Chapter ONE

What I Know about Kings--My Audience with the late Tzar--An
Emperor at Home--What he told me--A Chat with the King
of Italy--He gives me a Decoration--His Majesty’s
Troubles--King Edward and the Lost Letters--His Debts to
Baron Hirsch--Queen Victoria and her Sunshade.

My first acquaintance with any royalty was my presentation to the Crown-Prince of Saxony, now King, by his wife, who, as Princess Luisa of Tuscany, I had known as a girl--the pretty Austrian Archduchess, who had charmed all hearts, nearly married King Ferdinand of Bulgaria, and of whom I intend to gossip in another chapter. I was asked by the Princess to call on her at the Royal Palace at Dresden after her marriage, and spent a couple of pleasant hours with her and her husband, then Crown Prince. The latter expressed himself charmed to meet me, his wife having often spoken of me, and I thoroughly enjoyed my visit, for after the first formal reception I was invited to their private apartments, where the Princess made me thoroughly at home.

We gossiped about such friends as we both knew in England and in Italy, for Her Highness came to London each year _incognita_, and on me had devolved the duty of looking after her general welfare. But more of her adventurous life anon.

The second royal personage of whom I had audience was the late Emperor of Russia.

Well I remember how one morning a tall, handsome officer of the Imperial Guard entered my room at the Hôtel de l’Europe on the Nevski, in Petrograd, and handed me a formidable envelope which contained a command that I should present myself at the Palace of Tzarskoye Selo (the Village of the Tzar) on the following afternoon at three o’clock. And well also do I recollect being met at the station by one of the Imperial carriages, and being driven to the entrance of the great park, where I was met by an officer and conducted past endless sentry-posts. I confess that I felt very ill at ease when at last I stood in a small but gorgeous room, a pitiable figure wearing my best dress-suit in the day-time. The two foreign orders that I then possessed looked very much like brass, and I was terribly conscious that in the daylight the ribbons had lost their freshness.

With me was Count de Redetski, a fine, handsome man in uniform, with a gold-braided tunic--one of the Imperial chamberlains, who chatted with me as we waited.

“As this is a private audience, I do not expect His Majesty will wear uniform,” he told me, which rather reassured me, for I think I had visions of the Tzar of All the Russias wearing a golden robe and perhaps a diamond crown.

A few moments later I was conducted along a softly-carpeted corridor to a door, at which stood two statuesque sentries who saluted as we passed, and I was shown in. Next moment a short bearded man, in a rough brown shooting-suit, stood before me with a smile of welcome. It was His Majesty the Tzar!

He expressed pleasure at my visit. Meanwhile I was conscious that I was in His Majesty’s private cabinet, a magnificent blue-and-gold apartment, with tables and chandelier of lapis lazuli, a parquet floor, and pillars of violet glass. In the centre of the three long windows, which gave an extensive view across the great lake, where picturesque fountains were playing, was set a huge writing-table, littered with papers, for the Emperor was, if nothing else, a busy man.

“I have been told that you have been in Russia before,” he said in English, with a gracious smile. “To Siberia, was it not--in my father’s days?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” I replied, wondering who had told him of my journey into Siberia by road many years before.

“And you have lately been in Russia with one of our good friends, Mr. Harry de Windt,” he remarked. “I have read his books. He is always very kind to us. And you, too, have always been kind to us--except when you criticized our policy against the revolutionists,” said the Tzar with a smile. “You have written a book warning us that war will come between Germany and England. It was sent to me from London. I may tell you that I agree entirely with Lord Roberts. Germany is preparing for war, and Britain turns a blind eye to everything. But, of course, I beg of you not to publish this. Our conversation is entirely private, remember!” and he laughed.

I at once gave my word of honour not to publish a word of the interview, and have not done so till now, when his tragic death has removed the seal of secrecy from my pen.

Becoming reassured that I was not out for a sensational interview, he spoke his mind freely. He did not criticize British politicians or their politics, but it was quite evident to me that he distrusted Germany. He referred to many facts of which I was in ignorance, but which were of intense interest to the whole world, and such sensational words, coming from the lips of the Tzar himself, would have been eagerly read everywhere if only I had had permission to publish them.

More than once he confessed that though he had given audiences to several journalists, including the late Mr. W. T. Stead, he always looked askance at everybody who wrote. Indeed, as he chatted, displaying shrewd insight into the most difficult problems of international politics, he twice repeated: “Of course I rely on your promise of secrecy!”

