KRUPP ***




Produced by Al Haines.





                           The Secret Memoirs
                            of Bertha Krupp

                  From the Papers and Diaries of Chief
                    Gouvernante Baroness D’Alteville


                                   By

                            HENRY W. FISCHER



           Author of "The Private Lives of Kaiser William II.
                  and His Consort," "Secret History of
                         the Court of Berlin,"
                                  etc.



                 _Si Krupp nobiscum, quis contra nos?_



                        CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
                London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
                                  1916




                _Copyright, 1916, by Henry W. Fischer._

     _Copyrighted in England, France, Austria, Italy, Switzerland,
        and all foreign countries having international copyright
     arrangements with the United States; also copyright ad interim
                         in the United States._

  _All rights reserved, including those of translation, Cinematograph
                rights, Dramatic rights, and so forth._




                               *CONTENTS*


CHAPTER

   1. Under the War Lord’s Thumb
   2. Weaving the Toils Round Bertha Krupp
   3. A Mother’s Reflections
   4. Bertha Krupp, War Lady, Asserts Herself
   5. How the War Lady was Cajoled
   6. Fraulein Krupp Invited to Court
   7. In the Crown Prince’s Private Room
   8. Stories of Court Life
   9. What the Maid Saw and Heard
  10. The Entangling of Archduke Franz Ferdinand
  11. The Crown Prince on a Lark
  12. The Fortune Teller sees Bertha in a Haze of Blood
  13. "We will Divide the World Between Us"
  14. Getting Even with the War Lord
  15. "Auntie Majesty" and Bertha
  16. How Franz Ferdinand was Fooled
  17. Diamond Cut Diamond
  18. A Secret Service Episode
  19. Bertha and Franz
  20. "Auntie Majesty" and her Frocks
  21. Throttling Bavaria
  22. Paying the Price
  23. How Von Bohlen was Chosen
  24. The War Lord’s Day in Essen
  25. A Royal Liar
  26. Explaining "The Day"
  27. Bertha’s Wedding Day
  28. A Foreshadowing of "Lusitaniaism"
  29. Some More Secret History
  30. Browbeating the War Lady
  31. A Great State Secret




                         *THE SECRET MEMOIRS OF
                             BERTHA KRUPP*



                _*Si Krupp nobiscum, quis contra nos?*_


                              *CHAPTER I*

                      *UNDER THE WAR LORD’S THUMB*


    The Real War Lord—Putting on the Screw—The Kaiser’s Plot
    Revealed—Disinheriting the Baroness—A Startler for the War
    Lord—Bertha to be Sole Heiress—Frederick Makes His Will—The War
    Lord Loses his Temper—A Base Suggestion


On a bright August day of 1902 the neighbourhood of Villa Huegel,
overlooking the forest of smoke-stacks, cranes, masts and other
erections that silhouette the town of Essen, was like an armed camp.
Its master, Frederick Krupp, cannon king and war promoter, while not
entitled to household troops, has an army of firemen as large as the
contingent of the mighty potentate of Reuss-Greiz-Schleiz-Lobenstein,
and this was pre-eminently the season and hour of military display.

The Krupp warriors resemble Prussian infantry in dress.  In discipline
and aggressiveness they are second to none serving under the eye of the
"All Highest," as the Kaiser fondly calls himself. Give their master a
dark look as he passes, and one or more of them will pounce upon you and
pound you to jelly before you can say Jack Robinson; reach for your
handkerchief or pencil in your back trouser-pocket, where a revolver
might be, and they will spit you on their fire-axe.

To-day Krupp firemen were everywhere.  They lined the roads, guarded
crossings and bridges, looked up at every window, sentinelled gates and
doors.  They were posted, too, in the tree-tops and on telegraph and
signal posts, while indoors, along the corridors of the villa, you met
them at every turn.  Right royal arrangement that!  Yet why at Huegel?

On this particular day Essen was alive with colour.  Hussars in green
and silver—the Düsseldorf brand—galloping round and round the villa
circuit, kept their eyes keenly alert for suspicious characters; in
Essen, indeed, every stranger is looked upon as a double-crossed
suspect.  Dragoons were there, too, from East Prussia, to watch the
hussars, for one never knows, you know.  And, of course, there were
bodyguards—white tunic and breeches, black cuirass and silver helmet,
surmounted by the "bird of poisonous glare," as Heine described the
Imperial eagle.  Many other uniforms, too—uhlans, chasseurs, mounted
infantry for the War Lord likes to strut abroad to the tune and clank of
a variety of arms.  He would have horse marines if he were not so deadly
afraid of Mr. Punch.

Before the library door of the Villa Huegel two giant cuirassiers, sabre
in hand, revolver in belt, dull men and dangerous, of the sort that
always do their duty not as they see it, but as their superior officer
sees it.

Suppose that earthling orders a death-dealing blow for anyone attempting
to enter the room under guard.  It follows, as a matter of course, that
the person is a dead man or dead woman, or maybe a dead child—militarism
rampant, but discipline triumphant!  Who cares for a corpse more or
less?

A much-bedizened personage is standing in the centre of the
high-ceilinged, wainscoted room.  A gewgawed War Lord; but how
unimposing he looks on foot and unprepared to meet the gaze of admiring
multitudes!  He is not much taller than the average grocer’s clerk, and
until Father Time sprinkled his straight, wiry hair with grey was a
decided red-pate.

The War Lord’s clothes are Berlin pattern: all straight and right
angles, like the tunics of the impossible marbles that spoil his Avenue
of Victory.  He wears jewellery of the kind the late mad King of Bavaria
used to decorate his actors with: a watch-chain thick and strong enough
to hold a two-year bull, a timepiece bulging like an alarum clock, and a
profusion—or confusion—of gold-mounted seals and medals.  But the
finishing touch: sky-blue garters, set with rosettes of diamonds and
pearls alternating.

We know his public face—stern, haughty, cast-iron, forbidding—and his
official demeanour has been brought home to us a thousand times and more
in statue and photograph, in colour and black and white, throned, on
horseback, or standing alone in Imperial self-glory under a purple
canopy—he knows how to stage-manage himself in uniform.

The London tailor who skimped his coat in front, he hates with a deadly
hatred, for padding, plenty of it, is essential to his _mise en scène_.
See him on his well-trained, high-stepping horse, and you have the ideal
camera subject: broad shoulders, prominent chest (laden with seventy-odd
medals), strong limbs, jingling spurs, bronzed face, skyscraping
moustachios and all.

But in the drawing-room, and in mufti—what a difference!  Heavy set,
somewhat short-limbed, and the face that looks strong when framed in
military cap or helmet now seems to possess only brute force.

At this moment his left hand sought the seclusion of a trouser-pocket,
while his right, studded with gems like a chorus-girl’s, sawed the air
with coarse assertiveness.

"My dear Frederick," he addressed his host, balancing himself on his
right foot, "while you are here to execute my orders, all’s well.  But
suppose something happened to you.  You are not in the best of health
and"—lowering his voice—"a careless boy.  Don’t deny," he added quickly
when Frederick Krupp ventured to protest. "Both my Roman ambassador and
our envoy at the Holy See heard about your peccadilloes in the island."
The speech, begun in a bantering tone, terminated shrilly.

The Ironmaster alternately blushed and blanched.  "I hope you do not
believe all you hear," he faltered.

"Never more than a third of what I’m told," replied the War Lord,
softening his voice; "but, even so, things must not be left too entirely
to chance."

Frederick Krupp went to the window, marking each step for the benefit of
possible listeners, then tiptoed to the great folding doors.  He opened
the off wing suddenly and looked out.  "All’s safe," he said, returning;
"and what fine brutes those outside."

"Fancy them?" laughed the War Lord jovially, for he knows how to unbend
when he wants to carry a point.  "Now to business.  We are all liable to
die almost any moment, and you, dear Frederick, are no more an exception
to the rule than I am—or those brutes."

Frederick Krupp looked uncomfortable, and to hide his embarrassment or
gain time dropped into courtly jargon.  "And what may be your Majesty’s
pleasure?"

"Make a satisfactory last will, sir—a last will guaranteeing the Krupps’
goodwill for ever and a day—likewise satisfactory dividends—for the
chief stockholder, if you please."

Frederick Krupp bowed low.  "Please?" he repeated.  "Why, I lie awake
nights planning wars for your benefit.  If there were not a Persian
Gulf, I would have invented one to pave the way for the little scrap
with England you are aching for."

"Hold your horses!" cried the War Lord. "That Bagdad railway must be
finished first. What I want is a guarantee, and a most binding
guarantee, that the Krupp works be conducted in all future as now,
according to my Imperial will and pleasure, in the interest of the
Fatherland and—our pocket," he added flippantly.

Frederick Krupp surveyed himself in the glass. "You talk as if I had one
foot in the grave," he said in the careless manner of addressing a boon
companion, or like one intimate putting things pleasant, or the reverse,
to another.  Frederick Krupp died in the odour of eccentricity.  There
was certainly something eccentric in his relations with the War Lord.
But the latter tolerates familiarity only so long as it suits him; and,
presently observing the clouds gather on his guest’s brow, Frederick
Krupp changed his tone.

"At your Majesty’s commands, I am all ears," he murmured, as, obedient
to a sign from the Emperor, he drew up an arm-chair for him.

"Sit down yourself," the Emperor ordered curtly, pointing to a tabouret.
Then, sneeringly: "Your idea was——"

"To leave everything to my wife."

The War Lord slapped his knees hard, as he always does when excited.

"So would Herr Müller and Herr Schulze," he cried, without attempting to
conceal the insult. "Her Ladyship—chief of the Krupp works—of what use
would the Baroness Marguerite be to _my_ interests?"

Mrs. Frederick Krupp was _née_ von Ende, and the War Lord, always eager
to use titles of nobility, chose to call her by her maiden name and
style.

Frederick Krupp, who, despite his irregularities, was genuinely fond of
his wife, moved uneasily on his low chair.  "Your Majesty is pleased——"

"To have his head screwed on tightly and in the right place," declared
the War Lord, bringing his fist down on a table at his elbow and making
the Chinese ivories jump.  "Now then, without further palaver, I don’t
choose to see the Baroness heiress of the Krupp works.  She shall not
control my interests, do you hear? nor those of the Fatherland."

The War Lord talked as if addressing a parcel of raw recruits.  His
withered left hand had pulled from the trouser-pocket, and was making
spasmodic attempts to clutch the lapel of his coat. He has the curious
taste to give this poor hand a liberal coating of rings, and his
enormous emeralds seemed to gleam more poisonously than usual upon the
cringing form of poor Frederick.

"Willy," gasped the Ironmaster pleadingly.

The War Lord was not to be cajoled.

"As I said, her Ladyship gets a pension. Leave her as big a share of
your fortune as you please," he added on second thought.  "Yes, the
larger the better; it will avert suspicion—I mean forestall criticism,
of course."

"But," remonstrated Frederick, in a weak way, "Marguerite and I have an
understanding."

"Understanding," scowled the War Lord, brutality written all over him as
if he were rehearsing his pretty phrase: "Those opposing me I smash."

He contemplated Frederick for a while as a big mastiff might a King
Charles before mangling and killing it.  At last he remembered there are
two ways in most things.  "Of course," he began rather soothingly,
"understandings among subjects are null and void when opposed to the
Imperial will.  Explain to Lady Marguerite with my compliments, if you
please," the last phrase emphasised three times by hand cutting the air
vertically.

Frederick Krupp, thoroughly cowed by this time, nodded assent.  This
man, used to bull-dozing Governments the world over, a terror before his
board of directors, and a demigod to his workmen, felt a mere atom with
the eyes of the War Lord flashing wrath and contempt upon his yielding
self.

"I will; but what may be your Majesty’s precise commands?" he stammered
meekly.

The War Lord perceived that his victim had become like wax under the
lash of his tongue.  He could afford, then, to be magnanimous.  "You
forget etiquette," he replied, with a half-smile; "since when is it
customary to question a majesty? Still, I am no Eulenburg" (referring to
the Grand Marshal of the palace), "and will overlook your _faux-pas_
this time.  Listen, Frederick."  He softened his speech with a "dear
Frederick," and then issued his mandate: "The Baroness eliminated——"

Herr Krupp raised his eyes supplicatingly, but the War Lord paid no
attention.  "Eliminated," he repeated, accentuating each syllable.
Then, in pitying style: "Too bad you haven’t got a son. However, the
Salic Law does not apply to commoners."

The Ironmaster made bold to show annoyance at the word.  "Commoner by my
own free will," he protested.  "Haven’t I declined Earldoms and Dukedoms
even?"

"More’s the pity that you remain plain Krupp, like a grocer or the
ashman, when you might be Prince of Essen," cried the War Lord, jumping
up.  The Ironmaster rose as well.

Courtly usage, of course, but also a measure of precaution.  He meant to
be on hand in case his august guest suffered a fall, and there is always
a possibility of that when the War Lord labours under excitement, for
his whole left side, from ear to toe, is weak and liable to collapse if
the full weight of the body is thrust suddenly upon it.  As a rule, the
War Lord remembers, but when carried away by passion, or for other
reasons loses control of himself, he is prone to forget or even fall in
a heap with no warning.  Such a _contretemps_ happened once at Count
Dohna’s, when Frederick was one of the house party, and long remained in
his memory.

Visiting at Proeckelwitz in the summer of 1891, the War Lord had deigned
to be pleased with a pair of blacks.  "Buy two more of them for a
four-in-hand, as befits the Sovereign," he said to his host.

The hint, dropped with charming German delicacy, was a command, of
course, and a year later, in June, the War Lord started for the castle
in right royal style; but he did not get far that way, since the
four-in-hand shied and bolted when the villagers burst into patriotic
song, to the waving of a thousand and one flags.  As an eye-witness put
it: The leaders rose on their hind legs, the cross pieces came loose and
began knocking against their pasterns, and off they were at a furious
rate.  Count Dohna let the reins of the runaways slip, and hung the more
heavily on to those of the shaft horses, who were trying to follow the
others.  He let the blacks run for a while but without losing control,
and as they were about to plunge into a bed of harrows he succeeded in
checking them.

Then, for a mile or so, he gave them a run on freshly ploughed ground.
After that they went steadily.

The War Lord had put his arm around his host’s shoulders when the horses
started off, and, the danger past, pressed the Count’s hand, but did not
say a word.  Then came the collapse.  He had to be helped down from his
seat, and took no notice of the greetings of the ladies awaiting him.
Leaning upon his chasseur and Adjutant Von Moltke (now Field Marshal),
he crept to his room, his face pale as death and lips compressed.

Dinner was set back an hour, but the War Lord had not recovered his
speech when, with difficulties, he put his feet under the mahogany. His
body physician, Doctor Leuthold, was sitting opposite the august person,
and upon a sign from the medical man the War Lord rose from table after
vainly trying to swallow a spoonful of soup. Nor did he come down to
breakfast, but attended luncheon, still looking pale and haggard.  Then,
for the first time, he greeted the ladies of the house, and spoke a few
words to his host; but when a forward young miss referred to the
accident he bade her keep silent by an imperious gesture, while a tremor
seemed to run through his body. He would not hear of hunting, and left
next day without having fired a shot.

Frederick Krupp, remembering Proeckelwitz, moved as near to his Imperial
guest as politeness permitted, ready to catch him in his arms if need
be, but the War Lord no sooner perceived his intention than he became
more infuriated than ever. "For Heaven’s sake no heroics, Frederick!" he
roared, sitting down again.  "Draw up a stool and listen."

"One second," pleaded the Ironmaster, "I will set the miniature
orchestrella going."  He pressed a button, and almost simultaneously a
music-box near the door, sheathed in tortoise-shell and gold bronze,
began trilling out melodies, so as to confuse, if not obscure,
conversation to possible listeners if it waxed overloud again.

The War Lord nodded.  "Not half bad.  You may send me one of those
things to put in Bülow’s office.  There are always some Italians lurking
about—to report to Madame la Princesse, I fancy—and put the W.I.R. on
the box.

"Well, let’s get back to things," he added, quickly changing his tone to
drill-ground clangour. "Madame eliminated and there being no son——"

"Your Majesty desires me to leave the business jointly to Bertha and
Barbara?" asked Krupp.

"Are there six crown princes or one?" inquired the War Lord in his turn,
with affected calmness.

"I don’t follow," said Herr Krupp.

The War Lord could hardly master his impatience. Still more raising his
voice, he demanded abruptly: "Is Prussia to be divided into six petty
Kingdoms when I die because I happen to have six sons, and a small
principality besides for my daughter?"

Herr Krupp opened his eyes wide: "Your Majesty wants me to disinherit
one of my children?"

"I want you to proclaim my godchild Bertha Crown Princess of the Kingdom
of Cannon."

"But my other daughter——"

"Bertha is _my_ goddaughter!" (with the emphasis on the "my").

"Can I ever forget the honour conferred upon my humble house?"

"I trust not," said the War Lord, who is careful not to let people
forget any small favours he may bestow.

His brain works in fits and starts, in bounds and leaps, and when he
wants a thing it jumps at once to the conclusion that his fancy is a
_fait accompli_.  Persuading Frederick had been easy with its bits of
browbeating and flashes of cajolery. Now, flushed with the triumph
gained, he launched forth the details.  "Bertha, Crown Princess, trust
me to find the right consort for her."

"She is only a child."

"The very age when she ought to be taken in hand and moulded."  The War
Lord illustrated the intended process by kneading the air with grasping
fingers, his "terrible right" alternately pushing and squeezing,
attacking, relaxing and coaxing, with the father looking on,
terror-stricken.

Such, then, was to be the fate of his little girl: a vice round her
white neck, spurs to her sides. The man before him came into the world
accoutred to ride, and seventy millions of people his cattle!

The jewels on the War Lord’s ring-laden hand flashed and threatened.
That twenty-carat ruby on his little finger meant blood, and the
emerald, linked to it, might denote the poison-tongue eager to corrupt
the childish mind into an instrument of high politics.  Diamonds stand
for innocence. There were diamonds galore.  Oh, the farce of it! Opals,
too, a rare collection, but the stone sacred to October tells at least
an honest tale—tears.

The War Lord stripped off a gold hoop with a large turquoise.  "Wear it
in remembrance of this hour, dear Frederick," he said.  "The turquoise
signifies prosperity, you know."

He walked towards one of the windows and, standing within its deep
embrasure, pointed to the towering chimneys.  "_My_ brave guardsmen," he
exulted, half to himself, "outposts of my Imperial will, avant-guard of
my seven millions of warriors; it will be great fun, old fellows, to
make you dance as I whistle!"

Then, with a broad smile to Frederick: "That being settled, the Minister
of Justice shall draw up your testament at once.  I brought him to Essen
for that.  Now, don’t look frightened, boy.  ’Last will’ does not mean
’last legs.’  You will outlive us all, I bet.  Let’s think of a Prince
Consort now."

"But, as said, Bertha is much too young," faltered Frederick.

"Herr," staccatoed the War Lord, "I already had the honour to inform you
that Bertha is my godchild—m-y g-o-d-c-h-i-l-d.  Do you hear?" he
yelled, while startled Frederick looked anxiously towards the door.

The War Lord took the hint and resumed conversational tone.  "Come now,"
he ordered, "roll call.  Some of our dear friends are still in the
marriage mart."  (Reflectively): "Too bad; Fritzie got married."
Bertha’s father shuddered at the mentioning of a certain Count, who,
though brother-in-law of a reigning Grand Duke, was prisoner Number 5429
at Siegen jail, in Rhineland, a few years later for crimes unspeakable.
In 1902, however, the dashing Colonel of Horse had not yet been publicly
disgraced, and the War Lord launched into a panegyric of his friend.
"Yes, indeed, Fritz would have made a first-class master here.  Not
overburdened with brains, but knows enough to obey orders.  No humming
and hawing for him when the War Lord has spoken. But the Suien girl
caught him.  The kind of son-in-law you want, Frederick."

Krupp shook his head.

"I respectfully beg to differ; none of these for my little girl."

"_These?_"  The War Lord again raised his voice, but dropped into a
hoarse whisper when he heard the officer _de jour_ address the sentinels
in the corridor.  "One can’t say a word without being overheard," he
grumbled; "nearer, Frederick, still closer."  As he continued speaking
he laid his massive right hand on Frederick’s knee and hissed between
his teeth: "These?  You forgot that you were referring to _my_ friends."

"I did not, most assuredly I did not," returned the Ironmaster,
disengaging himself by a swift movement and jumping up.

"You dare!" hissed the War Lord, again losing control of himself.

"I dare anything for my child!" cried Krupp, his face livid with rage;
"and I tell you to your face none of your free-living friends for my
Bertha!"

"Insolence!" roared the War Lord.  "Take a care that I don’t send you to
Spandau."

"I would endure Schlusselburg rather than suffer my child to marry one
of _these_," insisted the Ironmaster doggedly.

The War Lord gazed at the speaker for twenty or more seconds, then said
in a tone of command: "You can go.  Send in Moltke" (referring to his
adjutant, later chief of the general staff).

With the latter he remained closeted a quarter of an hour—quite a long
space of time for a person of the War Lord’s character—and it is said
that he tried to persuade the blond giant (Moltke was blond and blooming
then) that Krupp was a madman, as crazy as the Mad Hatter.  Otherwise he
would never have dared oppose his plebeian will against that of the
supreme master.  Of course not!

Of Moltke’s counter-arguments we know naught, but the War Lord’s visit
to Essen wound up with a grand banquet of sixty covers, and in the
course of it host and Imperial guest toasted each other in honeyed
words.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Less than two months later Frederick Krupp died by his own hand, and
Bertha Krupp—sixteen, homely and already prone to embonpoint—mounted the
throne of the Cannon Kings, as the War Lord had willed.

And, as he had insisted, she became automatically a pawn in his hand,
his _alter ego_ for destruction and misery.

Ever since his intimacy with Frederick, the War Lord had looked upon the
Krupp plant as the power house for the realisation of his ambition—the
conquest of the world; and to a very considerable extent Frederick had
aided and abetted his plans by employing his genius for invention and
business to commercialise war, and making it fit in with the general
scheme of high finance.

"Want a loan?" the Cannon King used to ask governments.  "May we fix it
for you?  But first contract for so many quick-firing guns."

The loan being amply secured, and the quick-firers paid for, then the
suggestion would come along: "Have some more Bleichroder or Meyer funds
on top of our latest devices in man-killers."  And so on, and so on; an
endless chain.

Yet, while so eager to provide death with new-fangled tools wholesale,
Frederick could not, or would not, divest himself from the shackles of
business honesty—and his inheritance.

He wouldn’t play tricks on customers.  The steel and work he put into
guns for, say, Russia or Chili were as flawless and expert as in the
guns bought by his Prussian Majesty.  And that was the "besetting sin of
Frederick," the damning spot on the escutcheon of their friendship, as
the War Lord viewed it.  It followed, of course, that when one hundred
of the Tsar’s Krupp guns faced one hundred Krupp guns of the Government
of Berlin, they would be an even match so far as material went—a thing
and condition in strict contradiction to the Potsdam maxim: "Always
attack with superior force."

How often the War Lord had argued with Frederick: Soft lining for enemy
howitzers; a well-concealed, patched-up flaw in the barrel of
quick-firers.

"I know no enemy, only customers," was Frederick’s invariable rejoinder,
garbed in politest language.

Customers!  Decidedly the War Lord wanted customers—plenty of them,
since, as we know, he had invested largely in Krupp stock; but to take
customers’ money was one thing, and to provide them with means for
spoiling the War Lord’s game was another.

When that pistol-shot startled Villa Huegel on November 22nd did it
portend the death-knell of what the War Lord called "Krupp
molly-coddledom"?

Even during Frederick Krupp’s lifetime—just as if his early demise had
been a foregone conclusion—technical experts of the Berlin War Office
had been instructed to make extensive experiments with steel on the
lines ordered by Wilhelm the War Lord.

The test would be the Day!




                              *CHAPTER II*

                 *WEAVING THE TOILS ROUND BERTHA KRUPP*


    "Your Play Days are Over"—The Baroness Speaks Out—In the Grip of
    the Kaiser—A Room Apart


"The makings of the true German heifer," that astute Frenchman,
Hippolyte Taine, would have said of the young girl who was busy in her
garden behind Villa Huegel on the 24th of November, 1902.  For her
blooming youth was full of the promise of maternity—broad shoulders,
budding figure, generous hands and feet, plenty of room for brains in a
good-sized head.  Pretty?  An Englishman or American would hardly have
accorded her that pleasing descriptive title, but comely and wholesome
she was, with her air of intelligence and kindly eyes.

An abominable German custom makes scarecrows out of children at a
parent’s death.  So Bertha Krupp was garbed in severest black, awkwardly
put together.  Her very petticoats, visible when she bent over her
flowers, were of sable crepe; not a bit of white or lace, though it
would have been a relief, seeing that the young woman’s complexion was
not of the best.

"Bertha—Uncle Majesty——" cried a child’s voice from outside the house,
"wants you," it added, coming nearer.

"To say good-bye?" called Bertha in return. One might have discerned an
accent of relief in the tone of her voice.

"Not yet," replied her sister, running up, as she tugged at Bertha’s
watering-can.  "Adjutant von Moltke said something about a con-con——"

"Conference, I suppose," completed the older girl.  "Will you never
learn to speak, child?"

"Uncle Majesty uses such big words," pleaded little Barbara.  "Hurry,
sister, he is waiting, and you know how crazy he gets——"

"But what have _I_ got to do with him?  Let him speak to Mamma.  Tell
them I am busy with my flowers."

"Bertha!" cried a high-pitched voice from the direction of the villa.

"Mamma," whispered the younger girl; "hurry up, now, or you will catch
it."  At the same moment one of the library windows in Villa Huegel
opened, disclosing the figure of the War Lord, accoutred as for
battle—gold lace, silver scarf, many-coloured ribbons, metal buttons and
numerals.  His well padded chest heaved under dozens of medals and
decorations, his moustachios vied with sky-scrapers.  With his
bejewelled right hand he beckoned imperiously.

"My child, my goddaughter," he said with terrible emphasis when Bertha
entered the room, breathing hard, "once and for all you must understand
that your play-days are over; at this moment you enter upon the service
of the State."  He turned abruptly to Bertha’s mother, adding in tones
of command: "You will put her into long dresses at once, Baroness.  It
isn’t fitting that the heiress of the Krupp works shows her legs like a
peasant girl."

"But I don’t want to wear long dresses, Uncle Majesty," pouted Bertha.

The War Lord took no notice of the childish protest, but looked
inquiringly at Bertha’s mother.

"Surely in matters of dress, at least, the child’s wishes should be
consulted," said the Baroness half defiantly.

"But I insist," fumed the War Lord.

"And I respectfully submit that your Majesty must not meddle with
matters of toilette in my house."

The War Lord pulled a high-backed, eagle-crowned chair of silver-gilt up
to the late Cannon King’s desk and pushed Bertha into it.  It was the
fauteuil he had once designated as "sacred to the All Highest
person"—meaning himself, of course. As a rule its gold and purple
upholstery had a white silk cover, which was removed only when the War
Lord visited the great house.

"Cardinal fashion," he said to the astonished child, without taking
notice of his hostess’s remark. "Cardinals, Bertha, are princes of the
Roman Church, and each has a throne in his house.  While the See of St.
Peter is occupied, the emblem of power is turned to the wall.  So,
heretofore, this throne of mine was obsolete while I was away from
Essen, but since your father, as his testament shows, appointed you his
successor under my guardianship, you shall have the right and privilege
to sit in my place.  A throne for the War Lady while the War Lord is
away!"

The bewildered child was slow to avail herself of the grand privilege.
Shoulders bent forward, she wriggled to the edge, hardly touching the
seat, while her eyes sought her mother’s with mute appeal.

However, the War Lord was determined to do all the talking himself.  "As
I pointed out, under Papa’s will, you are sole owner of the Krupp
business and mistress here," he declaimed, with a disdainful glance at
the child’s mother.  The Purple-born did not scruple to exult over his
victim before her daughter.

Happily, the young girl did not observe his ruthlessness, nor would she
have understood her godfather’s motive.

"Mistress here," repeated the War Lord; "responsible to no one but God’s
Anointed."

Bertha, now thoroughly frightened, burst into tears.  "Don’t cry,"
ordered the War Lord brusquely.  But Frau Krupp jumped to her feet, and,
placing herself in front of the child, exclaimed with flaming eyes:
"Such language to a little girl and on the day of her father’s burial!"

The War Lord saw that he had gone too far. "Come, now," he said
soothingly, "I meant your Uncle Majesty, of course.  Uncle has always
been kind and considerate to his little Bertha, hasn’t he?"

He asked the Baroness to be seated, while he patted Bertha’s shoulder
and hair.  "God-daughter," he said softly, "be a brave girl and listen."
And, with the child’s eyes showing increasing bewilderment every moment,
he burst into a panegyric of himself and his sublime mission on earth,
such as even his dramatic collaborators, von Wildenbruch and Captain
Lauff, had never conceived in their most toadying moments.

He was on the most elaborately intimate terms with God, and every act of
his was approved by "his" God beforehand.  "His" God had appointed him
vicar on earth, instrument of His benevolence and of His wrath.

"My child," he sermonised in accents of fanaticism, "think of the
honour, the unheard-of honour in store for you; you, the offspring of
humble parents, shall do my bidding as my God directs."

Bertha was stiff with astonishment, but the Baroness moved uneasily in
her chair and was about to speak, when the War Lord, who had paused to
observe the effect of his words, resumed:

"The Krupp business, _your_ business, my dear Bertha, is unlike any
other in the world.  All other manufacturers and merchants cater to the
material welfare of man, more or less; the Krupp works alone are
destined to traffic in human life for God’s greater glory and at His
behest.

"For fourteen years God has listened to my prayers for peace; for
fourteen long years I have beseeched Him, morning, noon and night, in
every crisis that arose throughout the world to permit me to keep my
sword sheathed—God’s sword.  But all these years myself and your father,
Bertha, have kept our powder dry, never relaxing armed preparedness,
doubling it rather, to be ready for God’s first bugle-call."

And so the blasphemous vaingloryings went on.

The War Lord strode over to the long wall of the room, dragging his
sword over the marble floor and giving his spurs and medals an extra
shake.  He pushed a button, whereupon an illuminated map of Europe shot
into a frame where, a second before, a Watteau shepherdess had
impersonated _les fêtes galantes du Roi_. Drawing the sword, he
delineated with its point the Central Empires, the Italian boot-leg, and
Turkey’s European possessions.  Then he double-crossed France, Russia
and Great Britain.  "The enemy!" he cried.  "Enemies of German
greatness, of German expansion, of German _kultur_—therefore, enemies of
the God of the Germans and of mine.

"But with your help I will smash them, pound them into a jelly, Bertha."

As if overcome by horror, the child glided from the impromptu throne of
the self-appointed _Godgeissel_ (the Lord’s scourge) to the rug, and
buried her face in her mother’s lap.

"Uncle Majesty," she sobbed, "you mean to say that I must help you make
war?  The Commandment says, ’Thou shalt not kill.’"

"But the Lord also said, ’Vengeance is mine,’" quoted her Uncle Majesty;
"and God wreaks His vengeance through me, His elect, His chosen
instrument.

"Still, these matters you will understand better as you grow older," he
continued.  "For the present remember this: under your father’s will, I
am your chief guardian, and you must obey me in everything.  While
nominally, even legally, you are sole proprietress of the Krupp works
and their numerous dependencies, you hold these properties, as a matter
of fact, in trust for me.  It follows, my child, that you must leave the
direction of the works to your Uncle Majesty and his subordinates, the
directors and business managers.  Do you agree to that?"

There was something hypnotic in the War Lord’s delivery.  As the
Baroness explained afterwards, he talked like one possessed.  Add to
this his necromantic manoeuvring, his Machiavellian gestures, his
grandly weird eloquence—inherited from an uncle who died in a
strait-jacket—small wonder he prevailed upon the grief-stricken child,
when, alternately, he threatened, cajoled and flattered.

As a matter of fact, the War Lord’s words seemed to have a peculiar
appeal to the richest girl in the world, who neither divined nor
imagined their sinister purpose.  What pierced her comprehension
appealed to a youngster’s love of independence, of shaking off mother’s
leading-strings. In the avalanche of phrases that assailed Bertha’s ears
this stood out: "Your mother doesn’t count; you are mistress in your own
right."  Very well, she would put the promise to the test.  "I don’t
quite understand," said the Cannon King’s heiress; rising from her
knees, and without looking at her parent, added, "but I leave it all to
you, Uncle Majesty—everything."

"Do you hear?" cried the War Lord, addressing Frau Krupp.

"I have heard, and Bertha will go to her room now," replied the Baroness
firmly; and though the War Lord made an impatient gesture indicating
that he meant the child to remain, she conducted her daughter to the
door, kissed her on the forehead, and let her slip out.

When she turned round she saw the War Lord in the _Godgeissel_ chair
before the desk, resting his right arm on the blotter, his left hand on
the hilt of his sword.

"Any further commands for the mistress of the house?" she queried in no
humble tones.

The War Lord, seemingly absorbed in a document he had taken up, replied
without looking at his hostess: "Send in Moltke," whereupon the Baroness
retreated backward towards the door. She was about to drop a curtsy to
signify her leave-taking, when the War Lord cried out: "One thing more,
Madame la Baronne.  From now on this room is _my_ room, and none but
myself or the Krupp heiress has the _entrée_.  My goddaughter may see my
representatives here, but no one else—no one."




                             *CHAPTER III*

                        *A MOTHER’S REFLECTIONS*


    The Baroness and Franz—The Power-Drunk War Lord—A Pawn in the
    Game—The Sweets of Power—Germany Above All—The War Lord’s Murder
    Lust—Fighting the Frankenstein—At the War Lord’s Mercy


The Baroness’s boudoir in Villa Huegel is a spacious apartment, hung in
blue and silver, the colours of her noble house.  Everything that
riches, mellowed by refinement, could command enhanced its luxurious
comfort.  In the home of Baroness Krupp are trophies of her visits to
foreign shores: cut glass, coins, bronzes and curios of all kinds.
Silver-gilt caskets hold royal presents, precious stuffs and monstrous
ornaments from German kings and kinglets—articles of jewellery for the
most part, too big for a woman of taste. All are crowned and initialled,
but few hall-marked.  Since a prince is supposed to give away the real
thing, why bother about carats?  Numerous paintings, English landscapes,
French and Italian decorative art and figures.  An English grand piano
in one corner.  Britishers prefer German makes, but the much-travelled
Baroness wouldn’t tolerate the home product.

She is seated before a spindle-legged table with a crystal top over a
velvet-lined drawer, where Madame’s royal orders and decorations
repose—crosses and stars, quadrupeds and birds of various _outré_ forms
and degrees.  Pointing to one of them bearing the name of a queen famous
for her beauty and misfortunes, she murmured: "How proud I was when he
gave it to me!  At that time I thought him chivalrous and believed him
sincere in his religious professions.  Since he intrigues to make my
little girl the accomplice of his murderous desires, never more will I
wear it."

"Master Franz desires to speak to your ladyship," said a manservant from
behind the portières covering the doorway.

"Show him up."

Franz was a distant relative who had lived much in the Krupp household
after he finished his studies at the late Frederick Krupp’s expense.  At
this time he was chief electrical engineer of the establishment,
destined for still higher honours, for experts held that the mantle of
the great Edison had descended upon Franz’s broad shoulders.  He was
like a big brother to the Krupp girls, and looked upon the Baroness as a
mother, having never known his own.

Tall and good-looking, Franz, as a rule, dressed like an Englishman of
distinction, but to-day he had chafed under the obligation of wearing
evening dress for breakfast, lunch and tea, because of the War Lord’s
presence.  Even now his nether garments belonged to the ceremonial
variety, but he wore a jacket tightly buttoned over the wide expanse of
his shirt-front.

"So it is proposed to make two kinds of steel in future," he whispered,
after closing the door and drawing the curtains.  "Has that your
approval, Frau Krupp?"

The Ironmaster’s widow heard only the first part of the sentence; she
was too amazed to listen further.

"What is that you say, Franz?"

The young man kissed the Baroness’s hand.

"Acting without your leave or consent—I thought so," he said.  "I would
have staked my life on it that you would permit no such infamy."  Seeing
the Baroness’s questioning eyes focused on his, he explained:

An hour before the War Lord left the Director-General had sent for
him—"to explain certain technical details," ran the message.  He had to
wait a considerable time in the ante-room of the conference chamber
before being admitted, and while there could not help overhearing what
was going on inside, as the War Lord was arguing in drill-ground
accents.

This was the gist of his peroration, defended with consummate sophistry:
It was a crime against the Fatherland to supply possible enemies with
arms that at one time or another might be used against the War Lord’s
Majesty.  That sort of thing—treason, to call it by its proper name—had
been permitted long enough, too long, in fact; and now that the
life-long defender of misguided business honesty had been removed by
God’s Hand—G-o-d-’s H-a-n-d—there must be an end of it. He (the War
Lord), ever on guard against the Fatherland’s enemies, had instructed
his scientists to discover a substitute for hard steel with which to
line enemy guns and armour.  These substitutes were forthwith to be
experimented with, and, if the results were satisfactory, must be
employed, instead of the real steel, whenever the War Lord so directs.

