On his second call at the Embassy he learned that Sir Maurice de Bunsen had returned. He sent up his card and a request that the Ambassador would spare him a few minutes on an urgent matter. Five minutes later he was shown into the library. The diplomat received him courteously, offered him a glass of sherry and, when they were seated, inquired his business.
De Richleau explained that he had been making certain inquiries in Vienna and Belgrade into highly secret matters, on behalf of the British Government.
The Ambassador frowned. “So you are one of our cloak and dagger merchants. I trust that you have not got yourself into any serious trouble, nor have come to make some request which may cause me embarrassment?”
“On the contrary,” smiled the Duke. “I desire only the protection of the Embassy bag to send some papers safely to London. Or rather, if you have a King’s Messenger at your disposal, I should be grateful if he could make a special trip, as the matter is urgent and of the utmost importance.”
“Very well.” The Ambassador appeared much relieved. “I can arrange for them to leave to-morrow. I take it you are sending them in that brief case: but I see it is not addressed to anyone.”
“I thought it better to wait until I got here, then ask your Excellency for a label.”
Sir Maurice rummaged in a drawer of his desk and produced one. De Richleau wrote on it ‘For Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust, Bart., v.c., c/o The Office of the Committee of Imperial Defence’, and tied it on. Without another word being said regarding the transaction, they finished their sherry and talked for some time about mutual friends in Vienna. Then the Duke took his leave with a great load off his mind.
He had done a job well that he had taken on with great reluctance, and felt now that, for a week or so at least, he was free to enjoy a world of charm and gaiety that might all too soon be wiped out for ever. But he was still wondering if, with the secret knowledge he possessed, he really would be able to enjoy it, when, just as he was about to re-enter Sacher’s, he suddenly found himself confronted by a young woman.
She was neatly, although inexpensively, dressed, and was regarding him with shy, almost frightened eyes. Suddenly she bobbed him a curtsy, thrust a letter at him, and said breathlessly:
“Pray pardon, Altess. I was told to give you this on Wednesday, but they said you’d gone away. I was to give it into your own hands, so I didn’t dare to leave it. They said you’d be back some time though, and it’s been burning a hole in my pocket ever since. Last night, when I inquired again, they said you had returned; and just now the porter pointed you out to me.”
As the Duke took the letter she bobbed him another curtsy, exclaimed “Küss die hand, Altess” and hurried away.
For a moment he stared after her, then he glanced at the envelope. The writing was unknown to him, and he was a little surprised to see that it was addressed not to Count, Königstein as were nearly all the letters he received in Vienna, but to M. le Duc de Richleau.
On tearing it open he saw that it was in German on plain paper that bore no address or date. It had no formal beginning, and was not signed. Its single paragraph read:
Can I possibly hope that you are not altogether disgusted with me? I had looked forward to Monday night so much, but my inexperience and nerves ruined everything. I was hateful to you but I did not mean one word I said. I was so furious with myself afterwards that I ran a temperature and developed one of my attacks of coughing. So today they are keeping me in bed, and on Thursday they intend to send me to Ischl. But nothing shall stop me going for a drive in the Prater on Wednesday afternoon. If you can still think kindly of me, I beg you to be there and wear a white gardenia in your buttonhole as a sign of your forgiveness.
De Richleau’s slender hands trembled slightly as he re-folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. Already, it was beginning to dawn on him what a fearful struggle it must have meant before a granddaughter of the Emperor Franz Joseph could have brought herself to put such thoughts on paper. For the letter could be only from Ilona.
CHAPTER XI - THE WHITE GARDENIAS
De Richleau went straight up to his room and re-read the letter twice. Then he kissed it. For a moment he felt rather foolish, as it was a long time since he had done that to a letter from a woman. Nevertheless, he kissed it again and sat for some time dreamily making mental pictures of Ilona as he had seen her: at Dorchester House; on the boat in the storm; in her sky-blue uniform at the Horse Show; and, lastly, at the Czernins’ ball.
