The Second Seal

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Armand! Armand! There is something that I have not yet told you.”

  He made a half-hearted attempt to free his arm. “No, please,” he begged. “For pity’s sake! Let me go now, and don’t prolong this agony.”

  But she ignored his plea and her words came pouring out in a breathless spate:

  “Oh, Armand, I have deceived you too. I have done worse! I may have harmed you. But I love you so much that I could not find the strength to give you up. I’ve never loved anyone before. I was never even kissed until you kissed me. Since that night at Königstein I’ve only lived from hour to hour on the thought that you would soon hold me in your arms again. I’ve been incredibly wicked. God will punish me for it, I know. But I don’t mind that. I don’t mind anything if only you’ll stay until we know that war with England is certain. I’ll be content with very little. Just to be with you whenever we can manage it. Just to hold your hand, to see you and hear your voice. Please, please forgive me and grant me that much.”

  As she paused for breath, he asked in amazement, “But what is there for me to forgive, my sweet? In what way have you deceived me?”

  Her lovely face was a picture of grief and contrition as she sobbed: “I lied to you the other day. And worse—much worse—I should never have let you kiss me. I didn’t see Dr. Bruckner on Friday. It wasn’t necessary. I have known for months that my lungs are affected. I am suffering from consumption.”

  Chapter XX

  The Road to the Abyss

  De Richleau raised his slender hands and took Ilona’s lovely, tear-stained face between them. Before she could pull back her head, he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. Then he said:

  “My poor Princess. I feared this all the time. In fact, I felt almost certain of it.”

  “You knew! And yet you went on kissing me.” There was adoration in her eyes, but she added unhappily, “I ought never to have let you. There is a risk that you might contract my disease—may have done so already.”

  He smiled. “I don’t think you need worry about that. Anyway, I love you far too much to refrain from making love to you whenever we are together; and now you’ve told me the truth our future kisses are entirely my responsibility.”

  “Oh darling! You mean you’ll stay? You’re not going to leave me after all?”

  “I ought to; but now I know what I feared to be certain, I haven’t the heart. This serious illness on top of the prospect of being forced into a marriage against your wish breaks down my resolution. God knows I had no desire to go, and now it would be callous of me to add to your distress by leaving before I positively must.”

  “My marriage,” she sighed; then gave a cynical laugh. “At least I derive a little consolation for my illness when I think of that. I am counting on it to protect me from Prince Boris’s attentions.”

  “Could you not use it then as an excuse to get the marriage called off?”

  She shook her head. “When royal unions are in question, no consideration is ever given to either party’s health. Princesses have often had to marry men who had the most loathsome diseases; and Princes been given wives with the taint of insanity.”

  “Yes; that is terrible, but true. And many people with your complaint have married and lived for years without passing it on to their marriage partner. Besides, if only you will be careful and have proper treatment, there is every hope that you may be cured.”

  “Short of my going to a sanatorium, all that can be done is being done already,” she assured him. “It was kept a close secret, but Franz Ferdinand was afflicted with tuberculosis when he was my age, and it was feared that he would die: but he got quite well again. And I’m better—ever so much better than I was a month ago.”

  “My sweet, I am tremendously relieved to hear it. But all the same, you ought to go into a sanatorium and be properly cured.”

  “No. That I refuse to do. My doctors tell me that, although it may take a little longer, I can be cured without doing that. I should feel so depressed in such surroundings that they would do me more harm than good. I’m certain of it. I’ll get well much more quickly in a happy atmosphere.”

  They had been alone together for over half an hour, and felt that the time had come when they must rejoin the others. So, after a last kiss, they returned to the garden. As a small acknowledgment of de Lazalo’s tactful complaisance, Ilona asked him to tea at the palace on Sunday. She asked de Richleau too; but they were to see one another before that, as another sitting had been arranged for Saturday. Ten minutes later they had separated, and the Duke was left with his thoughts a chaotic whirl of Ilona—the ultimatum—espionage—mobilisation and tuberculosis.