"And Frederick hardly cold in his shroud!" gasped the Baroness.

"But you," cried Franz, "you can prevent this fraud, this disgrace!  You
must, you will, I am sure of it!"

The Baroness had risen and stared vacantly into the fire.

"God punish me if I would hesitate a moment to do as honour dictates,
Franz, but Frederick Krupp left his widow bound hand and foot," she
replied bitterly.

"You mean to say that you submit to the power-drunk War Lord?  Abdicate
your sacred trust?  Make your children and your workpeople accomplices
of fraudulent practices?"

"Haven’t you heard about the stipulations which were made in your Uncle
Frederick’s last will and testament?"

"Not a word," replied Franz.

"I thought Bertha would tell you."

"I was busy all the afternoon, and then came the Director-General’s
order, which prevented me from saying good night to the children."

"Sit down then and listen," said the Baroness. "As Uncle Frederick often
told you, the War Lord has tried for years to obtain control of the
Krupp works.  In particular he was for ever preaching against the policy
of business integrity, the proudest of the Krupp inheritances; but
though my husband allowed himself to be dominated by him in many
respects, in this, the Krupp honesty, he remained adamant, partly thanks
to my advice and strenuous opposition, I dare say. Up to now the Krupps
have never played any government false, as you know."

"But, Uncle Frederick dead, the War Lord is moving heaven and earth to
flog the firm into submission."  There was suppressed rage in the tone
of the young man’s voice.

"Let me finish," demanded the Baroness. "Convinced that I would refuse
to be the tool of his ambition, the War Lord persuaded your Uncle to
ignore me as his legitimate successor, and the testament appoints Bertha
sole heir and, again ignoring me, the War Lord her guardian and
executor."

"_Gott!_" cried Franz.

The Baroness went on: "His position as supreme overlord of the Krupp
business he made perfectly clear to us."

"Us?  You mean the heads of the business?"

"I referred to the child and myself.  He talked to the directors
afterwards."  The discrowned Cannon Queen told Franz the story of the
Imperial interview.  "He is the master," she said in conclusion, "Bertha
his pawn, myself nobody."

"And we, the heads of the business, and our workmen, his slaves," added
the chief electrician gloomily.

These two people, suddenly confronted by the unexpected—a wife shorn of
her rights and wounded in her holiest maternal sentiments; an honest man
commandeered to debase his genius and become an accessory to murder most
foul—sat for a while in silence, brooding over their misfortune and the
disasters threatening mankind as a consequence.

At last the Baroness roused herself.  "And what did they want with you
at the conference, Franz?"

"I was admitted after the War Lord had left to be closeted with the
Director-General," replied the engineer, "and the directors seemed to me
extraordinarily perturbed—far more than the master’s death warrants
among equals.  Herr Braun acted as spokesman.  He said the War Lord
wanted the firm to experiment with a new steel lining for guns intended
for foreign countries.

"’Foreign countries!  What does that mean?’ I asked, as if I had not
been an involuntary listener to the War Lord’s speech.

"’Majesty’s orders—it behoves subjects to obey, not to ask questions,’
said Herr Braun, with unusual severity.  ’To the point, sir, acting upon
the War Lord’s orders to entrust the business to expert hands, we have
decided to turn over the job to you.’"

Franz stopped short, then burst out: "What am I doing, Frau Krupp?  You
just told me that you are not the head of the firm, and I am about to
reveal matters of the gravest importance confided to my keeping.  I made
a mistake—I was led away by filial reverence for my benefactor’s widow.
Pray forget what I have said."

Franz was about to withdraw, when a voice outside called: "Mamma, can I
come in?"

"You said good night once.  I thought you were in bed and asleep,
Bertha."

The door opened, and a hand rustled the portières.

"Are you alone?"

"Only Franz."

"Oh!"

Bertha’s blonde head thrust itself through the centre of the curtains,
while she paused on the threshold.  Then a naked foot in a blue velvet
slipper with a golden heel: a vision in floating white rushed in and
nestled childishly at the Baroness’s feet.

"Howdy, Franz?" said Bertha, drawing her kimono tighter over her bosom.
And to her mother: "I couldn’t sleep after what Uncle Majesty told us
to-night.  So I came down.  You are not angry, Mamma?  Don’t scold,
Mamma," she added, observing her mother’s stern face.

Frau Krupp patted the child’s head.  "Fate!" she said to Franz.
"_Voilà_, the head of the Krupp firm.  Continue."

The engineer bowed.  "With your permission, my chief," he said,
addressing Bertha.

"Anything you please, you big booby," laughed the child.  Then,
seriously: "I am your chief, indeed I am.  Think of bossing a big chap
like you and that arrogant Herr Braun, too!"  She motioned Franz to bend
down, and whispered in his ear, "Wouldn’t it be fun to sack him?"

"No nonsense, child, if you want to stay up," Frau Krupp was very much
in earnest, and to Franz she said: "Go on; I am impatient to hear the
rest."

"I was telling your mother about some business Herr Braun wants to
entrust me with," explained Franz, looking at the child.

"How very interesting," yawned Bertha; "but you can’t get me to listen.
Ah, there, I see one of Barbara’s dolls.  I will play with it till you
get through; then supper.  I didn’t eat dinner with Fraulein," she
added, looking at her mother, "and there’s such a goneness here,"
touching her abdomen.  The greatest force for destruction in the world,
yet a child to all intents and purposes!

"Proceed," said the Baroness to Franz.

"With the chief’s permission," began Franz formally; then, as if trying
to make his disclosure as indefinite as possible: "You heard about the
order from King Leopold, secured by the War-Lord’s Brussels ambassador?"

The Baroness nodded, and Bertha took her eyes momentarily from her
plaything.  "Big, big guns," she said, describing a circle in the air by
turning the doll’s arm and hand round and round; "my apanage, poor Papa
said.  Glad you reminded me.  I must tell Herr Braun about it.  All the
profits are to go to my children’s hospital."  She sat the doll astride
her knee, bobbing her up and down, then burst out laughing.  "See that
head-dress, Franz, and her gown and apron—the Belgian colours.  Looks
like a coincidence, doesn’t it?"

Bertha embraced the doll tenderly.  "Thank your King for me, Dolly.  The
more guns he orders, the better for our little children here. German
interests first," laughed Bertha, looking up.  "Uncle Majesty told me so
ever so often."

The "Germany-above-all" spirit, spelling moral and physical
ruthlessness, spoke out of the child.  The Fatherland first, second and
third; perdition for the rest of the world, if Germany’s interests be
served thereby!

Whether the heiress had an inkling of what the War Lord really intended,
it is impossible to decide; neither can there be any positive knowledge
as to the attitude she might have assumed if, perchance, she did
understand Franz’s pregnant words.

Pupil of the War Lord, firmly believing in his preachings, saturated
with his theories, and over-awed by his claims of Divine mission, his
vapourings were gospel to her, and "Germany-above-all" was one of the
commandments, even though it conflicted with all the others.

A monstrous case of _folie à deux_, "deux" standing for the German
nation.  Here we have a man decked out in ornate regimentals travelling
about his country telling four millions of men: "You must die for Me,"
and immediately each man says to his wife: "I wonder if there is a
special heaven for patriots like your husband?"

And to a certain class of persons he points out that science is but the
handmaiden of wholesale murder, and that they must employ their
God-given inventive genius, all their brains, all their time, to devise
new ways and means for killing as many men, women and children as there
are in the world outside of the German Empire.  And they do.

And to a woman he says: "You were born to suffer.  Give me your husband;
I want him for the fighting."  And she forthwith tells her man to make
one more for the shambles.

And to the golden-haired girl he says: "A truce to your vanity, off with
your locks, that I may buy more rifles; and your lover I want, too. His
manly breast will make an excellent scabbard for a French or Russian
lance."

And the golden-haired one raves that she is thrice happy to be allowed
to sacrifice her beauty and the idol of her dreams for the War Lord.

"I want your fathers," he says to a playground full of children, "and
your uncles and big brothers and cousins."  And the little ones cry:
"Hurrah! Long live the Emperor!"

"Would ye live for ever?" he queries of men between fifty and
sixty-five.  "To the barracks with you, even if you are but good for
cannon fodder."

Someone tells him of a bunch of boys playing marbles in an alley; not
one of them has finished his education.  The War Lord examines them
critically and sniffs.  "You are big enough to stop a bullet somehow,"
he allows, and they are led to slaughter.

The All Highest looks upon the earth and boasts of his winged legions of
man-killers.  He declaims that Englishmen and Frenchmen and Italians and
Belgians have turned out to fight God’s Anointed; but adds with a sly
smile they left their women at home and their brood, that he may
out-Herod Herod.  In his mind he feels the earth trembling under the
heavy tread of his armed millions and the weight of his artillery.

This Dancing Dervish of universal slaughter, this man given over to
murder-lust is the object of veneration not only of those whom he
addresses in person, because of their mistaken sense of duty and
patriotism; a whole nation, seventy millions strong, acclaim him
Saviour—Messiah of the Fatherland’s destinies.

One can understand individual sacrifice, but seventy millions of people,
every mother’s son and daughter, turning beasts of prey!  It baffles
psychological speculation.  Everywhere the "Evangelium of German
superdom," as the War Lord sees it, is loud.

Small wonder Bertha, born of man-killer stock and suckled on the breasts
of militarism, which nourished her kith and kin and their hundreds of
thousands of dependents, believes unconditionally in the doctrines
pronounced by her godfather, to her the God-head of power infinite,
omniscience incarnate!

Hence the implied rebuke to Franz: "German interests first."  After that
she returned to the nursery—her Belgian doll.

Frau Krupp looked significantly at Franz. "You were going to say——

"My orders are to experiment with the War Lord’s new formula for steel
on those guns for Liége."

Franz buried his head in his hands, elbows planted on knees, leaning
forward heavily, while the Baroness sat looking at him, her nimble mind
weighing the pros and cons.  At last she reached out a hand and touched
the young man’s shoulder.

"Franz," she said solemnly.

The young man’s head shot up and he stared at Frau Krupp as if she was a
ghost.  Answering the question in her eyes, he almost shouted, "Never!"
holding up his right hand as if under oath.

The Baroness placed his hand on Bertha’s head. "Swear that you will
stand by this child."

"I swear, with all my heart, so help me, God," pronounced Franz, with
severe emphasis.

A peculiar look came into the Baroness’s eyes, half satisfied, half
cunning, as with a sort of imperious finality she said: "It is well."
Then, turning to the child: "Bertha, run along now and tell them to
serve in the small dining-room in five minutes."

"Make it ten, Mamma, so I can put on my new _negligée_."

"All right, ten; but hurry," agreed Frau Krupp, looking at the pendule.

When the curtain had fallen behind Bertha the Baroness turned a white,
severe face upon Franz. Then, abandoning all pretence of loyalty to the
Grand War Lord, she told the terrible secrets long locked in her bosom,
secrets imparted by her late husband or gathered from his lips during
long, sleepless nights while he tossed on his pillow.

"It’s the Frankenstein we have to fight," she said, "the pitiless,
heartless, soul-less Evil One, intent upon setting the world afire
through my child’s inheritance.  The plotting has been going on ever
since the crowned monster was enthroned. Almost the first communication
he made to Frederick, as head of the Empire, was: ’Now we must bend all
energies to get ready.  And when we are, I will set my foot upon the
neck of the universe, Charlemagne redivivus!’

"Previous to that, Frederick and myself had agreed gradually to drop
cannon- and ammunition-making. The Krupps were to create, instead of
facilitating destruction.  No longer was Essen to be a place upon which
a merciful God looked with abhorrence.  Engines of death had made us
rich and powerful; henceforth the coined results of war were to be
employed to make waste land arable, to drain morasses, to dig canals, to
prosecute every peaceful endeavour promising to enhance the German
people’s chances of happiness and prosperity. The old saw of turning
swords into ploughshares was to be enacted by the firm that had made war
thrice deadly.  Then the tempter came.  ’I rely upon you, Frederick!
You are the Fatherland’s only hope, for Germany can achieve its
destinies only through blood and iron.’

"’One more supreme effort, Frederick, then the War Lord will turn
husbandman, making you manager-general of his great farm stretching from
the Arctic Circle to the Mediterranean, from the Atlantic to Siberia.’

"As you know, the War Lord is an insinuating talker," continued Frau
Krupp, "and his autocratic manner, enhanced by occasional flurries of
condescension and persuading Frederick to join in his social
relaxations.  Ah!" she cried, striking the table with her hand, "it was
these that forged the bullet which killed my husband!"

There was a shrill tone of rage and defiance in the last words.  Then
emotion mastered Frau Krupp’s strength.  She tottered, swayed, and would
have fallen had not Franz caught her.  He knew what she had suffered
through her husband’s intimacy with the War Lord and his cronies, and
shuddered.

"Mother," he said unconsciously, as her head touched his breast.  The
Baroness let it rest there a moment; here was a tower of strength, of
reserve force.

"Alas!" she continued, after a tense silence, "in the long run they
ensnared Frederick.  He succumbed to their ensnaring wiles as a foolish
man might to the flatteries of a flirt.  My counsel was no longer
sought; the promises he had made—which I had exacted in happier
days—were forgotten or denied.  The very ploughs and ploughshares we
were manufacturing then were thrown into the melting-pot for guns."

She picked up a book lying on the mantel. "’Vital Statistics of the
German Empire,’" she read aloud; "’Steady Increase of Population.’"  She
flung the volume on the hearth.  "Multiply like the Biblical sands; it
only means that Essen works the harder to put you under the sod."

Frau Krupp dropped her voice and went on in a whisper: "Do you
understand now what your threatened retirement would mean?  It would
mean that, excepting France and Great Britain, the whole of the world,
all the smaller nations, would be practically at the War Lord’s mercy,
because their guns wouldn’t shoot, their swords and lances wouldn’t
pierce.

"Such is the goal he has been striving for, the goal he wants to attain
through my little girl. ’Have them all inadequately armed, and it will
be a walk-over for German arms,’ he calculates."

"And how can I prevent the world’s debacle?"

"By fighting fire with fire.  You cannot fight the War Lord
openly—pretend obedience, fall in with his plans apparently, be an
enthusiastic faker, as far as he can see; but don’t smirch my little
girl’s business honour and submerge the world under a tidal wave of
blood by making other nations defenceless.  I have your promise, Franz?"

"It’s a vast prospect," answered the young engineer, "but I have sworn
to stand by Bertha——"

"I thank you," said the Baroness, as the portières were noisily pushed
aside and a child’s voice cried: "Supper’s ready."




                              *CHAPTER IV*

               *BERTHA KRUPP, WAR LADY, ASSERTS HERSELF*


    Science Steps In—Franz Incurs the Kaiser’s Wrath


Six months of feverish activity in the Essen works, of tests and
measuring velocities, of experimenting with ingots, hardening processes,
chilled iron castings and compound steel—who knows or cares for the
technique of murder machinery save generals of the staff?  As Mark Twain
at one time labelled a book, "There is no weather in this," so the
present author will not burden his pages with figures and statistics of
any sort.  It would be a tantalising undertaking at best, for the War
Lord himself was directing, and insisted that his every misunderstood,
mis-stated and often wholly untenable whim be immediately gratified by
the ready servility of Krupp employés—"his people."

Up to the time under discussion the Emperor Wilhelm had devoted nearly
all his energies to drill, political intrigue and uttering platitudes.
To dabble in formulary details, with nobody to dispute his opinion or
correct his errors, flattered him in the proportion as his judgment
about ordnance construction became more and more fantastic.

He was always going about with a half-dozen professors at his heels,
losing no opportunity of propounding nebulous and remarkable theories to
their startled but complaisant ears.

At the beginning of the present century the German professor was a
hundred years behind the times in his dress, manners and social habits.
The German Punch had rudely caricatured him into a new habitat, where
soap and water, clean collars, unfrayed trousers and non-Cromwellian
headgear held sway.  Up to that period, he had bathed occasionally, had
curled his hair now and then, and thereafter relapsed into that state of
slovenliness which is labelled scientific preoccupation by the German
mob, and stands in awe of learning, be it ever so badly digested and
wrongfully applied.

The War Lord had an English mother; he is a Barbarian fond of the tub.
He perceived that professors might be made useful to him.  But how make
them presentable?

A visit to England gave him the clue.

And forthwith the new order of Court dress was launched: short clothes
and pumps, silk stockings and jabot-shirts; and the official Press
rudely informed those "entitled to the uniform" that bathing was
imperative before getting into it.

The brotherhood of science furthermore received hints to patronise the
War Lord’s own barber in regard to their flowing beards.  "But Admiral
von Tirpitz wears a forked beard too," pleaded some.  "No precedent,
Herr Professor, his Excellency has Majesty’s special permit!"

With the superfluous hair, the professors likewise had to shed their
accustomed hyperbole.

"Don’t speak until spoken to."  "Answer in as few informatory words as
can be managed."  "Invariably make your answer meet the Imperial
wishes."  "Never contradict," were the Grand Master’s instructions, and
the scientific men abiding by them soon found themselves in clover,
because they were "useful," while the rest were discarded.

In particular, experts in chemistry were exploited by the War Lord.
"They must help to feed my army and people"—in case war lasts longer
than expected.  "They must invent new weapons of destruction"—for while
powder and lead are well enough in their way, they do not spell the end
of things.

German scientific men are very fond of power and have an enormous idea
of their own importance, but their notions are subject to fits of
extravagant humility if policy, or personal advantage, can be served by
Uriah Heepisms.  The keener ones in the Imperial entourage found that it
would pay to cater to the mobility in the War Lord’s ideas while there
was a certain degree of logic.  And if, perchance, he happened to drop
into incoherency or extravagance, was it the professor’s business to set
him right?  Court usage registered an emphatic negative.

Such were the beginnings of the partnership between War Lordism and the
perversion of German science into an instrument of destruction. "Science
to the rescue of the lame and halt"—an out-of-date notion.  Science
makes them by the hundreds of thousands.

The professors were powerful assistants to the War Lord in maintaining
his grip on the Krupp throat and acquiring further business concessions
from the firm; but, of course, as to realising the technical chimeras of
the War Lord’s mind with respect to new-fangled war machinery, there was
more pretence than activity, for dividends had to be considered, and the
War Lord would have been the first to make an outcry if his earnings
were reduced by the fraction of a per cent.

Franz maintained his position as chief experimenter, and, his expert
judgment in gunmaking as well as in electricity being unquestioned, he
was able openly to frustrate some of the War Lord’s most bloodthirsty
plans by proving them impracticable to the satisfaction of the board of
directors, which put a stop to their execution for the time at least.

"Uncle Majesty is very wroth with you," said Bertha to her relative one
evening, when the War Lord had returned to Berlin after one of his
unofficial visits to the Ruhr metropolis.  He was in the habit of coming
to Essen every little while now, unheralded and incog.  Likewise in
mufti; and what discarding of regimentals and associated fripperies
meant to him few people can imagine.

His uniforms are built to make him appear taller and more imposing,
while affording a ready background for all sorts of decorative
material—ribbons, scarfs, stars, crosses and medals galore.

"Wroth with me?" queried Franz.

"Yes, with you," replied the child; "and I heard him dictate a long
letter, giving you a terrible talking to.  I just signed it," added
Bertha with a satisfied grin.

"And why am I hauled over the coals?" asked Franz.

"I’m sure I don’t know," replied the child. "’One of the things little
girls cannot understand,’ said Uncle Majesty.  But I do know that you
must—I said _must_—not do it again.  I won’t let you, do you hear?  I
mean Uncle Majesty won’t."

Franz raised his hat and knocked his heels together, military fashion.
He was about to withdraw when Bertha caught him by the arm.  "You are
not angry with me, Franz?" she pleaded.

"No, my chief."

"Say ’no, _liebe_ Bertha.’"

"No, _liebe_ Bertha."

At this moment a messenger caught up with the two young people on the
road to Villa Huegel and handed Franz an official-looking envelope. The
engineer looked inquiringly at Bertha.  "May I?"

Instead of answer the Krupp heiress picked up her skirts with both hands
and ran towards the house.

Her letter informed Franz that the task of completing the Belgian guns
had been entrusted to other hands.  Secondly, that, in future,
communications about experiments ordered by the War Lord must be
addressed to the heiress direct, not to the board of directors.




                              *CHAPTER V*

                     *HOW THE WAR LADY WAS CAJOLED*


    An Intoxication of Vanity—Barbara’s Plain Words—A Shameful
    Memory


    The Imperial Chief-Court-and-House Marshal, Count Eulenburg, has
    the honour to command Fraulein Bertha Krupp to attend upon their
    Imperial and Royal Majesties, His Majesty the Emperor and King,
    and Her Majesty the Empress and Queen, during the Christmas and
    New Year’s festivities at the Schloss, Berlin.

    A royal equipage will await Fraulein Krupp’s pleasure at the
    station, meeting the early morning train of December 22nd.

    _Dress_: Silks, Velvets and Laces.

    _Attendance_: Wardrobe mistress and maid; A footman.


The invitation, copperplated on an immense sheet of rather cheap paper
and sent through the mail free, created much excitement in Villa Huegel,
the more so as it was wholly unexpected, the War Lord never having
intimated that an honour of that kind was in store for his godchild.

In the meantime Bertha had risen to the dignity of opening her own
letters and using her discretion as to divulging their contents, or not,
as she saw fit, or rather as the War Lord saw fit.  This was strictly
opposed to native custom; but isn’t the King above the law?  And certain
reports, such as those ordered to be addressed to Bertha direct—Franz’s
for instance—All-Highest wouldn’t have communicated to any save himself,
not even to Frau Krupp.  Hence his command that the Krupp heiress keep
her own counsel in regard to her correspondence.

Bertha broke the great seal of the Court Marshal’s office and her eyes
became luminous as she read the printed words and angular script.  She
sat staring at the latter for a minute or two, while the Baroness,
chafing under her impotency, pretended to be busy with an orange.
Finally Barbara tiptoed behind her sister’s chair and looked over her
shoulder.  The fourteen-year-old girl being well up in Court lore—having
seen dozens of such letters addressed to her late father—applied herself
to the essentials, skipping the merely decorative lines.

"Christmas and New Year’s festivities at the _Schloss_, Berlin," she
read aloud.  Then higher up: "Fraulein Bertha Krupp."

"Oh, Mamma!" she cried, "we are not invited, you and I.  Isn’t that mean
of Uncle Majesty?"  She stamped her foot.  "But he shan’t kiss me when
he comes again—see if I let him kiss me."

"Hold your tongue, naughty child."

Bertha spoke with an air of unwonted authority.  She folded up her
letter.

"Just see how high and mighty we are!" mimicked Barbara.  "’Naughty
child,’ and what are you?  I shouldn’t wonder if Uncle Majesty spanked
you sometimes, when you are alone with him; you always come away full of
humility to him and of arro—arro—" (she couldn’t find the word) "the
other thing to us—to Mamma and me, I mean."

The Baroness put out her arm as if she expected the children to resort
to fisticuffs.  "Barbara," she called half pleadingly.

"She will go to her room," insisted Bertha, ringing.  The butler
responded so promptly that there was no doubt he had been listening
behind the portières.

"Fraulein Barbara’s governess," Bertha ordered.  And as the man was
going out: "My secretary shall report at once in my council room."

"Are you mad?" cried Frau Krupp, when the curtains had dropped behind
the servant.  Bertha seemed so unlike herself—unlike what her child
ought to be.

The Krupp heiress disdained to answer.

"Since I am to be their Imperial and Royal Majesties’ guest, I must
prepare for the honour," she deigned after a little while; "in half an
hour I’ll leave for Cologne.  You may accompany me, if you like,
Mother."

The Baroness grew white under the lash of Bertha’s patronising tone.
"You shall not go," she said hotly.

"If you will come to the council room you can see in black and white my
authority to go where and when I please," replied Bertha, going out.

Barbara and her mother looked at each other in blank amazement, the
child not understanding, the mother understanding but too well.  Bertha
was lost to her; the supreme egotist had gained a strangle-hold on her
flesh and blood.

With the strange intuition that often moves children to do the right
thing at the right time when grown-ups are at their wits’ end, Barbara
seemed to divine what passed in her mother’s mind and, burying her face
in the Baroness’s lap, she sobbed out convulsively words of consolation,
of endearment and unbounded affection.  Frau Krupp bent over the child’s
head and kissed her again and again.  "My little girl, my Barbara, won’t
discard Mother, will she?" she said in broken tones.

"Not for ten thousand Uncle Majesties," cried Barbara fiercely; and, as
if the words had freed her from a spell, she rose of a sudden and
planted herself in front of Frau Krupp.

"—— Uncle Majesty," she said, clenching her little fists.

Then, overcome by her breach of the conventions, she ran out of the room
and into the arms of her governess.

Frau Krupp would not have had the heart to scold Barbara even if she had
not run away.  "—— him!"—her own sentiments.  With such reflections she
leaned back in her great arm-chair, undecided whether she should follow
Bertha to the council room or not.  Her motherly dignity said "No,"
while anxiety for her child urged her to go to her.

"To think of him playing the bully in my own house," she deliberated;
"the coward, setting a child against her mother!  But I know what it’s
done for.  He wants her like wax in his hand—the hand getting ready to
choke the world into submission."

The butler entered with soft step.

"Fraulein begs to say that she will leave for Cologne at 10.30 sharp,
and she desires your ladyship to get ready."

"Thank you, my maid shall lay out the new black silk costume.  Did you
order the horses?"

"Fraulein’s secretary is attending to everything," said the butler in a
hurt voice.  "I don’t know by what authority he assumes my duties," he
added.

"He shall not do so again, Christian," promised the Baroness.


Three hours later Frau Krupp and Bertha were going the rounds of
Cologne’s most exclusive shops.  The Hochstrasse is too narrow to permit
the use of a carriage; the ladies were followed, then, by a train of
commissionaires laden with boxes, for Bertha was buying everything in
the line of frocks, costumes and millinery that was pretty and
expensive.  Consult her mother?  Not a bit of it.  The Court Marshal’s
instructions were silk, velvet, laces; nothing else mattered.

The shopkeepers, of course, knew Frau Krupp; they had known Bertha
familiarly ever since she was in short frocks.  The girl of seventeen
had blossomed into the richest heiress of the world, yet it would have
been almost indecent not to consider the elder woman first.

So the best chair was pushed forward for the Baroness, and man-milliners
and _mannequins_ fell over each other trying to win her applause for the
goods offered.  The widow of the Ironmaster smiled and talked vaguely
about their merits, but announced that Bertha was to do her own
choosing.

Bertha went about her task like an inexperienced country lass suddenly
fallen into a pot of money.  The girl seemed to be working under a sense
of assertiveness, tempered by responsibility to a higher power.  That
higher power regarded her mother of no consequence.  Though of a
naturally dutiful and kindly nature, Bertha assumed an air of
independence unbecoming to so young a woman.

Indeed her want of respect was of a piece with her "Uncle Majesty’s"
behaviour in a little Italian town, when his father lay dying there.
The War Lord, then a junior Prince, had crossed the Alps as the
representative of his grandsire, head of the State, and instantly
presumed to lord over his mother, who was the Princess Royal of an
Empire, compared with which his own patrimony is a petty _Seigneurie_.

He arrived on a Saturday night, and at once ordered divine service for
seven o’clock next morning, an hour suiting his restlessness and most
unsuited to his parent, worn out with night vigils and anxieties.

However, to humour him, and also to gain more time to spend with her
ailing husband, the Imperial Mother acquiesced in the arrangement; but
imagine her surprise when in the morning she learned at the last moment
that, at her son’s behest, the House Marshal had not provided carriages
as usual, and that she was expected to walk three-quarters of a mile to
the chapel.

Meanwhile the official procession of church-goers had started.  At the
head a platoon of cuirassiers, followed by the Prince’s Marshal and
staff.  Next, his adjutants and a deputation of officers from his
regiment; his personal servants in gala livery; finally, himself,
walking alone, the observed of all observers.

The father’s own household was commanded to fall behind.  So were his
mother and sisters; the Prince was not at all interested in them.  His
Royal Mother might lean on the arm of a footman for all he cared.

Here we have an exaggeration of the most repulsive traits of egotism,
self-indulgence, callousness, coarseness, cruelty and deceitfulness,
for, as intimated, Wilhelm had been careful to keep his parent in
ignorance of the affront to be put upon her.

Small wonder that a person so constituted, having vested himself with
full charge of a girl’s soul and mind as she approached mental and
physical puberty, upset her filial equilibrium, while her actions
reflected the impress of his own arrogance.




                              *CHAPTER VI*

                   *FRAULEIN KRUPP INVITED TO COURT*


    The Virtue of a Defect—Bertha’s Reception—A Disappointment


There is a streak of malignity in the best of women.  Maybe the younger
girl has nothing but praise for another a few years her senior, but she
will add that naturally "age" inspires respect. Helen has the most
beauteous eyes, the daintiest figure, the most transparent complexion,
the softest colour, the most exquisite feet, the sweetest smile and the
most delightful air of superiority, and when her friend tenders her a
box at the Play she will invite some girl conspicuously deficient in
most of these excellences—human nature, or just plain, ordinary devilry.
So Bertha’s mother took a sort of grim satisfaction in the poor taste
Bertha displayed in selecting her Court gowns.

"He taught her to ignore her mother even in matters of dress; serves him
right if her appearance jars on his sense of beauty," she said to
herself more than once when superintending the packing of Bertha’s many
trunks.

The Baroness had never visited the Berlin Court, and her conception of
its splendours resided in her own imagination.

As a matter of fact, the Berlin Court is the home of bad taste; plenty
of fine shoulders, but draped with ugly and inappropriate material. Some
few _petite_ feet against an overwhelming majority too large and
clumsily shod.  Some fine arms and hands, since such are subjects of the
War-Lord’s appreciation, but faces broad, plain and uninteresting.

The taste of a man who allows his wife to keep a bow-legged attendant is
necessarily deplorable; a king permitting that sort of thing, despite
prevailing fashions, is inexcusable.

An anecdote in point.

When, in the ’nineties, the Medical Congress sat in Berlin, the learned
gentlemen were commanded to a reception at the Palace, and in their
honour the whole contingent of Court beauties was put on exhibition.

"Did you ever see an uglier lot of women?" asked a Russian professor
afterwards, addressing a table full of colleagues.  All shook their
heads sadly, depressed by the remembrance of what they had witnessed.

Into this _milieu_ of hallowed ugliness and organised _ennui_ dropped
the Krupp heiress like a pink-cheeked apple among a lot of windfalls.

As we know, she was not pretty from the stand-point of the
English-speaking races.  Her complexion was good, but it lacked the
Scottish maid’s transparency; her hair was fair to look upon, but there
are a thousand English girls travelling on the Underground daily whose
glossy tresses are to be preferred; her figure was a little too full,
like that of Jerome Napoleon’s Queen, Catherine of Würtemberg, whose
finely chiselled bosoms scandalised the Tuileries when she was scarcely
sixteen.  She had the heavy gait of the German woman, and the vocabulary
of them all: "_Oh Himmel_," "_Ach Gott_," "_Verdammt_," and so forth, a
dreadful inheritance, which even the "Semiramis of the North" could not
shake off after fifty and more years’ residence in Imperial Russia.


Her Majesty’s maid of honour, Countess von Bassewitz, went to the
station with Count Keller, a minor gold stick, to receive and welcome
Bertha. Bassewitz was young and pretty—"the only happy isle in an ocean
of inelegancy," as Duke Gonthier of Schleswig used to say.  Her sole
perceptible defect was indifferent hands, but, strange to say, this very
blemish got her the position at Court.

The War Lord had declared that he wouldn’t have more of the "hideous
baggage" (meaning Her Majesty’s ladies) that "made his house a
nightmare," and that the next Dame du Palais to be appointed was to be
good-looking, or must wear a bell, so that he could keep out of her way.
His Queen, who regards all women through the jaundiced lorgnette of
jealousy, was in despair.  In her mind’s eye she saw the Schloss peopled
with Pompadours, Du Barrys and Dianes de Poitiers.

The War Lord had instructed the Court Marshal to demand photographs of
applicants for the vacant post, and Countess von Bassewitz’s he
considered the most promising.  "Wire her to report to-morrow morning at
eight," he ordered.  She arrived while the War Lord was busy lecturing
his Council of Ministers on international law, and Her Majesty saw the
candidate first.  She couldn’t help admitting to herself that Ina was
comely in the extreme, and that it would require a vast deal of intrigue
to induce her husband not to appoint the young girl forthwith.  Then a
happy thought struck her.  "You may remove your gloves," she said
condescendingly.

Countess Ina blushed and grew pale in turn; conscious of her weak point,
she was afraid it would work her undoing.

But, instead, Her Majesty smiled benignly upon those unlovely hands.

"His Majesty!" announced the valet de chambre.

"Be gloved, my child; hurry."

The War Lord didn’t know what to make of it when "Dona" approved of his
selection.

"She is mysteriously confiding," he said to his crony, Maxchen (the
Prince of Fürstenberg).  But he changed his mind when, a week or two
later, he had induced Ina to take off her gloves in his presence.

The War Lord had instructed Bassewitz and Keller to treat Bertha "like a
raw egg," saying: "Her income is bigger per minute than that of all you
Prussian Junkers per annum"—a gratuitous slap, the more ungenerous since
the old Kings of Prussia gobbled up a goodly part of their landed
possessions, as Bismarck once pointed out to Frederick William IV.

Berlin pomp and circumstance!  Three flags, paper flowers on lanterns, a
much-worn red carpet leading from the spot where Bertha’s saloon
carriage was to draw up to the royal reception room in the station.

As Bertha, though Grand-Lady-Armouress-of-the-World, has no place in the
Army List, she must be content with walking through lines of royal
footmen in black and silver, on which account the War Lord sincerely
pitied the girl.  "Twenty marks for a precedent to endow her with a
uniform," but even the obsequious Eulenburg failed to discover an
excuse.

Inside the Royal waiting-room: red-plush furniture, with covers removed,
in garish glory; a bouquet of flowers from the Potsdam hothouses; a
silver teapot steaming; on a silver platter four bits of pastry, one for
each person and one over to show that we are not at all niggardly—oh,
dear, no!

The stationmaster enters in some kind of uniform, a cocked and plumed
hat above a red face, toy sword on thigh.  "The train is about to draw
into the station, Herr Graf, and may it please Her Ladyship."

Countess von Bassewitz starts for the door. "One moment, pray,"
admonishes gold stick, "the noblesse doesn’t run its feet off to greet a
commoner even if she is laden with money."

Courtiers suit their vocabulary to their lord and master.  Countess
Bassewitz is young and hearty. Never before had she reflected on the sad
fact that Bertha lacked birth, but now that a gold stick had mentioned
it, a mere maid of honour must needs bow to superior judgment.

So the richest girl in the world was left standing in the doorway of her
saloon carriage for a good half-minute before their Majesties’ titled
servants deigned to approach.  "Will take some of the purse-pride out of
her," observed Count Keller.

Then, hat in hand and held aloft, three bows, well measured, not too
low, for high-born personages’ privileges must not be encroached upon.

"Aham, Aham" (several courtly grunts, supposed to be exquisitely
_recherché_), "Fraulein Krupp, I have the honour—Count Keller—Countess
von Bassewitz, dame to Her Majesty.  Had a pleasant journey I hope,"
delivered in nasal accents.  In Germany, you must know, it is considered
most aristocratic to trumpet one’s speech through the nose after the
fashion of bad French tenors chanting arias.

Countess von Bassewitz, amiable and enthusiastic, spouted genuine
civilities.  "Fraulein looks charming!" "What a pretty frock!" "I will
show you all around the shops," and more compliments and promises of
that kind.

Childlike, Bertha had expected a coach-and-four. Another disappointment!
The carriage at the royal entrance was of the most ordinary kind—a
landau and pair of blacks, such as are driven about Berlin by the dozen.

"If you please," said Count Keller, bowing her into the coach.  She
planted herself boldly in the right-hand corner, facing the horses.
Bassewitz looked horror-stricken at the heiress’s cool assumption of the
gold stick’s place, and to smooth him over attempted to take the rear
seat; but Bertha pulled her to her side.  "Don’t leave me," she
whispered, with a look upon the ruffled face of the Count, who marvelled
that there was no earthquake or rain of meteors because he was obliged
to ride backwards, with a "mechanic’s daughter" in the seat of honour.




                             *CHAPTER VII*

                  *IN THE CROWN PRINCE’S PRIVATE ROOM*


    A Talk with the Crown Prince—Matrimonial Affairs—Bertha
    Discussed—The Empress and Her Sons


The War Lord had not taken any notice of Frederick the Great’s
injunction against "useless beggar princes."  At the time of Bertha’s
visit six of them, ranging from twenty-one to thirteen years of age,
were roaming the palace, and there was a little girl of eleven besides.
Only the eldest boy was provided for, by the Crown Prince’s Endowment
Fund; the rest were booked to live by the grace of their father’s
munificence and such moneys as could be squeezed out of the public in
the shape of military and administrative perquisites, unless they
contracted advantageous marriages; for while the Prussian allows himself
to be heavily taxed for the Civil List, that jolly institution, grants
for His Majesty’s sisters, cousins and aunts has no place in his
catalogue of loyalty.

