“And marry Johann?” said I.
“Johann’s married,” said George. “I looked at the Almanach last night.”
If her attitude troubled George, it confounded me.
The girl had no wish to be Princess. She had said so before us all, and no one that heard her say it could doubt that she meant what she said. She detested the Duke. Upon her chastisement of him I lay no stress: a woman can dissemble her love. But spirits of her sort do not like spirits of his. The thought of becoming his wife must be plain horror.
These two premises admitted, she had everything to gain by inaction and nothing to lose.
By folding her hands at Anger, she might well have escaped a future to her more repulsive than death. Yet she had come out to fight…
The matter passed my understanding, and I would very gladly have put it out of my mind: but this I could not do, and that for a reason which I think I have made plain enough.
George Hanbury was speaking, as though to himself.
“‘Vanity of Vanities,’” he said slowly. “‘All is vanity.’ And that’s a peach of a watchword for a couple of fools who are going to Vanity Fair.”
“One fool,” said I quickly.
“Two,” said George. “If I had any sense, I should take you back to Maintenance – if necessary, by force.”
We lunched very well and simply beneath the awning of a tavern in the heart of the town. Far above us the bells of the cathedral rang with a pleasing jingle each quarter of the hour: on the roof of an aged house we could see a stork, like a sentry, beside his nest: an apothecary’s faced us, with monks behind the old counter and a Latin superscription above the door, and next to this stood a handsome white-stone cinema-house, whose boards announced a film which was being shown in London two months before.
In the streets, which were old and paved, yokes of oxen went plodding by the side of open taxis as silent of movement as themselves, and peasants, clad in white linen and wearing embroidered sashes and waistcoats laced with gold, were mingling with men and women whose attire would have passed unremarked in the Place Vendôme.
Later, when we went strolling, we found these curious conditions on every side. Ancient and modern fashions seemed to thrive knee to knee, and primitive styles and manners were neighboured by others which might have come straight from Paris the day before.
When, however, we sought an hotel, there was none to be found, and a man we accosted advised us to go to the station, if we had need of a bed. Thither we accordingly went, but the lodging offered us was shameful, and I would sooner have slept on the riverside.
We then returned to the tavern where we had lunched and asked the host to recommend us an inn, but to our dismay he immediately mentioned the station as affording the only shelter which we could possibly use. When we protested, the fellow threw up his hands. Vigil, he declared, had boasted two handsome hotels before the Great War: as luck would have it, the one vying with the other, each had been wholly refitted in 1914 – this at prodigious expense which the custom sure to be attracted was to defray: instead of increasing their custom, the black years which followed had taken even that which they had and had brought them both to ruin, so that one was now the War Office and the other had been turned into flats. There were inns, he said, for the peasants, but at these we should find no bedding nor so much as a private room, and, though there was always the monastery, the discipline there was a byword, and at nine o’clock of the evening the doors were shut.
This unexpected setback disordered our simple plans, for, our personal comfort apart, we were especially anxious not to attract attention and had, to that end, decided to make no use of the Rolls, but to lay her up in some garage until we should need her again. Now, however, it seemed that, since there was no room in Vigil, we should have to leave the city and put up at some country inn and – what was far worse – go to and fro daily, because the Grand Duchess was expecting that I should be within call. The more I considered such a shift, the less I liked it, and I was wondering desperately whether we could find a house-agent and hire some flat or apartment for two or three weeks, when the landlord, who had left us staring, came back and ventured to ask us whether we were proposing to make some considerable stay.
George shrugged his shoulders.
“Man proposes, but Vigil disposes,” he said. “How the devil can we stay in a city which harbours no guests?”
The man nodded over his shoulder.
“Sir,” said he, “a particular friend of mine has this moment come in. He is butler to a gentleman who has a very fine flat. His wife is the cook. His master is away just now, and the flat is to let.”
“By all means produce him,” said George.
The man was quiet to look at and well-behaved. When we asked if the flat had been placed in some agent’s hands, he replied that his master had left the matter to him, because there was but one agent and him he disliked. He had, he said, full authority, provided that he and his wife remained as butler and cook and the rent was paid in advance, a month at a time.
The tale was easy to tell, and I think we both suspected that here was a faithless servant betraying a master’s trust, but, for what it was worth, we decided to see the flat and, hailing a passing taxi, we drove there at once.
The flat was upon the ground floor of a fine, three-storied mansion which rose upon the bank of the river within its own ground. By its side stood a big garage, divided, like the house, into three, one third, as the butler vouchsafed, belonging to each of the flats. Though it had not been built as a flat, the apartment was most convenient and made our rooms at Salzburg seem very rough. It was well and comfortably furnished with a lot of leather and oak, and some very pleasant etchings hung on the walls.
When we asked what was the rent, the servant named a figure which seemed to us fair, and, indeed, we would have paid more, for the place was just what we wanted and there were a butler and cook to take the cares of housekeeping out of our hands: but, though we were ready to agree, we could not help thinking of Maintenance and how we should blame a stranger that accepted the word of our servants that he could make use of our home.
