regia, and the others, supper was being served with all that pomp and ceremony characteristic of the Italian Court.

Presently Hubert managed to escape the old lady, and offering his arm to a young, dark-haired girl, the daughter of the Minister of the Interior, made his way across the ballroom.

There was another waltz, and this he danced with his pretty little companion, afterwards taking her back to her mother, a rather obese, Hebrew-looking woman with more than a suspicion of dark hair upon her upper lip.

He had bowed and withdrawn when, passing through the crowd, he suddenly heard a low female voice utter his name, and saw at his side the Princess Luisa.

“I must see you,” she whispered, as he halted and bowed. “Go to the small door of the Capella Paolina. I will meet you outside it in five minutes.”

And next instant she moved onward towards the raised dais where His Majesty was standing chatting with Sir Francis Cathcart.

In obedience Hubert made his way by a circuitous route, first through the great winter-garden, where many couples were sitting out, and then through that long suite of heavily gilded State apartments comprising fourteen magnificent chambers, each ornamented with wonderful tapestries and paintings, and full of historic associations from the days of Gregory XIII. Generations of courtiers had paced those oaken floors until now, in our twentieth century, those who trod them were the embodiment of selfishness, of avarice, and of vain glorification.

Ah! what a brilliant, glittering, tinselled world of sham and subterfuge, of resplendent plutocracy, and adventurous politics, is each of the European Courts of to-day – that of our own St. James’s not excepted. The shameful traffic in titles goes on unchecked everywhere, and many a man who struts about with a piece of gilded ironmongery upon his breast and a handle to his name ought if he obtained his deserved merits, to have more strongly forged ironmongery upon his wrists and eat the bread of a felon’s cell. Their Excellencies who are Ministers, too, are many of them hypocrites and adventurers, who swell the purses from the public funds, or, by means of their previous knowledge of legislation, make coups upon the Bourse. Corruption is rife everywhere, the public are gulled by the Press, and the religion of to-day is, alas! the worship of the great god, Gold.

Beyond the blue drawing-room, with its many portraits of Sovereigns and Princes, where only a few of the more elderly people were chattering, Hubert passed down two long corridors, quite deserted save for the sentries, and at length approached a small side door which led to the Paolina Chapel – the private chapel of the Quirinale.

He was quite alone, and stood listening in expectation. From the courtyard below came up the sounds of motor-cars and the tramp of the Palace guard, while in the faint distance he could hear the strains of music.

Suddenly, however, he saw a figure in white approaching, and a moment later Lola was at his side.

“Follow me,” she said hastily. “Follow me at a distance – to Villanova’s room. No one will be there.”

General Villanova was Minister of the Royal Household.

And she went on, he lounging leisurely after her at a distance.

A couple of minutes afterwards he found himself with her in a small room where a coal fire burned brightly – the private office of the Controller of the Household.

“Well,” she echoed eagerly. “You have seen him – eh? When did you return?”

“To-night,” Waldron replied. “He has sent you this,” and from the breast of his uniform coat he drew the letter from her lover, Henri Pujalet.

With eager fingers she carried the note across to the shaded reading-lamp upon the table, and tearing it open, read the message it contained.

Hugh stood watching the expression of her pale, anxious face. It went instantly white as the dress she wore; her pale lips slowly parted, and in her splendid eyes was an expression of such horror that he had never seen in any person’s eyes before.

For a second she seemed transfixed by the words written there.

Next second, with an almost superhuman effort, she summoned all her self-composure. Her slim, nervous fingers crushed the letter, and with a quick movement she crossed to the fire near which Hubert was standing and cast the message into the flames.

Hubert Waldron had acted as Cupid’s messenger, but whatever the Princess’s secret lover had written, it apparently gave her grave concern.

She stood, her left hand pressed to her heaving chest, a strangely pathetic little figure in her Court dress and glittering diamond cross upon her corsage. Her great, wonderful eyes were fixed upon the moss-green carpet, and he saw that she was trembling as though in fear.

“Your Highness is distressed,” he remarked in a low voice full of sympathy. “Cannot I assist you further?”

“Distressed!” she cried, turning quickly upon him with her eyes flashing suddenly. “Distressed!” she echoed. “Ah, Mr Waldron, you do not know how crushing is this blow that has fallen upon me! I have done – my – very best – what I believed to be for the best, but – ah, Dio! – all is lost – lost – ah! – I – I – ” And reeling suddenly, she clutched wildly at air and would have fallen forward had he not sprung up to prevent her.