He held Sir Edward Grey and Mr. A. J. Balfour in very high esteem; and, referring to his own wide Empire, he said with a slight sigh of regret:

“You British do not, I fear, understand us. We are not like you--we are such a complex nation, such a mixture of European and Oriental, and, alas! so far behind in civilization as you in England and in America know it.”

He had seated himself at his table, while I, as etiquette demanded, still stood.

The telephone rang, and he answered it.

He spoke so rapidly in Russian that I could only distinguish one or two words. He seemed to become petulant at what he heard, for when he replaced the instrument he turned to me, and smilingly said:

“Mr. Graham Bell was not really kind to us when he invented telephones. I hate them!”

We chatted for a full half-hour, till I forgot that I was in the presence of the ruler of over a hundred and fifty millions of souls. While we were speaking, a beautiful Persian cat appeared from nowhere, and with a leap landed on the Emperor’s knee. It was evidently his pet, for he called it by name, and stroked it fondly as he talked.

That was, perhaps, one of the most interesting half-hours in all my crowded life; and when, to-day, I think of the gorgeousness of the Imperial Palace of Tzarskoye Selo--and compare it with the horrible fate of the Emperor and of his family--I sometimes feel that it is impossible that the Romanoffs can have so completely and brutally been exterminated by the poisonous serpent of Bolshevism.

I have the words still in my memory that the Tzar Nicholas spoke before I backed out of his presence:

“The greatest misfortune,” said he, “is to have many wants and little power; the greatest good fortune is to have much power and few wants.”

* * * * *

The next reigning monarch to accord me an audience was His Majesty King Victor Emanuel of Italy. Again I was to be received privately, not officially, and the presentation came from the Queen of Italy herself, who was daughter of King Nicholas of Montenegro.

In the previous year I had been up in the Black Mountains, at Cettigné, the Montenegrin capital, on a special mission from home, and had there, in the peasant kingdom, met Her Majesty, who happened to be on a visit to her father and mother. Therefore one winter’s day at noon, I found myself driving in a car from the Grand Hotel to the Quirinal Palace.

When a man wears evening dress at noon, he never feels comfortable. I might have worn my gorgeous green-and-gold-embroidered uniform, as Consul of the tiny Republic of San Marino, and felt that at least I was cutting a pretty good figure among all the smartly-uniformed officers and gorgeous flunkeys of the Royal Palace, but my uniform is so gorgeous that I confess I dared not appear in it before His Majesty! Only a few months before I had worn it at the Foreign Office reception at Whitehall, and the Russian Ambassador, after inspecting me, had said:

“Well, Mr. Le Queux, I thought I had a gorgeous uniform, but you certainly beat me on all points! I especially like your feather!” He referred to the white ostrich feather of my cocked hat.

But to resume. Feeling hopelessly badly dressed, and painfully conscious that one button of my patent-leather boot was unfastened, I passed into the Palace, between two rows of bowing servants, and was met by a smart young officer, Count Gilardoni, who took me to Marquis Mattioli Pasqualini, the acting Minister of the Royal Household, whom I had known for several years.

“Ah! Here you are, my dear friend!” exclaimed the old official, who was in a uniform that had grown rather tight for him. “I’ll let you into a secret. His Majesty is going to bestow on you the Order of the Crown of Italy! The Duke of the Abruzzi has recommended you for it, because of your work regarding wireless, and for your translation of the Duke’s book on his Polar travels, _The Stella Polare_.”

Ere I could reply to the old Marquis, a man of great personal charm and a Court official to his finger-tips, I found myself ushered into a long, narrow, old-fashioned room, of which the outstanding features were several porcelain bowls, filled with freshly-cut yellow roses.

The sweet perfume of the flowers pervaded the apartment, though it was winter and the room apparently a reception-room pure and simple. There was no sign of a writing-table or of any business litter. In the centre stood a man with an alert military figure, in a dark blue serge suit, with the eager, clever face that is made familiar to one by Italy’s postage-stamps.

He advanced to me with outstretched hand, and as I bent over it, he exclaimed in Italian:

“I am very pleased to receive you, Signor Le Queux, because you have so long been a good friend to Italy.”

“I fear I am not such a good friend as I should like to be, your Majesty,” I replied. “I always do my best to place Italy in her true light to my own people, and to those who read my books in America.”

