Chapter III: Part 3

Fraulein won't tell you, so I do, that the three of us rode to the Schloss in a hired coach, because Uncle Majesty was too mean to send a carriage for us--and to think of what at home we always provide for his twenty and more attendants and the fine time we give them!

I see now why they are always so greedy in Essen. They never get such meat and _vittel_ as we give them, in Berlin or Potsdam; they hardly have enough peas in the husks and potatoes in the jackets.

Gracious Lady can't imagine their meanness in the Schloss. I am told there isn't enough linen to give Majesties a daily change. And how the hundreds of menservants keep clean, with only two bathrooms, and hot water which must be carried up four flights of stairs, I can't make out. As to the maids, they don't.

But the poor things can't help it; all they get is two marks fifty (half a crown) a day for from twelve to sixteen hours' work, and not a cup of coffee or a spoonful of soup in this fierce, cold weather. And think of it, they don't get their wages weekly, as the law allows, but on the third day of the month. The poor wretches haven't even got a place to eat.

I won't say a thing about Fraulein's rooms.

Thought Gracious Lady would be pleased to know that I am looking after the child, trying to keep her in good health, no matter what trouble and expense, and I remain, with respects from Lena and Fritz, the Gracious Lady's most obedient servant,

MARTHA.

P.S.--I had to send for towels to the car, for the ones given to Fraulein were as hard as boards and there were only two, and the maids said they would be changed every second day; and I beg the Gracious Lady's pardon, but myself and Lenchen and Fritz were given two small huckaback towels to last through the week, and a tin wash-bowl no larger than those we feed the Great Dane out of at the villa, and no pitcher or foot-tubs. What are we going to do?

MARTHA.

_Letter from_ FRAU MARTHA to HERR L----, _Superintendent of the Household, Villa Huegel_.

BERLIN, SCHLOSS, _Christmas_.

HONOURED HERR L----,--This Schloss is a big pigsty, excuse the hard words, and I can tell Gracious Lady only half our troubles. There is no bathroom for Fraulein, no running water--our poorest cottagers in Essen are better off. It takes about half an hour to get a cupful of lukewarm water from the kitchen, and the maid looks daggers if you don't tip up the tin every time.

If we could only get Fraulein's car into the courtyard (there is plenty of room) and live in it, we would be all right, for Fraulein's meals I could cook on the new-fangled kitchen range, which makes no smoke, and she could have her bath regularly.

Gracious Lady will have told you about Fraulein eating at Uncle Majesty's table. What do I say--eating? Fraulein comes back every time half dead of hunger. Bertha says it's the quick serving, but I had a talk with the stewardess last night, and she told me things. The allowances even for Majesty's table, she said, are cut so fine, there is never enough for all, family, officials and guests; and, to cover up the shortness, the courses are served quickly as if shot from the new machine-gun I have heard Herr Franz talk about. Some of the guests get skipped, others are given just a mouthful, and part of the food is carried out again for the hungry wolves of lackeys.

Mean, now, isn't it, Herr L----? But we, I mean Fraulein, has to put up with it while here. As to grub allowed to Fritz, me and Lenchen, it's sauerkraut and turnips and herrings and black bread; but we don't mind, as we can buy outside. But I can't take Bertha into eating places, and make up for what she goes short at the royal table; she has to live on sandwiches and cake for the most part. Other arrangements as bad. I would be ashamed to tell you of the servants' accommodations: back-stairs, rotten-smelling oil lamps. We won't be comfortable until we get back home once more.

For Fraulein's bed I got the linen from our car, but as we took just enough for a night's run and back you must send some more. I wanted to save you the trouble, and asked the housekeeper to have some washed. Not here, she said; too few in help, no extra tubs, no place to dry. When I offered to pay for the soap, that seemed to tickle her immensely, but she had to refuse in the end.

Honoured Herr L----, tell the servants at the Villa they don't half know how well they are off. I never did until coming across all this high-sounding stop-a-hole-in-the-sieve business.

You cannot imagine, worthy Mr. Superintendent, too, what funny things there are too--the War Lord's dachshunds, for instance, all jaws and stomach. They look like those yellow-skinned truffle Leberwursts held up by Frankfurters, and--what do you think?--have been taught to snap and nibble the calves of people of quality only.

Mine they leave severely alone, thank God; but I told Fraulein not to put on too many "lugs," lest they mistake her for a "von."

Of course I can't swear to it, but they do say that "Uncle Majesty" has a way, by a mere look, of setting the dachshunds on people he dislikes; they must be as smart as Herr Director-General's French poodles, I reckon. Anyhow, they seem to know when "Uncle Majesty" is cross with someone and go for him.

I heard you tell Herr Franz of meeting Count Posadownk in Bielefeld and what a great man he was. And surely he is a man with a lot of authority, but here no one is bigger than a ten-pin before "Uncle Majesty."

George, the chief _Jaeger_ who stands behind his chair at table and knows everything and everybody, has become quite friendly-like with me. Well, George says Count Posadownk "gets the War Lord's goat" every time he reads those long-winded reports of his. But the War Lord must listen, says George; "part of Majesty's business to hear the ministers' gab." And listen he does--the Lord knows how he manages--but ten minutes is his limit; after hearing someone else talk approaching a quarter of an hour, he is "ready to explode," says George.

By that time the Count is just warming up, and you would think nothing short of an earthquake could stop him. But the dachshunds are as good as the fire-spitting mountain we saw in Italy--or was it Switzerland?

A wink from "Papa"--"raising or wagging an ear," says George--shows the dachshunds that Posadownk ought to make himself scarce, and in a twinkling they get ready for attack round the short clothes and silk stockings.

While the Count talks his head off, first one, then the other bowwow sets up a dismal howl. Posadownk raises his voice, the dachshunds yelp more loudly, and Majesty, pretending to call them off, makes the hullabaloo worse still.