Talking one day to his heir, the War Lord broached the subject of a
money-marriage.

"But mother didn’t have any money," the _bête noire_, Crown Prince
William, had the temerity to interpose.

"No cash, it’s true; but our marriage quasi-legitimatised our
acquisition of Schleswig-Holstein, and those provinces are worth
something."

"Perhaps I had better marry Alexandra or Olga Cumberland," suggested
young William, "so that the possession of Hanover can no longer be
disputed.  These girls have coin besides."

"Don’t speak of them—there are reasons."

"Or a Hesse girl of the Electoral Branch."

"And turn Catholic like Princess Anna," cried the War Lord furiously.
"Shut up about that Danish baggage.  I myself will get you a wife. Trust
father to find you the _comme il faut_ wife—_comme il faut_ in every
respect: politics, family, religion and personal attractiveness, for we
want no ugly women in our family."

The Crown Prince opened his mouth for a pert reply, but William
forestalled him by an imperious gesture.

"I am preparing a message for the Ministerial Council."

In the evening William invited his younger brothers—Eitel, Albert,
Augustus and Oscar—to his rooms, providing a bottle of beer and two
cigarettes per head.  Having attained his majority and consequently
succeeded to the Dukedom of Oels, the Brunswick inheritance, he might
have offered the boys a real treat, champagne and tobacco _ad lib._, but
such would have been against Prussian tradition, which stands for
parsimony at home and display where it spells cheap glory.

"Joachim wanted to be of the party," said Augustus.

"And tell Mamma all—not if I know myself. It’s time the kid was in bed
anyhow," said the Crown Prince with fine scorn, for Joachim was only
thirteen years old at the time.

"He will tell all the same," suggested Albert.

"And will get a thrashing for his pains. Besides, I shall withdraw my
allowance of three marks per week.  Tell him so; that will settle the
mamma-child."

"He shall have it straight from the shoulder; you can rely on that, Duke
of Oels," said Eitel.

"Oels," repeated Eitel, "why didn’t you inherit Sibyllenort too?  The
idea, giving Sibyllenort to those sanctimonious Saxons."

"Rotten, to be sure.  But old William was eccentric, you know, like his
brother, the Diamond Duke," said the Crown Prince.

"The Diamond Duke; wasn’t he the chap who made some Swiss town erect him
a monument, omitting the proviso that it must not tumble down?" asked
Albert, who sets up as a scholar.

"Precisely so, and the monument is dust."

Prince William shook with laughter.  "But that’s not the question before
the house."  Willy assumed the oratorical pose favoured by Herr
Liebknecht, the Socialist.  "Boys," he continued, actually using the
German equivalent for the familiar term, "what do you think?  Father
presumed to find me a wife—me!"

He repeated the personal pronoun three or four times with increasing
emphasis, while beating the board with his clenched fist—a very good
imitation of the War Lord himself.

"I am not beholden to him financially like you, not at all," cried the
Crown Prince.  "He can keep his miserable fifteen thousand thalers per
annum.

"No," he added quickly, after reflection; "it will be the greater
punishment to take his money."

The Crown Prince continued: "And if father dares propose wife-finding
for _me_, what will he do to you, boys?  If he has his way, you won’t
marry the girl of your choice, but some political or military
possibility.  There is only one way to prevent it," insisted the Crown
Prince.  "We must all stand together, declaring our firm determination
to do our own wooing without interference from father.  He will plead
politics, interests of the Fatherland.  But for my part, I won’t have
father impose a wife on me, even if the alliance gained us half of
Africa or Persia."

"And I won’t marry a Schleswig," said Eitel.

"Nor I a Lippe, no matter how much Aunt Vicky cracks up Adolph’s
family."

"Now then, all together," declaimed the Crown Prince.  "We, Princes
Wilhelm, Eitel, Albert, Augustus and Oscar of Prussia, solemnly swear
not to have wives imposed upon us for reasons of State or politics,
father’s threats, entreaties and personal interests notwithstanding."

The boys repeated the impromptu troth word for word.  "Shake on that,"
said Wilhelm, holding out his hand.  And the agreement was so ratified.
Then another round of beer on the Duke of Oels.

As the Princes were draining their _Seidels_—conspicuous for the emblem
of the Borussia Students’ Club of Bonn University on the cover—a low
whistle was heard outside.

"The mater," whispered Oscar.

"Push the _Seidels_ into the centre," commanded the Crown Prince,
helping vigorously. He pushed a concealed button and the centre of the
table with its contents disappeared through an opening in the floor,
while another set with glasses of lemonade and cakes shot into its
place, the floor likewise filling up again.

The Princes were petrified with amazement. "Duplicate of the Barbarina
_table de confiance_," explained the big brother; "had it secretly
copied and installed without my Grand Master being the wiser."

This sort of table was invented by Frederick the Great for _tête-à-tête_
confidences with Barbarina, the famous Italian beauty.

The sight of the lemonade made the Empress radiant.  "And I had been
told that you were up to all sorts of tricks," she said apologetically.
And to the Crown Prince: "I am so glad you are setting your younger
brothers a good example."

"Always, mother, always," vowed Wilhelm. "Believe me, if these boys were
as abstemious as I, they would save fortunes out of their lieutenant’s
allowance."

"I came to prepare you for our visitor, Fraulein Bertha Krupp," began
the Empress.

"A mere kid, isn’t she?" cried Eitel in his most blasé air.

"Don’t let your father hear that," said the Empress severely; and again
addressing the Crown Prince, she continued: "She is quite a young lady,
well educated and excellently well brought up. Father wants us all to be
particularly nice to his ward—treat her as one of the family."

"I say, mother," interrupted Eitel, "is there to be anything in the way
of a matrimonial alliance between a Hohenzollern and the granddaughter
of the Essen blacksmith?  If so, mark me for the sacrifice.  Judged by
her photos, Bertha is a bonnie girl, with plenty of life; wouldn’t I
have a thousand and one uses for her money.  To begin with, I would buy
myself a hundred saddle horses and a gold wrist-watch, such as English
officers wear, also a yacht."

"Not a word about _mésalliance_!"  The Empress had grown red in the
face, and Eitel made haste to apologise.  Putting his arm around his
mother’s shoulders, he kissed her on the cheek and pleaded: "Mother,
fancy his Royal Highness, Prince Eitel Frederick of Prussia, marrying
anyone not of the blood royal!  Of course I was joking. Just tell us,
Willy and me, what ought to be done about that little commoner due
to-morrow, and big brother and I will see to it that your commands are
obeyed to the letter."  This with a threatening look upon the younger
boys.

"I thought father’s injunction to treat her like one of the family would
suffice.  It means that you must not let her see the gulf between such
as she is and Royalty.  Show her the sights, but don’t boast of anything
we’ve got.  Father says she can duplicate the Schloss and Neues Palais,
all our palaces with all they contain, without considerable damage to
her purse."

"But if none of us is going to marry the little-big gold mine, and as
papa is her guardian and can do as he likes with Bertha, what’s the use
of truckling to her?" asked Augustus, who has a logical mind.

The Empress who, as a rule, is not good at repartee, immediately replied
as if she had foreseen the question.  As a matter of fact, the War Lord
had thoroughly coached her in what to say.

"Augustus," she replied, "of course your father’s will is law with
Bertha as with everybody else; but in this case he would rather coax
than otherwise, for in a few years, you see, she will attain her
majority, and might insist upon taking the bit between her teeth, if in
the interval she had been driven too hard."

"Eminently correct," said the Crown Prince. "I endorse every word you
say, Mother, and if these youngsters don’t want to understand they
needn’t.  They will be made to do as you suggest."




                             *CHAPTER VIII*

                        *STORIES OF COURT LIFE*


    Musical Honours for Bertha—Bertha in a Temper—Luncheon at
    Court—A Tantalizing Procedure—A British Experience


"Call out the guards when Fraulein Krupp drives up," ’phoned the War
Lord to the officer _du jour_ from the Council Room between writing a
treatise on a scrap-of-paper policy and making an outline of his speech,
"An Appeal to Royalism," later delivered at Königsberg.

To have fifty men under a lieutenant exercise their feet on a given spot
to the tune of fife and drum for the benefit of a person not born to the
purple seems to William the highest honour conferable, a delusion bred
by militarism.  In the same spirit, the War Lord of Bismarck’s time sent
his Chancellor the patent of lieutenant-general. "That won’t buy me a
postage stamp," remarked Bismarck.

The Iron One would have preferred a pipe of tobacco, while his War Lord
went about for three days patting himself on the back for his act of
generosity and telling everybody within reach of the good fortune which,
thanks to his grace, had befallen Bismarck, "really a mere civilian."

Bertha was too young to see the absurdity of the gratuitous manoeuvre,
"the sausage intended to knock the side of bacon off the hook," as they
say in Hamburg.  It cost the War Lord nothing, made healthy exercise for
the soldiers, and Bertha, still a child in experience and mode of
thought, was impressed when Count Keller, pricking up his ears at the
sound of the drum like an old army horse in a tinker’s cart, shot out of
his seat, raised his hat and bowed low.

"Signal honour, upon word, Fraulein; unprecedented—almost," he added in
an undertone.

And Countess von Bassewitz, rolling her eyes in loyal ecstasy, squeezed
Bertha’s arm.  "Majesty must be exceeding fond of his godchild to treat
you like an equal—almost," she too added.

Drum and fife still made for ear-splitting discord when Count Keller
handed Bertha out of the carriage.  His lordship, by the way, was now
congratulating himself on having been deprived of the seat of honour.
Small doubt, if he had taken it, it would have been reported to the War
Lord, and Majesty, bent on showering Royal honours on the commoner,
would have been furious.

Two lackeys at the door, more at the bottom of the stairs, still more on
the first landing—men-servants seem to be the only commodity lavishly
provided at the Berlin Court.

"_Kammerherr_, the Noble Lord von ——" (mentioning some Masurian village)
"commanded to the sublime honour—Fraulein Krupp’s service" (long
intervals between half-sentences to show that the speaker was really a
Simon-pure Prussian aristocrat) "beg to submit—with Fraulein’s
permission—I will conduct Fraulein to her apartments."

Bertha did not understand half the titled personage trumpeted in nasal
cacophony, but a word or two from little Bassewitz explained.  Then
ceremonious leave-taking, as if it was for years; assurances of
"unexampled pleasure experienced," of "more in store," and "Majesty is
so graciously fond of Fraulein—she ought to be so happy"; in fact, there
wasn’t a girl "in the wide, wide world so favoured," and more polite
fiction of the sort.

Up two flights of stairs; corridor thinly and shiningly carpeted;
electric bulbs few and far between.  Ante-room, saloon and bedchamber.
In the first threadbare, red plush furniture.  The bedchamber was hung
in cretonne of doubtful freshness.

"I trust Fraulein’s slightest wishes are anticipated.  Princess von
Itzenplitz last had these apartments, and was graciously pleased to
express her highest satisfaction," boasted the _kammerherr_.

Her Grace of Itzenplitz may have done so, but the richest girl in the
world was not inclined to put up with such third-class hotel
accommodation!

When the _kammerherr_ had bowed himself out Bertha sat down on the edge
of the bed and had a good cry.  Received like a princess, and housed
like a charwoman!  But she wasn’t going to stand it, not she, Bertha
Krupp.

Her assertiveness, newly acquired, but all the stronger for that, made
her give a vicious pull to the bell-rope.  She hardly noticed that it
came off in her hand when a lackey, scenting baksheesh, responded.

"My servants, quick!" she ordered.

"Beg Fraulein’s pardon, they haven’t yet arrived from the station."

"Didn’t Count Keller provide a conveyance for them?" she demanded
peremptorily, hoping that her words would reach that worthy.  "They must
be sent for instantly."

There were sounds of carriage wheels in the courtyard below.

"Wait," cried Bertha; "there they are at last!"  She handed the servant
a small gold coin. "For the driver; let him keep the change."

The footman withdrew with a broad smile.  No doubt he robbed the cabman
of half the generous tip.

Torrents of "Ohs!" and "_Ach Gotts!_" when the Essen contingent came in.
They had waited more than half an hour for the expected royal carriage,
and then in despair took the only public vehicle available.

Bertha’s tirewoman inspected the apartment while giving vent to her
outraged feelings. "Darling Fraulein can never sleep in that bed.  It’s
as hard as rocks."

"I know," said Bertha.  "But what is to be done?"

"I will send Fritz to fetch in the car your own bed, all except the
frame," decided the tirewoman after reflection.

"But wouldn’t that be an insult to my hosts?" Bertha asked.

"Rubbish!  The late Queen Victoria always carried her bed along, even
when she came to visit her own daughter in Berlin.  Besides, we can
plead doctor’s orders," said Frau Martha; and when the heiress still
seemed doubtful she added: "On my own responsibility, of course; you
don’t know anything about it.  The Baroness will back me up, I’m sure."

The Krupp footman was accordingly dispatched, and returned two hours
later with the bed-furnishings.

Meanwhile Bertha, all in white silk—according to the Court Marshal’s
command—was waiting upon Her Majesty, who fondly kissed her and inquired
most affably after her mother—a regular set of questions afterwards
repeated by the War Lord, all his sons, and daughter.  They are not very
original, these Hohenzollerns.

The Krupp heiress, who, as intimated, was first inclined to be rather
proud that the guards were called out in her honour, loathed herself for
that weakness ten minutes after penetrating the Imperial circle, for the
incessant reference about that piece of pomp made by the royal family
and their titled attendants was simply maddening. "Unheard-of honour";
"Must remember it to the end of your days"; "Most unique spectacle in
Europe"; "How thoughtful of Majesty"; "Too bad madame, your mother,
didn’t witness it," were among the least stupid comments assailing
Bertha’s ears on all sides.  The War Lord himself went into raptures of
delight, being as pleased with his surprise, as he called it, as a
schoolboy with a new top, and then forestalled possible further
speculations on the matter of his dispensations of honour by announcing
that, in honour of Bertha, he would partake of the family luncheon.

More effusions of delight, more congratulations showered on Bertha: "He
must love his godchild very dearly"; "He wouldn’t have done that for the
Emperor of China." ...

Luncheon at Court!  Bertha had pictured to herself a grand function:
courtiers in gold lace, swords at their side; ladies in grand toilettes;
swarms of servants in showy liveries; a dozen or more courses, under the
direction of the Lord Steward of the Household; golden dinner service à
la American multi-millionaire; "heavenly music," and so forth.

Alas!  And Bertha had brought her appetite along, the appetite of a
growing, young, country lass from a food-worshipping household!

The ladies were dowdy, the gentlemen in ordinary uniform or dressed in
abominable Berlin taste; over-loud music, with which the War Lord
persistently found fault with both time and execution.  The average
_Kapellmeister_ "had not the shadow of a perception" of the composer’s
artistic intentions.  His views were "plebeian, necessarily—maybe his
mother was a washerwoman, poor wench"; and, after all, the War Lord
himself must conduct to "get proper results."  Of course, everybody was
"convinced" of that.

"Majesty" was too "lenient."  It was "truly heartrending" to hear music
so "butchered," etc.

"_En famille_," they called it, and Bertha sat at the end of the table
between two cadets, younger sons of a principality not much larger than
Richmond Park.

"Fraulein," whispered one, forgetting, under the impetus of youthful
confidences, to speak through his nose; "Fraulein has dined beforehand,
of course?"

"Why, no," she replied innocently, "and I am powerfully hungry."

"Then you will stay so"—this from the loquacious petty prince.

At that moment the soup was put before the War Lord, and he fell to
demolishing it at starving bricklayer’s rate.  When he had about half
finished, the family and guests were served, and when he was through,
his plate was removed and so were the rest.  Bertha had had two
spoonfuls, and the petty prince, who had gulped down four or five,
grinned broadly.

Fish, entrée and fowl were offered, and ruthlessly yanked away in the
same rapid gunfire fashion.  To an empty stomach this teasing with
coveted food was uncanny!

"I hope you have dined well," said the Empress, after the party
adjourned to the "Cup Room" for coffee.  "Was the service satisfactory?"

"Excellent," lied Bertha.

The coffee had an abominable oily taste. "From my colonies," explained
the War Lord. "Mighty good, when one gets used to it."

But Bertha noticed that while his guests were served _en bloc_, he
brewed coffee for himself and wife in a silver Vienna machine.

Desultory conversation: church building, social reform, Bismarck,
orphans, knitting socks for soldiers’ children.  Ill-concealed yawns.
The War-Lord would have a game of billiards, and then off to the park on
Extase (his favourite saddle-horse).

"Ride or drive, which do you prefer, Bertha?" he said to the Krupp
heiress, going out.

"As Uncle Majesty commands," lisped the young girl, very much
embarrassed.

"I promised Louise a sleigh ride.  Perhaps she would like to go with
her," suggested the Empress.

"All right.  Two horses and outrider."

An outrider—something, to be sure, but going to the park "with that
kid."

Princess Victoria Louise was eleven then, and intellectually no more
advanced than a child of four.  Poor child! her father’s ear trouble
seemed only one of the dreadful inheritances that stamped her a sufferer
from Hohenzollern disease.  And Bertha had fondly imagined that she was
to be classed with grown-ups!

"Did Fraulein enjoy her lunch?" asked the motherly Frau Martha, when
summoned to help her young mistress change for the outing.

"Plenty to eat, but no chance to eat it," replied the Krupp heiress
sullenly.  "Get me a sandwich or two, or I shall faint."

"We were told," wailed Frau Martha, "that lunch was dinner for servants,
and this was the menu: half-bottle of small beer each, yellow peas in
the husks, three inches of terribly salt boiled beef, three potatoes
each, two carrots, and no bread."

The Krupp servants, it seems, were no better treated than those of the
Prince of Wales (afterwards King Edward) and the untitled attendants of
other royal highnesses and majesties, those of the King and Queen of
Italy, for instance.

In the ’nineties it was common report in Berlin diplomatic circles that
the Prince of Wales kept away from Berlin because he "could not induce
any of his favourite servants to be of the party," these favourite
servants being the same whom the then Court Marshal, von Liebenau—a
drill sergeant with a gold stick—designated "as the hungriest and most
impudent set of menials" he ever had the misfortune to encounter in the
exercise of his duties.

Why the epithets?

His Royal Highness’s valet and his grooms had politely asked for eggs
and bacon for breakfast, and they would not have cold pork and potato
salad for supper, even though that be the Empress’s favourite menu to go
to sleep on.

And those "impudent Englishmen" had the temerity to ridicule the
solitary bottle of small beer graciously allowed them by His Prussian
Majesty; and about this and more the first groom of His Britannic
Highness and the Berlin excellency had an exciting passage of words,
memorised, rightfully or wrongfully, as follows:

The Englishman: "The other attendants and myself cannot possibly worry
along on the breakfasts furnished, rolls and bad tea; and salt pork and
lentils for dinner is not what we are used to."

The Prussian Bully: "Nor do you seem to be used to household discipline.
But I will have no more of your English impudence.  I will inform the
Prince of his servants’ unruly behaviour."

The Chief Groom: "Thank you.  His Royal Highness will then engage board
for us at a hotel, and there will be an end to starvation diet."

On another occasion pease pudding, pork, roast potatoes and beer were
sent to the rooms of Queen Marguerite’s chief tirewoman for dinner, at
the Neues Palais, a couple of hours before she was expected to dress Her
Majesty for a State banquet. The dame refused it, and sent for the
Empress’s chief titled servant, Baroness von Hahnke, stating in plain
terms that, unless she were furnished with food suitable to her rank and
station, she would drive into town to dine, even at the risk of being
late for Her Majesty’s service.

The Baroness, frightened out of her wits, told the Empress the facts,
and the Imperial lady gave Count Puckler (responsible for the sins of
the kitchen) a terrible talking-to before her other titled servants.  At
the same time she ordered a suitable dinner for the Italian lady from
her own cuisine—a dinner the extras of which upset the budget for some
weeks to come.




                              *CHAPTER IX*

                     *WHAT THE MAID SAW AND HEARD*


    Revelations—Sauerkraut and Turnips—What the Dachshunds Did


FRAU MARTHA to FRAU KRUPP,
_née_ BARONESS VON ENDE.

BERLIN, SCHLOSS, _Christmas_.

GRACIOUS LADY,—May it please the Gracious Lady, we arrived safely and
sound, and Fraulein just started off on a sleigh ride with the little
Princess, who is as foolish as the poor Mueller orphan in our hospital,
but, mind, she had something warm before I let her go.

Fraulein don’t want me to say nothing, but duty compels me.  Gracious
Lady, I must tell you that Fraulein got up still hungry from table and
ate four ham sandwiches, three doughnuts and a cream tart, which I
bought for her with my own money (no matter about that) ere I let her
go.  After I made her warm inside, I made her warm underneath, and put
on her the beautiful sables the late Gracious Gentleman, God rest his
soul, got given to him in Russia.  With all respects to Majesty, the
little Princess, in her cheap _iltiz_ (_patois_) garment, looked like a
mere rag doll compared with our Bertha, please excuse me, Gracious Lady.

Gracious Lady will forgive an ignorant girl, but the three of us, Fritz
and Lenchen and me, call the Schloss Starvation Hall.

Except Fraulein and Fritz and Lenchen, I haven’t heard a decent word
since we left home. They just snarl and hiss.  Because Fraulein is
called the richest girl in the world, they fetch and carry for her, like
the mealy-mouthed menials they are; but if it wasn’t for the tips, I
don’t think they’d do a thing for her.

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 Bülow, 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 Bülow.

"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 Bülow 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 Bülow’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 _étagère_,
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 Bülow warmly.

"When you were in Rome you used to sing a different tune," said the War
Lord severely. "But _revenons à 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 Bülow, 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 Bülow 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 à 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 Bülow 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
rôle.  "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 Poppæa 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 _lèse-majesté_?"

"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.

Of course, the meeting with Franz Este had been prearranged, but
Haeseler played the surprised to perfection: Too bad Imperial Highness
was incog.; otherwise he might run over to Posen to inspect his
regiment, the Tenth Hussars.  He (Haeseler) had just had that pleasure.
_Schneidig, grossartig_ (cutting, immense), and Haeseler knocked his
heels together.  "Horses, men, uniforms, drill, perfect as new-laid
eggs."

"Hard boiled, I hope," said the War Lord; and all three shook with
laughter.

"And what may my marshal have been doing?" asked the War Lord.

"Reading up the testament of Frederick the Great."

"Any relation to the testament of Peter the Great?" asked Franz
anxiously.

"Imperial Highness is pleased to jest," replied Haeseler.  "Peter the
Great’s last will, so called, was an invention of Napoleon to justify
his making war on his friend Alexander, while the third Napoleon revived
the fraud for purposes of the Crimean campaign."

In his surprise the War Lord, who knows history only as taught in
school, dropped a bit of marmalade on his white cloth tunic.

"Unless you can prove these statements, you will have to pay for
cleaning this," he said, looking sharply at Haeseler.

"May it please Your Majesty, I will consult the card index."  The
marshal pulled out a drawer. "Here it is," he said: "’_Napoleon Auteur
du Testament de Pierre le Grand_,’ and here is another volume: ’_Les
Auteurs du Testament du Pierre le Grand_.’"

"Authentic?" queried the War Lord.

"Abundantly so.  Shall I send these volumes to the Schloss?"

"No; I have no time for reading _olle scharteken_" (ancient tomes).

"In that case I’ll want them," said Franz, who was of a studious nature.
"Have you got anything more on the subject?"

"Only an essay printed in the _Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung_."

"Send that too."  The Bavarian town being a stronghold of Catholicism,
Franz evidently concluded that anything printed there was akin to
gospel.

"But you referred to the testament of Frederick the Great."  The War
Lord’s voice betrayed impatience, and Haeseler made haste to explain,
i.e. repeat his lesson, as it were.

"May it please Your Majesty and His Imperial Highness."

"’Herr von Este,’ if you please," interrupted Franz.

"Herr von Este," repeated the marshal obediently, bowing low, "the most
precious inheritance come to us from the hero of the Seven Years’ War is
his admonition that Prussia must correct her coast line.  He had
intended doing so himself, but time and opportunity were unfavourable,
and so his plans for blazing a road to the oceans are awaiting our
initiative.  By grasping it we will carry out the last will of Frederick
the Great."

"And what were his late Majesty’s plans?" asked Franz.

"To move Prussian mile-posts up to the Channel and ocean, to plant
ourselves in the sea area between the English, French and Belgian
coasts, the waters through which most of the world’s trade must pass,"
cried Haeseler enthusiastically.

"But that would mean annexation of Belgium and Holland," demanded Franz.

Count Haeseler, having instructions not to answer questions of that
kind, bent over a series of maps illustrating the history of Frederick
the Second, while the War Lord, disregarding the question, commanded
curtly: "The strategic points, please."

Count Haeseler traced them at the end of a blue pencil:

"King Frederick planned a quick march from the Rhine through Belgium,
forcing Liége, then the capital of an ecclesiastical principality, and
pouncing upon Nieuport on the North Sea.  Next, he intended to attack
Dunkirk and Gravelines. Then to Calais.  His final objective point was
Paris, of course."

"Never heard of such a plan," said Franz.

"Because at Frederick’s time these territories were an apanage of the
Habsburgs," volunteered the War Lord.  "Proceed, Haeseler."

"I can only reassert what I have submitted to Your Majesty more than
once—namely, that King Frederick’s plan is as sound to-day as at the
time——"

"When Prussia presented England with Canada and made secure her Empire
in India," interrupted the War Lord.  "And isn’t she grateful for the
inestimable services rendered by us with a generous heart?" he
continued, warming his thighs and his wrath at the gas logs. "Won’t
allow us to acquire coaling stations in any part of the world.  Shuts
the door in our face in Africa, Asia and America, and supports with
treasure and blood, if necessary, any scheme intended to impede
Germany’s progress, territorially and economically.

"We depend for our very life on foreign trade, yet England would
restrict us to the Baltic and a few yards of North Sea coast.

"Franz," he cried, rising and holding out his hand, "I will turn the
Adriatic into an inland lake for the Emperor of the Slavs if you will
help me secure the French Channel coast line, the north-eastern
districts and the continental shores of the Straits of Dover.  Is it a
bargain?"

Franz, too, had risen, and was about to clasp the War Lord’s hand when
his eye lit upon the field-marshal.  "You bound me to secrecy," he said
doggedly, "yet our private pourparlers seem to be property of your
General Staff."

"The heads of my General Staff know as much as I want them to, Herr von
Este, no more, no less," replied the War Lord in a strident voice. Then,
in less serious mood: "Come, now, the _Kapellmeister_ does not play
_all_ the instruments, does he?  and don’t you think I have more
important things to do than worry over charts and maps and figures.
That is _his_ work," inclining his head toward the field-marshal.

When Franz the Sullen still withheld acquiescence the War Lord continued
in a bantering tone: "He is preparing the way, is Haeseler. While at
Strassburg and neighbourhood, take a look at his sixteenth army corps,
kneaded and knocked into invincibility by him.  If there is a superior
war machine, then our Blücher was beaten at Waterloo.  Let his boys once
get across the French frontier—they will never again leave La Belle
France.  Haeseler catechism!"

And more in the same boastful martinet vein, winding up with the promise
of sending to the Austrian heir _de luxe_ editions of Haeseler’s
contributions to the General Staff history of the Franco-German War and
of his technical writings on cavalry exercises and war discipline—a sure
way of pleasing Franz.  Yet it was patent enough that the Jesuit
disciple was only half mollified. Desperate means were in order!

"I tell you what"—the War Lord dropped his voice—"I will lend you
Haeseler for a fortnight or a month.  Invite him to Konopischt" (the
Austrian heir’s Hungarian seat) "and find out everything.  What he
doesn’t know about horse, foot and artillery, especially horse, is not
worth knowing."

At last Franz’s face lit up.  "I’ll take you at your word," he said
warmly.

Franz’s thirst for military knowledge was insatiable.  He had read most
of the books, ancient and modern, on the science of war; had consulted
all living army leaders of the day; was, of course, in constant
communication with his own General Staff; and knew the methods of the
Austrian, Russian, German and Spanish cavalry, both by practice and
observation, since he took his honorary proprietorship of the Bavarian
Heavy Troopers, the Saxon Lancers, the Russian 26th Dragoons and the
Spanish Mounted Chasseurs very seriously. But to have Haeseler for
private mentor and adviser, to be hand and glove with the premier
cavalry expert of the world, at one time apprentice of Frederick
Charles, the Red Prince, was indeed a priceless privilege.

"Will you come?" he asked Haeseler.

"Oh yes, he is coming, don’t you worry," cried the War Lord, even before
Haeseler finished the phrase: "At your Imperial Highness’s command."

"His Excellency shall demonstrate to me that the offensive partnership
you propose will be to mutual advantage," said Franz quickly, to
forestall possible further arguments on the exchange of the Italian
Adriatic for the French-Belgian-Dutch Channel coasts.




                             *CHAPTER XVII*

                         *DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND*


    The War Lord’s Secret Staircase—Some Outspoken Opinions—Royal
    Fisticuffs—Otto of Bavaria—A Secret Service Man—More Dreams


The reports of two meetings between exalted personages, held on the eve
of the day memorable for the conference at the General Staff building,
would furnish a clever editor with "deadly parallels" of vast interest.

_Dramatis personæ_ of one meeting: The War Lord and Bülow.  Scene: The
library of the Frederick Leopold Palace, nearly opposite the
Chancellory.

Meeting number two: Franz von Este and Lorenz Schlauch, Cardinal
Archbishop of Gross Wardein, Hungary.  Scene: A private parlour in the
Hôtel de Rome, near the Schloss.

The pall of secrecy hung over both trysting places.  Cardinal Schlauch,
of his Hungarian Majesty’s most obnoxious Opposition, would have lost
caste with his followers if seen with the "Habsburg Nero," and the
latter would have had a strenuous _quart d’heure_ with Francis Joseph
had "Uncle" known of his intimacy with Schlauch.  Hence the room at the
hotel, and Adolph Muehling, guard of honour, outside the door.

Why press the old proprietor into service, when a word to the Commandant
of Berlin would have brought sentinels galore?

Because Count Udo von Wedell, head of the German Secret Service,
occasionally unloads a uniformed stenographer on an unsuspecting, but
suspected, visitor to Berlin; and, Udo failing, Captain von Tappken, his
right-hand man, might be tempted to do so.  Spy mistrusts spy, you know.

On his part the War Lord was as anxious to keep his conference with
Bülow from Franz, as Este was to invent excuses for wishing a night free
from social duties or official business.  Accordingly Wilhelm had twice
changed the programme.

His first idea was to receive Bülow at the Schloss.  No; Franz might
hear of it.  His valet (Father Bauer) was singularly well supplied with
money, and royal lackeys (confound them!) prefer _trinkgeld_ to medals,
even.  Again, he might drive to the Wilhelmstrasse himself, if it were
not for those penny-a-liners at the Kaiserhof, a whole contingent of
them, bent on getting coin out of nothing.  Already vague hints at an
incognito royal visitor had appeared in one or two gutter journals.

"Augustus tells me that Frederick Leopold had his Berlin house
thoroughly overhauled. Nothing unusual about inspecting the renovated
lair of the Prussian Croesus?" suggested Prince Phili Eulenburg.  He
referred, of course, to the Grand Master of Ceremony and the Lord of
Klein-Glenicke, the War Lord’s cousin and brother-in-law.

"By Jove, you are almost too smart for an ambassador, Phili," cried
Majesty; "you deserve a wider field, the Wilhelmstrasse or the
Governorship of Klein-Popo should be yours. Meanwhile, and until one of
those posts becomes vacant, ’phone Bülow to meet me in Leopold’s library
at nine sharp.  Moltke shall send six men of the First Guards to
investigate garden and all, and they will remain for corridor duty.
Augustus, of course, must communicate with Leopold’s _maître d’hôtel_."

At 8.55 P.M. the War Lord, in mufti, fur collar of his great-coat
hugging the tops of his ears, slipped down the secret staircase leading
from his apartments to a side door, and into Count von Wedell’s quiet
coupé.  The Secret Service man who acted as groom had mapped out a
circuitous route, avoiding the Linden and Charlottenstrasse.

When the carriage passed the Kaiserhof the War Lord could not resist the
temptation to bend forward.  "Udo," he said, "are you not ashamed of
yourself, robbing these poor devils at the journalists’ table?  If they
knew how I am suffering in your springless cab—oh, but it does hurt!—it
would mean at least ten marks in their pocket."

"Confound their impudence," said Count von Wedell.  "But Your Majesty’s
criticism of the coupé is most à propos—just in time to insert the item
for a new one in the appropriation."

"The devil!" cried the War Lord.  "I thought this ramshackle chariot
your personal property."

Wilhelm likes to spend other people’s money, but with State funds it is
different, for every _pfennig_ spent for administration reduces the
total His Majesty "acquires."

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 _tabouret_
affected 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."

Franz shrugged.  "I quite understand.  Forbidden ground even for your
Mother."

Bertha felt the sting of reproval keenly, and did not like it.  Indeed,
at the moment she would have given up gladly a considerable portion of
her wealth to be restored to Franz’s unconditional and unrestricted good
graces.  So, humbling herself, she temporarily abandoned her high estate
and again became the unsophisticated girl whom Franz used to call
sister.  "_Do_ go on," she urged; "it was all so romantic, so strange,
so mysterious, and you know I love to feel creepy."

Franz had risen and approached the great central window.  "May I draw
the curtains?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

"They must not see you.  I will."

Bertha tugged the golden cords.  "Working overtime again?" she queried,
as she observed the blazing smoke-stacks.

"More’s the pity, for every pound of steam going up those chimneys means
so many lives lost, and for all those lives, Bertha, you will have to
account to God."

"Old wives’ tales," commented the Krupp heiress, as if the War Lord in
person played souffleur.  "On the contrary, as you well know, war
preparedness means peace, means preservation; and with us in particular
it means happiness and prosperity to the ten thousands of families in
this favoured valley.  It spells education, arts, music, care of
children and of the sick and disabled. It means cheerfulness, such as
ample wage and a future secured confer; it means care-free old age."  As
she recounted these benefits her enterprises were actually dispensing
Bertha looked at the chief engineer with a slightly supercilious air.

"Well rehearsed," remarked Franz dryly.

"Oh, if you want to be rude——"

"I do," said Franz, taking hold of her wrist; "I am sick of all this
lying palaver about good coming out of evil, and I want you to be sick
of it too, Bertha."

The Krupp heiress leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms.  "At the
American Embassy I heard rather a quaint saying day before yesterday:
’Go as far as you like.’

"A most apt saying," admitted Franz. "Thank you for the licence.  As I
was going to point out, you did attach too little significance to Zara’s
words, thought them mere piffle of the kind for sale in necromancers’
tents.  There is enough of that, God knows, but do not lose sight of the
fact that at all times and in all walks of life there have existed
persons having the gift of prophecy. Who knows but Zara has?"

Bertha was now rigid with attention.  She had moved knee from knee; her
feet were set firmly on the carpet, while the upper part of her body
straightened out.  "I don’t follow," she said almost pleadingly.

"Let me explain," continued Franz.  "You and I and the vast majority of
people can look into the past—a certain curvature of our brain
facilitating the privilege.  Another similar or dissimilar set of
brain-cells, or a single curvature, might lift for us the veil that now
obscures the future."

"The future?" gasped Bertha.

"Indeed, the future; and, practically considered, there is nothing so
very extraordinary about it, for what will happen to-morrow, or the day
after to-morrow, is in the making now.  If, for instance, the Krupp
works were going into bankruptcy a year hence, the unfavourable
conditions that constitute the menace to our prosperity would be at
their destructive work now.  Do you follow?" added Franz.

"I think I do," said Bertha.

"Hence I say the gift of prophecy presupposes a correct interpretation
of the past and present as well as the peculiar gift of extraordinary
brain development—a rare gift, so sparsely distributed that in olden
times prophets were credited with interpreting the will of the
Almighty."

"Franz," cried Bertha, her face pallid and drawn, her hands twitching.
"_Oh_, my God!" she screamed, as if nerve-shattered by an awful thought
suddenly burst upon her; "you don’t believe—no, you can’t——!  Tell me
that you do not think it was God’s voice speaking through Zara?"  And,
as if to shut out some horrible vision, the Girl-Queen of Guns covered
her face with both hands.

"It is not for me to pronounce on things I don’t know," replied Franz.
"Judged by what you have told me, Zara suited her prophecy for the most
part to facts and to existing tendencies, conditions and ambitions on
the part of political parties and high personages."

"She called me the coming arch-murderess of the age, insisted that the
warrior-queens of past times, even the most heartless and most cruel,
had been but amateurs compared with me in taking human lives——  Oh,
Franz, tell me it is not true! She was romancing, was she not?  She lied
to frighten me and to get a big _trinkgeld_."

