The Secret Memoirs of Bertha Krupp

True, Prussia spells despotism tempered by Parliament, but her kings can never forget the good old times when appropriations for the Court were only limited by the State's utmost resources.

"My own!" gasped Wedell. "Would I dare worry Your Majesty's sacred bones in an ark like this?"

The carriage entered the palace stableyard, the gates of which opened noiselessly in obedience to a significant crack of the whip.

Sentinels posted inside and out, civil service men in frock-coats and top-hats, who muttered numbers to their chief, replying in kind!

"Everything all right, Bülow upstairs," whispered Udo in Russian. He went ahead of the War Lord through lines of his men, posted at intervals of three paces in the courtyard and at the entrance. The vestibule was splendid with electric light for the first time in the history of the old palace.

As the suspicious War Lord observed, Marshal Augustus had been busy indeed. Heavy portières everywhere, over doors, windows, and oeils-de-boeuf; to passers-by the Leopold Palace was as dead and forlorn as during the past several years.

Up the newly carpeted grand stairway the War Lord rushed. The smiling Bülow stood at the library door. Wilhelm merely extended his hand; he was too full of his subject to reply to Bülow's respectful greetings and inquiries after his health.

"Wedell will stay," he said, "for our talk will concern his department no less than yours."

Bülow had arranged arm-chairs about the blazing fireplace, but the War Lord was in no mood to sit down.

"Here's a devil of a mess," he said, "just discovered it in time. That confounded Este is too much of a blackleg to be trusted."

"Too deeply steeped in clericalism," suggested Bülow.

"That and Jesuitism, Romanism, Papism and every other sableism. Found him out in our first confab, and to-day's meeting with Haeseler confirmed it. He will never consent to a Roman Empire of German nationality. Wants all Italy for himself and Rome for his Church. Intolerable!" cried the War Lord, as he strode up and down. "Twenty marks if Otto were in his place."

The War Lord's joke drew tears of appreciative hilarity from the obsequious eyes of the two courtier-politicians.

"Your Majesty's remark reminds me of a patriotic speech made by the Prince of Bueckeberg at the beginning of the railway age: 'We must have a railway in Lippe, even if it costs five thousand thalers,' said His Transparency, amid thunderous applause."

This from the Chancellor, who, like Talleyrand, delights in quotations and has a knack of introducing other people's witty, or stupid, sayings when desiring to remain uncommittal on his own part. In this instance he would rather exhaust Bartlett and his German confrère Hertslet than discuss that Prince of mauvais sujets, Otto of Austria.

At the time of the discussion (it was in 1903 – three years before the royal degenerate died) the father of the present heir to the Dual Monarchy was on the apex of his ill-fame.

He beat his wife and his creditors, he disgraced his rank, his manhood, and, though thirty-eight years of age, was frightened from committing the worst excesses at home only by the threat of corporal punishment at the hands of his uncle, the Emperor. For Francis Joseph, most Olympian of monarchs, according to the upholders of Spanish etiquette at the Hofburg, is very apt indeed to give a good imitation of the petty household tyrant when roused. For this reason, probably, his late consort, the Empress Elisabeth, used to liken him to a cobbler.

Francis Joseph's most recent fistic exploit at Otto's expense was still, at that time, the talk of the European Courts. It appears that His Imperial Highness, at dinner with boon companions, had emptied a dish of spinach over the head of uncle's marble statue, and prolonged the fun by firing over-ripe tomatoes, pimentos, spaghetti and other dainties at the already abundantly decorated effigy.

When finally he ordered Count Salm, his Court marshal, to send for a "mandel" – fifteen pieces – of ancient eggs to vary the bombardment, Salm refusing, of course, he assaulted the Excellency, sword in hand, and a general medley ensued, in which considerable blue blood was spilt. No lives lost, yet the innocent bit of passe-temps brought the Emperor's fist and cane into play again.

But our mutton is getting cold.

"Unfortunately," said von Bülow, "Franz Ferdinand is a particularly healthy specimen of humanity."

"And even should he die like a Balkan royalty – " suggested von Wedell.

"I thought you had been unable definitely to trace Russia's fine Italian hand in the Belgrade murders?" demanded the War Lord sharply.

"For which many thanks," murmured Bülow.

"With Your Majesty's permission, I referred to the older generation of Balkan assassins," said Udo.

