“Well,” Mrs. Florestan observed, “I will do as I think best about delivering the message. What about payment?”
“A very short time ago,” he acknowledged, “I might have been murmuring the word ‘deferred.’ The situation, however, is changed. I am waiting for a cable before I can continue my work. As a preliminary I can offer you dinner, a little early, I’m afraid, and the other half of two stalls for Tristan und Isolde at Covent Garden.”
“Quite a good start,” she agreed, a joyous gleam lighting up her eyes. “Norvena as Isolde and Tauber as Tristan—it will be wonderful! I do not fancy him very much, but how he will sing the part!”
He was almost startled by her enthusiasm.
“You are fond of the Opera?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You perhaps sing yourself?”
“I have sung in Grand Opera,” she told him simply. “I have sung at Milan, Berlin and Vienna.”
He did not doubt her word for a moment. As a matter of fact it explained her to him. There were so many times when she had seemed unreal. She possessed, he realised now, the theatrical sense in its most flamboyant development. All the same, she might well have been an artist.
“What made you leave the stage?”
“My husband insisted. He has always led a curiously secretive life and he would never have allowed me to become a prominent person. Whether he is a millionaire or a pauper I do not know. We have lived at different times as though he might have been either.”
“Is he really English?”
She hesitated.
“Again, I do not know,” she replied, and he fancied that she was telling the truth. “He speaks English, French, German and Italian faultlessly. He stands when they sing the National Anthem here, his hand is as high as anyone’s in Germany and I know that he has been received by and is on friendly terms with the greatest man in Italy, but if you ask me which is the country of his birth I cannot tell you.”
“And you yourself?”
She finished the contents of her glass and set it down.
“My mother was a Dutch actress, a very well-known one,” she confided. “Her husband, my father, was an Italian officer. I was married in Vienna and I have lived nearly all the time since either in Paris or London. It has not been altogether a pleasant life,” she went on, “but it certainly will not last much longer if my husband knows that I have visited your rooms here and sat by your side at the Opera.”
“He is jealous?”
“Not of you. He is suspicious that I may know more than he believes I know and that I may have taken you into my confidence.”
“Well, you are going to, aren’t you?”
She loosened her furs and he saw that she was wearing a gown which left her neck bare.
“Why should I?”
“You know best.”
“You play a great deal with words,” she said. “You are very clever at that. It seems to me that you are a little slow, even for an Englishman, in other ways.”
“Because I do not make love to you?”
“It may be that.”
“It seems to me,” he meditated, “that my few opportunities in that direction have been subject to interruptions.”
“Is that the reason?”
“I suppose so,” he assented. “I am only an ordinary man, Deborah, and you are an extremely attractive woman when you want to be.”
Again he was held for a moment by the flame in those strange eyes.
“Will you invite me to supper to-night?” she asked. “And afterwards shall I sing to you the song that Isolde sang to Tristan when she had drunk the potion?”
He smiled at her from the depths of his chair.
“With a stretch of the fancy,” he observed, “I could just imagine you and me as Isolde and Tristan, but your husband would make a strange King Mark. Can you see him descending upon us as he did the other night, waving his famous sword instead of that revolver with the poisoned bullets?”
The corners of her mouth twitched. Cheshire felt that a dreadful moment had been postponed.
“Nor can I fancy Horace Florestan looking in the least like King Mark descending the outside fire escape at the Milan. It is an absurdity, perhaps, to try and draw even the threads of romance into the life we are living … Tell me, are you in love with either of these Pelucchi women?”
“I have been all my life,” he confessed. “Both of them. The elder was a debutante in Washington when I was Naval attaché there. I was certainly one of the crowd who worshipped her. The younger one—”
“It is the younger one whom I should fear if I were a jealous woman,” she interrupted.
Greyes had entered the room, as always with that quiet air of apology. There was a letter on the salver he carried.
“A Foreign Office messenger has just brought this, sir,” he announced. “It would appear to be of extreme importance.”
Cheshire glanced at the superscription upon the envelope and with a word of excuse to his visitor tore it open.
“The man is waiting?” he asked.
Greyes shook his head.
“He had three more letters to deliver, sir,” he replied. “So long as they were placed in the hands of the persons to whom they were addressed there was to be no reply. He recognised me as your personal servant and I assured him that in your case it would be done.”
Cheshire waved him away. He held the letter clenched in his fingers. The woman was watching him anxiously.
“It is bad news?” she enquired.
“I am afraid there will be no Tristan und Isolde for us to-night,” he answered. “I am summoned to Downing Street at nine o’clock.”
“What do you mean by ‘Downing Street’?”
“The residence of the Prime Minister,” he told her. “There is an urgent meeting of the War Council.”
“Are you a member of it?”
“Yes.”
“There is to be war?”
“There are certain indications of it.”
She was silent for a few moments.
“I seem to be the most unfortunate woman,” she sighed. “Show me the letter.”
“It is in cipher,” he explained, holding it out to her, “a very simple cipher but we use it for messages even amongst ourselves. If you doubt that I am telling you the truth, though, take my stalls and search the house to-night. Four members of the War Council have boxes. They will be empty.”