Just the same the Count is crazy to finish, and the dachshunds go on inspecting his legs. Maybe he gets in a good kick or two, but the hounds are experts in pulling at silk stockings without drawing blood. Once or twice his Excellency went away with stockings in ribbons.

The same thing happened to others having business at the palace; the wonder is that no one poisons the beasts. If they bit me--a dose of something strong for them, you bet.

Remember, nothing about Bertha-and-nothing-to-eat to Her Ladyship.--The Herr Superintendent's very humble servant,

MARTHA.

*CHAPTER X*

*THE ENTANGLING OF ARCHDUKE FRANZ FERDINAND*

Discussing the Archduke--"Intoxicate with Promises"--A Look at
the Map--The War Lord's Miscalculation

"What do you think of number one?" asked the War Lord, when the door had closed upon Bertha at the old Chancellor's Palace.

The diplomat performing the duties of deputy-head of the Empire is tall, inclined to corpulence, grey moustached and bright eyed. He knocked his heels together like a recruit trembling before the drill-ground bully. "Majesty refers to Fraulein Krupp?"

"Quite correct."

"She has the benefit of Majesty's personal guidance--there's no more to be said," declared von Buelow, with conviction. "But who may number two be?"

"Not quite the figurehead of number one. I refer to the gentleman coming to see you."

"The Archduke? I was going to beg your Majesty for instructions concerning His Imperial Highness."

"Plain Franz Este, if you please; his incognito must be taken very literally."

"At your Majesty's orders."

"He is number two," emphasised Wilhelm; and while pretending to look out of the window replaced his left hand, which had slipped, upon the hilt of his sword. Then, fully accoutred, he resumed: "Number one furnishes my arms--

"And those of the world," put in the Chancellor.

"That's where you and _all_ of you are mistaken. _My_ gun works arming _my_ enemies? As intimated, number one helps to _dis_arm my enemies."

When he saw blank amazement on the Chancellor's countenance, he added: "Don't ask how, for in this case purpose sanctifies the means. Number one, then, is my right arm, while number two I intend to make one of my men-at-arms."

Another pause for effect.

"I am all ears, Your Majesty," said von Buelow.

"Well, then, bear this in mind: Franz Ferdinand has to be indulged despite his marriage to the little school marm. He is a fool, of course. Well, the Chotek being an encumbrance to Franz Ferdinand, we must make her into a quarry for our own good. What do you think?"

"I am afraid I lack capacity to follow the trend of Your Majesty's grand ideas this morning," replied the Chancellor, remembering that he had been chosen, not to think, but to carry out orders.

"Well, as you know, I persuaded Francis Joseph to wink at the Chotek indiscretion. The decree elevating the ex-governess, and making her brats of princely estate, ought to have been dated from Berlin instead of Ischl, for it was I who placed that plum in Her Ladyship's pie, the Olympian Emperor notwithstanding. Hence Prince Hohenberg--for Franz Ferdinand is more or less his wife's husband--is beholden to me for such recognition as his marriage received, and Sophie will not let him forget it either. Accordingly, I call him 'number two' in my combination."

"If the children of this union----"

"_Dis_union," interrupted the War Lord, applauding his irony with a loud guffaw.

"Disunion," von Buelow obediently repeated, "lay claims to the throne, is it Your Majesty's intention to support them?"

"All Archdukes look alike to me," replied the War Lord with fine disdain; "all fools, bigots, or both. Rudolph was an exception. At all events, it is to our interest to give Herr von Este to understand that, if he is determined to make Sophie both Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, Germany will support his mad scheme."

"Your Majesty thinks Hungary will accept her as Queen?"

"She has to, for a morganatic marriage is a real marriage according to Hungarian law."

"Which suggests the possibility of grave internal dissensions," said the Chancellor.

"Quite so; to Pan-Germanism this little governess is worth five army corps. If her marriage causes a split in the Dual Monarchy, why, we will annex German Austria and leave the Hungarians to die, if they choose, '_pro Regi nostro, Sophia_.' But that's quite a long way off. What concerns us at present is getting solid with that chap. I know what you want to say: A brute, a beast. But so long as the Chotek is satisfied, I am."

The latter in response to an indication on von Buelow's part that he meant to put in a word or two.

"When I come to think of it," continued the War Lord, "neither Alexander, nor Charlemagne, nor Napoleon were what you call gentlemen overflowing with the milk of human kindness. As I see it now--my plans are not quite matured, of course--but this is certainly beyond question or dispute: As my ally in the conquest of the world, a namby-pamby partner would be of confounded little use. Besides, for sentiment I have Victor--darling fellow!"

Saying this, the War Lord gripped his sword so hard that the point of the scabbard threw a statuette of the King of Italy off an _etagere_, smashing it.

"There he goes," he sneered, kicking at the broken china; "uncertain commodities at best, these Dagos. Always fishing outside the three-mile limit, and everlastingly ogling with England and France."

"Majesty is pleased to under-estimate King Victor's devotion to German interests," ventured von Buelow warmly.

"When you were in Rome you used to sing a different tune," said the War Lord severely. "But _revenons a nos moutons_: Franz Este is a bit of a mutton thief himself"--Wilhelm laughed heartily at his quibble--"very fond of Hungary and Bohemia. We must intoxicate him with the promise of great things to be accomplished by the union of German arms--German-Austrian, of course."

"May I remind Your Majesty that Franz is rather a fanatic in religious matters?" suggested the Chancellor.

"I was coming to that," snarled the War Lord--it simply maddens Wilhelm to find that someone, beside himself, has an idea in his head. Whether the religious aspect had occurred to him before we don't know, but he pounced upon it with vulture-like gusto, adopting it _in toto_ as it were.

"You will say to him: 'Brothers in arms and in faith--the Protestant and the Catholic Church, or the Catholic and the Protestant,' I don't care. Remind him that Prussia offered the Pope an asylum before the invasion of Rome by the Italians.

