“The fat man—Adolf Krust—he has been here this afternoon?”
Fawley nodded.
“Yes, he has been here. He was in Monte Carlo when I was there. He went on to see Berati. It is scarcely my business to tell you so,” Fawley observed, “still I see no reason why I should keep another man’s secret. He only got as far as San Remo. Berati refused to see him.”
“When do you return to Rome?”
“In ten days.”
“The world itself may be changed in that time,” Behrling declared impatiently. “If you were to study the welfare of your adopted country, I tell you this—you would return to Rome to-morrow. You would use every argument to convince Berati that Italy stands upon the threshold of a colossal mistake.”
“Mistake?” Fawley repeated.
“Give me a few hours of your time,” Behrling demanded, with flashing eyes, “and I will show you how great a mistake. If ever a thing was dead at heart, snapped at the roots, it is the monarchical spirit of Germany. Youth alone can rebuild and inspire Germany. These men who do the goose step through the streets of Berlin, who have adopted the mouldy, ignoble relic of the most self-intoxicated monarchical régime which ever plunged its country into ruin, they lack everything. They lack inspiration, they lack courage; more than anything they lack youth. You have seen my men march, Major Fawley. You know that their average age is under twenty-four. There is the youth and fire of the country. There is the living force. They have no soul fatigue.”
“There are rumours,” Fawley ventured to remind him, “of negotiations between the monarchists and your young men. I have heard it said that if this great cataclysm should take place, there would be a coming together of every military party in Germany.”
“You may have heard this,” Behrling admitted, with a queer smile, “but you would not be sitting where you are now if you had not the wit to know that it is a falsehood. My men will fight for their country and their principals and me, but not a shot would they fire to drag back from happy obscurity one half an hour of the accursed Hohenzollern rule.”
“Then what do you predict will be the government in this country?” Fawley asked.
“No sane man doubts that,” Behrling answered. “The people have spoken. I am on my way there already. I shall be dictator within two months. In twelve months, Germany will be once more a great power, the greatest power amongst the European nations.”
Fawley lit another cigarette and pushed the box towards his visitor who, however, shook his head.
“In these days,” the latter confided, “I may not smoke and I may not drink. It is the Lenten fast of my life. Every nerve of my body is strained. The time for relaxation will come afterwards. Major Fawley, I invite you to attend a meeting of my council to-night.”
Fawley declined respectfully.
“If I accepted your offer,” he acknowledged, “I should be doing so under false pretences. I was fortunate enough to intercept a private despatch addressed to Berati’s chief, the last time I was in Rome. From it I am convinced that however long she may hesitate, Italy has made up her mind to support the Monarchist Party. The treaty is already drawn up.”
Behrling’s arms went out with a gesture towards the sky. One forgot the banality of the gilt-and-white ceiling above his head.
“What are treaties,” he cried, “when the stars are falling and new worlds are being born? I take my risk of all. You and I both know why Berati’s master leans towards the monarchical party. It is because he has sworn that there shall be only one dictator in Europe. That is sheer vanity. In time, his patriotism will conquer and he will see the truth…I meet you at midnight at an address which will be given you this afternoon with no explanation. You will be there?”
“If you invite me with the full knowledge of the situation,” Fawley replied.
“That is understood.”
CHAPTER XV
The maître d’hôtel at the newest Berlin restaurant, which had the reputation of almost fantastic exclusiveness, was typically Teutonic. His fair hair had been shaved close to his skull, his fierce little yellow moustache was upturned in military fashion, his protuberant stomach interfered in no manner with his consequential, almost dignified, bearing. He scarcely troubled to reply to Fawley’s enquiry for a table.
“Every table is taken,” he announced, “for to-night and every night this week.”
“For the other evenings during the week,” Fawley replied, “I have no interest. Please to give the matter your attention. You had better glance at this card.”
The maître d’hôtel turned ponderously around. Fawley’s rather lazy voice, easily recognisable as American, notwithstanding his excellent accent, was in a way impressive. A great deal more so, however, was the card which he had presented. The man’s manner underwent a complete change. He indulged in a swift ceremonious bow.
“Your table is reserved, Herr Oberst,” he said. “Please to follow me.”
He led the way into a small but evidently very high-class restaurant. The walls were panelled in black oak which, so far from giving the place a sombre appearance, increased the brilliancy of the effect produced by the masses of scarlet flowers with which every table was decorated, the spotless linen, the profusion of gleaming glass and silver. He led the way to a small table in a recess—a table laid for three, one place of which was already occupied. Fawley stopped short. Elida was seated there—looking like a Greuze picture in her filmy veil and white satin gown, with her chestnut-brown hair and soft hazel eyes. She was obviously very nervous.
“I am afraid that there must be some mistake,” Fawley said to the maître d’hôtel. “It is a man whom I am expecting to meet.”
The maître d’hôtel had resumed his consequential air.
“I do not make mistakes, Herr Oberst,” he declared. “This is the table commanded by my most honoured patron to be reserved for Herr Oberst Fawley and the Prinzessin Elida di Rezco di Vasena. His Excellency will join you later.”
Elida smiled appealingly up at Fawley.
“You will support my presence for a short time until your host arrives?” she begged. “He is, as you know, a very busy man. He thought that we might converse for a while until he comes.”
“But what do you know about him?” Fawley asked wonderingly. “Surely this is not your galère?”
“I will explain,” she promised. “You are angry with me but indeed nothing that happened was my fault. Please sit down.”
She laid her hand upon his wrist and drew him gently towards the table. Fawley steeled himself, as well as he might, against the lure of her beseeching eyes, but took the place by her side.
“Forgive me if I seemed ungracious,” he murmured. “I never dreamed of seeing you here.”
She drew a sigh of relief and approved his idea of a cocktail. The pedagogue of the place strutted away. They were alone.
“Dear friend,” she said, and for a person who had seemed to him, at most times, so indifferent, her voice trembled with emotion. “Indeed I was not to blame. No idea of my mad cousin’s scheme had ever entered my head. One result of it you see in my presence here.”
“I am glad to believe it,” he answered. “Do you mean then that your sympathies are changed?”