Whilst we were hesitating, the butler divined our thoughts and, speaking very civilly, suggested that we should visit the Riechtenburg Bank, “for,” said he, “that is my master’s Bank, and anyone there will tell you that I have authority to act upon his behalf.”
That was enough for us, and George sat down at a table and drew up a rough Agreement which the three of us signed, and, though we had not enough money to pay a month’s rent then and there, the butler said that that did not matter and asked if he should serve dinner at eight o’clock.
I will not dwell on our good fortune, for I think it speaks for itself; but I must confess that it lifted a weight from my mind, for it is one thing to commit a friend to a thankless venture, but another to condemn him to discomfort which the giving up of your venture would automatically relieve.
We then returned to the garage where we had left the Rolls and gave the servants the orders which we had composed.
Rowley was to leave for Salzburg, to fetch our luggage, at once. Travelling by train, he would be back at Vigil at five the next day. Bell was to take a note to the Grand Duchess – addressed, of course, to the house at which he had set her down and containing a sheet of the notepaper which we had found in the flat – and, when it was dark, to bring the Rolls to its garage and then report to us that this had been done.
By the time we were back in the fiat it was half past four, and within five minutes I was asleep in a loggia which was overlooking the river and might have been a pleasance of Morpheus himself.
It was ten o’clock that evening, before Bell came to report.
As he entered the room, the bell of the telephone rang.
It was the Grand Duchess speaking.
“Listen,” she said. “How soon will you have your things?”
“Tomorrow,” said I, “in the course of the afternoon.”
&
nbsp; “Then will you both dine with me – tomorrow, at nine o’clock? Or do you never dine?”
“If you please,” said I, “we should like to break our rule.”
“Good night,” said the Grand Duchess, and put her receiver back.
When I had told George Hanbury, I turned to Bell.
“Everything all right?” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “The car’s under lock and key.”
“Well, you turn in,” said I. “You’ve earned your rest.”
“Very good, sir,” said Bell. He hesitated. “If I should hear any movements, am I to let you know?”
George and I looked at him.
“Any movements?” said George, laying his paper down.
“Such as a car, sir,” said Bell. “I mean, if Major Grieg wants to, he could be here before dawn.”
“But why should he want to?” said I. “Besides, if he did, for the moment we’ve covered our tracks.”
Bell looked from me to George. Then he moistened his lips.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I thought you must know. Major Grieg has the flat above this. I carried his letters upstairs five minutes ago.”
At ten minutes to nine the next evening George and I mounted the steps of a house in the Lessing Strasse, a short, quiet street, full of lime-trees, and running down to the river, not far from the palace itself.
Before we had time to ring, the door was opened, and we were presently ushered into a high-pitched salon, well and delicately furnished after the style of Louis XVI.
The Grand Duchess rose to greet us, looking more lovely than ever, so very white were her shoulders and so shapely her slim, bare arms.
At once she introduced us to the Countess Dresden of Salm, “who is really your hostess,” she said, “for you will eat her dinner and this is her house; but she lets me call it my party, because she has always spoiled me, ever since I was her bridesmaid six years ago.”
The Countess laughed.
“How many people in Vigil,” she said, “would jump at the chance?”
She was young and very good-looking and had a most charming smile, and I set her down at once as the wife of some high official, accustomed to entertaining and to playing a gracious part.
“There’s one other guest,” said the Grand Duchess: “and that, I’m afraid, is a man; but he very much wants to meet you and thank you for all you’ve done. He’s the Lord President of the Council and almost the only courtier we really trust. You see, I hide nothing from you and I want you to know where we stand. His name is Sully – the Baron Sully, if you like.”
Here the door was opened, and the man of whom she was speaking was ushered into the room.
It was our sometime tutor.
I looked round dazedly.
Madame Dresden was openly laughing, and the Grand Duchess was smiling at Hanbury, who was standing with his mouth open and a hand to his head.
Sully greeted the ladies. Then he laid his hands on our shoulders and held us fast.
“I am told,” he said, “that your German does me credit: that you both speak fluently, Hanbury with a fine carelessness, and Chandos with a rugged sincerity which knows no law.”
“Oh, what a shame!” cried the Grand Duchess. “And I never put it like that.”
But we were all laughing, for the description was as faithful as witty, as all of us knew.
Not until dinner was over was reference made to the matters which had led us to Riechtenburg.
Then the Grand Duchess looked at Sully, who sat on her right.
“How is the Prince?” she said.
“He is like the master of a ship, your Highness, in waters in which no ship can live. He carries on according to the best traditions, but the next big wave will be the end of him. Till then – well, he held a Council this afternoon.”
“And Johann?”
“Duke Johann gives rise to anxiety. As you know, he is Colonel-in-Chief of the Black Hussars. As such, he must do duty with them for one month in each year. Well, he has selected this month. Whilst we were talking yesterday, the matter was being rushed through. It appeared in Orders last night, and this morning he took up his command. He is on duty now – at the palace.”
“At the palace?” cried the Countess.
“At the palace,” said Sully. “Today is the first of July. Today at noon the Black Hussars were due to relieve the Greys. They will be there until September, when they in their turn will be relieved.”