"Yes," he continued, "curse the Italians as much as you like; promise him Venice and the Balkans up to the gates of Constantinople."

The War Lord pressed a button underneath a large table fronting the Chancellor's desk, whereupon the mahogany top disappeared and another marked off in geographical divisions, representing the map of Europe and part of Asia, replaced it--the _Kriegsspiel_; Europe in battle-array.

The _Kriegsspiel_--War Game--shows the military strength of each country in plain, movable figures, horse, foot and artillery, navy and aircraft--the figures liable to correction from time to time; the exact location of the forces is apparent at a glance too.

The same applies to fortresses, letters designating the origin of the artillery equipment.

Above each country wave its colours in the shape of a tiny silk flag, fastened to bead-headed pins, easy to stick in anywhere.

The War Lord pulled out a drawer and took a handful of German flags, but before using any a new thought struck him.

"Send for Kast," he commanded curtly.

Adjutant Baron Kast appeared as if catapulted into the room.

"I forget the lettering combination--I want 'k' for Belgium. You are sure the other equipments are marked according to latest reports."

"At Your Majesty's service."

The adjutant fixed the 'k' as required and stood at attention.

"I will call in case I need you further."

The officer was drawing backwards towards the door when the War Lord stopped him.

"One second. I want a cross fixed to letter 'k.'"

Kast, a martinet without ideas of his own, a mere _mannequin_ moving on the strings of discipline, looked blank astonishment.

"If it can't be done, send for the mechanic; he shall fix the new combination overnight."

"May I try, Your Majesty?"

Kast succeeded in quick order.

"Why did you hesitate, if it's so easy?" demanded the War Lord.

"With Your Majesty's permission, I was wondering whether it was your pleasure to have a cross placed against all the 'k's' on the map."

The War Lord looked at von Buelow, who dismissed Kast by a look.

"Out of the mouths of fools and sucklings," misquoted Wilhelm under his breath, while a cruel sneer played about his lips. Then, to the Chancellor, aloud: "Inborn stupidity or low cunning?"--referring to Kast.

"The first, Your Majesty, the first. Your Majesty will agree, when I say that I myself do not see the significance of the cross."

"You will--in time," said the War Lord brusquely. "But to continue."

He took a German flag and placed it on the spot marked Rome. "The Holy Roman Empire of German nationality," he said.

"Which Voltaire designated as neither holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire," remarked von Buelow drily.

"Time's passed, time was, time is," quoted the War Lord, "or rather will be." For awhile he remained in silent reverie, then turned upon the Chancellor suddenly. "You asked the other day how to mark the English Channel. _Gott!_ it's worth five million men to Edward. No, don't mark it at all; for if the distance between Calais and Dover can be bridged only half-way by our guns--no impossibility, you know--that strip of water won't amount to more than a few army corps."

Again the War Lord remained in deep thought. "Noah's ark," he demanded after a while.

The Chancellor pulled out a drawer at the side of the _Kriegsspiel_ table. "At Your Majesty's service." The War Lord picked figure after figure, dropping them on the floor, until he got hold of a small white object.

He held it between two fingers, eyeing it curiously; then moved it deliberately across the Channel, holding it aloft, and planted it on the spot marked "London."

"The Dove of Peace," he said; "for in London we will dictate peace to the world. Tell Franz."

*CHAPTER XI*

*THE CROWN PRINCE ON A LARK*

A Gallop with the Crown Prince--On the Way to Surprise

_Letter of_ BERTHA KRUPP _to_ FRANZ.

BERLIN, SCHLOSS.

DEAR FRANZ,--When I promised to write, I expected to put a school-girl's ability at composition to the test, being half afraid that my description of Berlin and the Court might not pass muster with so severe a critic as my dear half-brother. But something has happened that makes living in the shadow of the throne and royal intimacies and reviews and State balls, even the Grand Council of the Knights of the Black Eagle, look insignificant.

Listen! Yesterday after luncheon the Crown Prince came to me with a mysterious air. "Bertha," he said, for he is quite familiar, "you look like a good, sporty girl; let's fool those fogies, and have a lark all by ourselves."

You may be sure, Franz, I was frightened, and looked it I suppose, for he added quickly: "Upon my word as an officer, your Mamma may know about it." And then he unfolded his plan.

"I am tired to death of the baggage that attends our rides, watching with as many eyes as a centipede has feet; this afternoon I will lend you one of my swift English hunters, and I will ride Circe, a devil of a horse that can outdistance father's Extase any day. Flottwitz--you know he is Master of Horse--promised to give the others the slowest plugs in the stables, and we will humour their dog-trot as long as the public gaze is upon us. But once beyond the dear public's reach, off we are, rein and spur. Don't be afraid; the grooms, too, will be mounted on grandmothers; they won't catch us."

I felt quite relieved. "It will be jolly," I said.

The Crown Prince laughed immoderately. "What a little innocent you are," he cried; "running away is only the beginning. As soon as we are out of sight, we will turn and gallop to Castle Bellevue. There we will dismount, and I will punt you across the river. It is but a stone's throw to the gipsy's cottage, and that is where I will take you."

I became apprehensive again. "I am afraid of gipsies," I faltered.

"Afraid in _my_ company?" cried Wilhelm. "I forbid you to be afraid of the very devil when I am around. I am your cavalier," he added; "you must do as I tell you." Then his tone became coaxing again. "Don't you like to have your fortune told, Bertha? She is a 'bird at it'--makes your flesh creep and all that sort of thing."

"But does Auntie Majesty approve?"

"Bother, Mother; I am not under her thumb," he answered, and I thought it very horrid of him.

Well, Franz, everything came off according to programme. For a young girl from Essen to ride down The Linden with the Crown Prince, masters of horse, maids of honour, chasseurs and grooms is lots of fun, and I don't know that I ever enjoyed anything so much as the throngs of people in the streets and on the sidewalk cheering and waving hats and handkerchiefs. But, of course, they thought me a Royal Highness or some sort of princess, the very least.

