“You search for something?” the visitor asked.
“Before you came, sir,” Fawley confided, “I had a caller. He must have taken his leave in a hurry.”
Heinrich Behrling laughed hardly.
“There are many,” he declared, “who leave in a hurry when I arrive!”
Chapter XIV
Heinrich Behrling, the man whom the most widely read paper in Berlin had called only that morning “the underground ruler of Germany,” showed no hesitation in taking the vacated easy-chair, and he watched the disappearance of the still burning cigar out of the window with an air of satisfaction. In response to a wave of the hand his escort retired. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“It gives me no pleasure to be so attended,” he declared, “but what would you have? The Communists have sworn that before the end of the week I shall be a dead man. I prefer to live.”
“It is the natural choice,” Fawley murmured with a smile.
“You are Major Fawley, the American who has entered the service of Italy?” Behrling demanded. “You speak German—yes?”
“Yes to both questions,” was the prompt reply. “My name is Fawley, I have accepted a temporary post under the Italian Government and I speak German.”
“What brought you to Berlin?”
“Everyone comes to Berlin nowadays.”
“You came on Berati’s orders, of course.”
Fawley’s fingers tapped lightly upon his desk and he remained for a moment silent.
“I look upon your visit as a great honour, sir,” he said. “I only regret that when I became a servant I became dumb.”
“I wish there were more like you on my staff,” Behrling muttered with a throaty exclamation. “Can I deal with you? That is the question.”
“On behalf of whom?”
“On behalf of my country. You have seen my army in the making. You have visited Cologne and Frankfurt, amongst other towns. You know what is coming to Germany as well as I can tell you. I ask whether I can deal with you on behalf of my country.”
“Is this not a little premature, Herr Behrling?” Fawley asked quietly. “The elections are yet to come.”
“So you have been listening to the fat man,” was the scornful reply. “The man who smokes that filthy stuff and left the room like a streak of lightning at my coming! He would have you think that the dummy who has taken my place in the Reichstag can be dealt with. He is a fool. If I raised my hand in opposition—crash tomorrow would come the whole of your brilliant scheme, and where would you be then? Where would Italy be? I ask you that.”
Fawley was silent. This man was not as he had expected. He was at the same time more verbose yet more impressive.
“If I choose to listen to my councillors,” Behrling went on, “I will tell you what would happen. Italy would be stripped, disgraced, convicted of a great crime and—worse still—guilty of being found out. That is what will happen to any nation who dares to ignore the only party which is strong enough to rule Germany, the only party which can put into the field an army of patriots.”
Fawley shook his head regretfully.
“Alas,” he explained, “I am only a messenger. I have no weight in the councils of Italy.”
“You can repeat my words.”
“I will do so.”
“When?”
“When I return to Italy.”
Behrling’s expression was fervent and blasphemous.
“Why do you wait till then?” he demanded. “You are here to see how the land lies. You have to make your report. Von Salzenburg’s men are veterans of the war. They would carry arms in no man’s cause. Soon they will be carrying them to the grave. The young spirit of Germany is with me. Italy will miss her great chance. She will pass down into the rank of second-class nations if she does not recognise this.”
“Every word of what you have said I promise shall be repeated.”
“But why not in your despatches?” Behrling argued, striking the table with his fist. “Why not to-night? Why not let a special messenger fly to Rome? An aeroplane is at your disposal.”
“I never send despatches,” Fawley confided, tapping a cigarette upon the table and lighting it.
His visitor stared at him in blank surprise.
“What do you mean? Of course you must send despatches.”
“I have never sent one in my life,” Fawley assured him. “I have very seldom committed a line of anything relating to my profession to paper. When a thing is important enough for me to pass it on to my chiefs, I take the knowledge of it in my brain and I go to them.”
Behrling rose to his feet and walked restlessly up and down the room. His strong features were working nervously. He threw away his cigarette. It was obvious that he had been living for months under a great strain. He beat the air with his fists—a gesture which seemed to Fawley curiously familiar. Suddenly he swung round.
“The fat man—Adolf Krust—he has been here this afternoon?”
Fawley nodded.
“Yes, he has been here. He was in Monte Carlo when I was there. He went on to see Berati. It is scarcely my business to tell you so,” Fawley observed, “still, I see no reason why I should keep another man’s secret. He only got as far as San Remo. Berati refused to see him.”
“When do you return to Rome?”
“In ten days.”
“The world itself may be changed in that time,” Behrling declared impatiently. “If you were to study the welfare of your adopted country I tell you this—you would return to Rome to-morrow. You would use every argument to convince Berati that Italy stands upon the threshold of a colossal mistake.”
“Mistake?” Fawley repeated.
