The Great Court Scandal

The Crown Princess bowed, and returned to the side of her father, the Archduke Charles, a tall, thin, grey-haired man in a brilliant uniform glittering with orders.

She knew that his Majesty’s quick eye had detected that she had spoken with the commoner Steinbach, and anticipated that she was to receive another lecture. Why, she wondered, was Steinbach there? Truth to tell, Court life bored her. She was tired to death of all that intrigue and struggle for place, power, and precedence, and of that unhealthy atmosphere of recklessness wherein she had been born and bred. She longed for the free open life in the country around Wartenstein, the great old castle in the Tyrol that was her home, where she could tramp for miles in the mountains and be friendly with the honest country folk. After her marriage – a marriage of convenience to unite two royal houses – she had found that she had exchanged one stiff and brilliant Court for another, more dull, more stiff, and where the etiquette was even more rigid.

Those three years of married life had wrought a very great change in her.

She had left Vienna a bright, athletic girl, fond of all sports, a great walker, a splendid horsewoman, sweet, natural, and quite unaffected; yet now, after those three years of a Court, smaller yet far more severe than that of Austria, she had become rebellious, with one desire – to forsake it all and live the private life of an ordinary citizen.

Her own world, the little patrician but narrow world behind the throne, whispered and shrugged its shoulders. It was believed that her marriage was an unhappy one, but so clever was she that she never betrayed her bitterness of heart. Like all her Imperial family, she was a born diplomatist, and to those who sought to read her secret her face was always sphinx-like. Her own Court saw her as a merry, laughter-loving woman, witty, clever, a splendid dancer, and with a polished and charming manner that had already endeared her to the people over whom she was very shortly to reign. But at Court her enemies looked upon her with distrust. She exhibited no sign of displeasure on any occasion, however provoking. She was equally pleasant with enemies as with friends. For that reason they suspected her.

Her charming ingenuousness and her entire disregard of the traditional distinction between the Imperial house and the people had aroused the anger of her husband’s father, the aged King, a sovereign of the old school, who declared that she was fast breaking up all the traditions of the royal house, and that her actions were a direct incentive to Socialism and Anarchism within the kingdom.

But she only laughed. She had trained herself to laugh gleefully even when her young heart was filled with blackest sorrow; even though her husband neglected and despised her; even though she was estranged for ever from her own home and her own beloved family circle at the great mountain stronghold.

Next to the Emperor Francis-Joseph, her father, the Archduke Charles, was the greatest and wealthiest man in Austria. He had a Court of his own with all its appendages and functionaries, a great palace in the Parkring in Vienna, another in Buda-Pesth, the magnificent castle of Wartenstein, near Innsbruck, besides four other castles in various parts of Austria, and a beautiful villa at Tivoli, near Rome. From her birth the Princess Claire had always breathed the vitiated air of the courts of Europe; and yet ever since a girl, walking with her English governess at Wartenstein, she had longed and dreamed of freedom. Her marriage, however, was arranged for her, and she awakened from the glamour of it all to find herself the wife of a peevish prince who had not finished the sowing of his wild oats, and who, moreover, seemed to have no place for her in his heart.

Too late she realised the tragedy of it all. When alone she would sit for hours in tears. Yet to no living soul, not even to her father or to the dark-haired, middle-aged Countess de Trauttenberg, her lady-in-waiting and confidante, did she utter one single syllable. She kept her secret.

The world envied her her marvellous beauty, her exquisite figure, her wealth, her position, her grace and ineffable charm. Yet what would it have said had it known the ugly truth? Surely it would have pitied her; for even an Imperial archduchess, forbidden to speak with the common world, has a human heart, and is entitled to human sympathy.

The Crown Prince was not present. He was, alas I seldom with the Princess. As she stood there in the Imperial circle with folded hands, laughing merrily and chatting vivaciously with the small crowd of Imperial Highnesses, no one would have guessed that she was a woman whose young heart was already broken.

Ah yes! she made a brave show to conceal her bitterness and sorrow from the world, because she knew it was her duty to do so – her duty to her princely family and to the kingdom over which she was soon to be queen.