"Can't you ride astride?" whispered the Crown Prince as we passed through the semi-shadows of the Brandenburger Thor.

"What is that?" I asked, and somehow got the feeling that his question was not the correct thing. So I touched my horse with the spur and cantered away. Wilhelm joined me quickly. "Dog-trot now," he said, and we jogged along like Herr Director-General's family on their old brown mares.

After passing Castle Bellevue, promenaders became few and far between, and then the long-legged hunters increased the distance between ourselves and the rest of the party very considerably. Suddenly Wilhelm--he asked me to call him by his first name, but I always prefix his title--whispered: "Now, _ventre a terre_." Setting the example he jumped a hedge, I after him--a fine race we ran for the next ten minutes.

Then back to Bellevue. We galloped right through to the water's edge, and were half across the river before the stablemen had caught the horses.

_Lieber_ Franz, you must excuse; I can't write a word more. Too tired and too excited. So good night for to-night and pleasant dreams.--Always your good sister,

BERTHA.

*CHAPTER XII*

*THE FORTUNE TELLER SEES BERTHA IN A HAZE
OF BLOOD*

Mother Zara Speaks--Ghosts of Infamy--What the Blackbird
Foretold--The Crown Prince Stands Aloof

BERTHA _to_ FRANZ.

DEAR FRANZ,--The gipsy Wilhelm and I visited is not at all like the ones that occasionally come to Essen at fair-time or by way of caravans. You know we always thought them impostors and, small doubt, they were, for the same yarn had to do for everybody: the tall, dark man, that would come into one's life, was conjured up even for little Barbara at the rate of ten _pfennigs_.

Mother Zara is a hundred years old if she is a day; a face the colour of an old green-back American bank-note crumpled up--thousand and one crow's-feet to the inch. Dress: rusty black silk, edged with moth-eaten sable; sugar-loaf hat, filigreed with zodiacal signs; white mice following her wherever she goes.

This much I observed while waiting. She was in an adjoining room and, as I observed through the glass door, in no hurry to meet her visitors, even though the servant had recognised the young master of Bellevue Castle.

Meanwhile the Crown Prince was walking up and down, smacking his high boots with the riding-whip. I believe he was looking for a mirror--vain boy--and was furious at not finding one. Young Wilhelm affects to be as nervous and impatient as Uncle Majesty, and won't sit down a second if there is room to move about.

At last the door opened and the stooping figure of the clairvoyante appeared on the threshold, a blackbird perching on her left shoulder and half a dozen white mice circling round her feet, or riding on the train of her dress.

"Mother Zara," cried Wilhelm advancing, "I brought my cousin----"

She shut him up with an imperious gesture. "Hold your tongue, young braggart, for this is serious business."

She spoke in a high-pitched, authoritative voice, and I tell you, Franz, I was all a-tremble when Zara fixed her eyes upon me--eyes that looked you through, like the eyes of a sorceress you read about in the story books.

"What do I see?" she murmured to herself, drawing figures on the sanded stone floor.

"A deuced pretty girl," remarked the Crown Prince gallantly.

The clairvoyante shook her stick at Wilhelm. "Leave us alone," she cried; "I want no interference."

When the door had closed Zara turned upon me like some wild thing, and I tell you, Franz, I wished myself at our little bower at Villa Huegel, playing dominoes with you or Mamma.

"Who art thou?" she cried. "So young, so gentle, so kind of aspect, yet I see thee in a haze of blood."

She walked around me in a circle, dragging her terrible crutch, the mice capering and vaulting.

"I can't make it out," she kept mumbling; "looks the German, but here men do the ruling, and her power for destruction---- Where does it come in?"

Of course I was too frightened to utter a word. I merely gazed upon my tormenter and trembled.

The soothsayer drew her garments around her bones and settled down on a low stool before the hearth. With her crutch she stirred the ashes, separating them from live coals and addressing each heap in turn as if they were human beings. As I perceived with horror, poor me was the subject of her monologue.

"Keep to your hell-hole, Mother Toffana," she muttered, sending a half-dead coal into the corner (I ought to tell you, Franz, that I have been reading Alexandre Dumas of late, otherwise I wouldn't have understood half the things she said). "Toffana, you are not in it with this child," she continued. "And Joanna of Naples, husband-killer and warrior, the number of men and women and children that died by you and for you is nothing compared with the hosts she will send to slaughter."

"Madame la Marquise de Brinvilliers," she said to a live coal, drawing it nearer, "come and feast your eyes on this girl. You did your work all right for undertakers, but were a pitiful slacker just the same."

She rose and bowed ceremoniously.

"Your Majesty," she mumbled, pointing with her crutch to a glowing ember, one of several detached from the rest. "You once waged war for seven years on a stretch, yet the number of Prussians you killed, added to that of your own people that perished in battle and by disease, may be expressed in six noughts. And," turning to other debris, "your record, Catherine of Russia, is quite as inadequate as Maria Theresa's compared with the prospects for manslaughter held out by this young lady!"

After an ominous silence: "Sheba, Elizabeth, Semiramis, aye, ye furies of the White Terror who dined off Lamballe's liver, miserable failures all of you----" She did not finish, but the end of her crutch continued to poke fire and ashes, separating and piling up, moving and sweeping along larger and again smaller quantities like figures on a chessboard.

She seemed dissatisfied, and as the minutes passed, her speech, or rather her mumbling, became more and more disconnected. Suddenly she drew her stick across the piles, levelling the lot. "No use," she cried, turning round and addressing me; "I can't get anything out of them. Are they holding back, or is Zara losing her cunning? But I _will_ know," she added fiercely. "Who art thou, girl?"