  The following morning the papers carried the full text of the ultimatum. It charged Serbia with culpable tolerance of propaganda directed against the Dual Monarchy and accused Serbian officers of planning the Sarajevo murders. There followed demands for the dissolution of all nationalist societies; the arrest and trial of all officers and officials that Austria-Hungary should name; that Austro-Hungarian delegates should take part in an inquiry into the anti-Austrian movement and that Serbia should accept the collaboration of Austro-Hungarian officials in its suppression.

  The terms were even harsher than de Richleau had expected. They meant that any Serbian, against whom the Austrians had a grudge, would have to stand his trial before a court including a quota of Austrian judges, and that the Austrian police must be given a free hand to carry out any investigations they chose in Serbia. In short, the acceptance of the demands would put an end to Serbian independence.

  Vienna went wild with joy. At last this insolent, upstart regime in Belgrade was to be humbled and its ignorant, brutish, murdering officers made to grovel in the dust. And if Serbia dared to refuse the terms, then a million soldiers of the Empire would cram them down her throat and teach her a still more bitter lesson. Later, special editions published an earnest request from the Czar’s government that the time limit of forty-eight hours given to Serbia should be extended to permit of calm discussion, and a manifesto announcing that Russia could not remain indifferent to the fate of Serbia. But the Austrian government refused the request and the crowds proved blind to the warning note of the manifesto. All day, and far into the night, bands of students and others roamed the streets of the city, singing patriotic songs and clamouring for war.

  On Saturday there were perceptibly more uniforms to be seen about in the cafés and gardens. Overnight, hundreds of thousands of reservists all over the country had laid aside their civilian clothes and got out tunics, breeches and shakos that had been packed away with moth balls in tin boxes. The Duke had no doubt at all that ever since July 7th, the day on which von Hötzendorf had first demanded mobilisation, every military establishment in the Empire had been making frantic secret preparations. This influx into the streets of men in creased and often shabby uniforms was the beginning of the final phase. Austria-Hungary still refrained from openly mobilising the whole of her Army, so as not to provoke Russia deliberately; but she had mobilised eight Army corps and was now ready to set about the chastisement of her small neighbour.

  That afternoon de Lazalo was allowed nearly an hour to make a real start on his portrait of Ilona. Before leaving, she complimented him on his masterful brush work, but warned him with a smile that she did not want him to finish it too quickly; then reminded him that she expected him to tea next day.

  Being summer-time, she was occupying her apartments in the Schönbrunn Palace and, as on this occasion de Richleau was waiting on her officially, he again donned his sky-blue Hussars uniform to go there. In Ilona’s drawing-room he found a dozen people, the Aulendorfs and Adam Grünne among them. Sárolta was not present, but Ilona introduced him to a Fraulein Nopsca who, she said with a twinkle in her eye, had consented to take Paula von Wolkenstein’s place for a while, as the ‘poor’ Baroness had asked for leave to take the waters at Homburg on account of her health. The new lady-in-waiting was a tall, fair-haired young woman with serious exp
ression and a Roman nose too large for her face. But on talking to her de Richleau found her intelligent and pleasant.

  Everyone there was discussing the Serbian reply to the ultimatum. In spite of the brutal challenge to Serbian independence that it answered, it had been completed within the stipulated forty-eight hours and handed to Baron Giesel, the Austrian Minister in Belgrade, at six o’clock the previous evening. For any Cabinet to have agreed a reply in so short a time, when on it hung the fate of their nation, was remarkable; but more remarkable still was the pacific tone of the answer. The Serbs accepted all the demands made upon them, except one which would infringe their constitution; and even that they were willing to submit for arbitration to the Hague Tribunal.