"Well, let it pass, Monsieur le Duc d'Otrante." The War Lord frequently addressed his Minister of Police by Fouché's title, while commenting upon Napoleon's bad taste in raising that functionary to so high an estate. "After all," he used to say, "he was nothing but a spy, and as treacherous as the Corsican himself."

This, it will be observed, came with peculiar ill grace from Wilhelm, who, like the first Emperor of the French, demeaned himself to direct personally his Secret Service, and to associate with the cashiered army officers, agents provocateurs, etc., of this branch of government.

"What if Otto, as Emperor of the Slavs, sets up a claim for all Poland, Your Majesty's with the rest?" Bülow had asked.

"I would rather see my sixty millions of people dead on the battle-field than give up an inch of ground gained by Frederick the Great and the rest of my ancestors!" cried the War Lord, as if he were haranguing a mob. "Besides, why should Otto, more than Franz, covet my patrimony?"

"Because of his relationship with the Saxon Court through her Imperial Highness Josepha."

"Pipe-dreams – " snarled the War Lord contemptuously. Then, seeing Bülow redden, he added: "On Otto's part, I mean."

"I beg Majesty's pardon – not entirely," quoth Wedell. "Dresden is still making sheep's eyes at Warsaw, and when Your Majesty spoke about a grand Imperial palace to be built in Posen, King George remarked: 'Suits me to the ground. I hope he'll make it after the kind American multimillionaires boast of.' This on the authority of a Saxon noble whose family established itself in the kingdom long before Albert the Bold."

"Children and disgruntled aristocrats tell the truth," commented the War Lord; "sometimes, at least," he added after a while. Then suddenly facing Bülow, he continued in an angry tone: "That black baggage, wherever one turns. Unless there be a Lutheran Pope, Monsieur l'Abée de Rome will try and catholicise Prussia, even as Benedict XIV. tried to do through Maria Theresa."

"It was another Benedict, was it not, who offered public prayers that Heaven be graciously pleased to foment quarrels between the heretic Powers?" suggested Bülow, pulling a volume on historic dates from the shelf as if to verify his authority.

"What of it?" demanded the War Lord impatiently.

"One of the heretic Powers prayed against was England, Your Majesty."

"And you want to insinuate that I must pocket all the insults Edward may find it expedient to heap upon me?"

"Nothing is farther from my mind, of course. I merely meant to point to the historic fact that the Catholics always pool their interests, always fight back to back, while the disunity and open rivalries among non-Catholic Powers – "

"I know the litany," interrupted the War Lord rudely; "but let's return to Este. What do you intend to do with that chap?"

"Make him work for us tooth and nail," said Bülow, "and as for any extra dances with the Saxon or His Holiness – well, Udo will keep an eye on him. From this hour on he must be kept under constant observation, whether at home or abroad, in his family circle or the army mess, at manoeuvre or the chase, at the Hradschin or at Konopischt."

The War Lord, visibly impressed, laid his massive right hand on Count von Wedell's shoulder.

"Where is Este now?" looking at the clock.

"Suite eighteen, Hôtel de Rome."

"With whom?"

"Cardinal Schlauch."

"Bishop Tank of Gross-Wardein? And who is watching them?"

"Number 103, garlic and bartwichse to the backbone."

"Under the bed?"

"No, Your Majesty; in it. I varied the programme for His Highness's sake. Like an old maid who persists in the hope of catching a man sometime, he never misses looking under the bed."

"I will examine '103' in Königgrätzerstrasse at 9 A.M. to-morrow," commanded the War Lord; "and, Udo, if you love me, have him well aired. An hour or two of goose-step would do the garlic-eater the world of good."

The number, of course, referred to a Secret Service man. They have no names so far as the Government knows, or wants to know, and, despite their usefulness, are looked upon as mauvais sujets. To make up for this their pay is rather better than that of the average German official. They get a little less than the equivalent of £4 a week and 10s. a day for expenses. These sums constitute the retaining fee; their main income depends on the jobs they are able to pull off. They get paid for all business transacted, in accordance with its importance. When on a foreign mission, they may send in bills up to £2 per day for personal expenses, but in all ordinary circumstances the 10s. per diem must suffice.

The War Lord turned once more to Bülow. "You said: 'Make him work for us.' I would willingly sentence him for life to the treadmill. What's your idea of work for Franz?"