“I know you do,” said he quickly. “I know how you have described in such vivid language the beauties of my country and the charm of my people. Yes, our _contadini_ have a charm all to themselves, one that must appeal to you writers of romance. I told the same to Zola when I saw him in Paris when I was Crown Prince. Your writer Ouida also did very much for our Italy. She was the only one foreign writer who really understood our _contadini_. Poor lady! She died in Lucca--did she not?”

I replied in the affirmative.

“Yes, she was a little eccentric--eh? The Prefect told me how she kept a dozen cats and dogs, and dressed as a _contadina_, and how Mr. Labouchere tried to give her some work, but she refused it. Is that true?”

I replied that it had unfortunately been so.

“Ah! And yet I recollect, when I was Crown Prince, that she reigned queen of Society in Firenze. I was once taken to one of her receptions in her palazzo, on the Lung’ Arno. I was only young then, but I recollect wondering how a writer of fiction could make such a social success.”

“Then your Majesty has perhaps read some of her books?” I inquired.

“I have them all in my library. They were my father’s. He loved them. I think I like _Pascarel_ best of all, and _Signa_ next. She was bitter against Mrs. Ross, wasn’t she?” he laughed.

All Italy knew the deadly feud between the two ladies, and it had evidently reached the King’s ears.

“Among the learned, the most highly-born is not the greatest, but he who knows the most. Do you agree, Signor Le Queux?” he laughed.

I agreed, feeling that the King of Italy, who was so gracious to me, was one of the best-informed monarchs in Europe.

As I stood on that thick vieux-rose carpet, while he, dressed in a dark blue lounge suit, sat on the arm of a big padded chair, evidently his own pet chair, I watched his typically military mannerisms.

“I have heard that it was due to your personal efforts that your Mansion House Fund was started, for those who suffered by the earthquake in Calabria,” he remarked suddenly. “I wish to thank you, and also for your keen interest in Italy.”

“I did what I could, your Majesty,” I replied.

“Yes, I know that. But, oh!” and he drew a long breath and paused.

I wondered whether he knew the truth--a truth that I had discovered--that bales upon bales of clothing, sent from England for those rendered homeless by the terrible earthquake, had been for the past year rotting on the quays at Naples.

“Yes,” he went on, “you English are always charitable. You are our friends. But, alas! we have administrative scandals here, just as all other countries have, and--well, perhaps ours may be even a little worse.”

“I have lived much in Italy, your Majesty, and by observation I think I must agree,” I said, smiling.

“Well, I will relate one. I don’t mind if you repeat what I tell you,” he remarked suddenly, rising to his feet. “I went to Calabria as soon as news of the earthquake reached me, and with some officials motored through the devastated area. After two days my car came to a fork in the road, one road an excellent, newly-made one running up to the mountains, and the other, evidently an old road, going straight on. Many of the mountain villages had been destroyed, so I determined to take the higher road and explore. Now comes the scandal.”

His Majesty paused, and knit his brows.

“A member of my suite declared that there were no villages up there. I asked why, if there were none, that the fine military road had been made, evidently quite recently. My question nonplussed him, and it became apparent that he had some motive in trying to prevent me taking that road. Therefore I ordered the chauffeur to drive on, and within ten minutes I realised the reason. The road came to a sudden end! On my return to Rome I had searching inquiries made, and found that though a large sum of public money had been expended to make a new road for forty-eight kilometres across the mountains, only five kilometres had been constructed, and the money for the remainder had gone into somebody’s pocket! My countrymen are honest, Signor Le Queux, but, alas! my politicians are very often the reverse!”

Those words were spoken to me shortly before the war, therefore those who know the King of Italy were not surprised that in 1919 he had serious thoughts of abdicating on account of the wholesale scandals of his country’s administration, and the treachery and bribery everywhere rampant. Italy fought as only patriots can fight. They defeated the Austrians against overwhelming odds. But their successes were negatived by the pack of unscrupulous financial adventurers and jackals in the Chamber of Deputies at Rome. The King, alert and intelligent as he is, knew it, and for that reason he has welcomed with open hand Signor Mussolini, and the splendid Italian Fascisti, who are known as “The Black Shirts.” Truly, wind, women, and fortune change quickly.

On that occasion His Majesty invested me with the Order of the Crown of Italy, and in doing so made some very kind remarks, saying:

“Whenever you wear this, Signor Le Queux, I hope you will always remember it is given you by one who is very grateful to you for your services.”

I had perhaps been able to be of service to the Kingdom and people I love so well, but this praise was hardly deserved.

