Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe

by William Le Queux

saying that he hoped to calland see him immediately upon his return. Apparently he had something tocommunicate.

  Hubert, smart in his diplomatic, gold-laced uniform, his cocked hattucked under his arm, and wearing his sword with the Royal VictorianOrder and two foreign decorations--the Spanish Order of the Toison d'Or,and the Order of the Elephant of Denmark, passed the sentries of theRoyal bodyguard, and through the long lines of gorgeously dressedflunkeys in the vestibule, and up the brilliantly lit grand staircase--that same staircase which he had descended after his secret conversationwith His Majesty the King.

  Above showed the fine fresco of Christ in a cloud of angels by Melozzoda Forli, once in the Church of Santi Apostoli, and then as he greetedthe Royal Chamberlain and entered the great ballroom he suddenly foundhimself in a whirl of gaiety amid the smartest and most exclusive Courtcircle in Europe.

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

  Upon the raised dais with the purple velvet hanging, on the left sat HerMajesty the Queen, wearing a splendid tiara of diamonds and herworld-renowned pearls, while across her corsage showed theparti-coloured sash of the Order of St Elisabeth. Near by her was theKing himself in his blue military tunic and pale grey trousers, wearingthe 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 theCrown of Italy, St Maurice and Lazarus, and a dozen others. With themwere two foreign minor royalties, and several other members of the Royalcircle, together with ladies-in-waiting and aides-de-camp and othersstanding at the rear.

  Waldron's eyes were searching for the Princess Luisa. At first hefailed to discover her, but a few moments later he saw her take herplace 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 theImperial German Orders peeping over the edge of her low-cut corsage, andfrom it was suspended the cross of the Order in brilliants.

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

  As the British diplomat made his way through the throng--for the waltzhad just concluded--he bowed over the hands of a dozen pretty women,dames of high degree in the Eternal City, wives of Roman princes, ofmarquises, of great signori, and of diplomats. With many men,politicians, financiers, Court sycophants, and those struggling fordistinction--that crowd of place-seekers and unscrupulous officials withwhich every European Court is surrounded--he nodded acquaintance, untilsuddenly 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," saidthe Ambassador, and the pair strolled together to the end of the room,where, cunningly concealed, lights showed beneath the feathery foliageof the palms of the great winter-garden.

  "Well?" asked Sir Francis, when they were alone together; "I've heardnothing more concerning that alarming report from Vienna. Have youlearnt anything?"

  "Nothing," was Hubert's reply, "except one fact--that the rumour wasalso 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 subtlemoves 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!" remarkedthe British Ambassador. "But a week has now gone, Waldron, therefore wecan 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 MarchesaGenazzano face to face, and though he endeavoured to avoid her--for shewas such a terrible gossip and bore--he was compelled to bend over herhand and stop to chat.

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

  "They were last seen in Brescia," the Marchesa said. "Probably they areon their way back to France. I hear, too, that the Baronne, thoughalways supposed to be of the _haut monde_, was, before her marriage, avariety artiste at Olympia in Paris. And"--she lowered her voice behindher fan--"and there are all sorts of queer stories going about."

  Waldron was bored. The scandals of Rome--and, alas! Florence and theEternal City are the two most scandal-mongering centres in the whole ofEurope--were frequent. There seemed to be a fresh one daily, andnobody's reputation was sacred from the venomous tongues of the oldwomen, of whom the Marchesa Genazzano was one.

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

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

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

  Presently Hubert managed to escape the old lady, and offering his arm toa 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 littlecompanion, afterwards taking her back to her mother, a rather obese,Hebrew-looking woman with more than a suspicion of dark hair upon herupper lip.

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

  "I must see you," she whispered, as he halted and bowed. "Go to thesmall door of the Capella Paolina. I will meet you outside it in fiveminutes."

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

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

  Ah! what a brilliant, glittering, tinselled world of sham andsubterfuge, of resplendent plutocracy, and adventurous politics, is eachof the European Courts of to-day--that of our own St James's notexcepted. The shameful traffic in titles goes on unchecked everywhere,and many a man who struts about with a piece of gilded ironmongery uponhis breast and a handle to his name ought if he obtained his des
ervedmerits, to have more strongly forged ironmongery upon his wrists and eatthe bread of a felon's cell. Their Excellencies who are Ministers, too,are many of them hypocrites and adventurers, who swell the purses fromthe public funds, or, by means of their previous knowledge oflegislation, 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 andPrinces, where only a few of the more elderly people were chattering,Hubert passed down two long corridors, quite deserted save for thesentries, and at length approached a small side door which led to thePaolina Chapel--the private chapel of the Quirinale.

  He was quite alone, and stood listening in expectation. From thecourtyard below came up the sounds of motor-cars and the tramp of thePalace guard, while