The Emperor at last made his exit through the great white-and-gold doors, the Imperial chamberlains bowing low as he passed out. Then at two o’clock the Crown Princess managed to slip away from the Imperial circle, and with her rich train sweeping behind her, made her way rapidly through the long, tortuous corridors to his Majesty’s private workroom, known as the White Chamber, on the other side of the great palace.

She tapped upon the door with her fan, and obtained entrance at once, finding the Emperor alone, standing near the great wood fire, for it was a chilly evening, close to his big, littered writing-table. His heavy expression told her that he was both thoughtful and displeased. The chamber, in contrast to the luxury of the splendid palace, was plainly furnished, essentially the workroom of the ruler of a great empire – the room in which he gave audiences and transacted the affairs of the Austria-Hungarian nation.

“Claire,” he said, in a low, hard voice, “be seated; I wish to speak to you.”

“Ah, I know,” exclaimed the brilliant woman, whose magnificent diamonds glittered beneath the electric light, “I know! I admit, sire, that I committed an unpardonable breach of etiquette in speaking with Steinbach. You are going to reprove me – I know you are,” she pouted. “But do forgive me. I did not reflect. It was an indiscretion.”

“You never reflect, Claire; you are too irresponsible,” the Emperor said in a tone of distinct displeasure. “But it is not that. I have called you here to learn why the Crown Prince is not in Vienna with you.”

He fixed his grey, deep-sunken eyes upon hers, and awaited her answer.

“Well – ” she faltered. “There are some Court dinners, and – and I believe he has some military engagements – anniversaries or something.”

The Emperor smiled dubiously.

“You are shielding him, Claire,” he said slowly; “I see you are. I know that Ferdinand is estranged from you. Of late I have learnt things concerning you – more than you imagine. You are unloved by your husband, and unhappy, and yet you are bearing your burden in silence, though you are a young and beautiful woman. Now, Claire,” he said in a changed voice, placing his hand tenderly upon his niece’s shoulder, “tell me the truth. I wish to hear the truth from your own lips. Do you know what they say of you? They say,” he added, lowering his voice – “they say that you have a lover!”

“A lover!” she gasped hoarsely, starting from her chair, her beautiful face as white as the dress she wore; “a lover! Who – who told you so?”

Chapter Two

Her Imperial Highness

Whatever passed between the Emperor and his niece, whether she confessed the truth or defied him, one fact was plain – she had been moved to bitter tears.

When, half an hour later, she went back through those long corridors, her rich train sweeping over the red carpets, her white-gloved hands were clenched, her teeth set hard, her eyes red, her countenance changed. Her face was changed; it was that of a woman heart-broken and desperate.

She did not return to the ballroom, but descended to the courtyard, where one of the Imperial servants called her carriage, and she returned alone to her father’s splendid palace in the Parkring.

Ascending straight to her room, she dismissed the Countess de Trauttenberg, her lady-in-waiting, and Henriette, her French maid; and then locking the door, she tore off her tiara and her jewels and sank upon her knees upon the old carved prie-dieu before the ivory crucifix placed opposite her bed.

Her hands were clasped, her fair head bent, her sweet lips moved in fervent prayer, her eyes the while streaming with tears. Plunged in grief and unhappiness, she besought the Almighty to aid and counsel her in the difficult situation in which she now found herself.

“Help me, my Father!” she sobbed aloud. “Have mercy upon me – mercy upon a humble woman who craves Thy protection and direction.” And her clasped hands trembled in the fervency of her appeal.

Those who had seen her an hour ago, the gay, laughing figure, blazing with jewels, the centre of the most brilliant Court of Europe, would have been astounded to see her at that moment prostrated before her Maker. In Austria, as in Germany, she was believed to be a rather giddy woman, perhaps by reason of her uncommon beauty, and perhaps because of her easy-going light-heartedness and disregard for all Court etiquette. Yet the truth was that the strong religious principles instilled into her by her mother, the deceased Archduchess Charles, had always remained, and that no day passed without one hour set apart for her devotions, in secret even from the Countess, from Henriette, and from the Crown Prince, her husband.

She was a Catholic, of course, like all her Imperial house, but upon one point she disagreed – that of confession.