“Give me a few hours of your time,” Behrling demanded with flashing eyes, “and I will show you how great a mistake. If ever a thing was dead at heart, snapped at the roots, it is the monarchical spirit of Germany. Youth alone can rebuild and inspire Germany. These men who do the goose-step through the streets of Berlin, who have adopted the mouldy, ignoble relic of the most self-intoxicated monarchical régime which ever plunged its country into ruin, they lack everything. They lack inspiration, they lack courage, more than anything they lack youth. You have seen my men march, Major Fawley. You know that their average age is under twenty-four. There is the youth and fire of the country. There is the living force. They have no soul-fatigue.”
“There are rumours,” Fawley ventured to remind him, “of negotiations between the monarchists and your young men. I have heard it said that if this great cataclysm should take place, there would be a coming together of every military party in Germany.”
“You may have heard this,” Behrling admitted with a queer smile, “but you would not be sitting where you are now if you had not the wit to know that it is a falsehood. My men will fight for their country and their principles and me, but not a shot would they fire to drag back from their happy obscurity one half an hour of the accursed Hohenzollern rule.”
“Then what do you predict will be the government in this country?” Fawley asked.
“No sane man doubts that,” Behrling answered. “The people have spoken. I am on my way there already. I shall be dictator within two months. In twelve months Germany will be once more a great power, the greatest power amongst the European nations.”
Fawley lit another cigarette and pushed the box towards his visitor, who, however, shook his head.
“In these days,” the latter confided, “I may not smoke and I may not drink. It is the Lenten fast of my life. Every nerve of my body is strained. The time for relaxation will come afterwards. Major Fawley, I invite you to attend a meeting of my council to-night.”
Fawley declined respectfully.
“If I accepted your offer,” he acknowledged, “I should be doing so under false pretences. I was fortunate enough to intercept a private despatch
addressed to Berati’s chief last time I was in Rome. From it I am convinced that, however long she may hesitate, Italy has made up her mind to support the monarchical party. The treaty is already drawn up.”
Behrling’s arms went out with a gesture towards the sky. One forgot the banality of the gilt and white ceiling above his head.
“What are treaties,” he cried, “when the stars are falling and new worlds are being born? You and I both know why Berati’s master leans towards the monarchical party. It is because he has sworn that there shall be only one dictator in Europe. That is sheer vanity. In time his patriotism will conquer and he will see the truth…. I meet you at midnight at an address which will be given you this afternoon with no explanation. You will be there?”
“If you invite me with the full knowledge of the situation,” Fawley replied.
“That is understood.”
Chapter XV
The maître d’hôtel at the newest Berlin restaurant, which had the reputation of almost fantastic exclusiveness, was typically teutonic. His fair hair had been shaved close to his skull, his fierce little yellow moustache was upturned in military fashion, his protuberant stomach interfered in no manner with his consequential, almost dignified bearing. He scarcely troubled to reply to Fawley’s enquiry for a table.
“Every table is taken,” he announced, “for to-night and every night this week.”
“For the other evenings during the week,” Fawley replied, “I have no interest. Please to give the matter your attention. You had better glance at this card.”
The maître d’hôtel turned ponderously around. Fawley’s rather lazy voice, easily recognisable as American notwithstanding his excellent accent, was in a way impressive. A great deal more so, however, was the card which he had presented. The man’s manner underwent a complete change. He indulged in a swift ceremonious bow.
“Your table is reserved, Herr Oberst,” he said. “Please to follow me.”
He led the way into a small but evidently very high-class restaurant. The walls were panelled in black oak, which, so far from giving the place a sombre appearance, increased the brilliancy of the effect produced by the masses of scarlet flowers with which every table was decorated, the spotless linen, the profusion of gleaming glass and silver. He led the way to a small table in a recess—a table laid for three, one place of which was already occupied. Fawley stopped short. Elida was seated there—looking like a Greuze picture in her filmy veil and white satin gown, her chestnut brown hair and soft hazel eyes. She was obviously very nervous.
“I am afraid that there must be some mistake,” Fawley said to the maître d’hôtel. “It is a man whom I am expecting to meet.”
The maître d’hôtel had resumed his consequential air.
“I do not make mistakes, Herr Oberst,” he declared. “This is the table commanded by my most honoured patron to be reserved for Herr Oberst Fawley and the Princessin Elida di Rezco di Vasena. His Excellency will join you later.”
Elida smiled appealingly up at Fawley.
“You will support my presence for a short time until your host arrives?” she begged. “He is, as you know, a very busy man. He thought that we might converse for a while until he comes.”
“But what do you know about him?” Fawley asked wonderingly. “Surely this is not your galère?”
“I will explain,” she promised. “You are angry with me, but indeed nothing that happened was my fault. Please sit down.”
She laid her hand upon his wrist and drew him gently towards the table. Fawley steeled himself, as well he might, against the lure of her beseeching eyes, but took the place by her side.
“Forgive me if I seemed ungracious,” he murmured. “I never dreamed of seeing you here.”
She drew a sigh of relief and approved his idea of a cocktail. The pedagogue of the place strutted away. They were alone.