  The Aulendorfs and another elderly couple were of the opinion that once the measures stipulated had been carried out, there would be no more to fear from Serbia, and the Dual Monarchy should rest content with having won a fine bloodless victory; but the younger people were greatly disappointed at their enemy bowing the neck so humbly, and hoped that some excuse might yet be found to launch a war. De Richleau was amazed that the Serbs had turned the other cheek. He could account for it only on the theory that the Serbian Government had, although unwillingly, been to some extent privy to the murders and, having been freed from Dimitriyevitch’s strangle-hold upon it, was now both able and willing to do its utmost to make amends. If he was right in his belief, since it was he who had removed that strangle-hold, his mission had, after all, paid an incalculably high dividend; but he knew only too well that its final value still hung in the balance, and that if von Hötzendorf had his way it would prove worth nothing.

  By mid-day on Monday the Austro-Hungarian Government had not expressed its satisfaction at the Serbian reply, and a spate of special editions informed the waiting crowds that excitement was intense in every capital in Europe. The foreign papers, which were still flowing freely into Vienna, showed from their Sunday editions that the great bulk of opinion outside the Dual Monarchy was that she now had no cause whatever to complain further; and that Serbia was considered to have made great sacrifices in a most laudable effort to keep the peace.

  That afternoon de Richleau and Ilona met again in de Lazalo’s studio; but she could tell him nothing of her Government’s intentions. Since moving back to Sacher’s he had resumed his old round of entertaining and being entertained by his many Austrian friends. On that evening he dined with the Liechtensteins. After dinner another special edition was brought in and handed round. It stated that the Kaiser had returned from his Norwegian cruise the previous night, but otherwise appeared to contain nothing fresh. However, a heading to one of the smaller paragraphs caught the Duke’s eye. It read:

  “British Naval Measures. No Manœuvre Leave.” There followed an official Admiralty statement to the effect that the First Fleet would remain concentrated at Portland and that the vessels of the Second Fleet would remain at their home ports in close proximity to their balance crews.

  Again, it was a measure which could give offence to nobody; but once more that vigilant guardian of Britain’s shores, Mr. Churchill, was making it plain for all who had eyes to see that no German Fleet could hope to attack the French Channel ports without encountering overwhelming opposition.

  Tuesday, the 28th, proved to be the fatal day. At eleven o’clock that morning Count Berchtold telegraphed to Belgrade that, “The Royal Serbian Government not having answered in a satisfactory manner the note of July 23rd, Austria-Hungary consequently considered herself in a state of war with Serbia”.

  The news was all over Vienna by mid-day. There was a rumour that Serbian troops had already fired upon an Austrian detachment the previous afternoon. Indignation at this unprovoked attack, coupled with relief that they were not to be robbed by unwelcome mediation of their longed-for revenge, drove the people of Vienna into a frenzy of excitement. Military bands paraded the streets, blaring forth martial music. The crowds waved flags and wore paper hats, as though at a carnival. Shop-girls, laundry-hands and seamstresses left their work to dance in the squares and fling their arms round any soldier they could see. Flowers rained upon every detachment of troops that marched through the streets, and smart young officers strutted about with garlands round their necks. Night came down upon a saturnalia, excusable as a demonstration of relief after a great national deliverance; but made possible now only through an utter lack of understanding of what war meant, and of the endless distress, anxiety and tragedy which must follow in its train.

  On Wednesday morning the streets were as crowded as on the previous day. Business had come to a standstill and hordes of people besieged the newspaper offices for tidings of the first clash of the armies. The great Austrian siege guns firing a 19 centimetre shell, which were made at the famous Skoda works in Bohemia, were believed to be the most powerful land guns in the world and superior in performance to anything that even Krupps could produce. It was said that these monster cannon were already in operation and bombarding Belgrade across the Danube. Thoughtless of death and havoc, people who a month before had lived only to hear the new rendering of a classical sonata, howled with delight.