I was speechless with fright, and all engrossed with her combinations as Zara was, she scarce noticed my silence and lumbered on regardless. Maybe, too, no reply was expected.

"Not the War Lord's wife," she mused. "Augusta is the mother of many children, they tell me, nor----." (I didn't catch the rest, it was a jumble of mumblings.)

After she became articulate again, I heard her say: "Oceans of blood have been poured out. But what am I saying? She is only a child."

Then out of her black silk mantle she drew a pack of cards, threw them on the table, and, resting her right hand heavily on the crutch, studied the pasteboards anxiously for a while.

"Cursed mystery," she whispered. Then to the bird: "Jezebel, help!"

The black thing hopped on the table and scattered the cards with his feet. Then he picked up one with his beak and presented it to his mistress.

"A town in flames," said Zara after scrutiny.

More cards offered by the bird!

"A thousand baby-hands raised above the waves!

"A tumbling cathedral!

"Bodies piled mountain high!

"Women, children and old men for breastworks!

"A graveyard-ditch a hundred miles long!

"Death lying in wait on the floor of the ocean!

"Fire from the heavens," read Zara, and again and again her shrill voice rang out, recording horrors even more dreadful.

When the bird of ill-omen had offered the last pasteboard, Zara shook my arms with a fierce gesture. "Fiend incarnate, thy name and station!" she yelled.

Probably Wilhelm had been listening. "How dare you touch Fraulein Krupp," he demanded, as, running in, he stepped between me and the sorceress.

At the mentioning of my name, a look of triumph came into Zara's face.

"My cards never lie, nor do the embers," she proclaimed. "The burning towns, the wails of babies rendered fatherless by your works, the waste of centuries of culture, the smoke, the fire, the calling upon all resources of nature for the wholesale annihilation of life--five letters cover it: K-R-U-P-P."

The feelings setting my head awhirl must have been pictured in my face, for eventually even this fury of wrath was moved to mercy; yet like the spirit that ever denies, Zara's pity took a cruel turn.

"Never fear," she said, with a profound curtsy; "it is written that the oceans of blood you will help spill will not even soil the hem of your dress.

"A world in arms, every mother's son turned upon every other mother's son, shooting, stabbing, bombing, suffocating. Cities laid waste, countrysides desolated, brave men changed to vultures, honest men to thieves--your work, Bertha Krupp! But the War Lady remains scathless!

"Blood's a peculiar liquor--means death to those from whom it flows, and profits to her that forges the bullets!

"Chimborazos of dead bodies: fathers, brothers, nephews and uncles; excellent manure, and your dividends, little girl, going up by leaps and bounds!

"Towns in ruins--_your_ ruins, Bertha, but they will have to be rebuilt. More millions in your coffers!

"Ten thousands of miles of railways destroyed. Look out for big orders, Bertha!

"The world groaning under unheard-of loads of debts--debts created that Essen might flourish. Splendid opportunities for investment, eh?"

She continued a while longer in the same cruel vein, her basilisk eyes glued upon mine--I couldn't get away, try as I might--while Wilhelm, my self-proclaimed cavalier, did naught to help me. Indeed, I had to endure her abuse till Zara herself became tired of hurling invectives, and turned upon the Crown Prince with: "Twenty marks, please. I have wasted enough time."

Then, like an imprisoned wild thing, seeing the open gate, I fled.

Oh, Franz, what does it all mean?

BERTHA.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*"WE WILL DIVIDE THE WORLD BETWEEN US"*

Dazzling the War Lord--Bartering Kingdoms--Juggling with the
Church

Franz Este, masquerading for incognito purposes as Duc de Lorraine, was a tall, closely-knit man, no more at home in mufti than a gorilla in pyjamas. A bronzed face, disfigured by the Habsburg lip and an air of disdain, one would have picked him out of thousands as a person to avoid!

His speech was a cross between a military command and the snarl of an angry dog when addressed to persons beneath his rank, and against such the physical advantages he boasted were ruthlessly exploited. Franz was impervious to heat or cold, hence the officers of his household and his servants had to endure both in the extreme without proper protection.

"If the master can do without an overcoat, or wear a close-fitting uniform when it is a hundred in the shade, why not you, menials?"

He had a passion for drill and for slaughter. A day on the parade ground, meddling with the mere outer film of things, seemed to him the pinnacle of military achievements. He never stalked, or took risks in the chase; the proud deer and the miserable hare alike were driven before his gun in vast numbers that he might pump lead into them, turning forest or plain into shambles.

He went to visit their Prussian Majesties with the fixed intention of dazzling the War Lord with a programme of petty regulations about military customs and appearances to be introduced at his enthronement. A slanting row of buttons was to be set in a straight line; another was to be lopped off altogether. Yes, indeed, he was considering, too, a new movement in the goose-step. And those Hungarians! They had little respect for the essentials of military obedience; but, with His Majesty's advisory help, he would pound it into them--yes, pound it!

Gentle methods might do for women when they are decidedly pretty, but not for the people as a whole, etc.

Music to the War Lord, who feeds on regulations and petty tyrannies as a boa constrictor--if the whole can't be masticated at a gulp, why, leave the rest for another "try."

Brothers in spirit and in arms!

"Franz," said the War Lord after luncheon, enlivened by French champagne with a German label--the Court Marshal's way of encouraging home industry to the naked eye: German products only for German Imperial palates, but beware lest a certain august taste be displeased! A bit of unpatriotic deception, rather than face such an eventuality!

"Franz," said the War Lord, after that fruitful and thought-quickening luncheon, "some day we will divide the world between us--pope-kaisers both of us."

"Pope?" gasped Franz, his mind tugging at the Jesuit swaddling clothes that he never really outgrew.

"You know," insinuated the War Lord-tempter, "there is but one way to re-establish rulership by divine right as on a rock of bronze: impregnate it with sacerdotal authority. I am already Chief Bishop of Prussia; the Lutheran popeship of the world is my game, as yours should be the Roman Catholic popeship."