He took her in his strong arms and carried her insensible form to the high couch near the window, whereon he laid her tenderly.

Then he looked around bewildered, not knowing how next to act.

Chapter Twenty.
Reveals Hubert’s Secret

Water was needed, he knew, though he had had but little experience of cases such as this.

Upon the Minister’s writing-table stood a silver bowl full of pale pink tulips, and these he threw out quickly and began to sprinkle Her Highness’s hard-set countenance.

But to no avail.

For some minutes he tried frantically to restore her. He dared not ring for the servants, as it would no doubt compromise her to be found alone with him in that room. There were alas! sufficient wild stories afloat about her already, and no doubt if she were discovered there with him the fact would, in an hour, reach His Majesty’s ears.

In such case what explanation could he give without telling absolute lies? Besides, did not His Majesty repose the utmost confidence in him, and that confidence must assuredly be shaken.

Absolutely helpless he stood gazing upon her prostrate figure and trying in vain to seek a solution of the difficulty.

If she would only regain consciousness in order that he could ring the bell and leave her. But, alas! she was insensible, and no amount of water upon her face would revive her. Of smelling-salts or other restoratives there were none. So he was compelled to remain there inactive and impatient.

What could be the nature of the message she had received from that man who, though a Frenchman, was posing in Brussels as Slavo Petrovitch, a Servian from Belgrade? It must have been a most disquieting one to have so upset her as to cause her to faint. A girl who knew no fear, who was naturally athletic and strong-minded, who drove her car through the night alone and unattended, and who, travelling to the north incognita, had won a motor-cycle race, was not the sort of person to faint at any news which did not gravely concern herself.

Was it possible, he wondered, that Henri Pujalet had written abandoning her?

That was the impression which forced itself upon him. The Frenchman certainly could not know her real title and position. Pujalet no doubt believed, as he himself had believed, that Lola was a poor dependent. Hence it was quite probable that he had met some other woman and in favour of her had abandoned Lola.

Yet, as he stood there wondering he recollected the love-scene that hot stifling night beneath the palms in the far-off Sudan, how her lover had held her so passionately to his breast and smothered her face with his kisses. And how she, too, had stroked his cheeks tenderly with both her soft hands.

Yes. They, no doubt, loved each other, and perhaps, after all, he was misjudging that man to whom she had given her affection.

Thoughts of Beatriz, too, flashed across his mind. How different was the pale recumbent figure in white to that dashing Andalusian dancer!

He dropped upon one knee at the side of the couch, looked intently upon the white unconscious countenance, and held his breath.

“Lola!” he whispered, but so low that sound hardly passed his fevered lips. “I love you, darling! I love you, though you shall never know, because our love is forbidden. Alas! it could only bring grief, sorrow, and disaster upon both of us. But – ah, my God! I love you —I love you!”

And slowly and reverently he took the inert hand which he held in his and raising it to his lips, kissed it with all the mad, ardent passion of his stifled affection.

For some minutes he remained there kneeling by her side, stroking her bare white arm and kissing her soft little hand. Sorely tempted was he to kiss her upon the lips, but by dint of self-restraint he held himself back.

She was unconscious, and to kiss her would be to take an unfair advantage.

But time and again he repeated those fervent whispered words, sometimes so loud that they could actually be heard in the room.

“Lola! I love you! I love you, darling. I love you – though you can never be mine!”

He was bending over her hand in silence, a great lump having arisen in his throat, while in his eyes were unshed tears. The blank hopelessness of his mad passion had been forced upon him. There were two reasons. She loved the young Frenchman, and again she, a Princess of the House of Savoy, could never marry a mere foreign diplomat.

No, he must again crush down all his intense love for her; again remain her sincere and most devoted friend.

Once more he bent till his lips reverently touched her cold hand, but at that moment he heard a movement behind him, and, turning, saw a short, white-haired man in Court uniform, with the crimson and white ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy at his throat.

Waldron started quickly.

The man who had entered noiselessly and stood there watching him was none other than the man who, up the Nile, had passed as Lola’s uncle, Jules Gigleux – but whose real name was Luigi Ghelardi, the most renowned Secret Service Chief in Europe.