"I refer to Your Majesty's complaint that the Austrian army is in a state of unreadiness, of unpreparedness for war. Now, while I have no opinion whatever as to Herr von Este's capacity as a general, I do know that organisation and discipline are ruling passions with him."

"He would rather beat a recruit than go to Mass," interpolated Udo.

"The right spirit," approved the War Lord, "and it shall serve my purposes. I taught the Bavarians to out-Prussian the Prussian; the Austrians shall follow suit, or Franz will know the reason why.

"A drill-ground bully by nature and inclination, he will know how to make an end to Blue Danube saloperie; and if strap and rod won't do, he will use scorpions, like that ancient King of Judea – or did he hail from Mecklenburg, Bülow?" Autocratically ruled Mecklenburg is Bülow's own particular fatherland.

"I am sure the riding-whip always sufficed in our domains," smiled the Chancellor; "but Your Majesty is right: rose water wouldn't make much impression on Slovaks and Croatians."

"Well then," said the War Lord, "here is the programme: No more about Lutheran popeship, Holy Roman Empire of German nationality, future of the Holy See and so forth. Nauseate him, on the other hand, with Austrian military schweinerei(piggishness), which ought to disappear from the face of the earth in the shortest possible order to make room for the glories of Prussian drill, discipline and efficiency.

"With von der Goltz knocking the Turk into shape and Franz Este driving the devil of irresolution and maniana out of the Dual Monarchy, we will be in a position to defy the world – and to fight it, too."

CHAPTER XVIII

A SECRET SERVICE EPISODE

No. 103 Arrives – The Spy's Report – The Archduke and the Cardinal – The Ruling of the Church

Count von Wedell's office on Königgratzerstrasse.

Royal coupé driving up and down the opposite side of the street. No groom – dismounted chasseur with feather hat stands guard at the big oaken door entrance.

Long-legged brown horses, evident habitat: England. As a rule, the War Lord drives with blacks or greys; likewise the wheel-spokes of the vehicles used by him are gilded. Those of the carriage we observe are chocolate colour, with just a thin silver line. Wilhelm sometimes travels incog. in his own capital. By the way, why always chocolate-coloured carriages when royalty does not wish to radiate official lustre? In the reminiscences of the third Napoleon "the little brown coupé" figured largely when the Emperor of the French went poaching on strange preserves, and other monarchs had the same preference.

Inside the Imperial office building: sentinels with fixed bayonets at each corridor entrance; over the coco-nut mat, covering the right-hand passage, a thick red Turkey runner; Secret Service men in top-hats and Prince Albert coats every ten paces. At the extreme end a big steel double door.

"No. 103," whispered the speaking-tube into Count Wedell's ear.

"Three minutes late," snarled that official; "but I will pay him back."

"No. 103," in faultless evening dress (though it is nine in the morning), is conducted through the right-hand passage. He is at home here, but no one recognises him. Secret Service rule: No comradeship with other agents of the Government. You are a number, no more.

As he is ushered through the lines of sentinels, the royal chasseur, drawn broadsword in his right, opens the door with his left hand. Count Wedell meets him on the threshold.

"Kept Majesty waiting," grumbled the Privy Councillor sotto voce.

"Cab broke down, Excellency," No. 103 excused himself.

"Don't let it happen again. You will stand under the chandelier facing the inner room. Attention!" commanded the chief.

And at attention, every nerve vibrating with excitement and expectancy, No. 103 stood like a statue in the Avenue of Victory, but with rather more grace, for no man living could imitate the War Lord's marble dolls without provoking murder. Wedell had gone into the inner room, the entrance of which was framed by heavy damask portières with gold lace set a jour.

"Portholes," thought No. 103, sizing up the decorations; and, keyhole artist that he is, he soon met a pair of eyes gazing at him through the apertures.

"Majesty taking a peep," he reflected. "I wonder what he thinks of the man who went back on his native Nero for filthy lucre."

Whether he thought well of him or not, the War Lord kept No. 103 standing full twenty-five minutes. If in his youth he had not had a particularly cruel drill-ground sergeant, he could not have endured the pain and fatigue.

Suddenly the portières parted: the War Lord, seated at a "diplomat's" writing-desk; Count Wedell, toying with a self-cocking six-shooter, stood at his left.

"If that thing goes off and accidentally hits me," thought No. 103, "there is a trap-door under this rug, and a winding staircase leading to a sewer, I suppose, as in the Doge's Palace." Comforting thought, but who cares for a spy?