Her husband, though he professed Catholicism, at heart scoffed at religion; and more than once when he had found her in the private chapel of the palace at Treysa had jeered at her. But she bore it all in patience. She was his wife, and she had a duty to perform towards his nation – to become its queen.

For nearly an hour she remained upon her knees before the crucifix, with the tiny oil-light flickering in its cup of crimson glass, kneeling in mute appeal, strong in her faith, yet humble as the humblest commoner in the land.

“My God!” she cried aloud at last. “Hear me! Answer my prayer! Give me strength and courage, and direct my footsteps in the right path. I am a weak woman, after all; a humble sinner who has repented. Help me, O God! I place all my trust in Thee! Amen.”

And, crossing herself, she rose slowly with a deep-drawn breath that sounded weirdly through the fine room, and walking unsteadily towards the big cheval glass, gazed at her own reflection.

She saw how pale and haggard was her face, and looked at her trembling hands.

The ribbons and stars at the edge of her bodice caught her eye, and with a sudden movement she tore them off and cast them heedlessly upon the table as though the sight of them annoyed her. They had been conferred upon her on her marriage. She sighed as she looked back at them.

Ah, the hollow mockery of it all!

She glanced out of the window, and saw in the bright moonlight the sentry pacing up and down before the palace. Across the wide boulevard were the dark trees of the park. It recalled to her the appointment she had made there for the next evening.

“I wonder why Steinbach has followed me here?” she exclaimed to herself. “How did he obtain entrance to the Court ball? Probably he has some friend here. But surely his mission is urgent, or he would never have run this risk. I was, however, foolish to speak to him before them all – very foolish. Yet,” she added slowly to herself, “I wonder what he has to tell me? I wonder – ” And, without concluding her sentence, she stood gazing out upon the dark park, deep in thought, her mind full of grave apprehensions of the future.

She was a Hapsbourg – and evil fate follows a Hapsbourg always. She had prayed to God; for God alone could save her.

She, the most brilliant and the most envied woman in the Empire, was perhaps the most heart-broken, the most unhappy. Casting herself into an armchair before the log fire, she covered her drawn, white face with her hands and sobbed bitterly, until at last she sat immovable, staring straight into the embers watching the spark die out, until she fell asleep where she sat.

Next day her sweet, fresh face bore no traces of her desperation of the night. She was as gay and merry as ever, and only Henriette noticed in her eyes a slight redness, but discreetly said nothing.

The Countess, a rather pleasant-faced but stiff-mannered person, brought her her engagement-book, from which it appeared that she was due at a review by the Emperor at eleven o’clock; therefore, accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, she drove there, and was everywhere admired by the great crowds assembled. The Austrian people called her “our Claire,” and the warm-hearted Viennese cheered when they recognised that she was back again among them.

It was a brilliant scene in the bright spring sunlight, for many of the Imperial Court were present, and the troops made a brave show as they marched past his Majesty and the assembled members of the Imperial house.

Then she had a luncheon engagement with the Archduchess Gisela, the wife of Prince Leopold of Bavaria, afterwards drove in the Ringstrasse and the Prater, dined early at her father’s palace, after giving Henriette leave of absence for the evening, and also allowing the Countess de Trauttenberg her freedom, saying that she intended to remain at home. Then, shortly before eight o’clock, she ascended to her room, exchanged her turquoise-blue dinner-gown for a plain, stiff, tailor-made dress, put on a hat with a lace veil that concealed her features, and managed to slip across the courtyard of the domestic offices and out of the palace unseen.

The night was cloudy and dark, with threatening rain, as she crossed the broad Parkring, entering the park near the Kursalon, and traversing the deserted walks towards the River Wien. The chill wind whistled in the budding trees above, sweeping up the dust in her path, and the statuesque guard whom she passed in the shadow glanced inquisitively at her, of course not recognising her.

There was no one in the Stadtpark at that hour, and all was silent, gloomy, and dismal, well in keeping with her own sad thoughts. Behind her, the street lamps of the Parkring showed in a long, straight line, and before her were the lights on the Caroline Bridge, the spot appointed for the meeting.