"I wish it were so," said Franz earnestly; "but, unfortunately, she had
a clear insight into the future as it may develop, unless you call a
halt to incessant, ever-increasing, ever-new war preparations."

Many years ago I read a manuscript play by a Dutch author, in the
opening scenes of which a Jew tried to sell another Jew a bill of goods.
Shylock number two wanted the stuff badly, but calculated that by a show
of indifference he might obtain them for a halfpenny less.  On his part,
Isaac was as eager to sell as the other was to buy, but the threatened
impairment of his fortune called for strategy.  So he feigned that he
did not care a rap whether the goods changed hands or not, and the two
shysters remained together a whole long act engaging in a variety of
business that had nought to do with the original proposition, each,
however, watching for opportunity to re-introduce it, now as a threat,
again as a bait, and the third and seventh and tenth time in jest.  So
Bertha, having once disposed of the war preparation bogey, according to
Uncle Majesty’s suggestion, now returned to it in slightly different
form.  She was determined to discount Zara’s prophecies at any cost.

Getting ready to fight was tantamount to backing down; spending billions
for guns and ammunition and chemicals and fortifications and espionage
and war scares and whatnots was mere pretext for keeping the pot boiling
in the workman’s cottage, and the golden eagles rolling in the
financier’s cash drawer, and so on _ad infinitum_. When Bertha had
finished she thought Zara’s prophecies very poor stuff.

Franz came in for the full quota of that sort of argument out of a bad
conscience so warped by hypocrisy.  Our Lady of the Guns no doubt
believed every word she said, or rather repeated—dear woman’s way!  She
always firmly trusts in what suits her, logic, proof to the contrary,
stubborn facts notwithstanding.  Instinct or intuition, she calls it.

"That is no way to dispose of so grave a subject," said Franz.

"But what can I do?"

"Prevent more wholesale family disintegration, forestall future
mass-murder, future dunging of the earth with blood and human bones."

Franz put both hands on the girl’s shoulders. "Bertha," he said
impressively, "make up your mind not to sign any more death-warrants,
stop making merchandise intended to rob millions of life and limb and
healthy minds, while those coming after them are destined physical or
moral cripples that one man’s ambition may thrive."

"Shut down the works, you mean?" cried Bertha; and, womanlike, indulged
once more the soothing music of self-deception: "It would ruin the Ruhr
Valley, throw a hundred thousand and more out of work; and what could
they do, being skilled only in the industries created by my father and
grandfather?

"Papa, Uncle Alfred, the first Krupp—God bless their souls!—were they
founders of murder-factories, as you suggest?  No, a thousand times no.
Their skill, their genius, their enterprise has been the admiration of
the world.  Everybody admits that they were men animated by the highest
motives and principles.  They made Germany."

"I don’t deny it; I underline every word you have said, Bertha.  The
foundations for Germany’s greatness were laid within a stone’s throw of
this window; much of her supremacy in politics and economics was
conceived between these four walls. But now that the goal is achieved,
that the Fatherland enjoys unprecedented wealth and prosperity—let well
enough alone."

"You talk as if I were the War Lord!" cried Bertha.

"You are his right hand: the War Lady."

"He is my guardian, my master."

"Only for a while.  You don’t have to submit to his dictation when of
age."

Carried away by emotion, Franz had spoken harshly at times, but now his
tone became coaxing.

"When you come into your own, promise me, Bertha, to accept no more
orders for armament and arms of any kind.  Dedicate the greatest steel
plant of the world to enterprises connected with progress, with the
advancement of the human race!  Build railways, Eiffel towers for
observation, machinery of all sorts, ploughs and other agricultural
implements, but for God’s sake taboo once and for all preparations for
murder and destruction!"

Bertha covered her ears.  "Don’t use such words; they are uncalled for,
inappropriate."  Then, with a woman’s ill-logic, she repeated the last.
"’Destruction’—you don’t take into consideration what your ’destructive’
factors have done for my people, what they are doing for humanity right
along.  Auntie Majesty thinks our charities and social work superior to
Rockefeller’s, and God forbid that I ever stop or curtail them."

"Yes!  Think of your charities," said Franz; "take the Hackenberg case.
What is he—a soldier blasted and crippled in mind and body by the war of
1870.  Essen’s industry made a wreck of Heinrich, and he costs you one
mark a day to keep for the rest of his life; three hundred and
sixty-five marks per year, paid so many decades, what percentage of your
father’s profits in the war of 1870-71 does the sum total represent?"

"A fraction of a thousandth per cent., perhaps. Another fraction pays
for the son Johann’s keep, another for that of the two younger boys,
another for Gretchen, etc., etc."

"But if there had been no war, Heinrich would not have been disabled,
and consequently would not have burdened charity with human wreckage! Do
you see my point?"

"Go on," said Bertha.

"Because you are used to it, maybe the Hackenberg case does not
particularly impress you.  You were not born when Heinrich sallied forth
in the name of patriotism.  But reflect: there are thousands of
charitable institutions like yours, not so richly endowed, not so
splendid to look upon, but charnel-houses for Essen war victims just the
same.  And all filled to overflowing—even as the Krupp treasury is.  Yet
that Franco-German war, that made the Krupps and necessitated the
asylums and hospitals, was Lilliputian compared with the Goliath war now
in the making—partly thanks to you, Bertha."

"But I have told you time and again there will be no war, that I have
the highest authority for saying so!" cried Bertha angrily.

"Authority," mocked Franz.  "The French of 1870 had the no-war
’authority’ of Napoleon III., the Germans that of William I., before the
edict went forth to kill, to maim, to destroy, to strew the earth with
corpses and fill the air with lamentations!  So it will be this month,
this year, next year—for history ever repeats itself—until the hour for
aggression, which will be miscalled a defence of our holiest principles
and interests, has struck.

"The air pressure has increased," continued Franz, parting the window
curtains; "see the lowering clouds!  And watch the storm coming up,
lashing them in all directions.  West and east they are spreading, and,
look, north too!  They are falling on Northern France, on the Lowlands
and Russia like a black pall."

"You prophesy a universal war?" shrieked Bertha.

"The answer is in your ledger.  For thirty and more years your firm has
been arming the universe. Since your father’s death you have distributed
armaments on a vaster scale than ever, and now, I understand, the pace
that killeth is to be still more increased.

"When you have furnished Germany with all the guns, the ammunition, the
chemicals, the flying machines, the cruisers, the submarines, the hand
grenades—what then?  Presto! a pretext of the 1870 pattern, or something
similar, and Zara’s prophecy will come true as sure as light will burst
from this Welsbach now."

Franz touched a button.

"Voilà, Madame War Lady," he said, bowing himself out.




                              *CHAPTER XX*

                   *"AUNTIE MAJESTY" AND HER FROCKS*


    Bertha on Her Dignity—On Thin Ice—Barbara Wants to Know—The
    Empress’s Toilette


"And now for a good talk," said Barbara, with a look upon the tirewoman
who had accompanied Bertha to Court.  "Tell me all about Auntie
Majesty’s ’Martha.’"

"Oh, she’s far more important than this one," Bertha replied, patting
the "Frau’s" cheek; "a Baroness like Mamma and in the Almanach de
Gotha."

"Better looking too than our Martha, is she not?" mocked Barbara.

"I won’t go as far as that.  She is too tall and angular and
spinster-like, and has a nose like Herr Krause—always red."

"Does she drink?" inquired Barbara.

"No," said Martha, thrusting out her formidable bosom; "she laces too
tight, poor thing!"

It was after ten p.m., and Barbara ought to have been in one of two
white-and-pink beds gracing the Young Misses’ Chamber in Villa Huegel,
but Frau Krupp was away in Cologne and Martha the most indulgent of
governesses.  Hence it had not been necessary for Bertha to exert her
authority to gain an hour out of bed for sister.

Bertha, who was sitting on a low "pouf," was convulsed with laughter at
Martha’s pantomime. Shrieking, she knocked her forehead against her
knees, Barbara joining.

"And Auntie Majesty’s Martha—the Baroness, I mean—does she put out the
linen and mend silk stockings and serve tea on the waitress’s day out?"
continued Barbara her inquiries.

"Why not ask whether she makes the help’s beds?" demanded Martha; and
then, in her drastic manner: "You are a baby, Fraulein Barbara."

But the Krupp heiress treated the question seriously.  "No," she
replied, assuming an air of superiority.  "The Baroness tells the
Empress what is fit to wear."

"_Unfit_, Fraulein means to say," whispered Martha.

"And besides——" continued Bertha.

"She tyrannises over the lower servants, such as Lenchen and me."
Barbara laughed heartily at Martha’s sallies, but Bertha "had an attack
of dignity," as Barbara put it, and said to Martha: "Come now, who was
in Auntie Majesty’s confidence, you or I?"

"Fraulein certainly had the run of Her Majesty’s rooms, and I do hope
they were nicer and cleaner than Fraulein’s," bristled up Martha.

"Don’t quarrel," pleaded Barbara.  "Soon it will be eleven, and then
both of you will shout ’bed’ until you are hoarse.  _Do_ go on, Bertha,
and don’t you dare interrupt her again, Martha."

"Well," said Bertha, "I promised——"  She settled down in the big velvet
fauteuil nearest the fire and assumed an oldish mien.

"I was sometimes present when the Baroness and Auntie Majesty discussed
new frocks and hats," she continued, "and I think if Mamma was in Madame
von H.’s place, Her Majesty would be—what shall I say?—more tastefully
dressed.

"Once she persuaded Auntie Majesty to accept a hat that made her look
seventy to a day: Gold lace and heliotrope velvet.  I will buy Granny
one like it next time I go to Düsseldorf.  At first Auntie did not seem
to care for it at all, but the Baroness made such a fuss.  ’Majesty
looks enchanting,’ she kept saying."

Here Martha dropped the courtliest of curtsies, "flapping her arms like
wings"—Barbara’s description.

"’Charming,’ ’ever youthful,’ continued Bertha, imitating the Baroness.

"The right sort of talk too," said Martha. "Tell a woman of our age—mine
and Auntie Majesty’s—that we look like sweet sixteen, with a teapot for
a bonnet, and we will wear it even at the opera."

"Well, did Auntie get Granny’s hat?" asked Barbara.

"She did, and wore it when we went to the children’s matinée at the
theatre in the Neues Palais; and I heard her sister, Princess Frederick
Leopold, tell her: ’Thank your stars that Will is not coming.  He would
certainly advise you to send your new chapeau to——’"  Bertha stopped
short.

"To?" asked Barbara, flipping a slipper in the air and catching it on
her naked foot.

"I can’t tell," said Bertha; "it was not intended for me anyhow."

Barbara looked at Martha.  "You say it."

"It commences with an ’H.’"

"Hohenlohe—Grandma Hohenlohe," explained Bertha quickly.

Barbara was thinking hard.  "No, she did not say Hohenlohe; and,
besides, she is dead."

"Getting warm," murmured Martha.

"Now you stop."  Bertha looked very serious. "The Princess Leopold
referred to their grandmother, of course.  What else should she have in
mind?"

The tirewoman bent low over Barbara’s ear. "Majesty’s _Jaeger_ told me
that the War Lord is in the habit of consigning old lady relatives of
his to a hot place, whether dead or alive."

Barbara clapped her hands.  "I know," she laughed; "you need not try and
keep things from this child, Bertha.  I was not born yesterday."

"I shall tell Mamma, and you will get it too, Martha."  The Krupp
heiress was on her dignity once more.

"Why not put me across your knee and spank me?" said Barbara derisively.
Then, coaxingly: "_Do_ go on, Bertha; it is all so interesting; and if
Martha does not behave (stamping her foot) she will leave the room this
minute.  Did you hear what I said, Martha?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty, and the other Majesty will now proceed," mocked
the tirewoman, who was unimpressed, having known the girls "all their
born days."

"Well," began Bertha anew, "there were a few days of Court mourning
while I was in Berlin, and I had to wear all white, no jewellery, no
flowers.  All the gentlemen had mourning-bands around their left arm,
and Uncle Majesty wore the uniform of Colonel of Artillery—black and
velvet."

"Auntie was in black too—silk, of course, and heavy enough to stand by
itself; but at her throat I saw a large diamond brooch."

"’That will get Mother into trouble if the old man peeps it,’ observed
the Crown Prince, who took me in to dinner, and who knows all the
English and French slang."

"How perfectly delightful he must be!" cried Barbara.

Bertha continued: "’Why?’ I asked."

"’Mourning and brilliants—absurd,’ whispered Wilhelm Wiseacre.  But
Uncle Majesty either did not see, or knew less than his talented son,
and Auntie escaped a scolding that time."

"Scolding a Queen.  You are joking," cried Barbara.

Before the Krupp heiress could speak, Martha delivered herself of a few
"_Mein Gotts_."

"Oh," she said, "royal ladies are just like other girls’ mammas."

"Like Aunt Pauline and Rosa?"

"Well, yes.  They have a husband, children and an allowance."

"An allowance?  I thought they were wallowing in gold pieces like you,
sister," said Barbara, loojving up admiringly at the older girl.

"I suppose Auntie Majesty has about a million per year to dress on,"
said Bertha loftily.

"A million," repeated Frau Martha contemptuously.  "Fraulein ought to
have heard some of the stories the maids told me about Auntie Majesty’s
lingerie.  One of them used to be dresser to a French diva, whatever
that is, and on the Q.T.——"

Bertha was anxious to change the subject, and remarked, with a hard look
upon Martha: "And the troubles they have with servants!  One afternoon
on _Bal-Paré_ night Auntie’s _coiffeur_ did not show up—sickness, or
something of the kind—and the Baroness did her hair.  ’How very frail,’
I thought, particularly as Auntie was going to wear the grand tiara with
the Regent diamond.  However, the head-dress, being so very heavy, is
put on only before she enters the royal box.

"Her Majesty was fully dressed when Uncle’s _Jaeger_ handed in a
dispatch from Queen Victoria, asking about Prince Joachim.  She
immediately sat down to write an answer, and as she leaned over the
paper—for she is rather short-sighted—the whole _coiffure_ came down in
a heap.  I never saw her cross before, but I tell you——"  Bertha checked
herself.

"Now about the jewellery," cried Barbara. "She has wagon-loads of them,
has she not?"

"Of her own, no more than Mamma, I guess, for those you read so much
about on festive occasions belong to the State, and the Baroness is
responsible for their safety.  Once, I was told, she left a valise
containing several Crown jewels and some of Auntie’s own in the Imperial
saloon carriage when they were going to Stuttgart.  Through the
stupidity of a guard the valise got misplaced, and was discovered only a
month later in an out-of-the-way railway station.  That time Uncle
Majesty himself lectured the Baroness, ordering her at the same time to
use her own baronial fingers to sew the diamond buttons on Her Majesty’s
dresses.  Furthermore, to make sure that the fastenings of ear-rings,
brooches, bracelets and chains, etc., were intact."

Barbara wanted to know whether the Berlin Crown jewels were as fine as
Queen Victoria’s in the Tower of London.

"Not quite," said Bertha thoughtfully.

The child nodded.  "I know, for when I asked Miss Sprague whether the
Regent was as beautiful as the Koh-i-noor, she said: ’You might as well
liken your shabby German South-West Africa to the Indian Empire, Miss
Barbara.’"

"Don’t let the War Lord hear that!" Frau Martha raised a warning finger.

"Now about the dresses!  She wears a new one every day, doesn’t she?"

"At least she never wears the same twice unaltered."

"What jolly shopping!" cried Barbara. "Does she go round herself?  I
would."

"That’s the ladies’—the Baroness and the Mistress of the Robes—business,
of course.  She sees the fashion through their eyes and, when Auntie is
ill-dressed, the blame really attaches to her women.  One morning Auntie
called me in and said: ’Bertha, what do you think of my dinner toilet
for to-night?’

"The gown on the _mannequin_ was of light red silk with white flounces
and blue train, set off by rosebuds."

"Kakadoo!" laughed Barbara.

"That’s how it struck me," said Bertha. "But there stood the Baroness
pleased as Punch about the new ’creation,’ and certainly expected me to
say something nice.  I was in despair, but Auntie Majesty came to my
rescue.  ’It’s quite impossible,’ she said, ’isn’t it?  Tell
Schwertfeger and Moeller——’

"She did not finish, but took up the Alnumach de Gotha lying on the
dressing-table.  ’I thought so—Wilhelmina’s colours.  If Wilhelm had
seen me in this, he would have said: "You are rushing things, Dona.
Wait till we annex Holland."’  Then she turned to the Baroness: ’Have it
unripped at once.  The silks shall be used any way except in this absurd
combination.  I will wear white this evening.’"

"To bed at once; enough for to-night," ordered Frau Martha, turning back
the clothes on Barbara’s bed.




                             *CHAPTER XXI*

                          *THROTTLING BAVARIA*


    The Etiquette of Dress—Bülow in a Fix—That "Place in the
    Sun"—"That Idiot Bismarck"—Prussianize the British Empire


In the grandchamber where Bismarck sat so long enthroned and Caprivi,
the general "commanded to the office," as he might have been ordered to
occupy a bastion, spent troublesome years; at the desk where Prince
Hohenlohe’s thoughtful face shone between colossal oil-lamps; in the
very chair where the Iron One swore lustily at petty kings, sat Bernhard
von Bülow, Chancellor and Major-General.

Don’t forget the Major-General, for the War Lord had more trouble making
him that than conferring the Imperial Chancellorship.  Military titles
are sadly embroidered with precedents and rules and things.

Frederick the Great used to own silk mills, therefore his ministers of
State were compelled to wait upon him in satin breeches and long-tailed
satin coats, and no man who loved his job would appear more than six
times in the same garments before the Majesty, since the royal merchant
would have considered himself cheated out of the sale of so many ells.
Frederick’s descendant, the War Lord, is interested in army cloth—hence
his dislike for mufti.

Jovial, talkative, on good terms with himself, Bernhard felt quite
guilty in his velvet jacket—a present from the Princess, his wife—when
he heard a sharp voice call out his name.  It came from the garden path
adjoining the high French windows.

"Must be coming from the War Ministry. What’s up?" thought the
Chancellor, ringing frantically for a dress coat.  If those sentinels
would only challenge Majesty, there might be time to change.

In the summer of 1905 the proverbial Bülow luck was still in full swing.
At the moment it sent Phili Eulenburg to the rescue, for the
ex-ambassador, still undisgraced, was, as usual, in attendance upon the
War Lord.

"Fine chap, that," said Phili, pointing to one of the sentinels who
guarded the inner court of the Chancellor Palace; "may I put him through
the paces just to show I did not get my epaulettes for form’s sake?"

"Anything as long as you don’t make me ridiculous, Phili."  Maybe the
War Lord was curious to see whether his friend had any military talents.
Perhaps he remembered that Bismarck, talking to Maximilian Harden or
Moritz Busch, let drop a remark to the effect that persons of the
Eulenburg type made great generals—sometimes, _vide_ Alcibiades, Cæsar,
Peter the Great, Frederick, etc.—good diplomats never!

"Advance," "retreat," "right," "left," "charge," "about face," crowed
Phili, repeating the last order several times.

"_Pack ein_" ("Cheese it!"), said the War Lord, "if these are the only
commands you remember."  However, when the pair entered through the
glass doors, Bernhard, to his intense satisfaction, was resplendent in a
frock-coat, with the ribbon of the Red Eagle in buttonhole, Majesty
missing the chance to scold him for a sybarite.  To Wilhelm’s mind, male
humanity is "nude" when unaccoutred with knapsack and bayonet, or else
unshrouded in evening dress at nine a.m. Bülow had flatly refused to
array himself _en frac_ in daytime, and in his hussars’ breeches he
always fidgeted "in a nerve-racking way."  So he must be allowed a
Prince Albert coat—Chancellor’s exclusive privilege, of course!
Bismarck used to ride to the old Kaiser’s palace in a fatigue cap, but
at the door donned the steel helmet.  But let none of lesser rank and
importance imitate these worthies.

"Here’s a pretty kettle of fish," said the War Lord, acknowledging
Bülow’s respectful greetings by a wave of the hand.  "Phili tells me
that Victor will require pretty strong proof it’s defensive before he
joins our war.  And Udo has secured tell-tale correspondence to the same
effect, which will be sent to you presently."

"Italy making demands before she has even lost a battle?" cried Phili,
without indicating quotation marks.

Bülow knew of course that the _bon mot_ was Bismarck’s, but the War Lord
thought it original. "Don’t repeat that to the Princess, please," he
said to Bülow, "lest she put our Phili on her index.  As to Victor, what
do you think of the ingrate?"

"With Your Majesty’s permission, I rather think that the information"
(Bülow looked straight at Eulenburg, then thought better of it)
"of—Count Wedell is not well founded.  Your Majesty knows how such
rumours arise.  Maybe King Victor has, at one time or another, expressed
himself to the effect that he meant strictly to adhere to the
stipulations of the Triple Alliance, whereupon some person in the secret
found out that the Triple Alliance obliges Italy to take up arms only in
case Germany or Austria are attacked. Presto, the mischief-maker
concludes that King Victor is not in sympathy with Germany’s world
politics, etc. etc."

"Maybe, but Udo’s and Phili’s reports must be sifted to the bottom,"
commanded the War Lord.  "I told Wedell to put a man of pronounced
political instinct on the work—an Italian, of course; there shall be a
wrestling match between Dago cunning and German political shrewdness."

Up to then the War Lord had spoken quite to the point.  Now he indulged
in one of those _saltomortales_ of uncontrolled thought that tends to
incoherency.

"We must get rid of Otto," he said abruptly, pounding his knee with his
terrible right.

Prince Bismarck’s Christian name had been Otto, and Wilhelm got rid of
him.  Count Bülow, perceiving no connection with matters discussed,
wondered whether the War Lord had reference to the former occupant of
the Chancellor Palace, or maybe to a dog or horse.  So, to be on the
safe side, he smiled broadly and asserted: "Precisely, Your Majesty."

"Of course, there is that _Schweinhund_ (pig-dog) Ruprecht."

Bülow began to scent a connection; however, the War Lord saved him
further cogitation by doing all the talking.

"A madman, this Ruprecht; thinks his petty State an Indian Empire.
Period: Thirteenth century, or thereabout.  Dwells longingly on such
scenes as Mohammed Toghlak enacted, having hundreds of rebels tossed
about by elephants on steel-capped ivories, and then trampled to death
to the sound of trumpets and beating of drums.  ’I would like to treat
our Socialists that way,’ he told me time and again."

"Using wild boars instead of elephants, I suppose," said Phili.  The
sally caused the War Lord much merriment.

"Egad," he laughed, "your mileage from Liebenberg is not thrown away;
you liquidate the bill by _bons mots_ every time."

"I dare you tell the Reichstag," cried Phili.

"Bülow shall," said the War Lord; "but"—facing the Chancellor once
more—"those muttons! With Italy a possible _quantité négligeable_, we
must make doubly sure of Bavaria’s unquestioned and enthusiastic support
of Berlin.  Now, Phili, who has been living there many years, tells me
that the Bavarian people as a whole——"

"The great unwashed," put in Phili, who will live up to his reputation
as a wit or burst—in Germany one need not be a Mark Twain to succeed.

"The Bavarian unwashed," repeated the War-Lord, "do not like Prussia.
The only means of gaining national support for our war in Bavaria, then,
is by favour of the Crown.  Otto’s is a harlequin’s cap, and you can’t
ask people to rally around a War Lord more beast than man, and certainly
as crazy as a march-hare.  It follows: we need a sane man in Munich,
Bülow—nothing short of a sane man will serve our purpose.  I understand
that Maximilian Joseph, ’the creature of that upstart, Napoleon,’ had a
royal diadem built which has never been used.  Pull it from the vaults
of the Munich Hofburg, Bülow, and place it on Luitpold’s head, and if he
persists in his silly refusal, on Ludwig’s."

"Majesty knows these gentlemen’s objections: ’There can be no real king
in Bavaria, they say, until the constitutional incumbent is dead,’"
spoke the Chancellor gravely.

"Then kill Otto," cried the War Lord. "What, miss our place in the sun
for a madman! Not if I know Wilhelm, Imperator Rex.  Briefly, Bülow, as
there is no king in Bavaria, we must make one—one who recognises that he
is _Rex Bavariæ par la grace de Roi de Prusse_ and, accordingly, is
willing to do the King of Prussia’s bidding."

"But the people, will they rally to a standard bearer of that kind?"
asked the Chancellor.

"The mob," cried the War Lord.  "What has the mob to do with it?  We
show him a puppet in ermine and purple with Maximilian Joseph’s unused
crown on his silly pate, and ’hurrah,’ ’_Heil Dir im Siegeskranz_.’"

"With the aid of the loyal Press," suggested Phili.

"Of course, the Press bandits are part and parcel of the plebs; let
Königgrätzerstrasse see to them at once.  And, Bülow," continued the War
Lord, "the _Norddeutsche Allgemeine_—not a word!"

"That’s where Majesty shows his wisdom," said Phili, nearly doubling up
in a profound bow. And as the War Lord seemed to enjoy the compliment,
he added: "I am not the bird to befoul his own nest; but if it be true,
as the London papers sometimes assert, that Germany produces no real
diplomats, I point to Your Majesty and say: Here stands the greatest of
them all, greater than Cavour and Bismarck, Talleyrand and Wotton."

"Talleyrand was a great liar," mused the War Lord.

"And preserved Prussia."  This from the Chancellor.

"My motto," said Wilhelm, "is: ’Keep a silent tongue where one’s own
interests are concerned, lest the itch of controversy produce a scab
that even the unknowing may perceive.’  He was boldly plagiarising
Wotton, but if his auditors noticed the theft they were wise enough to
keep it to themselves.

"Your Majesty’s idea is that, in case Italy prove disloyal, Bavaria must
act the buffer, the people offering stubborn resistance."

"—— stubborn!" cried the War Lord, striding toward the great wall where
a series of maps were displayed on rollers.  Of course Phili got ahead
and pushed the button.  "—— stubborn!" repeated Wilhelm.  "Look at the
Bavarian frontier—as naked of fortresses as a new-born babe of a dinner
dress—no defensive works to speak of.  If the Italians make good their
threats against Austria and reach Innsbruck, good-bye Munich!  The whole
of Bavaria would be at the mercy of the Dago dogs of war!  Bülow," cried
the War Lord, "Phili brought documents to show that the Italian General
Staff is mapping out a road to Berlin via Munich, Leipzig, Potsdam.
That idiot Bismarck," he added, with an oath, "the question of collars
and epaulettes was not the only one he decided in favour of the
Bavarians.  Four years previously he failed to squeeze Bayreuth out of
them—Bayreuth, one of the Hohenzollerns’ earliest possessions.  With
small pressure he might have regained the principality in 1866 in place
of the miserable few millions of thalers as war indemnity that the
Bavarians had to pay.  We could have made Bayreuth-land an armed camp, a
second Heligoland, as it-is-to-be!"

The "collars and epaulettes affair," to which the War Lord referred,
cropped up in November, 1870, during the _pourparlers_ for the
Bavarian-Prussian treaties.  King Ludwig insisted that Bavarian army
officers should continue to wear the badge of their rank on their
collar, while King Wilhelm said their shoulder straps were the correct
place.  The Chancellor, Bismarck, saved the situation by arguing: "If in
ten years’ time, perhaps, the Bavarians are arrayed in battle against
us, what will history say when it becomes known that the present
negotiations miscarried owing to collars and epaulettes?"

No wonder Prince Pless (Hans Henry XI., late father-in-law of Princess
Mary, _née_ Cornwallis-West) said to the Iron Chancellor: "Really, if at
the time we were discussing the criminal code we had known what sort of
people these Sovereigns are, we should not have helped to make the
provisions against _lèse-majesté_ so severe."

"Now if Bayreuth were in our hands," continued the War Lord, "the
Italians could whistle for the new road to Berlin, as the English can
for the promenade to Hamburg, since Salisbury, good old man—God rest his
soul—presented us with that little islet in the North Sea."

"Maybe Bavaria could be induced to fortify her frontiers on the Austrian
border," suggested the Chancellor.

"And _I_ postpone my war until half a dozen Liéges and Namurs and Metzs
and Strassburgs are built—man alive," thundered the War Lord. "Life is
short, and the longer England and France are left in possession of the
best colonies, the harder it will be for us to Prussianise them when
things are being adjusted to our liking."

"Prussianise England and France, excellent idea, _très magnifique_!"
crowed Phili the irrepressible.

"Not quite so fast," said the War Lord. "I was thinking of India and
Ceylon, of Cochin China and Tonking, of Algeria, Hongkong, the Straits
Settlements and the French Congo, of Madagascar and Natal, of Rhodesia,
Gibraltar, the Senegal and other dainties in the colonial line."

"Even so—a jolly mouthful for Prussianisation, Majesty."

"You don’t suppose I would tolerate the loose discipline encouraged by
Downing Street and Quai d’Orsay," cried the War Lord.  "Subject peoples
and tribes must have a taste of the whip and spur.  Where would Poland
be without them—yes, and Alsace-Lorraine!  But those Bavarians, Bülow.
I hope I made it perfectly clear that Otto must go and that severest
pressure must be brought on Luitpold."

"Together with the Italian problem, the matter shall have my closest
attention," said the Chancellor.

"And don’t forget that they are a crazy lot at best, and hand and glove
with Franz Ferdinand’s black masters."

"Matters can’t be hurried, though," ruminated Bülow, "and I am afraid
there is little store to be set by Luitpold."

"His ambition is to go thundering down the ages as the man who refused a
crown," sneered Phili.

"Thank Heaven he is eighty-four," said the War Lord piously.

"And Ludwig tickled to death with the idea of becoming king," added
Eulenburg.

The War Lord was making his adieux, when he suddenly turned upon Bülow.
"What are you going to do with Ruprecht?"

"Promise him a field marshal’s baton in our war."

"The right bait," assented Wilhelm, "but I pity the country under his
supreme command.  Do you know," he added, "that the lowest of his
subjects would not permit him to cross his threshold?"




                             *CHAPTER XXII*

                           *PAYING THE PRICE*


    What Edward VII. Thought—No Room for Art—A Vision of
    Threadneedle Street


Bülow, who loved being Chancellor, hated Phili Eulenburg.

However, the Imperial ex-Ambassador at the Hofburg was then in the
zenith of his ill-gotten empire over Majesty, and to incur his
displeasure spelt disgrace or enforced resignation.

At the moment the grand old man’s thunderbolts were under lock and key
in Harden’s Grunewald villa, and the exalted personages marked for
lightning carried things with a high hand, using the German Empire like
an entailed estate.

Pretty evenly parcelled out this _fidei commissum_ favoured by the
Prussian Constitution, which makes suffrage a mockery.  Phili, of late
enriched by Hertefeld, the Rhenish domain that guarantees him an
independent income of £5,000 sterling a year and by a couple of millions
cash, which Baron Nathan Rothschild, of Vienna, left him.  Phili was
practically the overseer of the Government personnel, and of the
diplomatic corps in particular. His card index of prominent men and
women, reinforced by reams and reams of correspondence, characterised
each person—diplomats, deputies, ministers, councillors, governors,
politicians, commanding generals and aspirants for high honours in the
army or navy—according to his own viewpoint, the avowed object being to
people the highest offices within the gift of the Crown with people
like-minded with himself.

And it must be admitted that Phili pretty thoroughly succeeded, since
the War Lord, seeing everybody through Eulenburg’s eyes, selected in the
main only persons of mediocre intellect, or plain bullies, as his
representatives abroad and at home.  The reference to Eulenburg’s
optics, by the way, recalls another Bismarck sally: "One look at Phili’s
eyes is enough to spoil the most elaborate dinner for me!"

Could gourmet-gourmand express himself more emphatically?  What the Iron
Chancellor thought of ambassadors appointed under that régime has
already been quoted; it coincides with the reputation for clumsiness and
inefficiency the War Lord’s diplomatic servants have in all quarters of
the world.  In _ante bellum_ days few of them were "honest men sent
abroad to lie"; the great majority were liars intent upon bulldozing or
deceiving the personages who mistook them for gentlemen.  Of course,
"like master, like servant."  The late King Edward maintained that
Wilhelm was vulgar and ungentlemanly; hence Baron H or Count Y might
think it presumptuous to be otherwise.  Besides, the Berlin Foreign
Office will employ nobles only, and we have the authority of Gunther,
Count von der Schulenburg, Lord of Castle Oest, Rhineland, for the
illuminating fact that every tenth German aristocrat is unspeakable.  So
much for the German diplomatic service.

General Count Kuno von Moltke presided over another self-gratifying
clique—that of the Army; and if Germany had invaded Belgium ten years
previous to toying with the scrap of paper, she would probably have been
overthrown in short order, for at that time the Commander of Imperial
Headquarters held the same sinister sway over the military as Phili did
over the civil branches of the Government.

"Lovey," "sweetheart," "my soul," "my all" (Kuno Moltke’s epistolary
titles for Majesty), "hears as much of affairs as I want him to know, no
more," was Moltke’s boast, according to the sworn evidence of Frau von
Ende, Count Moltke’s former wife, in the famous Harden slander case.

Yet though Moltke lost his case, the War Lord declared "there is nothing
definite against Moltke, but he must remain on half-pay."

Can you imagine King George V. so flaunting the decisions of Old Bailey
and thereafter saddling the British public with a life pension of about
£500 per annum in favour of the guilty party?

Can you imagine why such "sweet affection for the All Highest" should
make up for lack of military qualities in a general officer slated for
supreme command in the field?

For his crusade Maximilian Harden won much praise from English writers,
but if he had let it flourish in high places for a decade longer, Great
Britain would be richer in blood and treasure.

Another of these coteries of men who dispensed high offices among
themselves for their own ends existed in the Imperial Court—aye, it
lodged there, not in the Schloss or Neues Palais exactly, but—oh,
irony!—in the Princess’s Palace, the hideous _dependance_ of the Crown
Prince Palais, Unter den Linden, the apartments granted for life to
Royal Chamberlain Count von Wedell being its headquarters.

Oh, the jolly tea-parties they enjoyed in the great high-ceilinged
rococo chambers, full of discarded furniture and appointments of the
Frederick the Great and Watteau period; Louis Quatorze and Quinze, Boule
and Chippendale, Empire, here and there—antique regularity and
capricious _bizarrerie_, gems of Art some, also pieces chipped and
disjointed.

Carlyle called Frederick "the last of the Kings"; he was certainly the
last of Prussian kings possessed of an appreciation of the beautiful.
The present War Lord kicked from his palaces—none were built since the
eighteenth century—all _objets d’art_ that would please the eye of
anybody not a German boor, substituting unmentionables of the goose-step
type, square-jointed, clumsy, coarse, and wholly _mauvais goût_.

What the "majestic" chambers lack, then, those of the Excellencies
_nolens volens_ boast. Wedell’s rooms in particular contained a variety
of eighteenth century _chef d’oeuvres_ selected by the Count himself
from heaps of "ancient rubbish" sent from the Neues Palais and
Sans-Souci by order of Court Marshal von Liebenau, a corporal dignified
by a gold stick.

No doubt the Knights of Wedell’s Round Table enjoyed what was "_caviare_
to the general."  At any rate, their tea-parties seem to have been a
delight to "high and low," for no one admitted to the charmed circle
ever sent his regrets.

We find there General of Cavalry Count Wilhelm von Hohenau, son of the
War Lord’s uncle, the late Prince Albrecht of Prussia, and Sailor Trost,
of His Majesty’s yacht _Hohenzollern_; the gentleman already introduced,
Count Kuno von Moltke, also Lord of the Cathedral and Private Riedel of
the Uhlans; Count Lynar, brother-in-law of the Grand Duke of Hesse and
Colonel of His Majesty’s Horse Guards, and Gus Steinhauer, midshipman;
Count Frederick von Hohenau, brother of Wilhelm, and Court Councillor
Kestler, who rose from the ranks to gentlemanly estate and high honours
in His Majesty’s service; His Serene Highness Prince Philip of
Eulenburg, Right Honourable Privy Councillor to the Prussian Crown,
member of the House of Lords, etc., and Raymond Lecomte, French chargé
d’affaires. These men were regular attendants, under the presidency of
the noble-born host, of course, but there was a fair sprinkling of
counts and barons and so on in this royal palace connected by a covered
archway with the town residence of the Crown Prince and his family!

That was strange enough—audacity to the point of recklessness, one might
call it—but stranger still is the fact that all these men were in the
War Lord’s good graces, if not on intimate terms with him like
Eulenburg.

With the Hohenaus he was on "Willy" and "Freddy" footing; Count Johannes
von Lynar he called "Jeanie"; and His Excellency Lieutenant-General Kuno
von Moltke was his "Tütü"—with dots over both u’s, if you please.

Nor were Wedell and Moltke the only tea-party members admitted to high
positions at Court.  Wilhelm Hohenau was governor to His Imperial
Highness the Crown Prince, and, on Moltke’s recommendation, Count Lynar
was about to be gazetted personal adjutant to His Majesty—an office
giving him apartments at the royal residence—when he was vulgarly
"pinched" and lugged off to jail for the crime of—being found out.

Because he was the War Lord’s "Jeanie," Lynar would not listen to
"Tütü’s" and "Willy’s" and "Freddy’s" hints about the Bank of England as
a safe depository.