However, I confess that such words, coming from the mouth of a ruling monarch, were very gratifying.

I have since been to a number of the gay Court functions at the Quirinal, and on each occasion His Majesty has greeted me kindly, and in other ways extended to me every consideration.

In another interview I had with the King at San Rossore, his summer residence near Pisa, he received me under a big cedar, in the beautiful grounds near the sea. And as we sat together, I recollect one phrase he used:

“You are a friend of Italy, while I am a friend of England! If you can still endeavour to attract English visitors to Italy, I really hope you will. By that you will do me a personal favour. Tell the English that I always welcome them to my country, for I regard them as my friends, and without friends life is impossible.”

In a monarch’s life a single hair casts a shadow, and no monarch in all the world, next to our own King George, is more devoted to his country’s interests that is King Victor Emanuel.

He set out to eliminate scandals from the Government departments within a week of ascending the throne.

A few days after his father’s death, being an early riser, he went down to the Ministry of the Interior, and at nine o’clock took his place in the office-chair of one of the highest officials. At ten the official had not arrived, at eleven he had made no appearance. So the King left a scribbled note on his desk dismissing him, and adding that Italy paid her officials to administer her affairs, and expected them to do so, adding that he hoped it would be a warning to others!

* * * * *

One of the unsolved mysteries that evolve around royalty, and in which I have played a part, concerns King Edward. Not many weeks after his accession, while walking in the noisy Via Balbi, in Genoa, I met a well-known member of the British Foreign Office staff, whose name I am not at liberty to mention. He explained that he had been sent to Italy on a secret mission, and that, as I knew Italian, and was also doing secret-service work, I might assist him.

Then he explained to me that the object of his journey from London was to secure, at all costs, certain letters that King Edward desired to repossess. Naturally I pricked up my ears. Could it be that some of His Majesty’s private letters were in the hands of blackmailers? What was the nature of the scandal that His Majesty desired to suppress at any cost?

My friend told me that his instructions, and the name of the man who was believed to have the letters in his possession, had come direct from His Majesty himself. The name of the man who held the documents was Enrico Brussi, who lived at a village called La Rocca. But as there are several villages of the same name in Italy, and the province was not given, I anticipated that our search would probably be a long one.

It proved so. We visited three La Roccas, each of them mountain villages; one near Ravenna, another not far from Cuneo, and a third at a remote spot in Umbria. The fourth we tried was in the Province of Lucca, and as our dusty carriage wound slowly up the steep road we could see the little white village, with its square-towered church, perched on a steep rocky precipice, with a background of blue mountains behind.

After a two hours’ climb we arrived, and, leaving the carriage outside the village (for the ancient, evil-smelling streets were very narrow and uneven, almost tunnels in some places), we at last found the house of Enrico Brussi. It was small, but clean-looking, and, having knocked at the door, we were admitted by an old _donna di casa_, who informed us that her master was at home.

In a few moments a well-dressed, middle-aged man appeared, whereupon my friend--introducing himself as Mr. Henderson from London--explained, in Italian, that we had ventured to call because we had heard that he had some interesting English letters in his possession. He added that we were collectors of autographs, and were travelling about Italy endeavouring to discover autographs of famous persons.

The man Brussi looked askance at us. I could see that he did not swallow our somewhat lame story.

“I am afraid that I have nothing to interest you, _signori_,” was his quiet reply.

“But you have some letters in English, have you not?” eagerly asked my companion.

“Yes, I have,” was his reply.

“They are the letters I want,” said my companion, not quite sure of his ground. For it was our firm belief that this man belonged to some foreign gang of blackmailers.

“They would not interest you,” said he briefly.

“But if I offer to buy them, are you prepared to sell them--all, not only a few?”

The man Brussi smiled, and shook his head in the negative.

“My friend here is prepared to give a very good price,” I remarked. “Will you not reconsider your decision?”

But he declined, and I began to see that we should have considerable difficulty in getting him to part with the letters.

Knowing the Italian character as I did, I knew that he would not suggest a price, lest it be lower than that we were prepared to give, so I urged my friend to offer two hundred lire for the letters without seeing them.

The man looked at us with undisguised astonishment, a fact that struck me as somewhat curious. Then, as though with great reluctance, he said:

“Well, if the _signore_ really wants them, I will sell them for four hundred lire!”

We both pretended that it was far too high a price, yet, as a matter of fact, my friend had in his pocket a wad of bank-notes of the value of a thousand pounds in English money, and would have paid even double that sum if it had been demanded.