Her heart beat quickly. It was always difficult for her to escape without the knowledge of De Trauttenberg or Henriette. The former was, as a good lady-in-waiting should be, ever at her side, made her engagements for her, and saw that she kept them. That night, however, the Countess desired to visit her sister who was in Vienna with her husband, therefore it had happened opportunely; and, freed of Henriette, she had now little to fear.

The dress she wore was one she used when in the country. She had thrown a short cape of Henriette’s about her shoulders, and was thus sufficiently disguised to avoid recognition by people in the streets.

As she came around a sudden bend in the pathway to the foot of the bridge the dark figure of a man in a black overcoat emerged from the shadow, and was next instant at her side, holding his hat in his hand and bowing before her.

“I began to fear that your Imperial Highness would not come,” he said breathlessly in German. “Or that you had been prevented.”

“Is it so very late, then?” she inquired in her sweet, musical voice, as the man walked slowly at her side. “I had difficulty in getting away in secret.”

“No one has followed you, Princess?” he said, glancing anxiously behind him. “Are you quite sure?”

“No one. I was very careful. But why have you asked me to come here? Why were you at the ball last night? How did you manage to get a card?”

“I came expressly to see you, Princess,” answered the young man in a deep earnest voice. “It was difficult to get a command to the ball, but I managed it, as I could approach you by no other way. At your Highness’s own Court you, as Crown Princess, are unapproachable for a commoner like myself, and I feared to write to you, as De Trauttenberg often attends to your correspondence.”

“But you are my friend, Steinbach,” she said. “I am always to be seen by my friends.”

“At your own risk, your Highness,” he said quickly. “I know quite well that last night when you stopped and spoke to me it was a great breach of etiquette. Only it was imperative that I should see you to-night. To you, Princess, I owe everything. I do not forget your great kindness to me; how that I was a poor clerk out of work, with my dear wife ill and starving, and how, by your letter of recommendation, I was appointed in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, first as French translator, and now as a secretary. Were it not for you, Princess, I and my family would have starved. You saved me from ruin, and I hope you are confident that in me, poor and humble though I am, you at least have a friend.”

“I am sure of that, Steinbach,” was her Highness’s kindly reply. “We need not cross the bridge,” she said. “It is quiet along here, by the river. We shall meet no one.”

For a few moments a silence fell between them, and the Princess began to wonder why he had asked her there to meet him.

At last, when they were in a dark and narrower pathway, he turned suddenly to her and said, —

“Princess, I – I hardly know how to speak, for I fear that you may take what I have to say in a wrong sense. I mean,” he faltered, “I mean that I fear you may think it impertinent of me to speak to you, considering the great difference in our stations.”

“Why?” she asked calmly, turning to him with some surprise. “Have you not just told me that you are my friend?”

She noticed at that moment that he still held his hat in his hand, and motioned to him to reassume it.

“Yes. I am your Highness’s friend,” he declared quickly. “If I were not, I would not dare to approach you, or to warn you of what at this moment is in progress.”

“What is in progress?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Tell me.”

She realised that this man had something serious to say, or surely he would never have followed her to Vienna, and obtained entrance to the Imperial Court by subterfuge.

“Your Highness is in peril,” he declared in a low voice, halting and standing before her. “You have enemies, fierce, bitter enemies, on every side; enemies who are doing their utmost to estrange you from your husband; relentless enemies who are conspiring might and main against you and the little Princess Ignatia. They – ”

“Against my child?” cried the Princess, amazed. “Do you really mean that there is actually a conspiracy against me?”

“Alas! that is so, Highness,” said the man, seriously and distinctly. “By mere chance I have learnt of it, and being unable to approach you at your own Court, I am here to give you timely warning of what is intended.” She was silent, gazing straight into her companion’s face, which was, however, hardly distinguishable in the darkness. She could scarcely believe the truth of what this commoner told her. Could this man, whom she had benefited by her all-powerful influence, have any ulterior motive in lying to her?

“And what is intended?” she inquired in a strange, hard voice, still half dubious and half convinced.

“There is a plot, a dastardly, widespread conspiracy to cause your Highness’s downfall and part you from the Crown Prince before he comes to the throne,” was his answer.

“But why? For what motive?” she inquired, starting at the amazing revelation.