"Some day," he used to bluster, "a few weeks or a month after ’The Day,’
I will ride up Threadneedle Street and straight into the vaults of that
venerable pile, and leap my charger over mountains of gold—will be quite
a change, don’t you know, from jumping fences at Hoppegarten."

As to the others, Sailor Trost and ditto Gustav Steinhauer each enjoyed
a meteoric career, rising in quick order to petty officership—impossible
to advance them higher, because they were men without education; and
whenever and wherever an excuse could be found for employing them in
that extraordinary capacity, they were given charge of the Imperial
person.  Thus Gustav Steinhauer always acted as chief guardian of the
War Lord’s lodging in Castle Liebenberg when the Majesty visited his
beloved Phili.

Kestler was a miserable subaltern, destined to starve on a daily wage of
four marks, when Eulenburg discovered and introduced him to Majesty.
Under the War Lord’s favour, he was transferred to a more lucrative
department in the service, and decorated!

Yet why the _Pour le Merite_ for Kestler, and for Eulenburg, Wedell,
etc.?  What _were_ their peculiar merits?  Has anyone ever been able to
discover?

To-day Eulenburg, twice tried, is a prisoner for life on his estate; the
two Hohenaus are banished from Germany, and dare not come back on pain
of arrest; Count Kuno von Moltke is a pensioner of the German people on
foreign soil; Count Wedell forfeited the two gold buttons on the tails
of his _frac_ and his residence at the Princess’s palace.

Why did they get off so easily in comparison when the crash came?

The answer is obvious enough.  These persons had been careful to deposit
in London, E.C., the letters they had received from a certain exalted
party who shall be nameless, and Count Lynar, prisoner No. 5429 at
Siegburg Jail, had neglected that simple precaution.




                            *CHAPTER XXIII*

                      *HOW VON BOHLEN WAS CHOSEN*


    The First Step—Prussian Manners—The War Lord Finds His
    Man—Putting Bülow to the Test—Discussing the Husband to Be—von
    Bohlen is Chosen


On the morning after the Bavarian debate in the Chancellor’s palace the
War Lord and Prince Phili met early in Sans-Souci Park for an hour’s
horseback exercise and scandalmongering.  Be sure that _chronique
scandaleuse_ was thoroughly discussed, as well as the personnel of
Phili’s favourites, and if there was anybody at Court and in Society, in
high official places and in the royal theatres whose ears did not tingle
with the calumnies or malicious tittle-tattle launched, the gossipers’
memory was at fault, not their capacity for impertinent innuendo.

These personages were walking their horses in a secluded avenue of the
woods beyond Klein Glienecke when they heard galloping behind. "My
courier," said the War Lord; "we’ll wait."  They drew rein, and
presently a red-coat shot by them in a parallel road.  When some fifty
paces ahead, the courier leaped his horse across the intervening ditch,
then stopped short at the imminent risk of being thrown, and waited, hat
in hand.

"Get the mail bag," commanded Wilhelm curtly, after the style of
Napoleon, who thought nothing of ordering a king to see how dinner was
progressing.  Phili trotted off, and presently returned with a red
morocco leather portfolio.  A silver-gilt key dangling on the War Lord’s
bracelet gave access to the contents: two letters, both postmarked
Essen.

"From Bertha," said the War Lord, glancing at the bigger envelope, and
put it into his pocket.  The other he tore open in great haste. "Wonder
what the Baroness wants from me?" he muttered.

Phili having returned the portfolio, the courier was dismissed by a wave
of the hand, and Wilhelm plunged into the epistle _sans cérémonie_.

"The devil!" he cried, before he had finished the first page, and drove
his horse so hard against Eulenburg’s side that Phili could not suppress
an outcry.

"Listen to this: Bertha has fallen in love with Franz, sort of
foster-brother, you know; they were children together."

"The electrical expert you told me about?"

"Precisely.  But I won’t allow it; she might as well aspire to be wife
No. 777 to our friend Abdul. But here comes the Baroness and pleads that
the dear child may have her way, Franz being such a good young man;
marriages are arranged in heaven, and her blessed Frederick will be
tickled to death, etc., and more tommy rot like that."

"You don’t think Franz exactly the right person?"

"Phili," cried the War Lord, "if you were not such an old sinner and
bald-headed and married and the father of children of marriageable age,
I would order you to marry her."

"Another woman—are there none but women in the world?" groaned the
ex-ambassador.  "Besides, I have not the least talent for bigamy; try
Kiderlen-Waechter."

"Would be the right sort, but he is nearly as old as you."

Once more Extase’s flank squeezed Phili. "I’ve got it," Wilhelm
exclaimed suddenly. "When you get back home, browse for an hour or two
on your card index, picking out the most desirable and up-to-date
Benedicts in the thirties or thereabout, preferably men in the
diplomatic service.  Got everybody’s photo up there, haven’t you?"

"At Your Majesty’s service, the whole gallery."

"Pictures and personalia you’ll bring to the Neues Palais this
afternoon, and maybe I will run over to Essen in the night to show the
_crème de votre crème_ to the Baroness.  This folly about Franz must be
nipped in the bud, and with a girl the better and handsomer man does the
trick every time."

The War Lord wheeled his horse around and trotted off in the direction
of his residence.  He never takes the trouble of telling his riding
companions of his intentions.  "Let them keep their eyes open and do as
I do."  The Queen herself fares no better when out riding with him.  If
her harness gets out of order or something of that sort, and she has to
dismount, Wilhelm presses on unconcernedly.  "Let the Master of Horse
look after her."

Phili, arrived at his apartments, had no sooner got into his
dressing-jacket of flowered silk, when the telephone rang furiously.  "I
command," admonished a hard voice.

"Here, Phili, at Your Majesty’s service."

"Are you at work on the cards?"

"Head over heels," lied Phili.

"And in this connection—has nothing occurred to you?"

The obsequious courtier was in a quandary. Woe to him if he attempted to
be wiser than his master!

"The old story; I have to think of everything," the War Lord thundered.
"Can’t you see you must take your selection of names to Bülow and
pretend to get advice on the candidates from him?  If you don’t, he will
be offended."

"Like the old woman he is," ventured Eulenburg.

"Don’t you criticise _my_ Chancellor."  There was a brutal emphasis on
the "my," and Phili stuttered a dozen excuses for his slip of the
tongue.

"Never mind, to work, Prince!  It was Louis XIV. who almost waited on
one particular occasion.  Remember, Phili, I don’t want to repeat his
experience."

Phili rang for Jaroljmek, his secretary.

"I do wish Majesty could get along without me for a day or two," he
said.  "More pressing business.  All the young men in the diplomatic
service to be inquired into, liver and kidneys.  At once, of course!
Beastly bore unless I may count on your assistance."

"Of course, Serene Highness."

"Have the maids bring in the card index, then."

"With Highness’s permission, I will ask the butler to help me.  It’s too
heavy for girls."

"Not at all.  Women were put into the world to wait on such as you and
I.  The woods are full of girls, while nice boys are few and far
between. And you vulgarise a high-stepping horse by hard work."

So two nine-stone girls were ordered to carry in from an upper storey
the great wooden case weighing a hundredweight, while His Highness and
secretary looked on and, moreover, increased their task by foolish
directions.

"The smaller legations where I am sending the unlicked cubs—fellows
without an inkling of Greek art and antique beauty—we’ll go through
those first," said the Prince.

"May I ask Highness the purpose of our research?"

"Majesty is trying to find a hubby for—_Nomina sunt odiosa_.  However,
you know the party."

"Rich?"

"Wealthiest girl in the world."

"Old Frederick’s daughter!  I heard some queer stories about Papa."

"Naughty boy!" with an indulgent smile from Phili.  "Well, Majesty wants
a Benedict for Bertha who will paddle the War Lord’s canoe even more
enthusiastically than his wife’s baby-carriage."

"Why doesn’t Majesty consult von Treskow and Kopp?" said the secretary.

"Don’t mention those rude plebeians."

And so the pretty pair went on.  They selected a round dozen should-be
aspirants for Bertha’s hand.

These the Emperor examined later.

"Receding chin," announced the War Lord disdainfully, reviewing the
first few while the friends sipped their China tea.

"All the ear marks of the wife-beater," he commented on an attaché
accredited to the Court of St. James’s.  "That fellow is sure to give
trouble," he commented on photo No. 4.  No. 5 was dismissed with a
contemptuous: "Meddlesome snout."  He continued to throw the photographs
on the carpet, but suddenly sat up straight as a bolt.

"My man!" he cried.  "Get Bülow on the ’phone.  No; order Augustus to
have an extra train ready for the Chancellor to leave Potsdamer Bahnhof
in half an hour at the latest."

The Court Marshal ’phoned back that a regular train was leaving at the
time prescribed, and that a saloon carriage might be attached for Count
Bülow.

"Very well, but express—Neues Palais first stop.  Now call up Bülow."
The War Lord was continually filling his teacup and absorbing large
quantities of cucumber sandwiches.  He had his mouth full when the red
disc annunciator reported Bülow at the other end, and emptied it with a
gulp.

Yes—immediately.  Most important.  Would not he bring the Princess?  His
wife would be delighted.

In an hour’s time a royal landau and four set Chancellor von Bülow and
his Princess down in the Sandhof, the War Lord stepping from one of the
tall door-windows of his study on to the terrace to welcome them, and
Countess Brockdorff, Mistress of the Robes, receiving Her Serene
Highness on Her Majesty’s behalf.

Do these august ladies love each other? Assuredly—after the fashion of
Empress Eugenie and Princess Pauline Metternich.  The Princess thought
herself as good as the Empress any day, and never hesitated to say so,
and when on one occasion Eugenie’s tantrums were excused on the plea
that she had an uncle in the strait-jacket, Pauline quickly responded:
"There are a few lunatics in my family too."

So the Princess Camporeale, whose husband was to be "princed" a few
weeks hence, regarded herself as good as the _née_ Schleswig-Holstein,
arguing that the Beccadello were more ancient than Her Majesty’s family.
And her Margraviate of Altavilla was worth more in lires and centimes
than Her Majesty’s title of Margravine of Brandenburg.

So the Princess Maria told Countess Brockdorff she could not move until
the ladies of her Court arrived from the station, and the House Marshal
was warned that Her Highness’s lackeys must not be allowed in the palace
canteen.  German beer and sausage always upset them.

Four exceedingly pretty Italian women came in the second carriage.  "My
governess, Marchesa ——."  "My reader, the Countess ——." "My maids of
honour, Contezzina —— and Baroness ——"—all members of former sovereign
or semi-sovereign houses.

Bülow beamed in his animated fashion when he did not see Eulenburg, whom
he rather expected to find, since he was always where least wanted.

"And what may be Your Majesty’s pleasure?" he asked in his courtly way,
when they were alone in the study.

"I want your opinion on the husband I’ve selected for a certain young
lady."  The War Lord had quite forgotten his own admonition to Phili.
"Look!"  He laid a hand partly over the photograph on the table,
allowing only the forehead to be seen.

"Good, capable forehead," observed Bülow; "something behind that."

"No obstinacy, I hope," said the War Lord. Next he let the photograph’s
eyes be seen.

"Cold, steadfast, may be some disposition for cruelty," was Bülow’s
verdict.

"A good nose, mouth disdainful, somewhat high cheekbones—it’s von Bohlen
und Halbach!" cried the Chancellor.

"You know him?"

"To some extent, both officially and unofficially.  Never had any chance
to distinguish himself, but decidedly adaptable, yet not lacking
executive ability, I believe."

The War Lord was delighted with the endorsement his own views received.

"Look at that chin," he said; "firm isn’t the word for it—bulldog,
regular bulldog.  He will lead you the deuce of a dance, Bertha!"

At the mention of the name the Chancellor winced perceptibly.  "I
endorsed his capacity for business; I know nothing about his personal
character," he ventured, adding: "He must be at least fifteen years
older than Bertha."

The War Lord consulted Phili’s notes.  "Old enough to vote, as they say
in the States—to vote for me, _nota bene_, at directors’ meetings.  Call
up your office and find out what kind of subordinate he is."

"I looked at his papers only the other day. He seems to give his chief
no trouble, carrying out orders punctually and painstakingly; never
harasses the minister with original suggestions, but is quite content to
do his duty and say naught about it."

"Is his family good enough?"

"Gentle born," explained the Chancellor; "father was Baden Minister,
mother not of noble birth—Sophie Bohlen—but she had money, I believe.
The present Councillor of Legation is university bred, of course, and
belongs to the Guard Hussars, _Landwehr, Chef d’escadron_, says the army
’Who’s Who.’  Nevertheless," concluded the Chancellor in his most
persuasive style, "I don’t think him the right sort of husband for
Bertha."

"Right sort for _me_," cried the War Lord.

Bülow, conscious that His Majesty at the time could not afford to
quarrel with him, risked a none too gentle rebuke by disregarding the
interruption.

"She is so young," he went on, "and, as I pointed out before, there is
the making of a cruel master in his face.  Think of the wealthiest girl
in the world tied to a man who will not let her have her own way—a sort
of drill-sergeant husband. Your Majesty is too whole-hearted, too
generous, too gallant," he added with a smile, "to impose a husband of
that kind upon your ward."

In response the War Lord dropped the high falsetto of command which had
marked his interruptions, and said in a more conciliatory tone: "There
is not a man alive against whose choice as a husband objections may not
be marshalled _à la advocatus diaboli_.  Now, for a change, listen to
the _advocatus Dei_, please: It goes without saying that I have my
ward’s happiness very much at heart.  Indeed, if she was of my own flesh
and blood, I could not cherish more tender feelings for her.  I love her
like one of my own children, and haven’t I accepted Cecile much as I
loathe her mother?  But with Bertha it’s not a mere matter of getting
married and preserving her unexampled wealth, if you will——"  The War
Lord stopped short, but after a moment’s thought continued: "It will be
more public spirited for Bertha to marry the man of my selection than to
imperil the Fatherland’s right arm.  Where would we be if she chose for
lord and master one of those fool-pacifists, some von Suttner milksop,
seeing that without Krupp’s loyal co-operation our great war would go to
pot—that even a mere defensive war would better be avoided."

"If Fraulein Krupp or her husband went to extremes, the State could step
in and take over the Krupp works," objected the Chancellor.

"And do you suppose that our agents in Brussels, Lisbon, Rome, the South
Americas and so forth would be allowed to buy guns from the King of
Prussia?"  The War Lord answered his own question with an emphatic "No!"
then suggested slyly:

"To sell the enemy war materials is part of our ante-war programme, is
it not?"

After walking the length and breadth of the room, he planted himself
firmly before Bülow, whom, by the way, he had not asked to be seated.

"I command," he said with an air of finality; "Bohlen is the man.  Your
own suggestion, you can’t escape from it," he quickly added, when Bülow
protested.  "You said the fellow, though capable, is not
self-opinionated—no swelled head—always obeys orders—in short:
adaptable.  That kind of man we need at the head of the Krupp
establishment to do the Fatherland’s work according to my
directions—hence Bertha will marry him and no one else."

Then, to forestall further arguments: "Let’s join the ladies now."

He rang for an orderly.  "The Grand Master," he commanded.

Count Augustus zu Eulenburg had evidently anticipated that he would be
wanted, as he stood waiting in the Shell Grotto, facing the park.  The
walls and ceiling of this gorgeous entrance hall are clad with
semi-precious stones in their natural growth: mountain-crystal and
malachite, coral trees and amethyst rocks, agate and garnets, gold and
silver ore; presents from royal friends for the most part.

"I’ll leave for Essen to-night.  Wire Frau Krupp to expect me for
breakfast.  The small entourage, and warn messieurs my humble servants
not to take too many lackeys.  I am tired of carting their households
around."

"At Your Majesty’s orders."  The Marshal bowed low.  Then in a whisper:
"Is Phili to be of the party?"

"Certainly not," replied the War Lord so Bülow might hear him.  "Report
to me later," he added in an undertone.

"Later" the following _tripotage_ was overheard:

War Lord: "Phili hasn’t left?"

"He is awaiting Your Majesty’s further commands."

"Tell him to get ready for Essen."

"He begs to remind Your Majesty that he is not in the Baroness’s good
graces."

"Am I not painfully aware of that?  She would prefer the measles to a
morning call from Phili."

"Then he is to stay on the train while Your Majesty visits Villa
Huegel?"

"Until I require him.  He may be needed to quicken her ladyship’s
decision about matters in hand, as under pressure of his presence she
will consent more readily, just to get your precious cousin out of the
house."




                             *CHAPTER XXIV*

                     *THE WAR LORD’S DAY IN ESSEN*


    The Krupp Free Hotel—The War Lord and the Cinder—Bertha’s Little
    Surprise—The Blue Ribbon of the Son—A Mad Idea—The War Lord Apes
    the Expert—Enter the Pawn—A Wily Game—Disposing of Franz


"A wonderful country, the United States," said the War Lord to
Chief-Engineer Franz; "it produced two Maxims.  The British War Office
captured Hiram, but there is another, Hudson, who seems to know as much
about explosives and guns as his more celebrated namesake.  I want you
to take a year’s leave and study him—him and Pittsburgh.  Your salary
goes on, of course, and there will be a suitable allowance for expense.
I will arrange this with the Director-General."

Franz bowed his thanks, for Wilhelm, big with his subject, showed
plainly that he meant to do all the talking.

"Hudson Maxim," he continued, "claims priority as inventor of half a
hundred discoveries that would seem to spell success in war.  He knows a
lot about dynamite, torpedoes, and detonating fuses too, and is great in
chemistry.  Try and learn all he knows by fair means or—foul," he added.
Then, musingly:

"I have lately looked into some recipes suggesting chemical preparations
for means of attack.  The War Office will furnish details.  Consult
Hudson Maxim and other American authorities on the subject, using the
utmost discretion, of course, for I don’t quite trust those Yankees.
They manage to cover up their British sympathies, but I have had a peep
or two beneath the surface.  I know Armour."  His mind took a sudden
leap.  "How soon will you start?" he demanded.  "Do you want a week’s
time?  Very well."

"May it please Your Majesty, Frau Krupp invited me to accompany herself
and daughters on their jaunt—sort of _maréchal de logis_——" ventured
Franz.

"Duty, sir!  Fatherland first.  Tuesday’s French liner, then; and don’t
fail to investigate whether steamers of this class are liable to be of
use as auxiliary vessels in case of war.  Ballin and the Norddeutscher
Lloyd people pronounce them veritable men-of-war.  But, to my mind,
Ballin and Company are after subsidies."

Thus was Franz politely requested and cruelly coerced to leave Villa
Huegel.  It was on the eve of the day after the interview between War
Lord and Chancellor.  Events had moved swiftly since then.

A comfortable night on Majesty’s train _de luxe_, preceded by a variety
performance by Phili Eulenburg, star impersonator.

Breakfast, 9 A.M., at the Krupp villa, better and more plentiful than at
home.

A drive next?  No; Uncle Majesty would not allow Bertha to handle the
ribbons of the four-in-hand. Never doubted her ability, of course—yet
that experience of his at Count Dohna’s.  No amateurs on the box for
him.  "His little girl was to sit by his side," and they were to discuss
"grave business matters."

Wilhelm, who always looks for chances to combine business with pleasure,
asked to be driven to the _Essener Hof_, a hotel in the city of Essen
proper, where intending buyers of guns and ammunition are lodged, and,
it may be added, wined and feasted at the War Lady’s expense.  Be sure
that the Krupp hostelry is never lacking in guests pretending to be
unsatisfied with the tests of war material conducted for their benefit
as long as there is the slightest excuse for delay in going home, since,
once satisfied, they must buy, and, the deal concluded, give up their
comfortable apartments at the _Hof_.

Wilhelm left half a dozen of his large, ugly visiting-cards at the door
of the hotel for the Jap, Chinese, Turkish and other representatives,
bending down the lower right-hand corner of the pasteboards to indicate
his regrets that he had failed to find the gentlemen in.

"If any of them attempt to pay me a return visit, I shall put them under
’old Fritz’ and pulverise their yellow bones," he said to Bertha.

But before they had finished laughing at the piece of raillery the War
Lord uttered a cry of anguish.  An infinitesimal cinder or a bit of soot
had got into his left ear, causing him the most excruciating pains.

"Home," he gasped piteously.  "Let’s pick up a physician on the way."
(For some reason or other no doctor was included in the small Imperial
party.)

Dr. Shrader was dumbfounded when the royal chasseur, in feather hat,
broadsword at his side, summoned him.  "My consulting hour; dozens of
people waiting," he protested.  The chasseur bent over the doctor’s ear
and whispered, whereupon Shrader ran into the street in his
dressing-gown, apparently to interview the gutter, for, in his anxiety
to pacify the War Lord with stammered excuses, his nose was close to the
stream of mucky water running down the hill.

Naturally, the humour of the thing did not appeal to Wilhelm, racked
with pain as he was. He rose from the seat, and, pushing the obsequious
doctor aside, jumped up the steps, saying: "Attend me, I command."  Of
course, in the meanwhile the doctor’s household had got wind of the
royal radiance, and flocked from parlour, bedrooms and scullery, males
and females and children, all eager to prostrate themselves in hall or
on staircases, wherever they might be.

The War Lord turned to Shrader: "Send them upstairs; lock them in if
necessary."  And, with a look through the glass door of the
waiting-room: "These people must leave instantly; I won’t be their
_Grossebeest_."

He let himself drop into the doctor’s ample desk-chair.

"The ear-pump and antiseptics!" he commanded with a cry of pain.  Then,
as the doctor approached with the instruments: "Oh, take off that dirty
dressing-gown first.  Roll up your sleeves.  Wash your hands."

More insulting orders were thundered at the man of science by a supposed
gentleman, but their execution gave Shrader time to recover.

He handled the ear-pump with consummate ease, as he happened to be a
specialist in the line, and soon had the satisfaction of showing the War
Lord the annoying fragment of cinder which his skill had discovered and
extracted.

"May it please Your Majesty, it would be well to clear all the passages
by blowing air through them," he humbly suggested.

"Do all that’s necessary, doctor."

Shrader produced another instrument fitted with a spiral trumpet and a
long rubber tube, and went to work vigorously.  By the time the War Lord
was ready to leave the doctor laid down his microscope: "I congratulate
Your Majesty; no evidence of putrefaction, hence no gangrenous
inflammation."

"Who said there was?" demanded the War Lord severely.

"I meant to submit to Your Majesty that the ear will give no further
trouble."

"That’s better," said Wilhelm in a pleasant voice.  He strode through
the hall at such a pace that the chasseur had hardly time to open the
door for him.

The street was black with people.  "Hochs!" resounded from a thousand
throats, basso, tenor, soprano, what not.  A good many people had been
talking to Bertha—all at once, of course. "Prating of their
misfortunes—the usual racket," suggested the War Lord, with a look of
contempt, as he sat down beside the heiress.  And when the carriage was
clear of the mob he added: "You ought to have walked the horses up and
down in the neighbourhood while I was with the doctor."

"I thought of that, likewise that the carriage might not have been on
hand when you wanted to start, Uncle Majesty.  You told me the remark of
the French king: ’I almost waited,’" replied Fraulein Krupp.

Dr. Shrader had indeed relieved the Majesty, who felt fresh and buoyant
after the invigorating ride over the hills and along the
shooting-ranges. The latter, while fully manned, were silent, for the
chasseur had telephoned to Count Helmuth von Moltke, and the adjutant
had countermanded all trial practice.

"Let’s look at ’old Fritz’ again," said the War Lord, after
refreshments.  Unlike Charles V., the War Lord is never awakened during
the night to swallow some favourite dish, but five meals a day are his
rule, and to revive his animal spirits he takes a number of raw eggs in
a glass of cognac after the slightest exertion, when at home, i.e. at
his own expense, while more substantial and elaborate provision is
expected at friends’ houses.

At Villa Huegel he is never disappointed.  Even if he brought those
"forty scientist friends" he once imposed upon Dom Carlos of Portugal,
poor man!—indeed, even if he asked Frau Krupp to lodge and feed a whole
regiment of gold-laced or fringe-trousered nobodies or impostors, there
would be the most generous response on her part and no questions asked.

"When I heard you were coming, Uncle Majesty, I planned a little
surprise," said Bertha, when showing the War Lord a short cut to "old
Fritz’s" habitat.  She led the way to a section of the armour-plate
department, whose employés burst into feverish activity at their
approach.  No doubt they were expected.

"Eighty tons," said Bertha, pointing towards the huge crucible steel
block being placed under a giant hydraulic press.

"How will you move a cannon of that size?" queried the War Lord, who is
liable to get his figures mixed.

"But it is not going to be a cannon, Uncle Majesty," explained the
mistress of the works.

"You are going to roll it out into an armour-plate for Chimborazo,
then?"

"Once more Uncle Majesty is pleased to be mistaken."

"Maybe it’s a statue of England’s lord high admiral you are making?"

"Burning," said the smiling Bertha; "it has something to do with the
sea."

There was more guessing and repartee during the first half of the thirty
minutes required to coax and squeeze and handle and form the block and
drag its slow length along—150 feet of it.  Seeing that, the War Lord no
longer could master his curiosity.

"What is it to be, Bertha?" he asked in a tone that would not be denied,
and the wonder is that he did not add the polite: "I command!" of
average Prussian bully ship.

"The shaft of a big steamer, Uncle Majesty; the biggest——"

"I know, I know," shouted the War Lord above the din of machinery, "for
Ballin.  Wants to snatch the speed record from Bremen.  Fetch the
superintendent, Bertha."

To the official, who was undecided whether he ought to drop dead with
devotion or burst with pride, he said in the tone of an ancient Father
of the Church: "Work of the utmost importance is entrusted to you—in a
measure you are the guardian of the Fatherland’s supremacy at sea.
England is building a giant steamship to steal our speed record.  Her
new ocean greyhound is to be ready for passenger service in 1907.  Pray
to God fervently, asking Him to grant you success that you may help to
defeat the enemy of German commerce and our development as a sea power.
To assist in taking the blue ribbon of sea power away from Great Britain
should be the aim of all good Germans, even as it is your War Lord’s
duty to secure for the Fatherland the ocean coast-lines she needs."  He
dismissed the man with a wave of the hand.

It is interesting to note here that this speech was delivered a month
before Wilhelm met King Edward at Wilhelmshohe to spout "his sincere
wishes for a frank understanding with Great Britain" and for the
"desirability of common action" where German or British interests were
involved.

Meanwhile the shaft had been completed, a towering, solid mass, and the
War Lord, walking round it, remarked admiringly: "Fine, looks as if come
out of Vulcan’s own smithy.  What next?" he added, with his customary
impatience.

The young girl was anxious to show her familiarity with the business.
Had she not undergone much coaching by Franz for this very reason?

"Extracting the kernel," she answered, with an air of superiority.

"I should like to see the removal of the kernel," ordered the War Lord,
as if the idea were original with him.  Bertha pulled his sleeve and
whispered again, after which Wilhelm admonished the superintendent:
"Take care that it comes out in one piece."

No doubt the man would have died of mortification if the well-known
"cussedness" of "inanimate objects" had played him a trick; but, luckily
for him, it refrained, which encourages the thought that the supposed
"inanimation" is not quite so hopeless after all.  Maybe in this case
the "inanimate object" was intent upon beating the War Lord out of a
chance to scold and air his views on mechanics.

"Any more novelties?" asked Wilhelm, disappointed because the machinery
worked to perfection.

"The hydraulic shears are busy in the next shop," said Bertha.

There the War Lord saw sections of armour-plates for one of his
Dreadnoughts cut as if they were so many enormous Swiss cheeses.

"Some fine day," he commented, "we will mount one of these shears on the
Calais coast, and next to it a giant magnet."  He paused, contemplating
the picture of his imagination.

"Yes, yes, Uncle Majesty!" cried the eager Bertha.

"The magnet," continued the War Lord, "will pull the English Dreadnought
fleet out of the Channel, and toss ship after ship over into the jaws of
the shears to be made mincemeat of. Fine heap of scrap-iron for you,
Bertha."

"But the sailors!" cried the young girl.

"_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_," declared the War Lord,
shrugging.

Next they looked at some enormous presses capable of bending
armour-plates to any shape desired.  This amused the Majesty hugely.  He
likes to bend men and things.

"Any shape desired?"

"Any Your Majesty will be pleased to command."

"Very well.  Model one on the left half of my moustache."

The supervisor shouted orders and the machinery stopped for a little
while, then turned out the desired shape with photographic accuracy. But
the War Lord would not have it: "The point’s missing," he declared.

"I leave it to Fraulein," murmured the superintendent, wincing under the
rebuke.  And with the vivacity and carelessness of youth Bertha divined
the situation, and instantly came to her employé’s rescue.

"Herr Grier is right; Your Majesty’s moustaches are not trimmed alike.
The left one is much shorter."

Wilhelm put his hand up to his cheek.  "So it is," he admitted
grudgingly.  "I remember I set fire to it last night on the train
lighting a cigarette."  This was addressed to Bertha.  He was too small
a person to excuse his rudeness to the superintendent.

"There is a ninety-ton block of steel making. Would Uncle Majesty like
to see how it’s done?" said Bertha, on the way back to Villa Huegel.

"Ninety tons!  What a cannon that would make!  Of course I would like to
see it."

Bertha led the way to the crucible works, where at that moment fifty
pairs of workers were engaged in carrying about on long bars white-hot
crucibles of metal.  They were acting with the utmost precision, and one
shudders to think of the wounds and mutilation that would have ensued
had either one of them stumbled or been seized by sudden illness.  As
each couple of men advanced and tilted the glowing mass into the mould,
the War Lord observed:

"Much too long-winded and laborious.  I will talk to the
Director-General about that, Bertha."

And, turning to the supervisor, he demanded curtly: "The composition of
the mixture?"

The man bowed to the ground to hide his confusion, and once more Bertha
jumped into the breach.

"He doesn’t know—nor do I.  Secret formula of Grandfather Frederick.
Don’t press him, Uncle Majesty, for even to speculate on these
technicalities means dismissal and disgrace for an employé."  Though she
spoke in a pleading tone of voice, the War Lord continued to frown.

"Perhaps he is allowed to explain why no shorter process is used."

The supervisor fairly beamed with readiness and satisfaction.  "May it
please Your Majesty, our way—I beg Fraulein’s pardon, the Krupp way—is
the only absolutely sure method to forestall bubbles and flaws."

"And a flaw, is it a serious matter?" asked the War Lord, very much
alert.

"Indeed, Your Majesty, for it may cause the shattering of a shaft, the
breakdown of machinery, the bursting of cannon."

"And all cannon turned out by the works have the benefit of this
process?"

"All without exception, Your Majesty."

A bystander says he heard the War Lord mutter under his breath: "What
rot!"  And there is a further report that he burst into the
Director-General’s room, and roared: "Fine kettle of fish I discovered.
Guarding against flaws in cannon intended for enemy countries! Why not
turn over to France and England and Russia all the secret plans of the
German War Office?"

But no authoritative record of Wilhelm’s sayings relating to this
particular point has been obtainable.  As a matter of fact, it isn’t
worth the pains of special research.  It is to be noted, however, that
after the Turkish defeat at Lule Burgas and Kirk Kilisse Bertha’s
husband was moved to say that the stories about the "inefficiency of
Krupp guns and Krupp workmanship" were "fables," and that he was ready
at any time "to take the field against all comers with Krupp guns and
Krupp armour."

After tea the War Lord had a long, serious talk with Frau Krupp.
Happily her ladyship had been mistaken.  Bertha was not actually in love
with Franz; just a sort of sisterly attachment, momentarily intensified
by girlish longings.  So much the better, since the right sort of
husband for his ward had been found: Doctor von Bohlen und Halbach, the
young diplomat, distinguished, well-bred, sound business head and
ambitious. "Highest ambition to serve his king."

"Supposing Your Majesty understood Bertha correctly with respect to
Franz, her change of heart does not mean that she will fall in love with
Your Majesty’s candidate for her hand," said Frau Krupp.

"Preparing to jump," thought Wilhelm; "I wish Phili were here."  And as
accident would have it, His Highness was announced that very moment.
Eulenburg, or Hohenzollern luck?

The Baroness opened her mouth to deny herself to the visitor on the plea
of unavoidable business, but Wilhelm got ahead of her.  "The Prince is
most welcome," he said to the major-domo.

There is no denying that His Highness, ten or more years ago, was a
striking personality and had a peculiar charm.  As Murat knew more about
the art of dressing than Napoleon, so Eulenburg overshadowed Wilhelm as
a glass of fashion, avoiding the latter’s all-too-apparent striving for
effect and pretence.

Despite their close relations, he greeted Wilhelm without a trace of
familiarity and kissed Frau Krupp’s hand.

"Just in time," cried the War Lord.  "I was telling the Baroness about
the Chancellor’s young friend, von Bohlen.  Bülow told me he would ask
you to allow him sight of your records concerning the diplomat.  Was he
satisfied?  Tell us all you know about Bohlen?"

That he was well aware of Frau Krupp’s loathing for him need not be
reiterated, and that in her ladyship’s eyes praise from Sir Phili spelt
the worst of condemnation for the party approved of he fully realised,
and framed his answer accordingly:

"I am pained to acknowledge that I have no personal acquaintance with
the young man who rejoices in the great Pontiff’s love and friendship——"

"You have Pius’s own opinion," cried the War Lord.  His astonishment was
equalled only by his appreciation of the lie told.

"At Your Majesty’s service—through the kindness of the papal legate.
When Majesty commissioned me to get reliable information about our
foreign representatives, I went to headquarters—may it please Your
Majesty."

"It pleases me immensely.  What did the Pontiff say?"

"Exemplary habits, God-fearing, able and ambitious—these few words sum
up the Holy Father’s estimate of Bohlen."

"Did you hear that?" asked Wilhelm, addressing Frau Krupp.  "We will get
the details from Bülow."  And turning to Phili, he said: "You wanted to
meet my ward.  I will summon her, and she shall show you over the house
and grounds. Beats Liebenberg," he added in an undertone.

Phili beamed.  "His Majesty is joking," he said to Frau Krupp.  "To
compare my poor Tusculum to Villa Huegel and surroundings is to put my
Skalde songs next to the immortal ballads of Beranger."

Frau Krupp dared not object to Wilhelm’s arrangements.  She played into
the War Lord’s hands.

"I will meet you and His Highness at the fountain in five minutes," she
told Bertha—a welcome cue to Uncle Majesty.

"Aside from the Pope’s estimate, does the Chancellor himself approve of
Herr von Bohlen?" asked Frau Krupp.

"Enthusiastically.  Bohlen’s record in Washington and in Peking equalled
his success at the Holy See.  _Gnädige Frau_," added Wilhelm in a tone
of conviction, "let’s hope that the estimable young man’s heart is still
free.  I have no doubt that he would be a _dieu-donné_ to Bertha,
yourself and—Essen."

"And Your Majesty desires me to broach the matter to my daughter?"

"What is _gnädige Frau_ thinking of?  Do you suppose I would have wooed
Augusta if I had known that Bismarck wanted me to marry her? No, no;
matters of that kind must be left to accident, or apparent accident.
This is the time for diplomatic furloughs.  Tell me where you want to
take the girls on their holiday, and I will have your son-in-law-to-be
introduced quite casually. Bülow will manage."

"Bertha spoke of having another look into Rome before the hot season,"
said the Baroness.

"Fate," cried Wilhelm (if he was a Catholic he would have crossed
himself).  "God’s will," he corrected his lapsus _linguæ_.  "Herr von
Bohlen und Halbach will be ordered not to leave his post until further
notice.  When you are in Rome he will present himself with Bülow’s
compliments, offering to act as my ward’s cicerone.  This will give you
abundant opportunity for intimate observation and Bertha a chance to
fall in love if she cares.

"All’s arranged, then," he added in the finality vein peculiar to his
nature, when he kissed Frau Krupp’s hand at the door, which he had
opened for her.  In the Teuton Majesty’s eye this was a great and almost
overpowering act of condescension; the twentieth-century
Prussian-en-chef rather prides himself on such mannerisms, fondly
mistaking them for dignity.

Well satisfied with the success of his stratagem, Wilhelm rang for his
adjutant and dictated to him a long dispatch to the Chancellor, giving a
well-coloured version of the interview with Frau Krupp and instructing
Count Bülow how to answer the lady’s forthcoming inquiries.

"The holiest of the holies, of course," ordered Wilhelm, referring to
the telegraphic code.  "I don’t trust these Essen fellows," he deigned
to explain; "the Chasseur shall take the message to Düsseldorf and
personally hand it to the President to be sent over the official wire."

Afterwards he joined the ladies and Phili, finishing up the day’s
strenuous work of intrigue and sight-seeing with the talk to Franz,
recorded at the opening of this chapter.

Just before leaving Villa Huegel he had another _tête-à-tête_ with Frau
Krupp.  "I have conferred signal honours on your protégé" (meaning the
chief engineer), he said.  "I am sending him to the States to study new
inventions and investigate patents relating to war materials—greatest
chance that ever came to a young man. If he does as well as I expect, I
will make him special representative of my General Staff.  Is your
Ladyship satisfied now?"