"What about the Holy Father?" suggested the Jesuits, using Franz as a speaking-tube.

"Holy fiddlesticks," laughed the War Lord. "As one of the English Henrys put it: 'I will be damned ere an Italian parson dictates to me in my own realms.'"

The War Lord bowed ceremoniously. "Hail thee, spiritual and mundane lord--true Emperor of Slavs, Czechs, Magyars, Poles, Russians, Servians, Bulgarians and Montenegrins."

"But Italy--you promised me Italy," muttered Franz.

"Correct, in exchange for German Austria!" said the War Lord.

"Do I have to give up Vienna?"

"Rome is a more celebrated place, and if it gets too hot in August, Petersburg will make a splendid summer resort. There is Prague and Budapest besides. I thought you liked the Hradschin?" he added gaily.

When Franz still refrained from entering into the spirit of the proposals, the War Lord opened a miniature safe on the top of his desk.

"Have a 'genuine,' same as Edward smokes. Have to keep them in a burglar-proof safe--those thieving lackeys, you know. You have the same trouble at Bellevue" (the Austrian heir's Vienna town house) "I suppose."

"God punish the scoundrels--yes," replied the pious Franz, and, accustomed to the cheap and nasty output of the Austrian tobacco monopoly with its endless stogies, helped himself eagerly.

"A mark apiece," boasted Wilhelm, like a Jew commenting on early strawberries.

"Italy being a sort of apanage to the Emperor of the Slavs"--more bowing and scraping--"you wouldn't care to have a rival court on your hands, would you? And that's what the Vatican will always be so long as it is allowed to exist."

"You would abolish it?" cried Franz, alarmed.

"Not completely; I would retain the Holy Father as a sort of Christian Sheikh-ul-Islam, yourself to be the real responsible head of the Church."

"The Pope is not a married man."

"Alexander VI. was, and also some others. Besides, the Tsar whom you are to succeed as orthodox pope never was a stickler for celibacy."

"Orthodox pope?" echoed Franz, his Jesuit blood a-tingle.

To his pietist understanding the mere mention of a rival Church was as a red rag to a bull, and no one realised that condition of his mind more fully than the War Lord. But would he allow the even tenor of these _pourparlers_ to be disturbed by the conscientious scruples of the surly individual smoking his _echte_? Not he!

Conscientious scruples, indeed, and in world politics too! He had not previously given the subject any thought, but on his desk lay a letter marked: "On the Service of the Holy See"--a happy coincidence and a suggestion.

The papal _breve_ dealt with nothing more momentous than the shifting of the protectorate over the Christians in Turkey, but the mysterious word State-secret covers a multitude of lies.

"My dear Franz," said the War Lord, weighing the Pope's letter in his hand, "the problems you seem to approach with fears and trepidation are fully treated in this document. However, without the Holy Father's consent, I dare not reveal his intentions. But this much I can say on my own responsibility: after we get through with Russia, there will be no orthodox question. The orthodox Church will have to unite with the Catholic----"

The late Whistler would have loved to draw Franz's face while the future Emperor of the Slavs listened with covetousness and fanaticism, the zealot's ardour and the brute's vindictiveness written large in his usually stony face.

"Will have to make submission to Rome," he interrupted, pounding the table.

"As you like, King of Rome." To offset the Duke's holy fervour, the War Lord affected a tone of calmness utterly at variance with his ideas.

"The coming union of the Catholic and Orthodox Churches----" he continued.

"The absorption of the schismatic Church by the only true Church," insisted Franz.

"Will make it particularly important for you to have the office of Pontifex Maximus in addition to that of Emperor and King," said the War Lord. "I'll let Buelow talk details."

"After consultation with my father confessor?" asked Franz anxiously.

"Why not unfold our plans to a council of Archduchesses and the whole priest-ridden pest?" cried the War Lord, momentarily forgetful of his role. "I beg your pardon," he added quickly; "I was quoting Bismarck. What I meant to say is: that our _pourparlers_ are strictly confidential--not a word to any one, confessor, Francis Joseph, or the Princess herself. I have your word as an officer?"

Never was a word of honour more reluctantly forthcoming than that of the prospective Emperor of the Slavs.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*GETTING EVEN WITH THE WAR LORD*

The Hungarian Nero--The Episode of the Mouse

Emperor of the Slavs, King of Rome, Avenging Angel of the Schism and its Grand Lord Destroyer--Pope even--though he had misgivings as to the propriety of the latter title--what prospects for the son of the degenerate Karl Ludwig--and the War Lord footing the bill! A Protestant, true enough, but his friends, the Jesuits, held that the purpose sanctifies means, whatever their character.

How they would rejoice at the news!

But his word as an officer! Pshaw! The War Lord calling himself "all-wise," "all-seeing," etc., had been fooled for once by the simple-minded Bohemian, for Franz's left hand was on his back when _parole d'honneur_ was demanded, and he lost no time gripping his thumb with the other fingers and pressing it hard.

Mental reservation! That little matter was settled, and in most approved style. _Honi soit qui mal y pense_.

A while later Franz asked to be confessed.

"Not while your soul is in the state of disgrace," pronounced Father Bauer with impressive solemnity.

Franz's bold front melted away like butter before a blast furnace. "Pray confess me, your reverence!" he cried, terror all over his face.

"After due reflection," was Bauer's niggardly consent. "Your Highness will retire to the oratory now."

And like a schoolboy ordered to bare his skin for a birching, the Emperor of the Slavs--so proud, so adamant, so haughty before the War-Lord--went into his bedroom, where his _prie-Dieu_ stood in front of the miniature travelling altar that accompanied His Highness wherever he went.

In respect to absolute submission to the clergy, Franz rivalled Charles and Ferdinand of Spain; he retained, too, the utmost respect for the persons of the reverend gentlemen who dominated him by virtue of their priestly office.