“Dear friend,” she said, and for a person who had seemed to him, at most times, so indifferent, her voice trembled with emotion. “Indeed I was not to blame. No idea of my mad cousin’s scheme had ever entered my head. One result of it you see in my presence here.”
“I am glad to believe it,” he answered. “Do you mean, then, that your sympathies are changed?”
“It would seem so, would it not?” she answered with a sigh of relief. “It has been a great upheaval, but I believe that they are. My cousin assured me that Von Salzenburg himself said that you were to be got rid of. The idea sickened me. I no longer wish to serve a company of assassins.”
The cocktails were served. Elida ordered supper and wine.
“You see,” she explained, “our host eats or drinks practically nothing. I am to entertain you till he comes. You are to be impressed. How shall I begin, I wonder?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Princess—” he began.
“You may call me Elida,” she interrupted. “From you I prefer it. I shall call you Martin. In a place like this we do not wish to advertise ourselves.”
“I am very happy to find you so gracious,” he assured her. “I am happy, too, to know that you did not share your cousin’s desire to send me to destruction.”
“No one in the world,” she said quietly, “has a stronger wish than I have, Martin, to keep you alive, to keep you well, to keep you near me if I could.”
“Do you speak for your new chief?” he enquired.
“You must please not be bitter,” she pleaded. “I speak for myself. That, I assure you, you should believe. If you wish to be serious, I will now speak to you for Heinrich Behrling. It was his wish that I should do so.”
“Why should he trouble about me?” Fawley asked, toying with the stem of his wine-glass. “I am only an agent, and a mercenary at that.”
“Do not fence,” she begged. “Remember that I know all about you. We can both guess why you are here. Berati is at last not absolutely certain that he is dealing with the right party. Very late in the day and against his will he is finding his wisdom—as I have. Our tinsel Prince and his goose-stepping soldiers will never help Germany towards freedom. It is the passionate youth of Germany, the liberty-loving and country-loving youth in whose keeping the future rests.”
“This is very interesting,” Fawley remarked with a faint smile. “Considering your antecedents I find it almost incredible.”
“Must one ignore the welfare of one’s country because one happens to be born an aristocrat?” she demanded.
“Not if a Rienzi presents himself,” he retorted. “Are you sure, however, that Behrling really is your Rienzi?”
“If I were not,” she insisted, with a note of passion in her tone, “I should never have given my life and reputation and everything worth having to his cause, as I have done since the day of that catastrophe upon the yacht. Do you know, Martin, that I am one of a band—the latest recruit, perhaps, but one of the most earnest—a band of six thousand young women all born in different walks of life. We have all the same idea. We work to make Heinrich Behrling the ruler of Germany. We are not all Germans. We do not wear uniform, we do not look for any reward. Our idea is to give everything we possess, whatever it may be—money, our gifts of persuasion, our lives if necessary—to win adherents to Behrling’s cause, to stop and rout the communists and the monarchist party. Another Hohenzollern mixed up with politics and the whole world would lose faith in Germany. The only way that she can escape from the yoke of France is by showing the world that she has espoused the broader and greater principles of life and government.”
Fawley accepted a cigarette.
“You are very interesting, Elida,” he said. “I wish that I knew more of this matter. I am afraid that I am a very dumb and ignorant person.”
“It has occurred to me once or twice this evening,” she rejoined dryly, “that you wish to appear so.”
“Alas,” he sighed, “I can assure you that I am no
actor.”
“Nor are you, I am afraid,” she whispered, leaning across the table, “quite so impressionable as I fancied you were that afternoon in the corridor of Berati’s Palazzo.”
The grim lines at the corners of his mouth relaxed.
“Elida,” he replied, as he looked into her eyes, “all I can say is—give me the opportunity to prove myself.”
She was puzzled for a moment. Then she smiled.
“You are thinking of Krust and his little crowd of fairies,” she laughed. “Yet I am told that he finds them very useful. One of them you seemed to find—rather attractive—at Monte Carlo.”
He shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps she realised that her mention of the place was not altogether tactful. She changed the conversation.
“Why are you not working for your own country?” she asked curiously.
“Because my own country has a passion for imagining that even in these days of fast steamships and seaplanes she can remain apart from Europe and European influence,” he answered, with a faintly regretful tremor in his tone. “We have abandoned all Secret Service methods. We have no Secret Service. I can tell you of six departments in which one might have served before the war. Not one of these exists to-day. In their place we have one so-called Intelligence Office, the only qualification to belong to which is that a man has never been out of his own country, can speak no language but his own, and is devoid of any pretensions to intelligence! The work for its own sake is so fascinating that one finds it hard to abandon it altogether. That is why I offered my services to Italy.”
“And are you satisfied? The work interests you?”
He seemed a little doubtful.
“Lately,” he admitted, “there is too much talk and too little action. I cannot see that I make any definite progress.”
“That means that you weary yourself talking to me?” she asked, her hand resting for a moment on his and her deliriously soft eyes pleading with him.
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