Frau Krupp breathed her humblest thanks. What else could she do?




                             *CHAPTER XXV*

                             *A ROYAL LIAR*


    High-Placed Plagiarists—Diplomatic Trickery—The Kaiser
    Whitewashes Himself—"What of the German Navy?"—Clumsy Espionage


_October 10th_, 1905, 6 _p.m._

The red disc betraying the War Lord’s presence at the other end of the
wire thrust itself between the Chancellor’s eyes and the copy of _Echo
de Paris_ he was reading.

"I command Bohlen," said Wilhelm’s impatient voice.

"I am afraid he is not available just now, Your Majesty.  Gone shopping
with his fiancée the last I heard."

"Order Wedell to find him.  He shall be at the Chancellery at nine
sharp, when I expect to find you too, Prince."

"Gracing my wife’s soirée?"

"Soirée to-night?  Excellent!  I will order all my boys to kiss Madame’s
hand.  It will put her into good humour, and she will the more readily
allow you to attend to business."

"And, Majesty," said Bülow, hopefully, "the Princess Maria is counting
on having the honour of Your Majesty’s presence."

"I will send the insignia of _dell’ Annunciata_ instead."

"I beg Your Majesty, don’t.  Maria might not remember that Charles XII.
sent his boots to preside at the Swedish Council of State."

As before remarked, it is one of Bülow’s tricks always to have on the
tip of his tongue some historic _bon mot_ suitable to the occasion.

There was an outburst of rough laughter. "He did, did he?  And yet they
called him the Madman of the North.  Next time Herr Bebel has a
congress, I will send the Reds a pair of my riding breeches, and no new
ones either.  But _revenons à_ Bohlen.  Devil of a chap!  Made Bertha
his goods, his chattel, his stuff, his field, his barn, his horse, his
ox, his ass, his everything!  That’s the way!  Make them eat out of your
hand, Prince!"

Bülow was a Prince since the 6th of June, and the War Lord never tired
of calling him by the title of his own creation.  He had just borrowed
boldly from the Bard, and the theft being apparently undiscovered by his
literary Chancellor, Wilhelm felt justified in relaxing his imperious
mien some more.

"Can’t you prescribe a dose of sleeping sickness for that fool Liebert?
His shouting about ’our war’ to obtain supreme sea power is
co-responsible for the _Entente Cordiale_.  Of course I like to strike
terror into the hearts of the enemy, but in his Navy League speech
Liebert went too far.  If he keeps it up, I shall put him on half-pay.
Tell him so."  (The War Lord referred to General von Liebert,
ex-Governor of German East Africa, who had made a speech threatening
Great Britain and France.)

And more talk of that kind.  The more gossipy, the better for Bülow, as
there had been no time to digest the _Echo de Paris_ article and to
enter into its discussion before he had fully made up his mind what to
say about the reported Anglo-Franco-Russo-Japanese Alliance.  His
comments might lead to serious dissension with Majesty, for Wilhelm was
sure to fasten on to some supposed negligible point in the Chancellor’s
argument to distort the whole tenor of his interpretation.

Tit for tat.  Only when Bülow was the victim, there was no
prearrangement like in the case of the repudiations of the Joseph
Chamberlain and the London _Daily Telegraph_ interviews.

When in England five years before, the War Lord had prompted Mr.
Chamberlain to make his historic appeal in favour of co-operation
between Great Britain, Germany and the United States, assuring him that
Germany’s future policy would rest on such an understanding as on a
_roche de bronze_.

Mr. Chamberlain, being under the impression that only gentlemen were
invited to Sandringham House, thought His Majesty sincere and gave
public utterance to the message, promising peace and mutual
understanding.

But the _Roi de Prusse_ had no sooner shaken the dust of England from
his boots than Bülow was ordered to repudiate the whole thing (without
directly impugning his Sovereign’s word, of course) and to ridicule
Chamberlain’s "Utopian schemes."

Notwithstanding, the then German Ambassador in London, Count
Wolff-Metternich, later had the impudence to complain to Sir F.
Lascelles, British representative in Berlin, that the state of English
opinion toward Germany and the British Foreign Office’s coldness toward
the Wilhelmstrasse gave him considerable uneasiness; whereupon Sir
Lascelles demanded to know whether Germany expected British Secretaries
of State, having been struck in the face, were to turn the other cheek
for further castigation and insult?

Three years after the birth of the Quadruple Alliance, at which we are
now assisting, the War Lord and his Chancellor had another repudiation
game between them.  Mr. Harcourt having prepared the way in his amazing
Lancashire speech,[#] Wilhelm strove to outdo the Father of Lies in the
notorious _Daily Telegraph_ interview, the general theme of which was:


[#] Mr. Harcourt’s speech in Lancashire, October, 1908: "I wil not offer
to other nations the temptation which would be afforded by a defenceless
England, but let me assure you ... there has not been any period in the
last ten or fifteen years—and I speak with knowledge and a sense of deep
responsibility—in which our relations with Germany—commercial, colonial,
political, and dynastic—have been on a firmer and more friendly footing
than they are to-day.

"Our rivalries are only in trade and education, and though I should
claim for us the supremacy of the former, I would yield to Germany the
palm for perfection in the latter; but of personal animosity there is
none between the rulers, the Governments, or the peoples.  And if in
either country there is a small class of publicists who, for selfish and
unpatriotic ends, desire to set the nations at variance—well, they are
the footpads of politics and the enemies of the human race."


"You English are mad, mad—mad as March hares.  What has come over you
that you are so completely given over to suspicions quite unworthy of a
great nation?  What more can I do than I have done?  I declared with all
the emphasis at my command, in my speech at Guildhall, that my heart is
set upon peace, and that it is one of my dearest wishes to live on the
best of terms with England.  Have I ever been false to my word?
Falsehood and prevarication are alien to my nature.

"My actions ought to speak for themselves, but you listen, not to them,
but to those who misinterpret and distort them.  That is a personal
insult which I feel and resent.  To be for ever misjudged, to have my
repeated offers of friendship weighed and scrutinised with jealous,
mistrustful eyes, taxes my patience severely.  I have said time after
time that I am a friend of England, and your Press—or, at least, a
considerable section of it—bids the people of England refuse my
proffered hand, and insinuates that the other holds a dagger.

"I repeat that I am the friend of England, but you make things difficult
for me.  My task is not of the easiest.  The prevailing sentiment of
large sections of the middle and the lower classes of my country is not
friendly to England.  I am therefore, so to speak, in a minority in my
own land.

"It is commonly believed in England that throughout the South African
War Germany was hostile to her.  German opinion undoubtedly was
hostile—bitterly hostile.  The Press was hostile; private opinion was
hostile.  But what of official Germany?  Let my critics ask themselves
what brought to a sudden stop, and indeed caused the absolute collapse
of the European tour of the Boer delegates who were striving to obtain
European intervention?  They were fêted in Holland; France gave them a
rapturous welcome.  They wished to come to Berlin where the German
people would have crowned them with flowers.  But when they asked me to
receive them I refused.  The agitation immediately died away, and the
delegation returned empty-handed.  Was that, I ask, the action of a
secret enemy?

"Again, when the struggle was at its height, the German Government was
invited by the Governments of France and Russia to join with them in
calling upon England to put an end to the war.  The moment had come,
they said, not only to save the Boer Republics, but also to humiliate
England to the dust.  What was my reply?  I said that, so far from
Germany joining in any concerted European action to put pressure upon
England and bring about her downfall, Germany would always keep aloof
from politics that could bring her into complications with a Sea Power
like England.

"Posterity will one day read the exact terms of the telegram—now in the
archives at Windsor Castle—in which I informed the Sovereign of England
of the answer I had returned to the Powers which then sought to compass
her fall.  Englishmen who now insult me by doubting my word should know
what were my actions in the hour of their adversity.

"Nor was that all.  Just at the time of your Black Week, in December of
1899, when disasters followed one another in rapid succession, I
received a letter from Queen Victoria, my revered grandmother, written
in sorrow and affliction, and bearing manifest traces of the anxieties
which were preying upon her mind and health.  I at once returned a
sympathetic reply.  Nay, I did more. I bade one of my officers procure
for me as exact an account as he could obtain of the number of
combatants in South Africa on both sides, and of the actual position of
the opposing forces.

"With the figures before me I worked out what I considered to be the
best plan of campaign under the circumstances, and submitted it to my
General Staff for their criticism.  Then I dispatched it to England, and
that document, likewise, is among the State papers at Windsor Castle,
awaiting the serenely impartial verdict of history.

"And, as a matter of curious coincidence, let me add, that the plan
which I formulated ran very much on the same lines as that which was
actually adopted by Lord Roberts, and carried by him into successful
operation.  Was that, I repeat, the act of one who wished England ill?
Let Englishmen be just.

"But you will say, what of the German Navy? Surely that is a menace to
England.  Against whom but England are my squadrons being prepared?  If
England is not in the minds of those Germans who are bent on creating a
powerful fleet, why is Germany asked to consent to such new and heavy
burdens of taxation?  My answer is clear. Germany is a young and growing
empire.  She has a world-wide commerce, which is rapidly expanding and
to which the legitimate ambition of patriotic Germans refuses to assign
any bounds.

"Germany must have a powerful fleet to protect that commerce and her
manifold interests in even the most distant seas.  She expects those
interests to go on growing, and she must be able to champion them
manfully in any quarter of the globe.  Germany looks ahead.  Her
horizons stretch far away.  She must be prepared for any eventualities
in the Far East.  Who can foresee what may take place in the Pacific in
the days to come, days not so distant as some believe, but days at any
rate for which all European Powers with Far Eastern interests ought
steadily to prepare?

"Look at the accomplished rise of Japan; think of the possible national
awakening of China; and then judge of the vast problems of the Pacific.
Only those Powers which have great navies will be listened to with
respect, when the future of the Pacific comes to be solved; and if for
that reason only, Germany must have a powerful fleet.  It may be that
even England herself will be glad that Germany has a fleet when they
speak together on the same side in the momentous debates of the future."

When the interview set the world guessing, disputing, imputing and
passing the lie freely, Prince Bülow again disavowed his master, with
His Majesty’s consent and at his instigation, of course, otherwise the
fate of Bismarck would have seemed much too good for the obstreperous
servant.

But to return to the 10th of October, 1905, 6 P.M.  While the
Chancelleries of all Europe were quaking with deliberations on the
Anglo-Russian _rapprochement_ in connection with the Anglo-Japanese
Alliance, the War Lord’s chief minister spent an anxious _quart d’heure_
trying to convince His Majesty that he was not intriguing against one of
the numerous Eulenburg-maggots, fattening in the public cheese,
Limburger brand.

Majesty, it seems, was deeply concerned about a certain titled member of
the German Embassy in London who had befouled his record by spying.
This pretty gentleman attended the Essex manoeuvres in the fall of 1904,
notebook in hand, and sent elaborate reports, accompanied by sketches
and diagrams, to the Berlin General Staff, acting the part of Secret
Service agent no less treacherously, but rather more clumsily, than the
German aristocrat who was convicted at Edinburgh in 1911.

Subsequently, of course, no British Army officer could afford to know
this individual, and Mayfair, too, showed a decided inclination to cut
dead the _chevalier d’espionnage_.

"Quite naturally!"  Prince Bülow saved himself by adding: "From the
English standpoint."

The telephone fairly "zizzled" as the War Lord shouted back:

"What?  Ostracise a man who has done nothing but his —— duty toward me
and the Fatherland.  Intolerable!  ——!!  He must be reinstated in clubs
and Society.  He must be able to hold up his head in Piccadilly as
proudly as in Unter den Linden.  I command it.  Speak to Lascelles about
it, and have this boycott ended at once.

Of course Bülow promised—with his left hand on his back, which, as
explained, allows a good German to vow one thing and mean another.




                             *CHAPTER XXVI*

                         *EXPLAINING "THE DAY"*


    The True Wilhelm—The War Lord is Angry—More Disclosures—Bülow
    Sums Up—Dreams of Conquest—The Subjugation of England—Peace Must
    Wait on War—The New Big Gun—von Bohlen is Dense


Prince Bülow emptied a small phial of double-distilled extract of eau de
Cologne on his handkerchief, for a message from the palace said that the
War Lord’s ear trouble had again become acute, and that, consequently,
all windows and doors must be hermetically shut during his visit at the
Chancellery.  Again he was called up.  Wilhelm had dismissed his
Chasseur, with a record of twenty years’ faithful service, because the
man kept the carriage door open while he asked whether a hot-water bag
was wanted.  "Instanter!"  Wouldn’t suffer him to take his place on the
box again.

"Pleasant evening in store for us, Herr von Bohlen," said the Prince to
Bertha’s fiancé.

He rang for his adjutant.  "You would not like to go back to
Brandenburg?" he began pleasantly.

"Nor to any other provincial hole, Your Highness," answered the Baron
Reiff, clicking his heels together.

"In that case see that His Majesty does not complain of draughts while
here."

The adjutant raised a hand to his left ear. Bülow nodded.  "I will have
to hold you responsible, Reiff," he said in tones of unwonted severity.

The Chancellor’s palace was _en fête_.  The brilliantly lit corridors
and stairs were alive with guests, eager to pay homage to Princess
Maria: Scions of Royalty and mere beggar counts, as the great Frederick
used to style poor nobles; masters of statecraft and prima donnas;
generals and blue-blooded cornets, courtiers and members of the
hierarchy.  And as many lackeys in blue and silver as visitors.

Most of the guests longed for sight of the Chancellor, and would have
given much to have a peep at the room where Bismarck bullied and ruled
Europe, but the glass doors leading to the grand garden salon were
guarded inside and out by Secret Service men, while Baron Reiff flitted
to and fro, scrutinising faces and keeping an eye on everybody.

In the grand salon of the Bel Etage, Enrico Caruso was exchanging notes
of purity for the immaculate ones of the Bank of England, when the siren
of the royal automobile cried shame on Verdi. Three blasts and a half.
Her Highness’s master of ceremony, at the foot of the staircase, rapped
frantically; the doorkeeper rushed forward with an enormous umbrella,
though the sky was clear; Baron Reiff looked daggers, and conversation
was cut as by the executioner’s axe.

Narrow lips frozen together under a carroty-greyish moustache with
points threatening the white of his eyes; face a dead yellow; a
masterful, defiant chin thrust forward; eyes flashing, but dark of
aspect in general appearance despite his white, red and silver
accoutrements, the War Lord strode into the Chancellor’s room.

He looked so stony, a stranger both to joy and pity, that Herr von
Bohlen told Bertha afterwards that the War Lord seemed, to him, like a
man whose veins were clogged with salt and clay instead of running warm
blood.

A stiff, mechanical salute, squaring of shoulders, inflating of chest,
pecking at the two men, who nearly bent double.  Wilhelm acted as if his
spine were paralysed.  No graven image of his own design appears
stiffer, more jointless. Somebody has likened him to a coloured plate
out of a book of etiquette.  He certainly looked it, for etiquette
taboos smiles, real courtesy, humanity itself.

While his eyes swept the room, the silver helmet came crashing down on a
table.  He would have given much to discover reasons for complaint, and
Prince Bülow’s precautions against draughts discomforted him more than
his negligence would have done; it robbed him of the chance for flying
into a passion.

"Pretty goings on at Downing Street and Quai d’Orsay," he snarled.
"Yesterday it was Kiau-chau.  To-day it’s German Belgium and Northern
France they ask.  Any additional insults since then?"

"All the dispatches are in Your Majesty’s hands," replied the
Chancellor, looking significantly at Herr von Bohlen.

"Report."  If the Lord of Statecraft and gentleman born and bred,
Chancellor and Prince, had been a thieving valet, Wilhelm could not have
spoken with more contemptuous severity.

"Will Your Majesty be pleased to be seated?"  This with another
questioning look at Bertha’s fiancé.  Prince von Bülow had more than a
little respect for the dignity of his office.

"Without reserve," muttered the War Lord, dropping into an arm-chair.
"I want him to know, and knowing, to understand the imperativeness of
his duties as head of the Krupp works. Report, sir."

The Chancellor, who wore Hussar uniform with the insignia of
Major-General and more decorations than the most beloved of cotillon
favourites at 2 A.M., bowed ceremoniously, then stood bolt upright and
somewhat constrainedly.

"May it please Your Majesty," he began, weighing a parcel of dispatches
in his hand, but not looking at them.  "The Paris disclosures just made
seem to be the direct outcome of the friendly understanding between
Great Britain and France——"

"The abortion called _Entente Cordiale_," interrupted the War Lord—a red
rag to a bull already wounded.

The Chancellor continued: "The British assume that we are planning the
destruction of France, and, that accomplished, the invasion of England.
British statesmen recognise that the French army is no match for ours,
that even with the assistance of the English Yeomanry——"

"Miserable hirelings, whom the German Boers thrashed four years in
succession," cried Wilhelm, rising and stamping his foot.

"Even with their assistance Germany would remain supreme on land,"
resumed Prince Bülow. "Hence Quai d’Orsay’s overtures to Downing Street:
Paralyse German land supremacy by supremacy on sea, and——"

"Steal my colonies, that’s their game," thundered the War Lord,
addressing Bohlen.  "Do you know what that means, sir?  That the
Hohenzollern wouldn’t have a stone to lay his head on when the Reds have
their way.  To me colonies are entailed estates, on which to fall back
when the civil list at home fails us.  Suppose Germany—which God
forbid—turned republic.  Off we are to Africa like a shot, there to
await our chance to return at the proper time.  And there won’t be any
doffing the chapeau to the mob if we do come back, I warrant you."[#]


[#] In March, 1848, Frederick Wilhelm IV., Wilhelm’s grand-uncle, was
ordered by the Berlin revolutionists to come out on the balcony and to
salute when the victims of his soldiery were carried past the castle.
He bowed obsequiously—an act that is gall and wormwood to the War Lord.
Hence it is permissible in the Fatherland to call Frederick Wilhelm IV.
an ass—no more or less.  An editor who called him a mouse-coloured ass
got three months for his pains.


"It must be conceded, though," said the Chancellor, with a conciliatory
smile, "that the British are profoundly pacific and that there is no
itch for war in the Island Kingdoms.  If ever there was, it lies buried
somewhere on the African veld. Neither is France likely to provoke war."

"She knows better," cried Wilhelm.  "French women don’t want children."

"So much for the _Entente Cordiale_," continued Prince Bülow—the War
Lord had sat down on the edge of a table, swinging his right leg to and
fro—"British statesmanship contending that Europe needs a strong France,
and that a blow struck at France is a blow aimed at England."

"Donnersmarck’s talk.  If it was not for his money and his age, I would
muzzle the old fool. But as I told him only the other day, he will be
punished sure enough."

Donnersmarck is a Prince of the War Lord’s creation, better known by his
hereditary title of Count Henckel.  The family achieved the lower grades
of nobility at the beginning of the seventeenth century, and has always
been noted for considerable landed possessions.  Prince Guido is one of
the richest men on the Continent, and the King of Prussia sometimes uses
him as a speaking tube, never scrupling of course to disavow his
utterances when it suits the Majesty-souffleur.  In the disclosures
referred to, Donnersmarck and Professor Schiemann had boldly announced
in Paris that, if France contracted an alliance with England, Germany
would fall upon her, crush her and exact a staggering indemnity, enough
to pay for all damage the British fleet could possibly do to the German
merchant marine and trade.

These threats were not repudiated at the time (the latter half of June)
and the War Lord had considered them quite legitimate clubs for pounding
French opinion while the _Entente Cordiale pourparlers_ were on.

Professor Schiemann is a publicist, a historian and a lecturer on
military academics.  He is held responsible for some of the
misinformation on historic topics the War Lord frequently betrays in his
public utterances.

"We now come to the Anglo-Japanese Alliance," said Prince Bülow.

"Aiming at Kiau-chau," finished the War Lord grimly.

"Which Your Majesty’s foresight will preserve for the Fatherland,"
declaimed Bülow, who ought to have been a great courtier instead of an
indifferent chancellor.  But the War Lord was not in the mood for
compliments.  He was out to smash things.

"By Heaven!" he vowed, "I would rather turn the Pacific and the Yellow
Seas into Red Seas and exterminate those brown devils to the last than
allow a stone to be touched in my glorious colony of Kiau-chau."

"Spoken like an emperor," seconded Bülow. Then, with a look at the
clock: "May it please Your Majesty, I would submit that our young friend
here must not be misled by the statements in the Press.  I have here a
copy of the agreement, stating clearly that the Alliance becomes
operative only by reason of attack or aggressive action resulting in war
against either England or Japan."

"Words, words!" cried the War Lord contemptuously.  "I suppose Herr von
Bohlen’s heard of Bismarck’s editing of the Ems dispatch! But proceed."

Bülow cleared his throat before he approached the momentary _cause
célèbre_.

"To-day it is reported from Paris, Tokyo, London and Petersburg—in the
leading journals, though not officially—that a quadruple alliance is
about to be ratified, terminating once and for all the seemingly
interminable quarrels between Great Britain and Russia, and drawing each
empire’s own ally into close relations with the other: Britain’s ally,
Japan, automatically becomes Russia’s ally, while Russia’s
brother-in-arms, France, becomes England’s, and all four have agreed to
defend either when driven to war by unprovoked attack."

"Four to three," mused the War Lord gloomily, "and number three as
unreliable as a girl with nerves."

"Majesty is pleased to forget Turkey."

"What’s an ally without a navy in a conflict with Great Britain?"
demanded Wilhelm.  "That old thief, Abdul, rather invests in Circassian
beauties than cruisers.  But" (impatiently) "sum up, Bülow, sum up!"

The Prince resumed his lecture: "It is argued that Japan, being bound to
give military support to Great Britain under certain eventualities, is
of course interested in maintaining amicable relations between the other
three empires and joined as a logical consequence of her alliance with
England."

"England, always England," cried the War Lord.  "Ostertag writes that it
was on the advice of England that the fortifications of Antwerp and the
Meuse were strengthened before and after the Morocco trouble."
(Ostertag, German military attaché at the Court of St. James’s.)
"Bohlen," he continued abruptly, "is there anything in the situation
that is not quite clear to you?"

The Councillor of Legation with the bulldog jaw and the cruel eyes
answered modestly, but firmly: "May it please Your Majesty, I think I
understand fully."

"Then you also understand what is expected of you as future head of the
Krupp works," quoth the War Lord, laying his heavy right hand on
Bohlen’s shoulder.

"To obey Your Majesty’s instructions and carry them out as a Prussian
officer should."

The only great king Prussia boasts, Frederick, said on his death-bed: "I
am tired of ruling slaves."  His successor would have his Prime Minister
_une âme damnée_, and never tires of telling about his "great, his
inestimable reward" to a sentinel who murdered a man.  The latter was
drunk, German fashion, and did not at once respond to the sentinel’s
"Who goes there?"  Bang, bang popped the sentinel’s gun, and the man in
mufti was ready for the undertaker.

"Next day, while a vile Press was assailing the soldier," said the War
Lord, "I had him called before the ranks, promoted him, decorated him
and, as a supreme honour, shook him by the hand."

"Obey Your Majesty’s instructions."  The War Lord, who would tell the
Deity what to do, had expected as much of course, but Bohlen’s evident
sincerity, nay, enthusiasm, was not to be despised, particularly since
it outweighed the latent fear that, after all, Bertha, when of age,
might elect to take the bit between her teeth and make trouble.

"My advice and commands shall never fail you," said Wilhelm, with the
air of a great Lord conferring £500 for life upon a dustman.  "Now to
Germany’s aims—the grand future in store for her under my guidance.
When you know my plans, you will begin to realise the magnitude of the
work expected of Essen—of you."

"At Your Majesty’s orders," saluted von Bohlen.

The War Lord was too excited to accept the gilded and crowned arm-chair
Bülow offered, thereby obliging the older man in tight-fitting
accoutrements and high boots to remain standing. "We must have an
adequate seaboard," he poured forth; "the waters between the English,
French and Belgian coasts and the harbours, fortresses and towns
commanding that area will do for a start. That means Calais and Dover,
Portsmouth and Boulogne, Antwerp and perhaps Havre, for Germany’s future
lies on the water, as I have said time and again, and those few miles of
wet element circumscribe the focus of the world’s trade, which must be
ours by reason of superior military, scientific and commercial
achievements—by our Kultur."

"Your Majesty orders a further extension of the Germania shipyards,"
submitted Bohlen.

"Everything in time," corrected the War Lord.  "We may lay down ships as
fast as our utmost resources permit, or faster.  Still those confounded
English can beat us.  A great navy we will have, of course a greater and
a better one even than the skunks of the London gutter Press credit my
imagination with, but not to be knocked to bits.  We will keep it safe,
and at the end of the war will augment it by the French fleet and the
fleets of the minor countries.  Then good-bye for ever, British Sea
Power!

"Of course," continued Wilhelm, "the French and Belgians will have to be
forced before they recognise my claims to those parts of their territory
that formerly belonged to Germany. Flanders is German to the core, Liége
and Limburg provinces were never anything but German, while the southern
half of the Netherlands belonged to Germany since Charles the Fat, even
as Alsace and Lorraine.  Franche Comté is German of course, and Toul and
Verdun were once German Free Cities like Metz."

As he dilated on his claims the War Lord grabbed a walking-stick leaning
against von Bülow’s desk, and tapped and stabbed at the map of Europe on
the wall, puncturing and piercing it in places he particularly coveted.

"Montbeliard," he continued, "is Moempelgard, an old-time apanage of
Würtemberg.  My title to the principality of Orange is more legitimate
than King Edward’s as Emperor of India, and who will deny that Bourgogne
is German Burgund, and that the original Burgunders came from the Mark
and West Prussia?  Not to have inserted Duc de Bourgogne in the grand
title of the _roi de Prusse_ is a mistake, for which its maker ought to
be kicked."

He had nearly ruined the map, when his fury changed to an attitude of
calm deliberation.  With an air of magnanimity, he said: "However, as to
France, I am willing to exchange these inland territories for the coast
departments, from Dieppe to Dunkirk, provided we do not find it
necessary, from a strategic standpoint, to annex Havre too."

He paused, and von Bülow tried to curry favour by suggesting: "Your
Majesty intends the absolute conquest of France?"

"As a preliminary to the subjugation of England," said the War Lord
solemnly.

"I am half-English myself," he continued, "and have no illusions
whatever as to Great Britain’s submission.  After our victory the
Wilhelmstrasse and Downing Street will have to enter into a gentleman’s
agreement: Myself, Admiral of the Atlantic; the United Kingdom to retain
home-rule; Germany to be confirmed in the possession of the whole
Continental shore of the Straits of Dover and in that of the French and
Belgian Colonies; we, on the other hand, to guarantee England’s
occupation of India.

"Now to the part Essen will play in the coming upheaval."

Wilhelm was facing von Bohlen, and took hold of a button of his
silver-braided Hussar jacket, the button nearest the throat.  If he had
intended to throttle Bertha’s future husband, his grip and mien could
not have been more menacing.

"We will probably have less than ten years to prepare; it’s time that
you get to work, young man," he said.  "How do you stand with Bertha?
Has she agreed to leave business to you?"

"Everything, according to Your Majesty’s wishes.  She promised me only
to-day.  We have divided our kingdom.  I to be regent of the works under
Your Majesty’s guidance; Bertha to devote herself exclusively to social
work and charities."

"Approved," said Wilhelm like a schoolmaster handing out diplomas.
"When is the wedding to be?"

"May it please Your Majesty, we fixed on the second week of October next
year."

"It doesn’t please me a bit.  Why lose so much time postponing?"

"Her ladyship will not have Bertha marry before her twentieth birthday."

"The Baroness, of course," cried the War Lord, with an oath.  "When it
comes to doing things, there is always a woman in the way.  But I will
thwart her.  You shall take virtual, if not active, control of the Krupp
works at once.  Your resignation as my Councillor of Legation is
accepted as from to-day," he added, with a look at Bülow.

The Chancellor smiled.  "I submit that Herr von Bohlen is entitled to
six months’ leave of absence."

"Six months for making yourself solid with my ward, and prepare for the
greatest job ever entrusted to one man," decided the War Lord. "Now
listen:

"I’ve already told you that I will hack my way to Calais and crush
France absolutely.  Essen’s business, then, is to make all so-called
works of peace wait upon the necessities of war—all, everything I say.
Is that clear?"

"We are to attend only to orders from the German General Staff," replied
von Bohlen.

"They come first, of course," said the War Lord, "but foreign orders for
guns and ammunition must also be attended to if Berlin so advises. On
that point there will be special instructions. But it’s only the
beginning—an obvious one, and the Krupp’s have always been more than
equal to regular demands from my War Office.  However, in future these
are sure to increase immeasurably, out of all proportion both in size
and in variety."

Exhausted by the intense mobility of his ideas, the War Lord abruptly
threw himself into the armchair, held in readiness for him by the
obsequious Bülow, crossed his legs and struck a match.  He carried it to
his lips, holding it there; then, having burnt his fingers and
moustache, dropped it, cursing madly.  He now took a cigarette out of
the silver gilt box offered him for the tenth time or oftener, but was
too busy to light it.

"Krupp," he said, "I mean Bohlen—Krupp von Bohlen, a good name, we’ll
stick to it—Krupp, I want you to make me a gun capable of mowing down
Dover Castle from Calais.  Can’t be done? It will have to be done!"  And
he brought his fist down on the table with a bang.

"I looked in at the Photographic Society the other day," he proceeded,
"and saw an Adolf Menzel photo enlarged five times the original size.
The operator just extended a piece of framework. I don’t suppose it’s
quite as easy to double or treble the size or range of cannon, but the
mind and energy now experimenting with my new twelve-inch howitzer
should be capable of turning out a seventeen-inch or twenty-inch
howitzer, and that’s what you will have to do, Krupp."

The ex-Councillor of Legation, just renamed, bowed low.  "I assure Your
Majesty that, as head of the Krupp works, I will not rest until such a
war machine is produced," he vowed.

"And take my word that I won’t let you go to sleep."  The War Lord’s
tone was a cross between banter and threat, but its brutal meaning was
photographed on the speaker’s face.  "You will now make your bow to
Madame la Princess," he continued, pulling out his watch: "Return in
fifteen minutes.

"Bertha’s husband must not know everything at the start," he said, when
the door closed behind Krupp von Bohlen.  "As to that twelve-inch
howitzer, I did not have a chance to talk to you about my recent
clandestine visit to Meppen, where we had the final test.  The
twelve-inch howitzer quite suffices for Calais if the plans for longer
range guns miscarry or war comes quicker than we calculated.  At Calais,
you know, the Channel narrows to a width of twenty-two and a half miles,
and the new twelve-incher covers fourteen miles."

"That means Kent is safe for the present," the Chancellor made bold to
comment.

"It is easy to see that you are a general of cavalry and not of
artillery," he was immediately corrected, "else you would perceive that
a howitzer of the range given, planted at Calais, will allow our
warships to advance within eight and a half miles of the English coast
and pound everything into muck and pulp there.  Where—what will your
Kent be then?  A heap of rubbish and scrap-iron!"

"I presume Tirpitz is satisfied that there can be no blockade?"

"We will guard against that by mine fields and destroyers, submarines,
cruisers, scouts and Zeppelins," explained Wilhelm.  "Old Zep’s _Echte_"
(alluding to the cigar-like shape of Zeppelins) "will be as safe in our
French harbours—for we will probably take Havre and Dieppe at the same
time as Calais—as in Kiel Canal."

The War Lord was going strong on technical details when the return of
Krupp von Bohlen was announced.

"So the ladies dismissed you!" he cried, at the same time unbending
enough to ask von Bülow to be seated, while the younger man must remain
standing.  "Got the howitzer-Calais-Dover question pat, have you not?
Well, the twenty-three miles’ range gun is only one of the achievements
you owe me and the Fatherland.  In addition, the Krupp works and
associated interests must extend their facilities for mines and
mine-laying a hundred-fold, for we will have to cut Portsmouth and
Plymouth off from the North Sea and provide safety zones for our
warships the whole breadth of the Channel.

"Thirdly, Essen will have to turn out submarines at a much faster rate
than your firm is doing now; have to arm the numerous forts we will set
up along the French-Belgian coast with the heaviest of artillery, and
furnish air fleets to prosecute a guerilla war against English trade
and—stomachs."

Von Bohlen looked puzzled.  He had imbibed enough of the Krupp spirit to
encourage him in the belief that he might rival an earthquake as a
destroyer of life and property, but his ambition had never extended to
interference with other people’s digestion.

"Explain, Bülow," ordered the War Lord, considering it beneath his
dignity to give information on so trifling a subject.

"His Majesty refers, of course, to the disturbance of England’s food
supplies.  Unlike Germany, Great Britain cannot feed herself, being
dependent for the sustenance of the inner man on imports. And these His
Majesty intends to stop by the means referred to."

"And, speaking of aircraft, you must provide means for bringing airships
down," continued the War Lord, "for there is every indication that the
enemy will attempt to fight our aerial fire with ditto fire, especially
the French.  The slow English will fall behind, of course."  Abruptly:
"Have you got any ideas to offer in that line?"

"Not at the moment," confessed von Bohlen; "but I will ask Bertha to
lend me her most enterprising constructor of light ordnance and the
airship expert.  They will be given three months for experiments."

The War Lord nodded.  "Not half bad, but offer a premium if the question
is solved within three weeks."[#]


[#] Neither three weeks nor three months nor three years sufficed, and
Krupp’s balloon-gun, mounted on automobile carriages, is one of the
latest additions to the German artillery. It is effective at about 7,000
yards, and throws projectiles weighing 12 lb. Its dead weight of 11,000
lb. operates against its usefulness in the field, but it is well adapted
to forts and fortresses. This gun can describe a complete circle in the
horizontal plane and can fire vertically.


He rose.  "More of this in a day or two, after I have seen Moltke,
Tirpitz and old Zep.  In the meantime remember this: Super is the thing.
We must have super-guns, super-submarines, super-aircraft—ordinary arms
will not do in the struggle to come.  Our enemies are ordinary men,
fighting with ordinary means, while we are supermen bent on superhuman
effort, and consequently need super-arms."

He turned from Bohlen.  "Announce me to the Princess Maria," he
commanded Bülow.




                            *CHAPTER XXVII*

                         *BERTHA’S WEDDING DAY*


    Krupp Hospitality—A Nasty Custom—"Old Fritz at Play—The Bride
    Arrayed—Abdul’s Present—The Wedding Service—A Glimpse of Essen


On October the 15th, 1906, Bertha Krupp was married, and, presto!
Wilhelm jumped into the saddle: Krupp _en croupe_ was meant for both the
heiress and her husband-to-be.

To be sure, Essen was _en fête_ for the War Lady and Gustav.  For them
flags and garlands and paper flowers.  Rivers and oceans of paper
flowers!  They recalled Unter den Linden when some yellow or brown, or
maybe a white, majesty is expected to make his state entry through the
Brandenburg Gate.  And almost as many girls in white as paper flowers on
lantern posts and over doorways, while every boy had his face and his
hands washed, and all the professors and directors wore their locks in
curls.

To-day all victims of Moloch labour, of burns and crashing irons, of
scaffolds that gave way and mountains of steel a-tremble, of engines
gone wrong and cars off the track, and a thousand and one other
accidents connected with work, were freshly shaved and voluble of their
sufferings and Fraulein’s kindness.  Johann gave a leg to prevent
bubbles in the casting of a royal Prussian cannon, and Fraulein bought
him an artificial one, offering this advantage over the real article: he
might throw it at his wife when nettled.  Heinrich had lost the sight of
an eye in the service of the works, and Fraulein not only procured him a
glass one, but added a steel pince-nez that made him look like a
twopenny clerk.  And Mariechen and Märtchen had good jobs in the
ammunition shops, since their husbands were killed in an earth-slide at
the Germania shipyards near Kiel—"Fraulein looks after everything and
everybody."  In short, city and country-side, town hall and hospital,
the well-to-do and the poor, old and young, the joyous and the lame and
the halt—all looked their best in Bertha’s honour and acted
_gemuetlich_-like (which was mostly noise) in Bertha’s honour—when the
War Lord came into sight!

Once upon a time the War Lady had been sternly admonished not to bring
more than three attendants on her state visit to Berlin; in repaying
that visit—for his intervening comings to Essen were more or less
impromptu or on business—the War Lord brought twenty times three, sixty:
personal friends, courtiers, generals and army officers.

When, years before, he inflicted two-thirds of this number on King
Christian, the Continent stood aghast at his inconsiderate impudence,
for the Copenhagen Court was notoriously poor then. But Bertha was his
ward and was under his thumb, and, besides, had "money to burn."

So he embraced this opportunity for paying off old debts by inviting to
Essen a number of nobles whose hospitality he had enjoyed, for there
they would be more sumptuously lodged and dined and wined than at his
own house.

The call to Villa Huegel was snapped up by all who could crowd into the
Imperial train, for Krupp hospitality is proverbial in the Fatherland’s
mansions and country houses; and the Prussian aristocrat, living at home
on superannuated venison, herrings and potatoes, washed down by diluted
fusel-oil called Schnapps, likes nothing better than to gorge himself at
the expense of persons whose lack of rank precludes dreaded return
visits.