"Approach," ordered the War Lord in a high-pitched voice. When No. 103 was within three paces of the Majesty, Wedell held up his hand.

"His Majesty wants to know all about last night," said the Privy Councillor.

"Did Herr von Este really look under the bed?" queried the War Lord, tempering the essential by the ridiculous.

"He did indeed," replied No. 103; "and I nearly betrayed my presence between the sheets watching him."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, Your Majesty; just a thought passing through my mind."

"Out with it," cried the War Lord, when No. 103 stopped short.

The agent provocateur looked appealingly at Count Wedell. "I humbly beg to be excused."

"I command you!"

"Well then, Your Majesty, it occurred to me that I ought to have planted a mark's worth of asafoetida under that bed."

Did the stern Majesty laugh? He guffawed and roared enough to split his sides – the lines between the sublime and the low are not tightly drawn in Berlin.

"This fellow has wit," said the War Lord to Udo. "When you come to think of it, asafoetida is mighty appropriate ammunition to use against the Jesuit disciple." Then, with a look to No. 103: "Proceed."

"Details and all," commanded von Wedell.

"The minutest," emphasised the War Lord.

"May it please Your Majesty, I was in that bed three hours before the parties came into the room. The Cardinal had hired Suite 18 expressly for the meeting, his lodgings being elsewhere in the hotel. He was first to arrive, and swore lustily because there was no crucifix or prie-Dieu, as ordered.

"Cursed like a trooper, eh?" cried the War Lord. "Make a note of that, Udo. When I am Lutheran pope I will visit the grand bane upon any cardinal guilty of saying naughty words."

"Your Majesty will have the All Highest hands full," remarked von Wedell. "What about Prince Max?"

"I shall take devilish good care that the Saxon idiot never achieves the red hat. Making eyes at Warsaw and a friend at the Curia! What next?" To No. 103: "Proceed."

"An impromptu altar was quickly set up, and when Herr von Este was announced – "

"What name?" interrupted the War Lord.

"Ritter von Wognin, Your Majesty."

Count von Wedell promptly explained: "One of the minor Chotek titles."

"I always said he was his wife's husband," affirmed the War Lord, with an oath. Then, to No. 103: "Well?"

"The Cardinal had taken his stand at the side of the crucifix, and when the Ritter walked in elevated his hand pronouncing the benediction, whereupon the Austrian heir dropped on his knees. The Cardinal seemed in no hurry to see him rise, but finally held out his hand, saying: 'In the name of the Holy Church I welcome thee, my son.'

"And Este kissed his hand, didn't he?" cried the War Lord.

"He certainly bent over the Cardinal's hand, and I heard a smack," replied No. 103.

"That settles it," said the War Lord; "the foot-kiss for me when I am pope of the Lutheran Church."

"May it please Your Majesty," continued No. 103, "the two gentlemen then settled down in easy chairs and engaged in a long, whispered conversation in which alleged sayings of Your Majesty were freely quoted by Herr von Este."

"Enough," interrupted the War Lord; and at a sign from Wedell No. 103 backed towards the door, which opened from outside. "You will await a possible further summons in here," said Count Wedell's secretary, ushering No. 103 into a waiting-room.

"How much has that fellow got on credit?" demanded the War Lord.

Wedell pulled out a card index drawer. "Upwards of thirteen thousand marks."

"He knows that he'll lose it to the last pfennig if he squeals?"

"The case of our man who exchanged Barlinnie Jail for the service of Sir Edward Grey brought that home with peculiar force to everybody in the Wilhelmstrasse and Königgrätzerstrasse," replied Udo.

It should be interpolated here that German spies receive only two-thirds of the bonuses accruing to them. One-third of all "extras" remain in the hands of the Government at interest, to be refunded when his spyship is honourably discharged. If he is caught and does not betray his trust, then these savings par order de mufti are paid over to his family or other heirs; if he betrays his Government, then the Government gets even with him by confiscating the spy's accumulated savings, which arrangement gives the Secret Service office a powerful hold on its employees.

"Very well, recall the millionaire-on-good-behaviour," quoth the Majesty.

No. 103 proved the possession of a marvellously retentive memory. Quoting His Highness's confidences to the Cardinal, he repeated almost word for word the War Lord's conversation with Franz, both at the Schloss and at the General Staff office.

"Any memoranda used?" demanded Wilhelm abruptly.