At last we consented to pay four hundred lire for the whole of the letters. We impressed on him that we must have them all, and he promised us that he would keep none back.

While we waited in breathless anxiety he went upstairs, and presently returned with a packet of letters, which he handed to my friend in exchange for four one-hundred-lire notes.

Then we both hurried from the house with our precious packet, and as soon as we were out of sight eagerly opened it. My friend glanced at the first letter; his face fell, and with an expression of disgust exclaimed:

“Bah! Look what we’ve got! _Look!_” he cried, handing me one.

To my dismay, I found it to be a letter written by the old Duke of Kent, the King’s grandfather, to his head gardener at Kew! And all the letters were of the same character! Instead of relating to some scandal, as we were convinced they would, they turned out to be merely orders to a gardener!

We re-entered our carriage, both feeling extremely annoyed. Next day I saw my friend off from Pisa to London, bearing the precious packet that eventually found its way into King Edward’s hands.

But how His Majesty knew where those letters were, or the real reason of the confidential mission, neither my friend nor myself could ever imagine.

We had many theories, but I do not suppose any were correct. Only King Edward himself knew the reason, but I somehow feel that the letters we recovered were not the letters of which he had hoped to regain possession.

Another mystery surrounded King Edward, but, this time, one I can explain away.

King Edward, when Prince of Wales, like most princes, and, indeed, nearly every commoner, frequently found himself short of money. But how did he pay his debts? This question has puzzled many people, so here let the truth be revealed.

Now, in common with many others, I have heard hard things said of Jews, but, though I have known many, I have never experienced any ill-will or ill-nature at their hands. The sins of the petty are called great, and the sins of the great petty. It was so in the case of King Edward. One of the wealthiest Jews of our time was the late Baron de Hirsch, who, as most people know, was an intimate friend of the King when he was still Prince of Wales--afterwards our splendid sportsman-diplomat King, to whose memory every Briton lifts his hat.

His Royal Highness and the Baron were boon companions. They dined together, shot together, and raced together, yet it is an open secret that Queen Victoria, in her declining years, had conceived a very great dislike for the successful financier, to whom the construction of the Ottoman Railways had been due.

It was, in view of their friendship, therefore not surprising that, when King Edward was short of funds, Baron Hirsch, like all Jews, was ready to accommodate him. Notes of hand were signed time after time by His Royal Highness. Thus the friendship between the pair became a very close one, especially since Queen Victoria, though good, was neither generous nor lavish, as you may judge from what I am about to relate.

It was early spring on the Riviera, and I was, as usual, installed in a little flat on the Promenade des Anglais, at Nice, where I was working. The Queen had arrived, and was staying at the Excelsior Hotel up at Cimiez, while the Prince of Wales and Baron Hirsch, who travelled nearly every day to Monte Carlo, resided at Cannes.

I frequently saw them together at Ciro’s or in the Rooms. Sometimes they would sit side by side on the pleasant _terrasse_ of the Café de Paris, and listen to the Hungarian band. At others they would watch the pigeon-shooting, or go for short cruises on the Baron’s big white yacht, which usually lay in Villefranche Bay.

One day, while walking in the garden of the Casino at Monte Carlo with my friend Monsieur B----, who was Baron Hirsch’s confidential secretary, he introduced me to the great financier, and we strolled together, chatting. The Baron seemed a charming and quite unconventional man, and was particularly attached to his faithful secretary, to whom he had made many handsome presents. Monsieur B---- was for ever praising the great millionaire’s generous treatment of himself and others.

More than once he hinted to me about the large sums that the Prince was borrowing from his chief. When in France, I was often Monsieur B----’s guest at his beautiful house beside the lake at Enghien, outside Paris, and our conversation usually drifted upon the same subject. The public suspected the loans, but knew practically nothing.

Three years passed. The amount of the debt was gradually increasing, when, quite unexpectedly, the Baron died.

I was in Paris at the time, and, one evening, went out to Enghien to dinner. After the ladies had left the room, and Monsieur B---- and myself were left alone, I mentioned the subject.

“Yes,” he said. “The will has been opened to-day, and the Baron has left the sum of one million sterling to establish a colony for poor Jews in Argentina. The money repaid by the Prince of Wales is to be a portion of the sum.”

“Then the money will be called up?” I remarked.

“Undoubtedly! Everything is left in the hands of the Baroness, and she holds the Prince’s notes,” he explained.