Savings in the household exchequer weigh heavy enough with the War Lord
to put him into royal good humour, but the limelight radiating from
Essen, because the richest girl on the planet married a poor but capable
man, was the main thing, of course.  For the Wolff Bureau, that feeds
the Continental Press with "pap" about "All Highest" doings and with
governmental lies, would mention Wilhelm and his myrmidons twenty times
as often as the bride and groom.

There would be—as a matter of fact, there were beforehand—long-winded
litanies about the War Lord’s love for his ward and his surpassing
efficiency as a guardian; his consummate wisdom in the selection of a
husband for Bertha; the unheard-of increase in the value of the Krupp
property under Wilhelm’s guidance—columns of that sort of symphony to
Imperial ears.

And the War Lord’s show: State coach and six, forty more horses from the
royal stables, one hundred flunkeys, and the "great surprise!"—but that
did not come off.  "That woman wouldn’t stand it."

When the War Lord was shown into Frau Krupp’s boudoir he beamed most
graciously.  "I cannot make Bertha a Royal Princess," he said, "but I
will treat her like one.  How many guests have we?"

"In the villa a little over three hundred, Your Majesty."

"Well, I had a thousand ribbons printed—have the rest distributed among
the loyal people. But let the police do it, as there is sure to be a
terrible scramble for these souvenirs, and we don’t want the Moscow
tragedy repeated."  (He referred to the crushing and killing of hundreds
of men, women and children at the People’s Festival during the Tsar’s
coronation.)

Meanwhile the Master of Ceremonies had opened the silver-gilt casket
filled with layers upon layers of pieces of white ribbon, about one inch
broad by five long.  There was a baronial crown above the letter "B" at
the top, and gold fringe at the bottom.

The Baroness turned purple at the sight, but her son-in-law pulled her
sleeve in time.  "Mamma will arrange with His Excellency," he said; and
the unsuspecting War Lord got busy with one of his quintette of meals,
served to him separately.

"An unheard-of honour," pleaded Herr Krupp von Bohlen, who had followed
Her Ladyship into an inner room, as he dangled one of the garter-ribbons
before her eyes.

"I call it a nasty, indecent custom, and my daughter will have none of
it," replied Frau Krupp hotly.

Krupp von Bohlen looked both hurt and indignant.  "Pardon me, madam, the
customs of our Royal Family must not be spoken of in that style where I
am.  And what is deemed honourable for Royal Prussian Princesses can but
add dignity and renown to a subject favoured like one of them."

"If an announcement of that kind is considered fair and decent in royal
circles," angrily replied Frau Krupp, "it is their affair; as to the
daughter of the Baroness von Ende, she would blush to think of such a
custom."

Krupp von Bohlen advanced his chin an inch more.

"Matters affecting the Royal Family are beyond discussion," he said
haughtily, "and if you ever again approach the subject, please remember
that I am a Prussian officer.  But that aside.  His Majesty has
graciously commanded, and the order is to be carried out to the letter."
He bowed stiffly and retired.

The Baroness let herself fall into an arm-chair, and, elbows on knees,
buried her face in both hands.  A scandal in the air, but she was
determined to risk it.  Let the feelings of Prussian Princesses be what
they may in regard to the ancient custom; there was to be no
distribution of _her_ daughter’s garter for the War Lord’s friends and
her own cottagers to gloat over.

She had spent half an hour in this sort of brown study, agitated by
reflections bordering on _lèse-majesté_ most horrible, when Barbara
rushed in: "Oh, Mamma, Uncle Majesty and everybody are at ’Old Fritz’s,’
and Uncle wants all the gentlemen to take chances under the hammer.  He
is making them give up watches and decorations, and he whispered to me
he hopes some get smashed. Come and see the fun."

To be sure Frau Krupp was in no humour to attend the Imperial circus—it
is a stock joke with Wilhelm to frighten under-dogs out of their wits by
subjecting their valuables to seeming destruction, and Her Ladyship had
been an unwilling witness more than once.  But Barbara’s naïve: "What a
beautiful box—more presents?" made her sit up.  Why should not "Fritz,"
oldest of family servants, essay to _corriger la fortune de la maison de
Krupp_?  A chance in a million, but stranger things have happened!

As everybody knows, "Fritz" has a falling weight of fifty tons, and has
been hammering steel blocks into shape since 1860.  When Bertha’s
grandfather started building it family, friends and competitors the
world over thought him crazy, and said so, but "Fritz" has never missed
a day’s work in fifty-four years, and seems to be good for a century
still.  Indeed, the marvellous delicacy of his adjustment remains
unimpaired, and occasionally the manager makes him crack nuts without
injuring the kernel.

The War Lord was smashing his friends’ watch-glasses without hurt to
dial or hands when Frau Krupp and Barbara came upon the scene.

"The trunk of the Krupp heiress, containing some of her choicest
wardrobe," explained Wilhelm banteringly in an undertone.  Then aloud:
"I’ll forfeit ten marks to any charity madam may name if Fritz injures
the casket in the slightest. Those with me raise a hand."  Two dozen
hands went up.  "Sorry I did not make it a hundred marks," whispered
Wilhelm to von Scholl, as he placed the casket on the steel table.
Then, standing off, he commanded: "One—two—three."

Down came the Brobdingnagian not like fifty, but like a hundred thousand
tons, hitting the table an earthquake-like smack.  It was all over in a
second, but both Wilhelm and the War Lady’s mother thought a lot in that
tiny fragment of time.  The casket was, of course, as flat as a
window-pane and not much thicker, while of its contents there was no
trace, the silk having become part and parcel of the metal.  Nothing
short of the melting-pot, said the expert, would yield isolated strains
of the thousand bedizened ribbons. And, on top of it, Fraulein Krupp
collected 250 marks for her orphanage!


Was it the loss of his ten marks, the blotting out of his "indecent
surprise," or thoughts of the murderous fruit which the marriage about
to be solemnised would yield him that clouded the War Lord’s brow as he
walked up the middle aisle of the chapel?  He was to give the bride
away.  The groom was the War Lord’s man, his discovery, his creature!
He found him secretary of legation with the least of the kings, grubbing
along on a salary of five hundred pounds a year, and destined in all
probability to marry either a spindle-shanked or a bull-necked "Fraulein
von" with an infinitesimal dot.  The goal of his ambition: a berth as
minister plenipotentiary at the Court of a minor king!  Salary: seven
hundred pounds per year.

Well, he (the War Lord) was about to give in marriage this candidate for
polite poverty and subaltern honours a nice, healthy, well bred and
intelligent girl of good family, likewise revenues compared with which
the civil list of the average German king were twopence!  It surely
should follow as a matter of course that common gratitude, if not inborn
discipline, would make Krupp von Bohlen the instrument of any warlike
mischief the author of his good luck might contemplate. Indeed, he had
vowed so much.

Now Lohengrin and rustling silks: The bride and groom.

The latter, like most of the men present, in showy uniform, blue and
gold; the War Lady in lilac _crêpe de Chine_, myrtles in her blonde
hair.

She was rather pleasant than pretty to look upon: a massive face,
indicating a not unkindly disposition; blue eyes, wavy hair, a firm
mouth; a bit strong on figure.

Her head-dress was typical enough for Germany: myrtle, the "bleeding,"
commemorating the cruelty of the barbarous islanders who pierced the
shipwrecked with spears and arrows!

Ancient history aside, the sign of the myrtle leaf was indeed prophetic
of the horrors this marriage would impose upon humanity, in accordance
with the compact between the War Lady’s husband and the War Lord; but,
as nine out of every ten German brides are myrtle-bedecked, the
fashionable crowd in the chapel had no mind for the augury.

Still, why mauve, the colour of mourning and old age, for the wedding
gown?  Since it was of the War Lady’s own selection, it suggested almost
a premonition of the evil in store for Europe.

Did Bertha’s lens of imagery conjure up the ghosts of the millions who
must die by the output of her factories that her own unborn offspring
have more milliards to play with, and was she mourning in advance for
the children she would render fatherless, for the hosts doomed to
extinction because profits in the wholesale murder of men are surpassing
high?

Who knows?

It is almost inconceivable that a person like the War Lady, engaged in
the appalling trade of death-dealing, regarded her business other than a
gigantic slaughter monopoly—a privileged one, to be sure, yet the most
heinous of crimes against God and men just the same.

At the Courts of the eighteenth century "punishment boys" were kept, to
be thrashed when small highnesses deserved to have their jacket warmed.
Here, at the altar, Bertha, used to Royal State on account of her
wealth, was about to engage a punishment boy.  In future Gustav was to
take the blame for all the enormities her factories would visit upon
humanity!

The old-time punishment boys were well paid for their pains; the Krupp
punishment boy was to have an income of seven hundred and fifty thousand
pounds sterling per annum.  The old-time punishment boys were frequently
loved by the masters for whom they suffered; Herr Krupp von Bohlen was
loved by the young woman whom he relieved of grievous responsibility.
Yet the note of mourning in her attire, and at her bosom the mark of
"Abdul Hamid the Damned"!

The War Lady is sincerely religious, and so is the War Lord’s Imperial
lady, only more so. Indeed, with Her Majesty the Church is almost an
obsession, yet both the Queen of Prussia and the Queen of Essen have
accepted presents from the wholesale assassin of Christians, who
remembered only one thing to his credit in the course of thirty-three
years of absolute rule: that he did not murder his brother.  This was
his plea to the Young Turks when deposed.

For many years the Berlin Court was a pensioner of the man who prided
himself on having spared the life of his mother’s son, making up for
this unnatural restraint by spilling the blood of forty thousand
"Christian dogs."  Five millions cash "Abdul the Damned" lent to the War
Lord (and he is still whistling for its return), and season after season
he sent material for the Queen of Prussia’s underlinen and summer
dresses.  Bales of Oriental stuffs, gauzes, linens, laces and silks from
Tscheragan Serai used to be delivered at the Neues Palais about every
April the first, filling the house with real "Turkish delight," of which
Her Majesty’s sisters, the rich and the poor, likewise partook according
to their needs or the favour in which they were held at the moment.

And when Her Prussian Majesty is _en grande tenue_ she often augments
the great Napoleon’s diamonds, captured at Waterloo (the same that once
blushed at the generous bosom of his sister Paulette), by those that the
great Frederick gave to his lovely mistress La Barbarina, the dancer,
and took back again when he tired of her; and when even multiplication
fails to give satisfaction—for a Queen of Prussia must have more
diamonds than an American multi-millionairess—she adds the parure of
brilliants and the numerous brooches and buttons and bracelets given her
by The Damned.

After all, this seems appropriate enough for the Queen of a country
pieced together of territories gained by assassination, war, treachery
and other atrocities; but think of the War Lady accepting gifts from the
most despicable of men and kings! Surely there must be some
fellow-feeling of malign camaraderie between the makers of murderous
tools and their users, a sort of revival of swordsmiths-worship and the
veneration in which the great men of old held their Curtanas and
Flamberges!

Possible, or shall we set it down to mere female thoughtlessness, which
in some respects seems akin to that of half-savages after the style of
the story Mark Twain once told the War Lord:

"Where is ’Liza?" asked the master of the house, when he missed the
coloured waitress at breakfast.

"Can’t come round for a few days.  Just had a tiny wee baby," answered
the housemaid, grinning.

"A baby!  How’s that?"

"Oh, just nigger-shiftlessness, I reckon."

But it wasn’t thoughtlessness, or shiftlessness alone, that made the War
Lady pin to her breast the grand cordon of the _Osmanié_ Order of
Virtue; it spelled, at the same time, a bid for war material, decreed by
the businesslike groom.  The War Lord saw it and smiled.  "Bravo,
Gustav, you are the stuff," and "Bertha, as is fit, the yielding lamb."

And the organ pealed and cooed, and the chorus of cathedral singers
chanted off the key, and the voice of the officiating minister droned,
and everybody thought it most "heavenly," but boring; and the generals
and army officers smacked their lips, anticipating the table delicacies
in store; and the courtiers congratulated themselves because it was all
fun and no work; and each lady thought she looked a heap better than her
best-beloved friend; and the War Lord stared at the ceiling
contemplating ways and means for mining the Krupp quarry of wealth and
efficiency to within an inch of hell.

"And so I pronounce you man and wife," sang out the minister, expecting
the biggest fee!

"Hail thee, Frankenstein," thought Wilhelm. He inflated his chest as the
archangel aspiring to omnipotence may have done: from this moment on the
means for such aggrandisement as only Napoleon dreamt of were in his
hands, and he was free to plunge the world into irremediable ruin if he
liked.

Through Bertha’s resignation, through von Bohlen’s connivance, he now
owned the Krupp works; he _was_ Frankenstein—Frankenstein, the hideous,
the abhorred, whose malignity was equalled only by the accumulated
wretchedness he meant to visit on all resisting.

Even as he extended his hand to the bride, with lip congratulations, he
thought of the riot of despair the troth just sealed spelt for his own
people and the nations to be subdued!  Was he then—is he then—the
hideous fantasm of one bent on naught but destruction?

God knows—mere physical observation discerns no more than the frightful
selfishness that has lashed the War Lord to ever-increasing efforts of
fury since Bertha’s wedding day and is driving him still.

As overlord of the greatest industrial plant in the world, he
deliberately diverted it from its legitimate _raison d’être_ as a cradle
of life and progress and turned it into a dividend-mill for the
cultivation of human hatred and the making of corpses, at the same time
endowing it with a soul still more monstrous: his thrice-abhorred
Kultur.

He had steel hammers enough to line, side by side, a road reaching from
Liverpool Street Station to Hyde Park; steel boilers enough to start a
second Pittsburgh; more machinery than the rest of the kingdom boasts;
more electric motors than Paris or London employs in its public
conveyances, etc.; and with unparalleled selfishness in evil suborned
them exclusively to his passion for destruction, adding unlimited
capital and business capacity, utter disregard for human life and
extraordinary facilities for chemical-physical research, begetting
inventive genius of a high order.  There is the explanation of the
frightful catalogue of Hunnish sins that have disgraced civilisation
since the 29th of July, 1914, according to the findings of Lord Bryce’s
Committee.

"The _Kapellmeister_, at Your Majesty’s orders?" reported Count
Eulenburg.

"Hohenfriedberger March," replied the War Lord, locking his teeth.

Hohenfriedberg is a shining mark in Prussian history, for in June, 1745,
Frederick the Great overwhelmed the Austrians near the small Silesian
village, nearly annihilating Prince Karl and his Saxon allies.  He
composed a march in honour of the event, a rather stirring piece of
musical claptrap, among the best that came from his pen.

"I can drive the Austrians too," thought the War Lord, as he stepped
from the chapel, the bride’s mother on his arm.  And, the military band
outside executing some flourishes when he passed, he added grimly:
"Bayonet in back, if necessary."




                            *CHAPTER XXVIII*

                  *A FORESHADOWING OF "LUSITANIAISM"*


    The Rise of Herr Ballin—A Woman’s Vanity—Herr Ballin at the
    Schloss—"Frightfulness" on the Sea—Smoothing the Way—The War
    Lord and Wedell—A Spy Plot—Overrunning England with Spies


On the eve of the day when the _Lusitania_ snatched the world’s speed
record from the North German Lloyd, the red discs in the Chancellor’s
and in Count Wedell’s office bobbed up almost simultaneously:

"I want to see the Jew Ballin.  To-morrow morning at the earliest.  You
heard about the _Lusitania_?"  Before Prince Bülow could say "Yes," the
War Lord had hung up the receiver, simultaneously pressing the button
marked Wedell, whom he asked to bring in the Ballin personalia.

"No ordinary Jew," explained the chief of the Secret Service.

"But common stock?"

"Very, Your Majesty."

"How does Ballin dress?"

"Affects the American business man, All Highest, in demeanour and
dress."

"A genius, you said?"

"For making money, absolutely, Your Majesty."

"Let’s hear about his beginnings."  The War Lord sat down in a low chair
and lit a cigarette. No such luxuries for Count Wedell, though.  The
head of the Secret Service stood while he read from his card index in
telegraphic style:

"Born emigrant agents.—Son, brother and nephew of drummers-up of
steerage cargo.—Learnt rudiments of trade in his native
Hamburg.—Finished in London——"

"Perfect finishing school for aspiring German boys," interrupted the War
Lord; "the English educating their future business rivals—touching!"

"I have often thought about that in connection with our war," said
Wedell.  "Of course, Your Majesty expects to win, but victory does not
beget good will.  Suppose London, Birmingham, Liverpool and the rest say
no more foreign clerks and other employés, especially none of Teutonic
origin?"

"Don’t you worry.  Any little game of that kind will be forestalled in
the terms of peace. Finish your Ballin."

"Returned home," read Wedell from his cards, "secured employment in
minor steamship line to bring Poles and Hungarians to Hamburg for
shipment to the States.  Hapag people soon awoke to the fact that the
devil of a genius was weaning their quarry away from them.—Approached
Ballin with promises of double salary.  Ballin refused—then acquired
controlling interest in employer’s line.—Then sold out to Hapag."

"That happened when?"

"In 1886, Your Majesty."

"Since then business has grown immensely, hasn’t it?"

"Its gross profits climbed from £125,000 to £2,825,000 per annum in
twenty-five years, while its fleet increased from twenty-six to one
hundred and eighty pennants.  Tonnage in 1886, 50,000; to-day, exceeding
one million."

"That will do," said Wilhelm.  "Send in Haeseler."

Count Haeseler had arrived the night before from Konopischt, had been
waiting to report to His Majesty for an hour or more, and, to kill time,
had been paying visits to officials and pensioners living in the big
pile.  There had been cigars and cognac galore, and Gottlieb was on
excellent terms with himself when he saw His Majesty.

"Went to bed with an attack of the heart, and got up refreshed and
happy," he said.

"I see Franz Ferdinand’s reputation at home is of the value of nothing,
but, still, he treated you like a white man," interpreted the War Lord.

"Majesty hit the nail upon the head, as usual. Not an Austrian,
Hungarian, Croatian, Servian, Bosniak or Pollack alive would not gladly
spend his last _heller_ to buy a dose of prussic acid for the heir to
the throne, but to Your Majesty’s representative he was all charm.
Nearly gave me a horse."

"Forgot to send it to the station with the other baggage, eh?  Well,
aside from cheating my field marshal, how is he going on?"

"Like a steam-roller.  The next time Your Majesty will deign to inspect
the Sixth Infantry or the Wilhelm Hussars, Majesty will not recognise
them.  Fellows like me are being relegated to the scrap-heap by the
dozen, and he cares no more for archdukes’ privileges than the white
souls of valets de chambre.  His iron broom is busy with horse, foot and
artillery, with the navy and the air fleet all at the same time, and
wherever he touches there is a clean sweep and a howl of dismay, pitiful
enough to move a tiger, but not Nero."

"He is stirring them up," rejoiced the War Lord.

"He is making the Austrian army a worthy adjunct of Your Majesty’s
forces," said Haeseler, very earnestly.

"And you taught him these new stratagems?"

"I would never have been allowed to leave the country alive if the
Hungarians knew what I did teach Nero."

"Dirty trick," said the War Lord, "not to give Gottlieb the horse."
Then imperiously: "I expect your detailed report about all the reforms
in the Austrian army and navy in a fortnight."

"There will be no gun missing, I promise Your Majesty."

Count Haeseler referred, of course, to the astounding memory and
precision of the great Napoleon.  Once, when occupied by much business,
the Emperor sent an officer to Belgium to investigate military stores.
The officer handed in his report.  Napoleon gave him back the document
with these words: "There are two guns missing at Ostend."  And there
were two missing.

"And your general opinion of Franz based on intimate observation?"
queried Wilhelm.

"He seems to regard himself as a sort of necessary barricade to
progress, yet has no patience with the idea uppermost in Austria that
_laissez faire_ must be perpetuated for ever and a day simply because
it’s as old as the hills."

"And the Duchess?"

"With Your Majesty’s leave, confidently expects to be Empress of
Austria."

"Must have Pan-German leanings."

"No, Your Majesty; only the truly womanly passion to be the most envied
of her sex."

"Slav conflict with Austria suits me all right," said the War Lord.
"The Czechs and Hungarians wanting Sophie, the Austrian Germans will
feel the more inclined to join my Germanic Federation."

"But," said Haeseler, "Franz counts upon Your Majesty to help at the
enthronisation of Sophie by force, if necessary."

The War Lord went to a bookshelf and pulled out a volume bound in red
with atrocious gold decorations.  "And Franz brags about having read
every strategic work ever written," he commented.

"Majesty refers to Moltke’s introduction of the Franco-Prussian war."

"Yes, but this isn’t the volume.  Can you quote from memory?"

"I will try my utmost, Your Majesty: ’The days are past when for
dynastical ends armies went forth——’"

"Take an ’_echte_,’ Edward’s brand," said the War Lord.


There was a royal carriage at the station for Herr Ballin, and the royal
coachman, keen for marks, waved his whip frantically to attract
attention, and coin: the shipping king, emerging from a first-class
compartment, affected not to see. Berlin has two kinds of cabs, and
Ballin chose the Noah’s Ark brand at threepence a mile.  When he said
"Schloss," the driver quizzed him curiously and decided at once to put
him down at the kitchen entrance.  "Must be a relative of some
housemaid," he calculated, and could not understand at all why the royal
carriage, though empty, drove plumb ahead of him when they reached the
Schlossplatz.  Of course the War Lord’s livery meant to impress upon the
Court Marshal that he had been on the spot.

Court Marshal von Liebenau left the reception to his aide and ran
upstairs.

"With Majesty’s permission.  Regular Jewski, second-class cab.  How long
shall he wait?"

"Show him up instantly."

From this it may be gathered as from the scene witnessed at the
Wilhelmstrasse, that waiting for Majesty is a punishment meted out on
religious or other grounds.

Ballin had anticipated questions, and received instructions.  "The
_Lusitania_," said the War Lord, after the curtest, not to say abruptest
of welcomes, "must teach you Hamburgers and the Lloyd people this
important lesson: In the ocean greyhound to be built hereafter, the
naval value is obviously of greater importance than trade or dividend
considerations, for the moment war is declared all your vessels will
pass under my exclusive control, and I need all the auxiliaries, with a
prodigious coal supply and a speed unsurpassable by cruisers, I can get.
If war with England came to-morrow, the _Lusitania_ would be turned
loose upon our commerce at once, and neither Wilhelmshaven, nor Bremen
nor Hamburg boasts a vessel capable of overtaking her.  She can sink our
ships right and left, and show a clean pair of heels every time.  Until
yesterday I considered _Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse, der Krönprinz, die
Deutschland_ and the flyer named after me capable commerce destroyers,
but the _Lusitania_ could sink either of these giants, and boast of her
record in the nearest English harbour protected by mines."

"But Majesty doesn’t anticipate that merchantman will turn upon
merchantman, and that passenger steamers in particular will be sunk
either by vessels of the same lay calibre or by regular men-of-war?"
ventured Herr Ballin, who evidently believed at that time in "scraps of
paper."

"Herr Ballin," said the War Lord, "you were described to me as the most
far-seeing and progressive of sea lords outside of my navy.  Surely you
can’t be of opinion that in the great war to come international niceties
will be allowed to cut any figure?  If Germany must draw the sword
before my navy is superior to the British, I propose to save my
men-of-war and trust to submarines."

"But passenger steamers——" quoth Herr Ballin rather more timidly.

"Passenger steamers carry freight, and in time of war all goods that
might possibly be of use to the enemy in any way, manner or form I
consider contraband.  And contraband spells destruction."

"Does Your Majesty anticipate that the English, French or Russians would
attack Hamburg liners while engaged in the passenger traffic?"

"If they half know their business they will. For my part, I would not
hesitate a moment to sink the _Lusitania_, or any other Cunarder at
sight, since all are supposed to be in the service or, at least, at the
service of their Government."

Herr Ballin breathed hard as he said: "May it please Your Majesty, what
about neutrals?  Like the Cunarders, the Hapag carries on every journey
hundreds of American citizens."

"I don’t know anything about a Yankee’s food value," replied the War
Lord cynically.  "I think the denizens of the big herring-pond will have
to make the best of them."

Herr Ballin bowed low.  "As Your Majesty commands."

"It is settled then," continued the War Lord. "On your part, bigger and
faster boats than the English; on my part, I promise to advise you of
the date of the outbreak of hostilities long enough beforehand to save
your vessels for the Fatherland. Even if circumstances decree their
internment _en masse_, Germany will be the gainer in the end, when both
our navy and our merchant marine remain unbroken."

Ballin was retreating backwards toward the door, when the War Lord
recalled him.  "I am dickering with Wilhelmina about Curaçao for a
coaling station, and"—banteringly—"if you could stir up war between the
Netherlands and some other colonial power I would be very much obliged.
We got the coaling station in the Red Sea through our pro-Boer
sympathies.  Curaçao would make an excellent _apéritif_ after getting
over Dutch troubles."

"The United States would object."

"Of course, but there are some twenty-six millions of Germans in
America, every mother’s son of them fighting-mad for me—part of my
invisible army and almost as important as the other. The Germans in
America have an immense vote-swaying power; they control Washington to a
large extent, and some of the State Legislatures absolutely.  And, as
you know, each American State is sovereign.  Suppose I would threaten to
decree secession for the States between New York and Seattle, taking in
New York, Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, Indiana, Missouri, etc.  etc.,
where would Washington be?  Would Roosevelt risk Civil War because I
want a place to coal my ships not exactly five thousand miles from the
Panama Canal?

"I tell you, my men controlling a large portion of the American Press
won’t let him.  And, by the way, Ballin, the Hapag, the Lloyd, Woermann,
etc., will have to give more extensive support to my German Press in
America than is done now.  _Die Staats Zeitungs_, the _Herolds_, and
whatever-they-call-them can’t live on wind.  Ridder is a rapacious cuss
and a Jesuit besides; but my Washington bureau tells me that his
complaints are not altogether groundless.  As my Germans become more and
more Americanised, the German papers’ circulations are dwindling, and
likewise slumps the advertising.  For this we must make up. German
shipping and the industries engaged in international trade must support
the German Press in New York, Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Louis, Kansas City
and the minor towns, as my Government supports the _Norddeutsche
Allgemeine_ and Krupp his _Neueste Nachrichten_.

"By the way," he added, grabbing a "Bismarck pencil" suspended from a
wire and scribbling on his calendar block, "I will have to tell Krupp,
Loewe and the rest of the ammunition hogs to loosen up on those German
papers in America.  Podbielski shall see them about it.  Of course he is
no stockholder, but his dear Emma is."  (The War Lord referred to the
scandals connecting a German general with subserviency to army purveyors
to the extent of awarding contracts exclusively to firms in which he was
financially interested.)

"It might serve the Hapag and ’_meine Wenigkeit_’ (literally my
inferiority, meaning your humble servant) if specifically informed
respecting the invisible army Your Majesty was graciously pleased to
allude to," bowed Herr Ballin.

"In the States," explained the War Lord, "my volunteers are mostly
full-fledged citizens—universal suffrage, otherwise a stench in my
nostrils, is working overtime for the German Cause there—but in the rest
of the world merchant-princes, manufacturers, trade agents and skilled
workmen do yeoman duty for me and the Fatherland. Of course we have a
lot of adherents in England—’naturalised’ they call them.  Funny term!
I hold that it would be most unnatural for a German to embrace another
nationality, especially the English."

"Whenever you hear of troubles in Ireland, put it down to my invisible
army.  That same army has before this fomented labour troubles in
Russia, and it never sleeps in France, particularly not in Paris."

And, lowering his voice, the War Lord talked of invisible forces
building concrete gun-platforms along the French and Belgian
frontiers—"foundations for manufacturing plants," he added
sarcastically.

"Of course I am doing my bit in other respects too," he concluded.  "I
have fed some of these German editors from the States at my own table,
and —— bad manners they had too; and I have baited them with minor
orders in plenty.  If Ridder behaves himself I will make him a ’von’
some day, and that German Congressman from Missouri—I forget his
name—will get a five-pronged coronet too.  But to return to Curaçao. If
I get a foothold there, I will have both French and English for
neighbours—excellent chances for picking a quarrel if desirable."

The War Lord put a finger down vigorously on the Wedell—and Adjutant von
Moltke buttons. The nephew of the great Field Marshal responded almost
instantly.  "I want Wedell."

"Count Wedell is in waiting, Your Majesty."  Even while the equerry
spoke, the sign language of the telephone announced that the Chief was
at the Schloss.

"That Jew of yours will be useful," said Wilhelm approvingly.  "He will
obey orders like Krupp, but remember His Majesty can’t do all the
reconnoitring himself.  I tell you for the hundredth time that your
department is negligent with respect to England.  You must get Ballin to
help you."

Count Wedell winced.  "If I have had the misfortune to fall short of
Your Majesty’s expectations——" he stuttered.

"’My resignation is, etc.’  The old Wedell complaint; I know what you
want to say.  Only recently I stopped your cousin’s litany by remarking:
’I thought you liked your salary and perquisites.’  None of that
nonsense, please.  Listen: I have played sleuth for you at Portsmouth; I
know the dockyards there like my pocket.  The Solent and Cowes are open
books to my General Staff, owing to descriptive matter and diagrams I
have furnished, and what I did not tell Tirpitz about Gibraltar is not
worth knowing.  Really," he added, "English _naïveté_ is astonishing,
particularly in the face of the Press campaign.  With the most widely
circulated and best informed newspapers constantly reminding them that
my whole naval policy is directed against Great Britain, English
officials—military, naval and civilian—extend me every opportunity for
the study of old England’s defence and weakness.  Thanks to my
inspection, my General Staff is as well informed about the Gibraltar
signal station as the first English Sea Lord—it is to laugh.

"And how they opened their ports to me: Leith, Port Victoria, Folkestone
were as free to the _Hohenzollern_ as Piccadilly Circus.

"The next time I visit Edward I will drive my yacht right up above
Tilbury.  See if I don’t."

"Poor devil of a pilot," mocked Count Wedell.

"Now, don’t credit the English War Office with more circumspection than
the average German schoolboy has," guffawed Wilhelm; "the pilot will
probably get the V.C., and I promise Tirpitz some astounding information
for, while on the bridge, I will pump the pilot dry—absolutely dry.

"I really worked hard for your department," concluded Wilhelm; "now show
that you can follow my lead."

"Perhaps Majesty favours establishment of semaphores on the British
coast on a larger scale."

"After we prohibited the keeping of carrier pigeons in the neighbourhood
of German naval stations?  No, _Herr Graf_, I am not dispensing meal
tickets to penny-a-liners just now.  Think of something new, something
Ballin can do for us."

"I submit that cheap excursions to English harbours and seaside resorts,
arranged by the Hamburg line during the holiday season——"

"I take it all back," cried Wilhelm.  "You are earning your salary,
Wedell.  Capital idea. The Naval Intelligence Service shall subscribe
for a hundred berths, sending its most expert photographers,
topographers, surveyors, fortification experts and naval men.  In mufti,
of course, and you will have men on board to spot fools that betray
their official connections.  Tell Ballin I want some of his largest
steamers for this service, so that my army and my navy men get well lost
in the crowd. The larger the crowd, the more men of military age and
reservists, of course."

"Your Majesty thinks of everything."

"I have to," said the War Lord.  "And make a note of it.  Amateur
photography is to be encouraged in the schools, the press, in society.
No use sending crowds of Germans to England unless they bring back
plenty of photographic evidence relating to the enemy coast and land
defences.  As a special inducement, Ballin shall have a dark-room on
board and develop films free of charge.  In that way we will get
duplicates of everything."

"I beg to submit," said Wedell, "there is still another aspect to Your
Majesty’s enlightened prospect."

"Fire away!"

"The legend of impossible invasion will suffer a collapse with everybody
observing that the supposed impregnability of Dover is all moonshine."

"Not half bad," said the War Lord.  "Those tourists will make splendid
_commis voyageurs_ for our army of invasion."

"_Agents provocateurs_!"

Wilhelm shrugged impatiently.  "Fouché’s business!  Of course my War
Office will furnish the dates for the excursions.  Sounds ridiculous,
but England’s little vest-pocket army indulges in annual manoeuvres like
my own, and it would be curious if some valuable information could not
be gleaned from a boat full of military and semi-military sightseers.
Of course the English naval manoeuvres are much more important.
Sometimes a simple tourist sees things for which the official and
unofficial representatives of my Admiralty and your own department,
Wedell, search in vain."

The discussion continued in the same vein for another half-hour, the War
Lord impressing upon Wedell the absolute necessity of increased
espionage in England.  "Thirty-six years ago," said Wilhelm in
conclusion, "Bismarck had over thirty thousand spies and sympathisers in
France doing his work.  Have we got as many in England to-day?  How many
are on the pay-rolls of English railways, of Scotch railways and,
particularly, of Irish railways?  You can’t tell off-hand? Report within
three days.  And don’t forget the proofs, if you please.  I likewise
want to know how many of your men are detailed to attack British
arsenals, harbours, wireless stations and so forth in the event of war.
Whatever their number, duplicate, nay, treble it, and don’t be sparing
with promises.  If we invade England, we won’t get out in a hurry, tell
them, and there will be plenty of pickings for our friends while we are
on the Insular side of the Channel.

"Remind them that our army of occupation remained in France two years
and five months after peace had been signed.  I propose to enjoy English
hospitality even a while longer, and the people that serve us ’before
and aft’ can make enough money while we are in England to evacuate with
us and live on their interests in the Fatherland after Threadneedle
Street has paid the last instalment. Think of it!  Serve the War Lord
and feather one’s own nest at the same time."

Wilhelm had been sitting down uncommonly long.  Indeed he had been
almost confidential with his pal in the conspiracy international.  He
now rose, squared his shoulders and assumed his favourite character of
the graven image.

"I don’t like Krupp’s ignorance of things English. Shall make a few
trips into England, and see what there is to be seen," he said in a tone
of command.  He continued: "I want a talk from Court Chaplain Dryander
on the chosen people, not on the Jews—on the term.  Got impressed with
it while talking to Ballin.  Germans the chosen people!  Sounds good!"

"Dryander will report at eleven to-morrow morning.  Order (Professor)
Delbrueck to be here at the same time.  I will see him after the
sky-pilot has gone.  Parsons are such romancers; it’s well to digest
their palaver to the accompaniment of historic facts."

"One thing more."  The War Lord grabbed a pencil and marked asafoetida
on half a dozen pages of his daily calendar.  "I want to have a
conference with chemists by and by."




                             *CHAPTER XXIX*

                       *SOME MORE SECRET HISTORY*


    Deluding Rathenau—Callous Experiments—What Lord Palmerston
    Said—The Kaiser’s Aims


"What is this I hear?" demanded the War Lord, having scantily
acknowledged Herr Krupp von Bohlen’s low obeisance.  "I want you to
understand once and for all that your wife is my ward, and that any
offence to her spells disrespect to Majesty."

The Overlord of the Krupp works was confused with surprise.  He
attempted to make answer, but did not get further than a formal: "May it
please Your Majesty."

"I have no further commands for you at the moment," he was cut short.
"Wait in the Adjutant’s room until called."

"A.E.G.," cried Wilhelm to the adjutant of the House Marshal’s office,
opening the door for Krupp.

"My dear Rathenau," he said, when an old man, stout and stockily built,
with a philanthropic chin and a complexion denoting indifferent health,
walked in.  "My dear Rathenau, being credited with seeing ahead, perhaps
you’ll tell me what this means?"  And he pointed to half a dozen entries
topping his daily calendar.

"Asafoetida," read the electrical end of the Jewish triumvirate of
self-made men—Ballin, Thyssen, Rathenau.  "Does Majesty want me to
create a corner in the reverse of eau de Cologne?"

"Yes and no," said Wilhelm.  "But like Ziethen did before Frederick, sit
down.  And so you may not fall asleep like the great cavalry leader when
visiting the king in his old age, I will tell you a story."

He retailed the yarn about the meeting between Franz Ferdinand and
Cardinal Schlauch, the Secret Service man in the bed, and what No. 103
wished he had placed under the bed before the interview.

"It gave me an idea," he continued, "an idea, I confess, strengthened at
Essen.  Why not bottle the noxious gases set free in the furnaces, and
let them loose on the enemy?"

"What, kill them wholesale?" cried Rathenau, moving uneasily in his
chair.  Philanthropy is one of his hobbies, and underhanded methods go
against his grain.  The War Lord knows this, and clapped the silencer on
his savage bluntness.

"Kill them?  No.  Wholesale?  No, too. There is to be no gale of these
gases—just a breeze to knock out, or knock over, offensive or defensive.
I figure this way: Maybe the enemy, entrenched, has to be dislodged at
any price to gain some given point.  We can’t get at them with the
ordinary style of weapon; they won’t come out even to be hand-grenaded.
In such cases, I hold it good strategy to smoke them out."

"Asphyxiating gas," mumbled Rathenau half to himself.

"A good name—something suspending animation—suspending it while we take
the coveted place.  We won’t lose a man, and the enemy is mulcted out of
prisoners only, for all placed _hors de combat_ by our chemicals will be
cared for by the Red Cross."