That had been eight days ago. In the interim his mind had been so fully occupied with his mission that he had very nearly, but not quite, succeeded in keeping her image out of it. After her dismissal of him he had made a great effort to do so, and had endeavoured to persuade himself that he was well out of trouble. But that thought had been mainly engendered by anxiety lest a clandestine love affair with an Archduchess should lead to his being arrested, or ordered to leave Vienna, and so seriously jeopardize the success of his secret work.
With a slow smile he savoured the thought that he need no longer worry himself on that score. He was now a free man again. There was no reason whatever why he should not give full rein to his natural instincts, and use his ingenuity to secure secret rendezvous with the lovely Ilona if she were willing to meet him half way. But he must still be careful— very careful—for her sake now more than his own.
The thought of her illness distressed him greatly, and he prayed fervently that it would not prove of a serious nature. Yet, owing to it, things might prove easier for them. There should be far less difficulty about managing to see her alone at Bad Ischl than there would have been in Vienna.
His quick mind at once began to plan. Poor sweet, she must have been very disappointed not to see him in the Prater last Wednesday; and evidently she had left Vienna before her sewing-woman—or whoever it was she had chosen as her messenger—had been able to tell her that she had been unable to deliver her letter. He must see her as soon as possible, and let her know that he had failed to keep the appointment only because he had already left Vienna before herself. To get to Ischl he would have to change at Linz. If he left within the next two or three hours he could catch a train that would get him to the great railway junction that evening. It was unlikely that there would be a night train on, but he could stay the night in an hotel there and be in Ischl by the following mid-day.
Quickly he took out the half dozen invitations to which he had sent acceptances, meaning to write notes excusing himself after all, on the plea that an unexpected turn in his affairs made it necessary for him to leave Vienna. Then his eye fell on that of the Duchess of Hohenberg, to luncheon on Wednesday. Tapping the card thoughtfully on the table, he wondered if it would not be wise to remain for that.
No opportunity must be neglected which would help to cover his affair with Ilona, and the Duchess, he believed, could be made to serve as a very valuable stalking horse for that. In her anomalous position she was far from being as unapproachable as the officially accepted wife of an Heir Apparent would have been, yet her marriage rendered her a conspicuous figure in Viennese society. That society took no exception to its married ladies indulging in flirtations, providing they were not carried to a point that gave grounds for scandal. She was gay, intelligent, and had already shown her interest in him. The odds were that she would welcome him as a new beau; and it was unlikely that Franz Ferdinand would object to his wife receiving the gallant but harmless attentions which De Richleau had in mind. If he could create the right impression, Vienna would soon be talking of him as ‘the Chotek’s’ latest catch, and curious eyes would be much less likely to notice his interest in Ilona.
There was another thing. It would be a bad beginning to turn up at a small place like Ischl without due preparation. He must think of some method by which he could establish himself there very discreetly, and so run the minimum risk of compromising Ilona by his presence.
These reasons for postponing his departure were both on Ilona’s account rather tha
n on his own; so he felt that they justified him in leaving her for an additional forty-eight hours in the unhappy belief that she had ruined her own budding romance. Accordingly, he wrote notes cancelling only the invitations he had accepted which were for dates later than the 20th.
Next morning he woke full of ideas about his projected visit to Ischl and, as soon as he was dressed, went out shopping. First, at a big outfitters, he bought a complete Tyrolean costume—cut-away jacket, green velveteen shorts, gay shirt, long white stockings, heavy brogues, a felt hat with a cord round it and a brush sticking up from its back, and an alpenstock. Then he went to a theatrical costumers and selected a pair of bushy grey side-whiskers similar to those of the Emperor also purchasing some fine white rice-powder for whitening his hair and eyebrows.