  Meanwhile, bodies of smiling troops swung through the streets, lustily singing marching songs. The great majority of them were reservists, or young conscripts, on their way to training camps, where they would spend several weeks, if not months, being knocked into shape before they were called on to face an enemy. But the crowds gave them an ovation the equal of any triumph granted by a Roman Senate to a Caesar, after long years of desperate and successful struggle to keep barbarian hordes beyond the boundaries of the Empire.

  De Richleau watched it all with unsmiling eyes. He was no pessimist by nature, but ever since he had reached manhood war had been his game. He had seen too many youngsters, grinning, vigorous, determined at one moment, and screaming like maniacs from shell-rent flesh or smashed bone the next; too many still, twisted corpses and pulped, messy heads. But his own effort to prevent the colossal madness had failed, and there was nothing more that he could do.

  In the afternoon he went to de Lazalo’s, and after Ilona’s sitting had twenty minutes alone with her. So far none of the other nations had made any move to intervene in the Austro-Serbian conflict, and this made Ilona optimistic that they would continue to refrain from doing so. Eagerly, she pointed out a passage in a paper she had brought with her. It stated that the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, had not given up hope of inducing the two warring countries to cease hostilities and submit their differences to a conference of the Powers; and he was said to be doing his utmost to persuade Germany to agree to support this proposal. Ilona took the statement as an indication of Britain being so anxious to maintain the peace that, whatever happened, she would not allow herself to be drawn in.

  Out of love for his Princess, de Richleau did not contest her arguments, but secretly he did not agree with them. He was still convinced that, reluctant as Britain might be to go to war, if France were attacked, she would fight. He realised too, better than most people, the terrible hidden forces that seethed and bubbled beneath the thin, fair crust of apparent good will. However confident any of the great nations might be in its power to achieve victory in the end, all were terrified that an enemy might move a jump ahead of them and deliver the first stunning blow. To guard against that, every Chief of Staff must now be imploring his Government to authorise him to mobilise; and, like a chain of fireworks, once one nation mobilised, the others would follow suit within a matter of hours. Then, kings and ministers might still strive to maintain the peace, but it would need only a few shots between frontier patrols for the peace-time masters to be thrust aside, like puppets who had outworn their use. Automatically, the Generals would take charge and throw their mighty machines into gear. Almost before the shots on the frontier had ceased to echo, the cannon would thunder and the nations be at death grips, which could be severed only after one or other side had become too weakened by loss of blood to continue the str
uggle.

  So strongly did this foreboding weigh on the Duke’s mind that, although he told Ilona nothing of his intention, he decided to begin that evening saying good-bye to his friends. Since leaving the nursing home he had purposely refrained from calling on Count Tisza, as he was most averse to being made the recipient of further confidences by that statesman. But, as a man, he liked him better than anyone he had met for a very long time, and he was loath to leave without expressing the hope that they would meet again in happier circumstances. So, at about half past ten, after he had seen off two couples who had dined with him at Sacher’s, he ordered a cab, had himself driven round to the Minister-President’s little palace, and sent up his card.

  Count Tisza had been entertaining half a dozen Hungarian Deputies to dinner, but two of them left as the Duke entered the hall, and the others were just about to do so. When they had gone, the Count took his visitor up to the library and reproached him in a friendly way for not having been to see him before. The Duke excused himself on the plea that he had not liked to intrude during a time of such acute anxiety, and added that he did so now only to make his farewells.

  Having poured him a glass of wine, the Count nodded sadly. “Yes, it is tragic beyond words that it should have come to this, but I fear there is still worse to come; so I think you wise to return to France.”

  “I am going to England,” replied the Duke. “Most of my friends here are aware that I was expelled from France for participation in a political conspiracy when quite a young man. I thought you would have heard that much of my history. It was one of the main reasons for my becoming a rolling stone and a soldier of fortune; but I took British nationality.”

  “No, I had not heard that. When poor Sophie von Hohenberg introduced us, I assumed that you were a Frenchman. But it makes little difference. If Russia, Germany and France are drawn in, as I fear they will be, I consider it as good as certain that Britain will come in too.”