"Majesty does not intend to have the gases absolutely poisonous?"
inquired Rathenau.

"Now, would I have asked you, whose humanity all Berlin admires, if I
did?" cried the War Lord; "if I was signing death warrants, I would not
have applied to you, but to Krupp. He is a natural born butcher, I tell
you.  Krupp devises means to destroy life with the gusto of an American
barkeeper mixing cocktails.  They blamed Nero for saying he wished the
Roman people had but one head that he might knock it off.  You should
see Krupp gloat over my new howitzers."

"And those noxious gases, the workings of which Your Majesty observed at
Essen, do not inflict permanent injury?"

"In the majority of cases black coffee suffices to make the men fit for
work again; in a minor number of cases mild palliatives are required.  I
advised free distribution of milk for those suffering from a weak
stomach.  Hypodermic injections are resorted to once or twice a week.
So you see our ’gassing’ will be quite harmless."

When the President and Owner of the "A.E.G." (German for General
Electric Company) still refused to wax enthusiastic, the War Lord tried
a new tag.  "It’s the charitableness—I almost said the Christianity—of
the thing that mainly attracts me," he lied.  "You remember Valentina’s
husband in _The Huguenots_.  He was murdered during St. Bartholomew’s
night, at the side of my ancestor, Admiral Coligny.  The Comte de Nevars
had been asked a little while before to join in the massacre of the
Protestants, but refused, pleading that his family contained a long list
of warriors, but not a single assassin.  So am I trying to curtail
killing by the proposed new method of attack.  Prisoners, yes; the more
the merrier; but deaths and wounds as few as possible."

"Hydrochlorine, with the accent on the hydro, might possibly serve Your
Majesty," said Rathenau, after thinking hard for a few seconds.

"Very well, write it down," ordered the War Lord.  "Besides Krupp, who
can furnish this chemical?"

"The Ruhr Chemical Works and the Ludwigshafen Aniline Factory might."

Rathenau was dismissed with scant thanks, and Krupp was readmitted to
listen to the substance of Wilhelm’s conference with the President of
the A.E.G., the latter’s philanthropic objections being carefully marked
as the War Lord’s own, while the diluting advised was dismissed as
namby-pamby.

Krupp, after listening respectfully, said: "May it please Your Majesty,
I have had a little experience with asphyxiating gas.  We used it to
destroy a number of consumptive cows, thinking it the more humane
method.  They were to be benumbed before slaughter.

"God forbid that Bertha, who is very much attached to the animals on the
estate, ever learns what really did happen.  As for myself, I had an
inkling, but where experience is to be gained charity must take a back
seat."

"Well said," commented the War Lord.  "Go on!"

"We tethered the cattle in an enclosure, their heads over a furrow from
which the poison gas was rising.  It had a sharp, bitter smell, and as
it caught the animals’ throat they gasped and choked. Some attempted to
breathe deeply and could not, and all went giddy, it seemed, but did not
lose consciousness.

"The chief vet. had predicted that the intense irritation of the
bronchial mucous membrane would fill the tubes with a fluid which the
animals could not expel, and this is what did happen.

"We let them suffer for experience’s sake, then gave them salted water.
This cleared their lungs and forestalled complete suffocation."

"You have gathered the technical information from the medical report?"
asked the War Lord.

"Partly from that, partly from observation," replied Krupp.  "When the
vets. stated that the animals were on the point of slow
suffocation—drowning, we killed them by the quicker method. But one cow
was allowed to die by poison gas, to give necessary clues to the medical
men.  They stated, after investigation, that the gas had had a corrosive
action, destroying the mucosa."

"Very interesting," said the War Lord, who had seemingly forgotten about
his pretended motives of philanthropy.  "Your chief vet. shall report in
full to my Ministry of Cult.  I shall order that from now on condemned
animals shall be delivered to the concerns manufacturing this kind of
gas for scientific experiments."

The red disc on the War Lord’s desk went up. Wilhelm looked at the
clock.  "Delbrueck."  Then, turning to Krupp: "You shall wait and hear
what he has to say."

The successor of Professor Treitschke was bringing the War Lord an essay
on "Germany as the Land of the Chosen People," a sort of
theological-political tract, suggested by Wilhelm and partly formulated
by Court Chaplain Dryander.  Its present form had been decided on by
Professors Harnack, Schiemann, Meyer and the editor of the Prussian
Annals (_Preussische Jahrbuecher Magazin_).

"Typed," said the War Lord approvingly. "I wish you would instil that
modern idea into those of your colleagues, who annoy me by their
handwriting.  The worse it is, the more scientific they deem it.  I will
read it presently.  Now tell Krupp how you view the situation with
regard to England."

"The United Kingdom they call it," sneered Delbrueck, the most
loquacious of "that damned band of professors," to quote Palmerston.
"Well, there will be one less in the quartette when war comes—Ireland.
The Green Isle will join us when the first shot is fired by a German
battery. Further, there is every reason to believe that the title of
Emperor of India will be as obsolete as that of King of Jerusalem before
hostilities are under way a month, while New Zealand, Australia, South
Africa and Canada will certainly not miss the chance for gaining
independence."

Herr Krupp looked at His Majesty in quite bewildered fashion.  Evidently
he had not reckoned on such far-reaching eventualities, but the War Lord
had.

"Miss their chance for independence?  Not likely!  Go on, Delbrueck.
Tell him about the Boers."

"I needn’t assure you, Herr Krupp, on which side the defeated of 1901
will fight.  It is self-evident," said Delbrueck.

"And Egypt?" ventured Herr Krupp, to show his patriotism.

"German industry and discipline shall fructify the land of the Pharaohs
like the Nile itself.  We will drive out the English of course," cried
the War Lord.

"The arming of India will be a tremendous task," he continued.  "As you
know, I am sending the Crown Prince to India, and the military experts
accompanying him will furnish all missing links."

"May I suggest that His Imperial Highness sound the Indian Princes,"
interpolated Professor Delbrueck.

"All that is provided for," retorted the War Lord.

But Delbrueck would not be discouraged in his optimisms.  "In addition,"
he went on, "Krupp guns will bark forth the declaration of independence
by South Africa, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, and the rest of the
British dominions, territories and Island Kingdoms.  Quite an
undertaking, eh?"

At this point the War Lord came to Delbrueck’s relief.  "Finally there
is that beggar Turkey.  You mustn’t be hard on Abdul Hamid, Krupp.  Bad
pay, of course, but he never hesitates about pulling chestnuts out of
the fire for me, and I like him.  Besides, since we pay China a subsidy
of a million per year for getting ready to wallop Nicholas, why not
treat Constantinople with liberality?"

Krupp bowed and promised to talk the matter over with his board of
directors, but the War Lord scarcely listened.  He had deigned to
express a wish—woe to the person, or persons, not interpreting the wish
as an All Highest command.

He turned to the professor.  "Delbrueck," he said, "I had a letter from
Francis Joseph.  He has set his heart on Bosnia, and wants me to support
him.  Is there any way of arguing with Russia from the historic point of
view?"

"I will look into the matter for Your Majesty at once."

"Very well.  If you do not succeed, Russia will get a glimpse of my
shining armour, which is the best argument, after all."

"Now you know my friends, official and otherwise," concluded Wilhelm,
again addressing Krupp; "about my aims I have talked to you before.
Always bear in mind that I am German Emperor—an expansive title relating
to all lands and peoples of the Germanic family, no matter what name
they may go under.

"We must have German Holland and German Belgium, German Tyrol and German
Switzerland, and, of course, German Austria.  As you know, I have a good
title to the whole of North-Eastern France, too, but I will waive that
for the Continental Channel coast."

"Your Majesty must have Trieste," said Delbrueck.

"I must have and mean to have all the naval outlets and outposts
necessary to German trade and my protection," said Wilhelm in most
Olympian style.




                             *CHAPTER XXX*

                       *BROWBEATING THE WAR LADY*


    A Letter from Count Metternich—Scaring the Kaiser—Bertha Offends
    the War Lord—Using the Secret Code—For "The Day"—An Awful
    Oath—The Kaiser Wins


"I can almost forgive Metternich for allowing himself to be bested by
Sir Frank, for that last yarn he sent me is not to be sneezed at.
Bertha and Krupp are on the point of a momentous quarrel.  Some pacifist
idiot—a woman, probably—put a plea in her ear about ’trade in murder,’
’profit in man-killing,’ and that sort of thing, and the baby did the
rest.

"She sits on the Huegel, befouling the machinery for conquest-making
below her windows.

"’Some of the ordnance we are sending to China to-day may kill my unborn
child,’" she writes, "and things have come to such a pass that Krupp had
to instruct the coachman to avoid certain roads where Bertha’s carriage
might meet with ammunition and other transports.

"And ever since, all day long and half the night, she accuses Krupp of
using her money to forge guns and bullets that, by and by, may seek the
heart or limbs of his own son.

"’Don’t I know when war will break out?’ he retorted angrily the other
day.  ’Long before that our boy will be on a journey round the world.’
Think of a Prussian officer forced to indulge in such damnable stuff!"
cried the War Lord.

"I submit, Your Majesty, that one has to temporise with women,
especially with a young mother," suggested Prince Bülow.

"Silly sentimentalities," sneered the War Lord; "I want none of them.
Bertha has to be broken of her freak—broken," he repeated, gritting his
teeth.  "Why," he continued, "she even refuses to take joy in her
charities now, because, she says, ’money made out of armaments is
tainted and no good can come from it.’

"If I allow that sort of thing to go on there will be a
_Kladderadatsch_" (fatal _dénouement_), "one fine day.  She may attempt
to wrest from Krupp the power of attorney under which he acts as my
agent, and there is such an abomination as divorce, you know—oh, _mille
pardons_, you do know.  And, worse luck, my courts deal in it as well as
the Vatican."  (The War Lord referred to Princess Bülow, whose first
marriage to Count von Donhoff was dissolved by the Holy See in 1881.)

Bülow reddened under the insult.  "I am wholly unsuited to interfere in
other people’s family affairs," he blurted.  Then, frightened at losing
his temper, added: "I beg Your Majesty’s pardon."

"My ward’s affairs are my own," declared the War Lord haughtily.  "I’ll
settle with Bertha myself, make her eat out of my hand—take my word for
it—and this will help."

He showed the Chancellor a long, handwritten letter, with the imprint of
Carlton House Terrace, marked "Private and Confidential," and asked him
to read it aloud.  The address was that of the German Embassy at the
Court of St. James’s, and Count Wolff von Metternich, His Majesty’s
Ambassador, was the correspondent.  He had been permanently in London
since 1901, previously serving his diplomatic apprenticeship there, off
and on, between 1885 and 1890.  His naïve complaint in the Joseph
Chamberlain affair has been noted. As he was the War Lord’s confidant
while in the service of the Berlin Foreign Office, Count Metternich
could not have been altogether without knowledge of Wilhelm’s
treacherous conduct in and toward England.  The War Lord claimed British
hospitality time and again to combine espionage with all too successful
attempts to hoodwink the English Sovereign and his statesmen about his
real intention toward Great Britain.  King Edward was not too blind,
though, to what was going on; he is credited with the remark that the
War Lord was not a gentleman.

"Important, if true," said Prince Bülow, handing back the letter.

"Just as important if it _isn’t_ true—for my purposes," quoth Wilhelm.
He walked up and down the room for several minutes, mumbling things,
then suddenly confronted the Chancellor: "A belated answer to my letter
to Tweedmouth—can it be that?"

Prince Bülow was surprised beyond words.  The War Lord referring to his
clumsy attempt (in the early part of the year 1908) to throw dust in the
eyes of a British Minister of State in regard to his responsibilities,
by an act of unprecedented condescension!

Wilhelm’s personal letter to the First Sea Lord had caused considerable
excitement in Germany, but there had been no discussion of it at the
Chancellery.  The subject was too ticklish for that—particularly its
aftermath, with its references to "foolish stratagems," "unintelligent
attempt to deceive," "refusal to be perturbed by such little incidents,"
and last, but not least, England’s avowed determination to thwart
Wilhelm’s plans to be supreme upon the sea, since "there is nothing for
Great Britain between foreign sea supremacy and ruin."

And those "wretched _Temps_ articles" (Majesty’s description was
stronger), admonishing England not to put faith in the War Lord’s
protestations, but strengthen her navy and double her army.

The War Lord seemed to divine what was going through his Chancellor’s
mind.  He changed the subject.  "Edward and Nicki have been talking it
over; they are afraid of me, despite boasted Anglo-Russian and
Anglo-French propositions, and want to give me a good scare!" he cried.
"But I will show them that I don’t care a fig for their Entente.  The
Mediterranean trip is off. My purple standard shall fly at Cowes, and
Wedell shall arrange for a little trip into France.  Yes, France," he
insisted.  "I have long wished for a view of the strategical passes of
the Vosges, and you must persuade Fallières to invite me to see the
_Schlucht_.[#]  Less than an hour’s motor trip from the frontier, you
know."


[#] The proposed motor tour across the French frontier was actually
"arranged," as suggested by the War Lord, and was billed to come off in
the first or second week of September (1908). However, at the last
moment the War Lord showed the white feather, having been informed that
he would never leave French soil alive, a number of patriots having
vowed to kill him.  Previous to this there had been much irritation in
France and talk of "impudence," "cynicism," and "espionage."


"I will leave no stone unturned to execute Your Majesty’s commands,"
said Prince Bülow, indulging in a profound bow to hide his face and
avoid betraying an astonishment bordering on perplexity.

"Wonder if Edward can be persuaded to meet me in the Solent," mused the
War Lord.  "I would love to tell him about my trip to Heligoland, our
coastal defences there, and preparations for aerial invasion.  Of
course, the details will be Greek to Uncle, since he knows less of
military matters than my two-year-old fillies at Trakehnen, but my tale
may possibly induce him to be more careful in matters of his _amours
impropre_: Russia and France.  Don’t you think so, Bülow?"

"The Quadruple Alliance, Your Majesty?  I can only repeat the conviction
previously expressed—that it is entirely pacific, a defensive measure
absolutely.  As to King Edward, his political strategy is certainly
superior to his military talents, but I was under the impression that he
introduced Your Majesty to the Maxim gun."

"He happened to be my guest on the day set for the trial of that
incomparable man-killer, and I took him to Lichterfelde to show him how
I would annihilate his vest-pocket army if he wasn’t as careful as his
Mamma.  Strange to say, he seemed to be quite _au fait_.  I had bet
Moltke a dozen _Echte_ that Uncle couldn’t distinguish a Nordenfeldt or
Gardner from the old-time Gatling; but he did.  ’Confound your
impudence,’ I said to Moltke, when I paid the price; but Helmuth
convinced me that I got off dirt cheap.  The Maxim gun, he persuaded me,
must have undreamt of possibilities if even Edward recognises its
importance as a war machine.

"So the empty _echte_-box taught me that every copper invested in Maxim
guns means one dead—an enemy—hence, that I can’t have enough Maxims.  I
want fifty, no, a hundred thousand."

Wilhelm smiled sardonically as he added: "I told Krupp he would lose his
job unless he improves on Maxim and gets up a machine-gun as light as
our army rifle and as easily fired.  But that reminds me.  I will go to
Essen to-night to impress Bertha with her patriotic duties.  You’ll keep
Krupp here."


"Frau Krupp," said Wilhelm, as he retired with the War Lady to the
library of Villa Huegel.

"Bertha," she pleaded.

"Bertha is treating her Uncle Majesty very badly."

"May it please Your Majesty to say in which way I have offended?"

"In every way, in the surest way, in the most traitorous way!" cried the
War Lord, trying to stab the floor with the point of his sheathed
sword—a pitiable sight, since his poor left hand was powerless to move.
"You are thinking of diverting the works from their sacred purpose: The
Fatherland’s defence."

Wilhelm struck a sentimental pose.  "That’s my reward for the love and
care I bestowed on Frederick’s child," he half monologued.  "I educated
her, exalted her above all women in her station of life, treated her
like a child of my own, like my own sons and daughter.  I have bestowed
as much thought on Essen as on my army and navy; made her business and
fortune the grandest of their kind; selected for her loving husband a
man of surpassing capacities and gave her wedding the _éclat_ of a royal
function.  Emperors, sultans and kings have bedizened her with
courtesies and high decorations for my sake—the legend of ’the richest
girl’ has melted into ’the happiest woman in the world’—_semper
fidelis_, and Madame, satiated and ungrateful, turns me the cold
shoulder."

"Oh, Uncle Majesty, how can you say such things?"

"Bertha," cried the War Lord, laying his hand on her knee, "if you were
not Frederick’s daughter, were not rich beyond the dreams of avarice, I
would ask: How much—how much did England pay you for deserting me and
the Fatherland?"

Frau Krupp slipped from the chair, and on her knees implored her
terrifying visitor to show mercy.

"The King of Prussia never pardons traitors."

The word awakened Frau Krupp’s self-respect. "Traitor!" she cried; "I
would be a traitor to humanity if I continued making faggots to set the
world afire."

The War Lord broke into wild laughter.  "So that’s the melody," he
shouted, "echoes of the gutter Press in London, Paris, Petersburg,
Tokyo!  It’s well you mentioned it, Frau Krupp; I know now exactly how
we stand, you and I, the benefactor and the unworthy object of my
magnanimity."

Bertha lay on the silken rug sobbing her heart out, but for Wilhelm the
quivering form of the girl for whom he professed a father’s love was
mere air.

Sitting down at the great desk, he shouted: "I command" into the
speaking-tube sacred to his All Highest person, and, Adjutant Baron
Dommes responding, he ordered: "Prepare for a confidential message to
the Chancellor by secret code.  Have the line cleared.  You will attend
to the wire in person."

He grabbed a block of paper and began to write, tearing off sheet after
sheet with partially finished sentences, rejecting his own words as fast
as he wrote them, and talking to himself in tones considerably above a
stage whisper.

"Would suit the Austrian Baroness to turn Krupps into an ironmongery for
household and farm goods," he sneered savagely, "but the mollycoddles
shall know presently that they haven’t got a silly girl to deal with."
He paused, giving a furtive look to the prostrate Bertha; then began
scribbling again and reading his hasty scrawl to himself:

"Bethmann-Hollweg shall consult with Kuentzel and Harnier about
condemnation proceedings against——  Never mind, I will give names by
’phone after receipt of message is acknowledged. Must be kept a profound
State secret.  Anyone mentioning it even in the presence of his
secretary will be dismissed _cum infamia_.  Remember, the best legal
talent only."  (The persons named were high officials in the Ministry of
Justice.)

Excitement would not let Wilhelm be seated long, and he began pacing the
floor, dragging his sword.

"Preposterous!" he alternately mumbled or hissed.  "A mere slut foiling
my plans, interfering with my life’s work!  Stop making implements of
war: the great Alexander held up on the road to India by a blacksmith!"
He laughed hysterically, lunging forth to both sides with his clenched
fist as if striking at imaginary enemies.

"But the maw of death will be glutted with or without your assistance,
Frau Krupp—glutted to nausea!" he cried, pausing before the trembling
girl.  "There will be an accumulation of anguish such as the world has
never witnessed, despite thee, ingrate that thou art."

The War Lady raised her hand and looked at him with ghastly,
tear-stained eyes.

"Don’t—oh, don’t!" she breathed.

"The more you plead the quicker the catastrophe will come!  You mean to
keep me in a state of unreadiness, but my enemies are even less
ready—time to strike!"

"Even Your Majesty can’t make war without pretext," wailed Bertha.

"I can’t, eh?  I can’t?  And there are no pretexts, either?  What about
Morocco?  If I seize the smallest harbour of that —— country, isn’t that
tantamount to invading Algiers?  I tell you in such event France and
Great Britain must fight whether they like or not.  And their blood upon
your head, Bertha, the blood of France and Great Britain and Russia, and
of the German people, too."

He affected to shudder.  "A thing of horror such as even Dante could not
have conceived!" he exclaimed pathetically.

"And I the cause?" faltered Bertha.

"Who else, since you are driving me to war! Can I, dare I wait until Le
Creusot, Woolwich and the Putiloffs have finished their preparations? I
be —— if I will!" he added rudely, "so I propose to seize the Krupp
plant and manufacture my own war material until ’The Day’ and after."

The War Lady, trembling with amazement, half raised herself from the
floor and, balancing on her right arm, stared wildly.

"Seize my plant?" she gasped; but the War Lord paid no attention.
Kicking his sword aside, he once more seized pencil and writing-block.

"_Cum infamia_," he read, as if for Bertha’s benefit.  Then his pencil
flew rapidly over the paper: "The plant to be taken over by the act of
the Sovereign, Gwinner and Emil Rathenau to look to the financial end,
Dernburg and Thyssen to examine the business end."  (Arthur von Gwinner,
German railway magnate; August Thyssen, mine owner and merchant prince.)
He was grabbing the speaking-tube, when Bertha took hold of his
shoulder.

"Uncle Majesty," she whispered softly.

"If you please, Frau Krupp, no familiarities," barked the War Lord.
"You are interfering in business of State."

"Listen, Uncle," pleaded Bertha.

"No, _you_ listen to your King," said the War Lord coaxingly, "that is,
if you will be once more my good little girl, and not presume to mix in
my affairs, in affairs of the State."

"I am at Your Majesty’s mercy," sobbed Bertha.

"You ought to have thought of that before."

"Forgive me, forgive me, Uncle Majesty."

"On one condition: that never again you lend ear to outsiders in matters
affecting the Krupp works, whatever may be their character or claims to
recognition."

"I promise, Uncle Majesty."

The War Lord leaned back in his chair and motioned to Bertha to sit
down.

"The most terrible War Office secret has just been communicated to me by
Metternich," he began, "and I would be unworthy of the trust imposed
upon me by the Almighty if I did not use every preventive to undo this
new dreadful peril to the Fatherland.  Prevention spells: ’Increase of
armaments on land and sea and, indeed, above the sea.’  That’s why I am
forced to seize the Krupp works if you dare oppose my will——"

"But I don’t, Uncle Majesty.  I swear I don’t!" cried Bertha.

The War Lord sunk his penetrating eyes into Bertha’s as if trying to
read the War Lady’s very thoughts.  "Ring for the baby," he said; and
when the child was brought in he whispered to her to dismiss the nurse.

"Swear on the life of your child that you will not attempt to wrest the
control of the Krupp works from my agent, or agents, and that your
factories and shipyards shall ever be at my exclusive disposal, your
Uncle Majesty to control the output and mode of manufacture absolutely,
and decide on all measures deemed essential for the success of the works
and the armament and defence of the Fatherland."

For a few moments the War Lady stared at the speaker, then allowed him
to take her right hand and place it on the baby’s head.

"I swear," she said in a hardly audible voice.

"On the life of your child," demanded Wilhelm. There was a scarcely
concealed threat in his tones.

"Mercy, Uncle Majesty!"

"Mercy begins at home.  There are thirty thousand families depending
upon you—all told, about one hundred and fifty thousand people are
living in Essen and suburbs.  Do you want to see them all wiped off the
face of the earth?"

"I don’t follow, Your Majesty."

"I asked a question; I am not after argument. Once more I ask: Would you
rather see Essen, my fortress of Cologne, Düsseldorf, the whole Rhine
and Ruhr valleys blasted out of existence than say these eight words: ’I
swear on the life of my child’?"

"I can’t conceive the meaning of Your Majesty’s words; but I love my
people, and I would much rather die myself than have them suffer on my
account," said the War Lady.  She kissed the child, and, with tears
streaming from her eyes, pronounced the fatal words.

"In the name of the Fatherland I thank you," said Wilhelm, touching
Bertha’s forehead with white lips cold as ice.  Then, striking a
theatrical pose, he added: "_Si Krupp nobiscum, quis contra nos_?"  (If
Krupp is with us, who can stand against us?)  He rang the bell.
"Dommes," he whispered into the ’phone, adding a word of the secret
code.  Presently there was a knock at the door.  The War Lord himself
opened it.  Dommes was standing at attention, naked sword in hand. A few
more words in the secret code.  The door closed, and Dommes began
patrolling the corridor.




                             *CHAPTER XXXI*

                         *A GREAT STATE SECRET*


    The Great Dundonald Plan—The Menace to Essen—Who Holds the
    Secret?—An Infallible Plan—England Will Have to Pay—The World
    Will be Mine


A minute passed while the War Lord listened for the steady tread of his
epauletted sentinel on the marble floor and seemed to count the steps.
If Dommes had strayed an inch upon the purple runner which he was
ordered to avoid, Wilhelm would have rushed out and abused him for a
spy. Not until satisfied that the possibility of being overheard was out
of the question, he told of the things weighing upon his mind, or of
those, rather, that he wanted to weigh on Bertha’s mind.

"You heard of Lord Dundonald?" he asked abruptly.

"The father of Baron Cochrane, who announced the death of Gordon and the
fall of Khartoum," replied Bertha.  "Gustav met him at Brooks’s, I
believe."

"The desert rider doesn’t interest us now," retorted Wilhelm, "though I
would love to have him on my staff—just the man to lead my African
forces and to help in the Boer uprising.  I am talking of Thomas
Cochrane, the tenth Earl.  Surely you learned about his good work
against Napoleon and his exploits in South American waters?  For a time
he was admiral of the Chilian Fleet, re-entering the British naval
service in the last years of William IV.’s reign."

"I recollect now," said Bertha.

"Well, the two elder Dundonalds were scientists, like your father and
grandfather.  Indeed, Dundonald _grand-père_ made several epoch-making
chemical discoveries—I suspect Heydebrand is stealing his ideas on every
hand" (Dr. Ernst von Heydebrand, leader of the Agrarian party and a
husbandman of note), "for Earl Archie enlarged on the relations between
agriculture and chemistry even during the French Revolution; but Thomas
Dundonald, his son, the same who defeated the Corsican at sea, was, or
rather is, the man who threatens the Fatherland, even though buried
these fifty years and more.  Industry is indebted to him for discoveries
in the line of compressed air, improvements in engines and propellers,
but his _chef d’oeuvre_ was a war machine.

"I tell you, Bertha, it looms up larger and larger as the struggle that
is sure to come approaches—a perpetual threat menacing the stability of
my Empire.

"The enemy—I mean the British War Office—has wrapt that thing of horror
in darkest mystery ever since its inception a hundred years ago, and
Haldane is as secretive about it as the Prince Regent was in the early
decades of the nineteenth century.

"During my every visit to England I have tried to find out from princes,
statesmen and military men on the Dundonald plan, only to meet with
patriotic objections in one place, with bluff in another.  Lord Roberts
went so far as to say there was no such thing.  But King Edward, when
Prince of Wales, contradicted Roberts, without suspecting, of course,
that I had quizzed the Field Marshal. He had seen the document, he said;
it rested in a secret drawer of the War Minister’s safe.  ’No other War
Office official has access to it,’ he told me, ’and it’s the only copy
in existence.’

"His word notwithstanding, there was a possibility, of course, that the
plans of the great war machine might be concealed somewhere about Lord
Dundonald’s town residence in Portman Square, or in the archives of
Gwyrch Castle, his seat in Wales, and Wedell has spent ten thousands
upon ten thousands, bribing confidential servants, librarians and
secretaries and what not?  I had half made up my mind to approach the
present Earl, when Metternich, by the merest accident, came upon some of
the information sought after.

"Bertha," continued Wilhelm, "though we don’t know its exact nature yet,
the last doubt as to its limitless efficacy as a destroyer is
removed—hence, the famous secret of the London War Office constitutes a
peril to the German Empire that only war preparations on the largest
possible scale can hope to check."

He dropped into melodramatic style, _tutoyering_ Bertha: "Dost
understand now, child, why I contemplated taking over the Krupp works
for the State in case you failed your Uncle Majesty?  Such would have
been my duty, my sacred duty."

"I understand now, understand fully, and I humbly beg Your Majesty’s
pardon."

"It is granted," said the War Lord, with the air of a tyrant annulling a
death sentence.  "And now you want to know about the menace Dundonald’s
plan holds out to Essen, of course.  But for your fuller understanding
we must first go into the history of the case."

The War Lord lit a cigarette and settled comfortably into his throne
chair.  "Some two years before the battle of Leipzig," he began, "Lord
Dundonald first startled the British War Office by a device for
annihilating all fortified places and armies of Europe, should Bonaparte
succeed in uniting them against England. However, his plan was so
terrible, the Secretary for War refused to take the responsibility of
either rejecting or accepting it, and persuaded the Regent to appoint a
committee for its investigation _en camera_.  The Duke of York, Lord
Keith, Lord Exmouth and the two Congreves were chosen, and their verdict
was: ’Infallible, irresistible, but too inhuman for consideration.’  And
at that time, Bertha, Englishmen and Englishwomen were hanged for
stealing a sheep or an ell of cotton. So you may be sure that Lord
Dundonald’s war machine is no more burdened with sentimentality than
’old Fritz’ yonder.

"The terrible plan was reluctantly pigeon-holed, and, as you know,
Prussia, not the English, smashed Napoleon.

"In 1817 Lord Dundonald went to South America, having previously pledged
his word of honour that he would not use his invention for the benefit
of foreigners, and that, on the contrary, it should remain for ever at
the disposal of England’s War Office.  Later, his lordship confessed
that he had been tempted time and again to employ his invention, but
refrained from self-respect.

"After 1832 he was back in London, and from then on until his death in
1860 he submitted his terrible plan to each succeeding War Minister, and
each of these gentlemen declared the method capable of realisation with
the awful results predicted by the author, yet too savage for adoption
by a Christian government.

"Followed the Crimean War, with its initial anxieties, particularly to
my grandmother.  To her Lord Dundonald, then quite an old man, submitted
his plan anew, which he said would shorten the war; but Queen Victoria
hadn’t the heart to listen to the inhuman proposal.  However, Lord
Palmerston had the invention officially investigated, appointing the
most progressive scientists of the day for the task.  As expected, they
upheld Lord Dundonald’s claims in every particular, but the inhumanity
clause attached forbade its acceptance under a ruler like Queen
Victoria, and once more the plan was shelved.

"Of course," added the War Lord, "they were fighting against Russia
then.  If it had been Germany, that blackguard Palmerston would have
hanged the committee that declared against its acceptance.

"That happened sixty years ago," he went on, "and the British War Office
has kept Dundonald’s terrible plan in reserve ever since.  Nor has its
exact nature leaked out, though time and again one or other of the
Powers have offered millions for the betrayal of the secret.  Now, if I
had been War Lord when Lord Dundonald was travelling in Germany—but
that’s neither here nor there," he added gloomily.

Wilhelm walked to the empty fireplace and stared at the lifeless logs,
while a sinister and cruel expression intensified the brutality of his
features, "You heard of Frederick the Great stealing the dancer La
Barbarina from the Venetians, bodily snatching her out of the
ambassador’s coach?  So would I have kidnapped Lord Dundonald, 70
Wilhelmstrasse" (the palace of the British Embassy) "notwithstanding.

"I would have clapped him into Spandau, and kept him at a diet of bread
and water until he revealed his secret in every detail—yes, and put to
the test, too.  And if starvation hadn’t fetched him round—why, we have
a lot of that Nuremberg _bric-à-brac_—thumb-screws, Spanish boots and
toys of that sort—hidden away in some of the old castles and prisons——"
True to his habit of manual illustration, he described some of the
workings of the torture machinery by attacking the atmosphere.

"But, as said, it’s neither here nor there," he resumed finally.  "Back
to our muttons, then, _mon amie_.  This is the story which Metternich
obtained from two sources: Whitehall and Gwyrch Castle.

"To-day Dundonald’s terrible plan plays a more decisive part in
England’s foreign policy than ever, being regarded as the supreme
reserve force, a reserve force such as the world has never dreamt of.
Its point is against Germany, as a matter of course, but I doubt not
that Asquith would use it upon his own allies if ever they turned
against him.  Hence, France, Russia, even Japan, dare not act
independently of Great Britain lest she employ Dundonald’s terrible
secret.

"As to its nature, according to certain vague information deduced from
some of the late Lord Thomas’s manuscript notes found at the Welsh
castle, the hope that in the meantime it had been superseded by modern
explosives, and that its main principle, or allied principles, were no
longer the last cry in the line of destruction, has proved absolutely
untenable.  His menacing method is as infallible and irresistible to-day
as it was a hundred years ago; all your dynamiters, nitro-glyceriners,
lydditers and the rest of them notwithstanding, Bertha."

The War Lord struck a tragic pose: "To sum up, in concocting this crime
against humanity the English lord degraded his intellect beneath the
meanest animal.  Your poor child," he murmured, "like my fortresses and
towns on the coast of the North Sea or Baltic, so Essen and the peaceful
Ruhr valley may be swallowed up in the whirlwind of his enormities."

"I shall defend my boy with my last breath!" cried Bertha, jumping to
her feet, "him and all my people.  Tell me, Uncle Majesty, why is Essen
especially menaced?"

"Its proximity to the frontier is our most vulnerable point.  Pray, and
pray hard, Bertha, that Wilhelmina remains our friend.  If she joined
our enemies, Lord Dundonald’s devilish invention might be brought to
your very doors, through the Zuyder Zee and Waal, and Germany’s armoury,
the Krupp works, obliterated; the Fatherland itself could be wiped off
the map.

"I hope to prevent this by throwing an iron wall across Belgium and
Northern France," he continued, tracing a line on the wall-map, while
Bertha faltered out:

"And this English menace——"

"How it works, you mean?  With the resistless energy of Etna in eruption
and the iron grip of the flow of ashes that buried Pompeii and
Herculaneum.  Only here will be no escape by water; but for my
protecting arm you will all be suffocated in bed, or standing or going,
as it were."

The War Lord stepped to the window and looked through the telescope
fixed on a stand. "As far as the eye travels," he monologued, "one vast
ghastly cemetery.  Every house and cottage a grave, this villa a
mausoleum."

"Save us!" shrieked Bertha.  "Your Majesty alone can save us!"

"I will," said the War Lord, "my Imperial word: they shall not harm a
hair on your child’s head.  With the Krupps working according to my
plans, I will save Essen and my ships and my fortresses, too, for danger
anticipated is half overcome; and when ’The Day’ arrives I will move so
quickly Whitehall won’t have time to put the Scottish nobleman’s
surprise into practice.  Listen, Bertha:

"The Japs disembarked eight thousand men at Sakhalin in a single hour,
and whatever these brown devils did my army will have to go them one
better. I will fall on Belgium, and, as I told Krupp, hack my way to
Calais.  By that time, maybe, you will have completed the howitzer that,
planted at Calais, will make Dover Castle tumble into the dust.  If you
haven’t, my air fleet alone must pull off the job.  After closing the
mouth of the Thames——"

"Sheerness to be blockaded?"

"By mines, Zeppelin, admiral.  And before they have recovered from their
surprise I will have three hundred and fifty thousand men on the way to
Threadneedle Street.  About the same time King George and Mr. Asquith,
or whoever is in power, will get a wireless to the effect that, to the
indemnity England will have to pay, a thousand million pounds will be
added if there is an attempt to interrupt the march of my armies by
using the Dundonald plan, or if same is used anywhere or at any time
against my possessions.  My admonition will be in time, for to launch an
undertaking so gigantic as to baffle even the most enterprising of your
own lieutenants, Bertha, will take the slow English months and months;
the swiftness of my movements, then, can be relied upon to forestall the
evil intended to make our own warlike invention pale into
insignificance."

"But the English fleet, Your Majesty?"

"Obsolete, old iron so far as the Channel is concerned.  If I have
enough airships, I won’t bother about George’s Dreadnoughts at all, for
my nine army corps can be shipped from Calais in half an hour’s time.

"As you know, my latest Zep. carries a hundred persons, and I have been
talking it over with your Board and the Count: there are no technical
obstacles against the construction of airships four times the size;
airships can expand even more readily than howitzers.

"And the dream of my little girl need not be abandoned, either," added
the War Lord in softer tones, "for the telegram to King George will
further stipulate that the Dundonald secret must be turned over to me,
and that I will have a hundred hostages to guarantee my absolute
monopoly of this war machine—all the living war ministers and the heads
of the families of the war ministers for the last hundred years, with a
sprinkling of dukes, princes, high statesmen and low politicians to
boot.  Lady Warwick has sometimes wondered what the English nobility is
good for—I’ll show her.

"The Dundonald secret in my exclusive keeping," concluded Wilhelm, "you
can devote the Krupp plant in all future to the ideals of the pacifists;
for the world, awed into submission and silence lest I make a vast
Pompeii out of a rebel country—the world will be mine!"

With the War Lady’s astonished eyes following him as he strode the
length and breadth of the room, the War Lord chuckled to himself.  "Lord
Dundonald’s crude notes, found by my agents, have put me on the track of
the secret; anyhow, we are now experimenting in Charlottenburg.  My
experts call it a liquid perambulant fire, a hundred per cent. more
efficacious than my asphyxiating gas for clearing a road through a human
wall, as each cylinder is guaranteed to lay low man, beast and technical
obstacle for a space of a hundred and more square feet.  What do you say
to that, Bertha?"

"You are wonderful, Uncle Majesty," said Bertha.

"Invincible, arm in arm with the War Lady," declaimed Wilhelm.




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