“Cannot your Highness discern that your jealous enemies are in fear of you?” he said. “They know that one day ere long our invalid King must die, and your husband will then ascend the throne. You will be Queen, and they feel convinced that the day of your accession will be their last day at Court – frankly, that having seen through their shams and intrigues, you will dismiss them all and change the entire entourage.”

“Ah! I see,” replied the Crown Princess Claire in a hoarse, bitter voice. “They fear me because they have realised their own shortcomings. So they are conspiring against me to part me from my husband, and drive me from Court! Yes,” she sighed heavily, “I know that I have enemies on every side. I am a Hapsbourg, and that in itself is sufficient to prejudice them against me. I have never been a favourite with their Majesties the King and Queen because of my Liberal tendencies. They look upon me as a Socialist; indeed, almost as a revolutionist. Their sycophants would be glad enough to see me banished from Court. And yet the Court bow to me with all that hateful obsequiousness.”

“Your Highness is, unfortunately, quite right,” declared the man Steinbach. “The Crown Prince is being enticed farther and farther from you, as part of the ingenious plot now afoot. The first I knew of it was by accident six months ago, when some letters from abroad fell into my hands at the Ministry. The conspiracy is one that permeates the whole Court. The daily talk of your enemies is the anticipation of your downfall.”

“My downfall! But how is that to be accomplished?” she demanded, her fine eyes flashing with indignation. “I surely have nothing to fear – have I? I beg of you to be quite candid with me, Steinbach. In this affair your information may be of greatest service, and I am deeply indebted to you. It staggers me. What have I done that these people should seek my ruin?” she cried in blank dismay.

“Will your Highness pardon me if I tell the truth?” asked the man at her side, speaking very seriously. “You have been too free, too frank, and too open-minded. Every well-meant action of yours is turned to account by those who seek to do you evil. Those whom you believe to be your friends are your worst antagonists. I have longed to approach you and tell you this for months, but I always feared. How could I reach you? They are aware that the secret correspondence passed through my hands, and therefore they suspect me of an intention of betraying them.”

“Then you are here at imminent risk to yourself, Steinbach,” she remarked very slowly, looking again straight into his dark face.

“I am here as your Highness’s friend,” replied the young man simply. “It is surely worth the risk to save my gracious benefactress from falling victim to their foul, dastardly conspiracy?”

“And who, pray, are my worst antagonists?” she asked hoarsely.

He gave her rapidly half a dozen names of Court officials and persons in the immediate entourage of their Majesties.

“And,” he added, “do not trust the Countess de Trauttenberg. She is playing you false. She acts as spy upon you and notes your every action.”

“The Countess – their spy!” she gasped, utterly taken aback, for if there was one person at Court in whom she had the utmost confidence it was the woman who had been in her personal service ever since her marriage.

“I have documentary proof of it,” the man said quietly. “I would beg of your Highness to make no sign whatever that the existence of the plot is known to you, but at the same time exercise the greatest caution, both for your own sake and that of the little Princess.”

“Surely they do not mean to kill me, Steinbach?” she exclaimed in alarm.

“No – worse. They intend to banish your Highness from Court in disgrace, as a woman unworthy to reign over us as Queen. They fear you because you have discovered their own intrigues, corruptions, and scandals, and they intend that, at all costs, you shall never ascend the throne.”

“But my husband! He should surely know this!”

“Princess,” exclaimed the clean-shaven young man, speaking very slowly and seriously, “I regret that it is I who am compelled to reveal this to you, but the Crown Prince already believes ill of you. He suspects; and therefore whatever lies they, now invent concerning you he accepts as truth. Princess,” he added in a low, hard voice, “you are in deadly peril. There, the truth is out, for I cannot keep it from you longer. I am poor, unknown, without influence. All I can do is to give you this warning in secret, because I hope that I may call myself your friend.”

The unhappy daughter of the Imperial house was silent. The revelation was startling and amazing. She had never realised that a plot was afoot against her in her husband’s kingdom. Words entirely failed her. She and her little daughter Ignatia were marked down as victims. She now for the first time realised her peril, yet she was powerless to stem the tide of misfortune that, sooner or later, must overwhelm her and crush her. She stood there a defenceless woman.