On his part, Franz came from the oratory a much chastened Prince. Bauer was waiting to hear Franz's report of his interview with the War Lord--or as much of it as the heir thought well to divulge at the time being, for the breach of faith he had been absolved beforehand. After all, while Bauer had full charge of Franz's personal conscience, so to speak, the real powers behind the proposed Slav throne was the Cardinal Archbishop of Vienna, the Papal Legate and the Czech black aristocracy.

The latter, indissolubly wedded to Franz's interest by his marriage with the Chotek, was his chief support in the Dual Monarchy. Hungary had labelled him Nero, the Germans regarded him as a renegade, while Trieste and the Trentino suspected him of harbouring treachery against the Motherland.

That he was wedded to the idea of the restoration of the States of the Church was a foregone conclusion, and the re-establishment of the Austrian Archdukes--who forfeited their Italian thronelets under Victor Emmanuel II.--would be the logical sequence.

"Of course, there is the Triple Alliance," faltered Franz.

"Not at all binding," decided Bauer, "since one of the signatories is under the ban of the Church, and the other" (with a mock bow before a painting of the War Lord) "a heretic."

Franz reverently kissed the Jesuit's hand. "A relief, a priceless relief of grave conscientious scruples," he said warmly. "Thank you, Father Bauer." Then, giving his voice quite an Olympian intonation: "We have no further commands for you to-night."

Franz Este swore lustily when he discovered a red silk nightgown under his pillow. After a Vienna haberdasher had told him that Alexander of Servia had worn a night garment of this colour, he had banished them from his wardrobe, intending to use the supply on hand for presents.

Franz tugged viciously at the crystal knobs of the rococo chest of drawers, pulling one to the ground and dislocating the handles of others. "Confound it! All red, Alexander-red--red as blood!"

An ill omen? A thorough fanatic, Franz was the most superstitious of men. However, as subsequent events showed, in this case superstition was the mother of horrors unparalleled. Alexander's fate had been sealed eight months before, when the red-nightgowned King and his Queen were slaughtered in their bedchamber; but somewhere among the Balkan principalities the plot that eventually did away with Franz and his Duchess might have been hatching even then--who knows?

The taciturn, soured, cruel Franz forgot about the Alexander-hued nightgown when he prepared to report the day's events to his wife, for he loved Sophie. He used a small table at the foot of the big rococo couch for a writing-desk, and as he sat there, facing the silvered canopy with China silk curtains falling from a crown held aloft by cupids, his face recalled the features of a French soldier who had been condemned to death for a series of crimes, and who, to his judges and fellow-men, had boasted of his utter lack of feelings.

The soldier had never loved anyone, neither parents nor friends, neither woman nor man, neither animal, nor money, nor precious things. He hated them all, and his only aim in life was destruction. But when he lay in the sands, bleeding from a dozen wounds, as ordered by the court martial, a little mouse was seen to emerge from the sleeve of his tunic, went capering up the prostrate form, and glued his nozzle to the man's mouth. And with his last breath the apostle of hate kissed the tiny rodent.

Like the trooper, so Franz, the man who spurned a nation's love, was not entirely barren of sentiment. He had a tender spot in his heart for Sophie, even as Sophie, mouse-like, loved the man who made a point of being hated. Human nature: even Nero loved Poppaea once.

*CHAPTER XV*

*"AUNTIE MAJESTY" AND BERTHA*

A Royal "Commercial"--Blood and Benevolence

"My dear child," continued Auntie Majesty, "you ought to thank God on your knees for permitting you those grand opportunities to do good."

"I hope I am duly grateful, Auntie Majesty."

"And, of course, next to God, it is your Uncle Majesty to whom you are most indebted."

Bertha curtsied with the readiness peculiar to German girls, whose left knee seems always on the point of "knixing," which word signifies an arrested attempt at kneeling. Since Napoleonic times kneeling before royalty has gone out of fashion, even in Spain, where the Prime Minister was formerly obliged to play chess with the King while down on his knees, and woe to the excellency who attempted to sit on his haunches.

Bertha assured Auntie Majesty how much she appreciated the War Lord's efforts on behalf of the Krupp works. Her own father could not have done more. Truly wonderful orders are coming in, the Herr Director-General had informed her this very morning. East, west, north and south--everybody seemed to want Krupp guns now.

"All your Uncle Majesty's doings," insisted the "crowned auntie." "His ambassadors and consuls in all parts of the world have orders to drum up trade for you, and those that do not succeed pretty soon find themselves A.D. (retired), they say."

"I hope not!" cried Bertha, emphasising the last word. "I don't care for people to lose their positions on my account, and will speak to Uncle about it."

To say that Her Majesty was amazed at the outburst is putting it mildly. She had been given to understand that Bertha was tractability personified, and here she was talking in "Majesty's" own vein, a thing Augusta had never dreamt of doing in all the years of her married life.

"Fraulein Krupp," she said very seriously, "shall have to report to your mother what you have said."

"Mamma has nothing to do with affairs of that sort. They rest entirely with Uncle Majesty and myself!" said Bertha.

What language, and to her! And from a mere child, too! Auntie Majesty opened her mouth for a sharp rebuke, when she remembered what the War Lord had said about a certain lady.

"Vulgar," had been Her Majesty's estimate.

"_Non olet_," corrected Wilhelm. "If her words are offensive, let the jingle of her millions drown them; if she insists upon eating peas with her knife--why, remember that Croesus ate with his fingers."

And Count Wedell (Minister of the Royal House) had only recently told her (with a thousand apologies, to be sure) that Bertha's income was larger than the War Lord's.

Besides, "Auntie Imperial" had promised a portion of Bertha's vast income to "her God." She uses the personal pronoun in connection with the Deity without blasphemous intention, of course, nor does she allow herself to speculate on the War Lord's theory that the Hohenzollerns control a god of their own, and that another god is keeping a benevolent eye on Prussian baby-killers.