Weeks, nay months, went past.

The Baron’s executors wrote to His Royal Highness for repayment. On hearing this the Baroness became furious. The executors, therefore, went to the Baroness and demanded the one million sterling with which to found the colony. They were compelled to do this before the other legacies were paid. Negotiations ensued, and, to cut a long story short, the Baroness called up my friend, Monsieur B----, and, ascertaining from him the exact amount owed to her dead husband by the Prince, she then and there wrote out a cheque for the whole in favour of the executors!

The Baroness, wife of one of the despised race, thus paid the whole of the late King Edward’s debt, out of her private fortune!

That same evening she wrote to His Royal Highness in London, arranging a meeting, and suggesting dinner in her private suite at Claridge’s Hotel. The appointment was kept, and the royal guest came. They dined _à deux_, His Highness much mystified at the invitation, and, of course, knowing nothing of the Baroness’s generous action.

But after dinner, when the servants had left, and they were alone, the widow brought out her handbag, and from it produced the whole of the Prince’s notes, and laid them on the table.

“Your Royal Highness had, I know, many financial transactions with my husband,” his hostess said. “As his wife, I knew in what high esteem he held your Highness. I feel that if he had lived he would never have wished to call up the money advanced, therefore I do not like to think that his executors should be forced by legal process to do so.”

The Prince gazed at her utterly astounded, for he had been very much worried by the sudden death of his friend.

“But I understand that the money is part of a sum left to found a colony for poor Jews?” he said.

“I am aware of that,” replied the Baroness. “But I have asked you here to-night in order to extract one promise--in return for this,” and she pointed to the heap of paper on the table representing her husband’s loan to the Prince.

“A promise--what?”

“That when you succeed to the throne of Great Britain you will always be kind to the Jews.”

“I can certainly promise that,” answered the Prince in a changed voice, much impressed by the Baroness’s appeal.

“There is the fire,” said she, pointing to the grate. “Let us burn the notes.”

His Royal Highness gathered up the papers, and, one by one, placed them in the flames.

Then, with that exquisite courtliness which was one of King Edward’s outstanding characteristics, he raised his hostess’s hand, and, bending, kissed it.

They never met again, owing to the Baroness’s untimely end.

* * * * *

I do not wish to be accused of recording more ancient history than is necessary, but it is my object to relate hitherto unknown incidents and stories concerning some famous personages.

One of these concerns Queen Victoria during her last visit to Nice.

About a fortnight after her arrival, while passing up the Avenue de la Gare, I met the well-known detective, Superintendent Fraser, of Scotland Yard, who, with Monsieur Paoli, of the Paris Sûreté, was Her Majesty’s personal protector.

When I asked him whither he was hurrying, he replied:

“Come with me. I am going on a--well, on a very confidential mission!”

At once I turned back with him. To my surprise, he stopped before a cheap draper’s shop, and, pointing to a long string of black-and-white striped sunshades, open and swaying in the wind, he inquired their price.

“Five-francs-fifty,” replied the dark-eyed Provençal girl in French.

My police friend hesitated, and inquired if they were silk.

“No, m’sieur, they are cotton,” was the reply.

With that he turned away. Then he explained that the Queen, who had been out for her afternoon drive, had just returned, and, calling him, told him that in the Avenue de la Gare she had been attracted by some sunshades hanging outside a shop.

“Go and buy me one, Fraser,” she had commanded. “They are the very thing I want here.”

“But,” exclaimed my friend to me, “how can I take the Queen a four-and-sevenpenny sunshade? Come back with me, and when I have told her we will go out to the café!”

I walked back with him out to Cimiez, and waited while he passed along the corridor of the great hotel to Her Majesty’s apartments, which were guarded by French sentries and an idling assistant of my friend.

His face had changed when, a few minutes later, he returned.

“I told the Queen,” he said, “but she has ordered me to go back at once. She seemed quite indignant, and said:

“‘Fraser, you men know nothing about sunshades! Pray how much would you expect me to give for a cotton sunshade? Go and get me one at once!’”

We returned together and purchased one. That sunshade was a prominent object in the streets of Nice, and country roads in the neighbourhood, for each afternoon that season, when the Queen went out, she held it proudly above her head for all to admire, the passers-by no doubt believing it to be an expensive one of silk.

I afterwards learned from Superintendent Fraser that Her Majesty, on her return to Windsor, gave it to Queen Alexandra, then Princess of Wales, for use during the following summer!