“Well, signore,” exclaimed the shrewd, cunning old man in Italian with his grey brows knit, “this is certainly a surprise! I did not expect when I entered here in search of His Excellency the General that I should make this very interesting discovery?”

Waldron sprang to his feet much confused and altered in the same language:

“Her Highness has unfortunately fainted.”

“And you were trying to restore her – eh?” he laughed with bitter sarcasm.

There was a look of distinct evil in the man’s small cunning eyes.

“Yes. And I have failed,” Waldron answered.

“Had you not better ring for the servants? I think so.”

And the chief spy of Italy pressed the electric button near at hand.

In response, a tall sentry appeared at once and saluted.

“I want one of the maids of the household instantly. Her Royal Highness has fainted.”

“Si, signore,” was the man’s reply, saluting, again turning like clockwork and disappearing.

“I must confess, Signor Waldron,” exclaimed Ghelardi, very severely, “that I am greatly surprised to discover you here, and in such a position as I found you.”

“And I am equally surprised, Signor Ghelardi, to discover your real identity,” was the diplomat’s reply. “For a number of years, as Chief of the German Service, you were the arch-enemy of my country. That is not forgotten, even though you have returned to the land of your birth, and taken service again under your own King.”

“It appears that your attitude is the reverse of friendly, signore,” was the antagonistic reply of the man with the bristly hair, who looked much more French than Italian.

“And it appears to me that very little friendship exists between us on either side – eh?”

“From what I have just witnessed I can plainly discern the truth,” said the Chief of the Secret Service. “The Princess is a giddy, skittish girl whose injudicious actions have, from time to time, caused greatest annoyance and anxiety to Their Majesties. Rome is full of scandals regarding her unconventionality and her disregard for her high position. And here we have yet another. I discover her insensible with you kneeling at her side declaring your affection?”

“I hope the discovery gives you most supreme satisfaction, Signor Ghelardi,” exclaimed Hubert defiantly.

“It gives me the greatest dissatisfaction. His Majesty entrusts her to my care, and I am responsible.”

“You exercised your duty very well in Egypt, I admit,” Waldron replied with a light laugh. “Now I suppose your intention will be to go to His Majesty and describe what you have seen here this evening.”

“I shall act, signore, just as I think fit.”

“No doubt, in order to curry favour with His Majesty you will give a lurid picture of what you have witnessed,” exclaimed Hubert. “Well, do so – at your own peril.”

As he spoke two maids entered, accompanied by the sentry.

“Her Royal Highness has fainted,” Ghelardi explained, pointing to the prostrate figure upon the couch. “You, sentry, had better go in search of Doctor Mellini. He is probably in his rooms. You know where they are – close to the principal entrance. Tell your captain – he will soon find him.”

“Si, signore,” was the man’s answer, as he raised his hand to the salute, turned again and left.

The two maids in their artistic pale grey caps and aprons – the uniform worn by all the female servants of the Palace – dashed across to the young Princess. Then one of them left and ran away for her own smelling-salts.

“I think we had better leave Her Highness. She will be attended to and taken to her rooms,” Ghelardi said.

So the two men went out together, passing along the corridor which led towards the grand staircase.

Hubert was pondering. He saw that the situation was, both for Lola and himself, a very unpleasant one. Ghelardi would, without a doubt, inform the King. Since he had been appointed to Rome he had learnt that the notorious spy was, in addition to being a most remarkable man in his profession, at the same time a place-seeker of the worst type, a soft-spoken sycophant who was for ever closeted with the King.

That His Majesty, with his shrewd intuition and his instinctive reading of men’s minds, had realised this, had been shown by the fact that he had called in the British diplomat to make inquiries into the serious loss of the plans of the frontier fortresses.

No. The King did not trust Luigi Ghelardi so implicitly as Ghelardi himself believed.

The pair, on their way along the corridor, passed an open door. The small room, which was that devoted to the Captain of the Royal Guard while on duty.

“Before we part, Signor Ghelardi, I would like to have a word with you,” Hubert said suddenly. “We cannot do better than speak together here in private.”

“Benissimo,” was the great spy’s reply, acceding most willingly.

Then when they were inside, and Waldron had closed the door, he turned, suddenly asking:

“I presume it is your intention to reveal to the King what you have just witnessed – eh?”