Bringing his purchases back with him in a cab to Sacher’s, he tried on the clothes and made himself up. After studying his image carefully in the bathroom mirror, he was quite satisfied with the effect. A false moustache or beard would have given him constant trouble, but the spirit gum held the side-whiskers firmly in place without causing him the least inconvenience. He had used only enough powder on his dark hair and devil’s eyebrows to turn them grey, but the general result altered his appearance sufficiently to make him look fifteen years older, and unrecognizable by anyone who did not know him fairly intimately. Having washed the powder out of his hair and changed back into his ordinary clothes, he went out to a luncheon party at the Countess Warsberg’s and thoroughly enjoyed himself.
At one-fifteen on the Wednesday, he presented himself at the Oberes Belvedere. Compared with the other Imperial Palaces it was quite small, but its stucco work on the grand staircase was by Bussi and made it a gem of Baroque art. The party consisted of some twenty people, several of who were already known to him. So, after greeting his host and hostess, he was immediately drawn into a cheerful group of fellow guests. Then, when they went in to luncheon he found to his great satisfaction that, as the only non-Viennese present, the Duchess had given him the place of honour on her right.
He took an early opportunity of excusing himself from having failed to call on her by the glib lie that, at times, he suffered severely from migraine, which made him fit company for nobody, and had had about the preceding week which had caused him to take himself off to the country until the attack had passed. She then devoted herself for a while to her other neighbour. When she turned back to him later in the meal he was ready to launch out on his usual policy with women whom he wished to intrigue, of making some remark that would either shock or astound them.
It was, of course, strictly taboo to make any reference to her equivocal status before her, but, lowering his voice, he said with a bland smile: “You know, for your Highness’ friends there are at least some compensations for your never having been recognized as a member of the Imperial family.”
Her dark eves flashed and she bristled perceptibly as she replied: “I can think of none, but perhaps you would enlighten me.”
“Why,” he murmured, “had you been, it would be impossible for your male guests to send you flowers in recognition of your hospitality. Whereas, as things are, I trust that His Imperial Highness will not object to my sending you the finest orchids I can procure in Vienna to-morrow.”
Instantly she relaxed and returned his smile. “Duke, I like you very much. You have the touch of the true noblesse which does not always go with a long pedigree. You address me as Highness, to which rank I am not strictly entitled, yet propose to pay me a courtesy which must please any woman. Of course my husband would not object. His greatest pleasure is to see men of distinction, such as yourself, pay me nice compliments, as some compensation for my difficult position.”
From that point they got on like a house on fire, finding many intellectual interests in common, until luncheon was over and the ladies withdrew. While the men were having their coffee and liqueurs the Archduke drew De Richleau into the conversation, and asked him how he was enjoying his stay in Vienna. But he seemed to have forgotten his previous wish to be informed about the state of the Turkish army, and the Duke saw no point in reminding him of it.
They joined the ladies in a lofty drawing-room with walls panelled in yellow silk, Louis Seize furniture, and cabinets of Sevres porcelain. The Duchess soon disposed of the ladies who were talking to her and beckoned De Richleau over. As he seated himself at her side on a long settee, she said:
“Duke, I have a favour to ask you.”
He made a slight bow. “Your Highness has only to command me.”
“It is this,” she went on after a slight pause. “You are doubtless aware that, although I am at present legally debarred from sharing the Imperial throne with my husband, the law of Hungary makes me its Queen designate. But the Hungarians are a curious people: unfortunately they cherish a particular hatred for the Czechs, and I am of that nation. On Friday the 29th the Minister-President of Hungary, Count Tisza, is coming here to dine. It is the first time he has accepted an invitation to do so, and his influence with his compatriots is immense, so I am extremely anxious to strengthen my position by ensuring that he should carry away a good impression of me.”
“How could he fail to do so?” murmured the Duke courteously.
“Flatterer!” she smiled.
“On the contrary; if he is even remotely human your Highness will twist him round your little finger.”