The Grand Duchess set down her glass.
“He commands the Praetorian Guard.”
“I hope not,” said Sully. “But every soldier in and about the palace will normally do as he says.”
The Grand Duchess drew in her breath.
“It’s an act of war, Baron.”
Sully raised his eyebrows.
“Unhappily, your Highness, that is a matter of opinion. We consider it such. But one paper says, ‘In view of HRH’s indisposition, Duke Johann’s decision to command his regiment during its arduous term of duty as Body Guard is a particularly graceful act.’”
“He’s very clever,” said my lady musingly. “What can we do?”
“Not very much,” said Sully. “Sahreb has been told to go sick and Kneller has been wired for to take his place.”
“As lord-in-waiting?”
“Yes. But Kneller is a general upon the active list. He is, therefore, the Duke’s superior officer and could, for instance, put him under arrest.”
I think we all started, for Sully was not the man to use such words lightly, and violence of any sort was foreign to his soul.
“Does the Prince know?” said the Countess.
Sully nodded.
“When I told HRH, he laughed. ‘Wheresoever the carcase is,’ he said. Then he sent for Duke Johann and thanked him heartily. ‘I am much touched, Johann. On your last day of duty I shall be photographed with the field-officers of the Guard. Sully, you will remind me.’ The Duke did what he could to express his thanks. When he was gone, the Prince laughed till he coughed. Nothing will make him believe that his hour is at hand.”
There was a little silence.
Then—
“Grieg has resigned his Commission,” continued Sully. “At least the Gazette says so, and I don’t imagine he’ll say the Gazette is wrong. I’d have liked to put him out of the country: but he wouldn’t take that lying down.”
“I’m disappointed,” said the Grand Duchess. “Grieg ought to be broken – and to drag Johann down in his fall.”
“That is a scandal,” said Sully, “which I would cheerfully face. But a charge of treason is a very high explosive, and, as such, we cannot use it, except to shatter the Duke. And we’ve no evidence against him.”
“Grieg?”
“Never,” said Sully. “All the hope he has is in Prince Johann.”
“And the others the same?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Sully. “Besides, their bare word would be useless. And so would Grieg’s. And I hardly think it likely that they have their orders in writing for what they have done.”
“Not their orders,” said George. We all looked at him. “But Grieg’s not the man to risk being double-crossed. I don’t know about the others, but I’ll bet he’s got some writing which Duke Johann will have to redeem if he comes to the throne.”
The Grand Duchess returned to Sully.
“Mr Hanbury’s right,” she said. “Grieg would never trust Johann. What’s more, scandal or no, Grieg ought to be under arrest.”
I confess I agreed with her. Grieg had received his sentence, and – a man may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. What was still more to the point, if Johann came to the throne, the sentence would be revoked.
Sully looked very grave.
“The inevitable court-martial, your Highness, would have been momentous. Counsel would have been engaged: Duke Paul would have had to appear. It was felt that it would be improper to subject his Highness Duke Paul to such an ordeal.”
“Ah,” said the Grand Duchess softly, and that was all.
Her little exclamation showed me the truth.
Court-martial Grieg, and Duke Paul must be cross-examined. That was a prospect his supporters dared not face.
The horrid irony of the business filled my mind. At every turn it was Duke Paul himself that put a spoke in his wheel. Great hearts were fighting his battle – with the man and all his works like a millstone about their neck.
“Still,” said Sully, “I am hoping that Grieg is an empty gun – a gun that has been fired and cannot, lest it burst in the hand, be fired again. Meanwhile, I am very thankful that your Highness is here. Since the news became known, there has been a marked rush to book seats for Wednesday night.”
The Grand Duchess turned to me.
“It is the Prince’s birthday, and a gala performance will be given in the opera house. Tosca. Paul and I have got to be on parade.”
“Such parades,” said Sully, “are invaluable. I trust you will persuade his Highness to appear with you tomorrow at the polo and on Tuesday at the Fête of St Anatole.”
The Grand Duchess raised her eyebrows.
“I’ll do what I can,” she said.
Then she glanced at the Countess and the five of us rose.
When the door had closed behind the two women, Sully returned to the table and lighted a cigarette.
“I became your tutor,” he said, “when Duke Paul’s father had renounced his right to the throne. I felt very strongly that his renunciation should not be accepted, that every effort should be made to induce him to think again. But the Prince was angry, very naturally very angry. A man, he said, that put his hand to the plough and then looked back was not fit for the kingdom of man. When I opposed him, he told me to take the same road… Perhaps he was right. No one will ever know that. But, when he fell sick, he recalled me. As you know, I left you and came. ‘Why did you oppose me?’ he said… I told him because I had mistrusted the Duke Johann.”
“You saw further,” said George.
“In politics,” said Sully, “there are two kinds of sight – near sight and long sight. Neither is satisfactory. The Prince has one and I have the other, and heaven only knows which is the best. At the present moment I wish that I had his eyes, for I cannot see my way clearly, and he, as I have told you, has his fast shut.”
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