"None, Your Majesty."

"Did the Cardinal take notes?"

"No, Your Majesty. When Herr von Este urged him to do so, he said it was unnecessary, since he never forgot matters of importance; in fact, could recite a text verbatim after tens of years."

"Curse their stenographic memories," said the War Lord. "I hope you were careful to note what Schlauch said," he added in a stern, almost threatening voice.

"I memorised his talk to the dotlets on the i's," replied the Secret Service man, bowing low. "Quite an easy matter, for His Eminence used words sparingly —

"To conceal his thoughts, of course." This from the War Lord.

Then No. 103 read the "notes" from his mental memorandum pad. The Cardinal, it appears, laid down three rules "for the guidance of his 'dear son' and all other Catholic princes:

"I. Agreements with heretic sovereigns do not count unless they serve the interests of the Church.

"II. If the proposed Slav Empire would bring about the submission of the orthodox heretics to the Church of Rome, no amount of blood and treasure spent in so laudable a cause may be called extravagant, the sacrifice being for God Almighty.

"III. But if there should be a by-product" (our own term, the Cardinal's being too circumstantial) "a by-product in the shape of a heretic pope – pardon the blasphemous word – then Franz's ambition would be a stench in the nostrils of the Almighty, excommunication would be his fate in this world, the deepest abyss of hell in the other."

Count von Wedell, misinterpreting his master, thought "it was to laugh," but a look upon the War Lord's face caused him to change his attitude.

"Pay No. 103 five thousand marks, half in cash, half in reserve," said Wilhelm, disregarding the one-third clause for a purpose, no doubt. "I have no further commands for him at present."

Count Wedell stepped forward from the inner room, and the portières automatically closed before No. 103 had finished his obeisance.

CHAPTER XIX

BERTHA AND FRANZ

On Forbidden Ground – A Talk on Brain-Curves – Bertha is Afraid – Shades of Krupp – "Charity Covers – " – A Dramatic Exit

"Oh, Franz, tell me what it all means!"

If Bertha and the chief engineer had been real lovers, and had selected the moon for a place of rendezvous, they could not have been safer from intrusion than in the late Frederick Krupp's library with the door unlocked, for the "room sacred to His Majesty" was a sort of Bluebeard chamber into which no eye but the War Lord's and Bertha's must look.

Bertha had shown her mother a parcel of documents which Uncle Majesty had ordered her to read carefully. "I will go to the library, where I will be undisturbed," she said in her decisive tone, while the butler was serving early strawberries sent from Italy. Strawberries in January in a little Rhenish town! It reminds us that when Charles V., warrior and gourmet-gourmand, sucked an orange in winter-time, his Court was prostrate with astonishment and admiration.

And Alexis Orloff won Catherine the Great from his brother Gregory – temporarily, at least – by sending to the Semiramis of the North a plate of strawberries for the New Year. Yet nowadays any well-to-do person can indulge all the year round in the luxuries that made Charles and Catherine the envied of their Imperial class.

Bertha was in the War Lord's chair, for she felt very Olympian since she had returned from the Berlin Court, while Franz sat on the tabouretaffected by the Krupp heiress during the interviews with her guardian.

"What did Zara really mean?" repeated Bertha.

"Are you prepared to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" queried Franz.

Bertha Krupp moved uneasily in her high seat. Her mental stature had advanced rapidly under the War Lord's teachings, disguised as coaxings, and while the sound principles implanted in her bosom by a good mother were at bottom unimpaired, she was beginning to learn the subtle art of putting her conscience to sleep when occasion demanded – a touch of Machiavellism!

Just now she would have loved to shut up Franz, as she was wont to silence her mother by a word or look, though less rudely, perhaps, but her fondness for the man – though she was not at all in love with Franz – forced her to be frank with him.

"Speak as a friend to a friend," she said warmly.

"Well then – " began Franz.

Bertha covered his mouth with her hand. "A moment, please. May I tell Uncle Majesty?"

"What I have to say is no secret of mine and certainly it is not news to the War Lord. By all means tell him if you dare."

"If I dare?" echoed Bertha.

"My own words."

Franz spoke very earnestly, almost solemnly: "Will you hear me to the end, whether you like the tune or not?"

"If it relates to Zara's prophecies, I will," said Bertha. "But," she added falteringly, "you know I mustn't listen to criticism of my guardian."