“I am reasonably confident of my own ability to get on good terms with him,” she said seriously. “But I need someone else—someone other than my husband—to give him cause to believe that I should make a good Queen of Hungary. What is more, I shall; if only the Hungarians will let me. Like my own people, they have suffered much under Austrian rule, so my natural sympathies are with them; and since their generous law will make me Queen, as opposed to the Austrian which prevents my becoming Empress, I already feel myself their debtor. My friends in Vienna would be embarrassed to speak to Count Tisza upon such a subject, and even if any of them did he would consider them prejudiced. But you, although you have inherited an Austrian title, are in all other respects a foreigner; yet one who is the friend of kings and so well qualified to express an independent opinion of some weight. Count Tisza is a very intelligent man, so you should get on well with him. Will you oblige me by dining here on the 29th and seeking an opportunity to say something in my favour?”
“Gladly,” replied De Richleau, feeling that it was a request that he could not possibly refuse. “But I trust your Highness will forgive me if I do not call on you in the meantime, as I am committed to leave Vienna to-night to join some friends for a mountaineering holiday in the Tyrol. However, if you wish it, I will make a point of returning for your dinner.”
She gave him her nicest smile. “I shall feel very guilty at having interrupted your holiday, Duke; but I know no one else at the moment who could render me a similar service, so I shall count on you. If there is any way in which I can repay your kindness you have only to let me know.”
His brilliant grey eyes held hers for a moment. “The pleasure of being in your Highness’ company again will be reward enough.”
Ten minutes later the party broke up. De Richleau returned to Sacher’s, collected the suitcases which contained his Tyrolean costume and some other clothes, then drove to the station. On his way he stopped the cab in front of one of Vienna’s best florists. There, he spent ten pounds on orchids and wrote a card for delivery with them to Sophie von Hohenberg. He also bought a dozen white gardenias, which he had carefully packed between layers of cotton wool in a box with air holes, to take with him.
That night he slept at Linz. In the morning he dressed in his Tyrolese clothes and caught the train south, through winding mountain villages, for Ischl. A little time before the train reached its destination, he took his things from the rack and repaired to the lavatory. There, he gummed on the side-whiskers and powdered his hair and eyebrows. Then he waited in the corridor until the train drew into the station.
Isch
l was a town with a population of 10,000. It had originally come into being owing to the salt mines in its neighbourhood, and they were still worked with considerable profit to its inhabitants; but these enjoyed additional prosperity from the fact that it was the favourite country residence of the Imperial family, and still more on account of its beautiful surroundings which now brought 20,000 holiday-makers to it every year. So the Duke knew that he would have no difficulty in finding a modest pension where he could stay with very little risk of running into anyone who knew him as either De Richleau or Königstein. Ignoring the offer of a porter to carry his bag, he marched off into the town. After a brief inspection of the exterior of a score of small private hotels, he entered one called der Gasthaus Pohl, and took a room in the name of Mr. Richwater.
His intention was to pose as a professional guide, but he knew that he would not be able to pass himself off as one in the town; so there he meant to account for his Tyrolean costume by assuming the role of an eccentric Englishman. To establish himself in the part he addressed the hotel proprietor in shocking German, pretended to be extremely pernickety about his food, asked a dozen searching questions about the hygiene of the establishment, and finally demanded that a good guide should be on the doorstep at four o’clock the following morning to take him to some of the local beauty spots.
On Herr Pohl remarking that four o’clock seemed a little early, the Duke declared that nobody could keep really fit unless they walked at least ten miles a day, and that he often did twenty. Then he carried his bag upstairs, unpacked it, put his gardenias in water and came down to lunch. Immediately the meal was over he set out on a preliminary reconnaissance of the town.
Its setting was enchanting as it lay at the conjunction of three valleys: one, to the north, down which the train had brought him that morning past the glassy waters of the Ehensee; a second running south to Laufen; and a third to the west through gentler country to St. Wolfgang, on the shore of another great lake, beyond which lay Salzburg. The Gemunden mountains ringed the town about, but they had neither the starkness nor inaccessibility of the great Alps. In most places their slopes were gentle and the belts of forest that zig-zagged across their sides contained oaks, beeches and chestnuts, as well as pines, so they offered a paradise for rambles and picnics.
Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 Page 18
