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 disarm 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——”
“Disunion,” 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.”