Augusta Victoria decided, after reflection, to give the subject a turn favouring her pious schemes.

"Remember what the fathers of the Church have said: 'Women have no voice'--they certainly should not meddle in administrative matters." Her Majesty affected a smile. "Leave these to your guardian, and, when at times his measures seem harsh or incomprehensible, acquiesce nevertheless, for in the end it's results that count."

The Queen of Prussia is a good woman at heart. She wouldn't hurt a fly, but a million men put under the sod roused no squeamish sentiments; for, of course, if the War Lord makes war, it is for God's greater glory, and did he not tell the recruits the other day that it was inexpressibly sweet to die for him? So let the million perish.

Auntie Majesty was careful not to mix blood and iron with her arguments in favour of gun-making and explosives. If Essen manufactured Nuremberg toys or Munich honey cake, she could not have used more innocuous terms referring to its death-dealing industry. At any rate, it must be kept up--nay more, its output must be doubled and trebled to continue the charities and works of benevolence inaugurated by the Krupp family on the present grand scale and to extend them farther, as Bertha had planned.

It all sounded good to the young War Lady. With Zara's perturbing admonitions still fresh in her mind, she welcomed justification of the course mapped out by Uncle Majesty, and the conference closed to mutual satisfaction.

Augusta Victoria received the promise of an annual subscription of 50,000 marks for her church-building schemes, and Bertha that of Her Majesty's hearty co-operation in Essen's social-work campaign. More than that, Her Majesty would come to inspect Bertha's hospitals, schools, old people's homes and asylums.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*HOW FRANZ FERDINAND WAS FOOLED*

Vienna's Opinion of the Kaiser--Afternoon Tea for the War
Lord--Playing Up to Ferdinand--When Britain Slammed the
Door--The Archduke is Not Satisfied

"There goes our Lady of the Guns," whispered the War Lord to Franz Este, as they stepped from the private gate into the palace yard, where their entourage, already mounted, was awaiting their advent.

"The Krupp heiress I heard about? You are her godfather, are you not?"

"More!"

Franz was so taken aback that he forgot for the moment to swing his right leg, whereupon Umberto, objecting to such left-sided proceedings, reared and would have thrown him, had not two energetic grooms pounced upon the charger.

"Be careful, it's Italy you are riding," chaffed Wilhelm, when the cavalcade was safely under way. Quite a stately procession: masters of horse in scarlet and gold; the adjutants on duty, outriders, grooms and a platoon of gendarmes.

"How so Italy?" queried Franz.

"Victor Emmanuel's father used him on his several visits to Berlin, and he has been reserved for heavy-weights like yourself ever since. A wilful beast, even treacherous."

"Hence well named," said Franz sententiously, at the same time locking his thighs more closely. "As to the Krupp girl, what were you going to say?"

"First tell me what Vienna thinks of my connection with Krupp affairs."

"You won't take offence?"

"Not a bit."

"And won't be annoyed even if it smacks of _lese-majeste_?"

"Rot and nonsense. Go on."

Franz drove his brute nearer to the War Lord's side.

"They _do_ say," he whispered, "that you sort of kidnapped Bertha against her mother's will, and are now conducting the business solely with an eye to dividends."

"They think me Leopold II.," quizzed the War Lord, alluding to the business methods of the late King of the Belgians. "Excellent; a lie to be encouraged! But as a matter of fact--_entre nous_, of course; strictly _entre nous_--I acted upon the principle of _jus primae noctis_. In olden times, when the vassal died, the liege lord assumed charge of the property for the dead man's eldest son, presumably his lordship's, which action forestalled wastage of the estate. As liege lord of Prussia I deemed it my duty to prevent the disintegration of the Fatherland's war machinery, and had myself appointed Bertha's guardian, with full power to act. Of course, the Baroness does not like that; neither did the vassal's widow cherish the idea of becoming a chattel."

"And is she easily managed?" asked Franz, as he dealt the fractious Umberto a vicious blow between the ears.

"Not that fashion," replied the War Lord, when he had caught up with his guest; "flattery is the thing with girls. That and a certain amount of unctuousness, backed by divine right, I found quite an irresistible combination."

"You mean to say that you flatter where you can command?" asked Franz.

"Certainly not," replied the War Lord, pulling himself up straight. "I merely insinuate that my wishes with regard to the running of the plant are her own; consequently, I do as I like at Essen."

The War Lord raised his riding-whip in the direction of the Master of the Horse, trotting behind, whereupon that functionary gave spur and galloped ahead. Thirty seconds later the advance guard wheeled right and left, drawing up at the sides of the avenue, and leaving a clear space for Wilhelm and Franz.

"May they enjoy the dust we are kicking up," laughed the War Lord, as they pressed on. When, on their return to the palace, the General Staff building was in sight, Wilhelm consulted his wristwatch. "Gottlieb's tea hour," he said quite incidentally. "Suppose we stop and have a cup!"

He referred to Count Haeseler, sometimes called the German Galliffet, though as a cavalry officer in active service his epaulettes never knew more than two stars. However, subsequently he won much fame as an administrator and organiser, and, by catering to the War Lord's love for mounted rifles, dragoons, hussars and uhlans, enjoyed rapid and steady advancement. Still, having a will of his own and small hesitation to state it when goaded to opposition, he might never have achieved the supreme honour of field marshalship had he not been in his youth the favourite adjutant of the War Lord's "sanctified uncle," the Red Prince Frederick Charles, father of the Duchess of Connaught.

In the War Lord's opinion, Frederick Charles ranked next to his _Herr Grossvater_ (Mister Grandfather), and whenever Wilhelm became too insistent on some strategic madness of his own, Haeseler had but to say: "That's one of the things His Royal Highness was most strenuously opposed to," to cause the Imperial nephew to cave in.