“It is my duty to do so, signore. I have been entrusted with Her Royal Highness’s welfare.”

“And by doing so you will once more cause His Majesty both pain and annoyance,” Waldron remarked.

“And if I were silent should I not be conniving at this impossible situation?”

Hubert Waldron looking at him with keen defiance said:

“Signor Ghelardi, you will, I tell you, say nothing of to-night’s incident to a single soul.”

The elder man laughed openly in the diplomat’s face.

“No, Signor Waldron,” he said, “I quite understand you have no desire that the truth should become common property; but His Majesty will say nothing to others.”

“His Majesty will not know!” Waldron said decisively and very quietly. There was a hard look upon his dark handsome face.

“Madonna mia! I may surely make what report I like to my King, to whom I am directly responsible.”

“In this instance, Signor Ghelardi, though you discern in it an excellent opportunity of showing your remarkable powers of inquiry, you will remain strictly silent. No word of it shall pass your lips.”

“Oh, and pray why, my dear signore?” asked the other opening his eyes.

“Because I forbid it.”

“You forbid!” he echoed. “I tell you that I shall act just as I deem proper.”

“Then I, too, shall also act, Signor Ghelardi – and much against your interests, I assure you.”

“You threaten me – eh? You?”

“I do not threaten,” Hubert hastened to assure him. “I shall only act in case you should act against the interests of Her Royal Highness.”

“I do not think you, a foreigner, can interfere very much with my interests,” laughed the other in defiance.

“Think whatever you please. After you have had audience with His Majesty I, too, shall have audience, and when I have left, then the King will probably tell you what I have revealed to him.”

“And what, pray, can you reveal?” asked the Chief of the Secret Service, his grey brows again knit, showing that he was somewhat puzzled by the diplomat’s defiant attitude.

“That is my own affair,” replied Hubert with a triumphant smile. “Suffice it to say that the hour you make any statement concerning what you have witnessed to-night, then in the same hour you will cease to be Chief of Italy’s Secret Service!”

“Do you think to frighten me, then?”

“I have no wish, my dear Signor Ghelardi,” was Hubert’s very polite reply. “I only desire that no further scandal should be attached to Her Royal Highness’s good name.” And after a brief pause he looked the official straight in the face and said: “I offer you silence for silence!”

“And I decline your most generous offer.”

“Good. Then we shall see!”

“But – ”

“I do not wish to discuss this unpleasant matter further,” interrupted Waldron. “Go and tell the King – but at your own peril. Buona sera.” And the diplomat turned away. As he was about to leave the room Ghelardi sprang forward and placed his fingers upon the handle of the door to prevent him.

“I think,” he said, “that we are perhaps misunderstanding each other.”

“No, we are not,” was Hubert’s prompt reply, sturdy Briton that he was. “I understand you, Luigi Ghelardi, perfectly. You have no compunction where Her Highness is concerned. You, man of secrets that you are, will, rather than conceal a woman’s shortcomings, bring upon her the anger of the King in order to secure your own personal ends.”

The bristly haired old official bit his lip. Hubert watched him and smiled inwardly.

“You defy me to execute my duty.”

“Your duty is political espionage, not to spy upon a member of the royal family,” the diplomat replied. “And, further, I tell you that if you breathe a word of this to His Majesty – or if His Majesty gets to hear of it through any third party, I will not spare you, Luigi Ghelardi,” he added, earnestly facing the old man in defiance. “Go then, tell him what you will,” Hubert continued angrily, and again he turned the handle of the door to pass out.

“That is my intention.”

“And in return my intention will be to bring you down from your high position in the King’s esteem. That I shall do, and quickly – never fear,” Waldron said. Then, after a second’s pause, he added: “You are acquainted with a certain Englishman – a Mr Jerningham. He knew you well when you were in the German Service – he has cause to remember you. Indeed he has still a little account to settle with you, has he not – eh?”

Ghelardi started.

“What do you mean?” he asked, though affecting disregard of the remark.

“I mean nothing – so long as you remain silent,” Waldron answered.

Ghelardi was nonplussed. But only for a second, for he was not a man to be easily deterred from any intention.

“So you think that I may heed your empty threats – eh, Signor Waldron? Well, we shall see,” he replied, with a hard, triumphant laugh.

Then releasing his hold upon the door handle he bowed mockingly to the Englishman, inviting him to pass out.