Her eyes were dry but there was a sort of dumb pain in them which touched him. He was almost ashamed of his fencing with her.
“Deborah,” he said kindly, “you see that I am quite powerless. There is no room for any discussion. I am afraid that what we have been fighting against is going to happen after all.”
He opened a drawer and drew out an envelope.
“Here are the tickets,” he said. “You may find that before the last curtain they will be playing ‘God Save the King.’”
“What will that mean?” she asked.
“That we are at war.”
She took the tickets, tore them in two and flung the pieces upon the table. Then she rose to her feet.
“If I may not hear that music with you to-night,” she cried, “no one else shall hear it from those places. Forgive me—I shall make apologies when I am sane again.”
She swept from the room and he saw that her whole body was shaking with suppressed sobs. He had no time to reach the door, he could think of no words save dangerous ones. He did what was perhaps the wisest thing—he remained silent.
CHAPTER XXV
Table of Contents
The Premier made his confidential announcement that evening very briefly. He spoke to a representative gathering of the three Services—the Air, the Army and the Navy—six statesmen and Lord Fakenham.
“You have all been kept closely in touch,” he said from his chair at the head of the long table, “with the progress or rather the lack of progress which has been made by Orson-Meade and Dunkerley, our plenipoten
tiaries on the Continent. We have had a telephone message from the latter this evening to the effect that he had an appointment with the Minister for Foreign Affairs and the Chief of the State fixed for five o’clock this afternoon. He presented himself at the rendezvous and was informed by a private secretary that the appointment was cancelled, that a note of apology had been sent to the Embassy explaining that neither the Chief nor the Foreign Secretary was able to keep the appointment. He found a curt note to that effect upon his return. We have also heard from Orson-Meade that notwithstanding two efforts, he was unable to obtain the promised audience for this afternoon and he was seriously contemplating, with the approval of our Ambassador, leaving the city. That is the position, gentlemen.”
One of the statesmen, a Cabinet Minister and a world-renowned pacifist, rose to his feet.
“May I point out, Mr. Prime Minister,” he begged, “that the breaking off of negotiations in this matter with a plenipotentiary is not equivalent to refusing to receive our Ambassador. We are entitled to an explanation, of course, but I do earnestly suggest that both our Ambassadors be instructed to ask for that explanation with the utmost courtesy, and that the fullest consideration be given to the replies from the two governments.”
The Premier nodded thoughtfully.
“I have had in mind the point raised by our friend,” he acknowledged. “I suggested to Dunkerley on the telephone that he request Pontifex not to interfere for the moment, as anything he said would, of course, be official. I begged him to remonstrate in as moderate terms as were possible, preserving, of course, his dignity, but to see that from the Embassy itself no formal protest was made. I have addressed the same request to Orson-Meade.”
There was a little murmur of approval. The Premier remained upon his feet.
“Such an ominous, I may say such a sinister, action on the part of these two countries,” he said quietly, “can, I fear, bear but one interpretation. It is, at any rate, our duty to consider it from that point of view. I was obliged to summon everyone on the Council so that they should understand the position. I suggest that we now dismiss this meeting and go into Committee. The representatives of our Forces are all present, I am glad to see, and also Admiral Cheshire, who represents the link between the Navy and the Intelligence Department, and General Mallinson, who occupies the same position with regard to the Army. I only regret that I have to part with you at such an anxious moment. I suggest that we hold another meeting at midnight. If further news has arrived it shall be laid before you. One word with you, Fakenham, and you, Cheshire.”
The members of the Council left the room almost in silence.
“You realise, sir,” Fakenham said, as soon as the three men were alone together, “that there are twenty or thirty newspaper correspondents in both capitals sending messages every half-hour. This breaking off of negotiations cannot possibly be censored out of the Press altogether.”
“Negotiations are not broken off,” the Premier said firmly. “We take the attitude that they are only suspended. This is why I wanted just a word with you, Fakenham, about your morning articles. You control two important morning newspapers and another one with a wide circulation which appears at midday. I do not ask you who writes your leaders, but I believe you sometimes do so yourself. The tone of them is almost universally correct but to-night, when these are written, I beg of you to exercise the utmost discretion. Don’t say a word of a provocative nature. Keep a calm note. Remember this—if war were to come in four months, in three months, even in two, we could be ready for it. If it comes to-morrow we are not quite in the same position. You know that as well as we do, so, unfortunately, do they. One begins to think that these offers of pourparlers through a plenipotentiary were somewhat of a bluff, but do not, of course, suggest that.”
“You shall have a copy of our two principal leaders by midnight,” Fakenham promised. “Harrison will write the one and I myself shall do the other. Copies of both shall be sent round to you as soon as they are ready for press. We shall be at the end of the line all night if you have anything to say.”
“We can ask no more than that,” the Premier declared.
Fakenham took his leave. The Prime Minister ushered Cheshire back into his small private study across the hall. Silently they each stood before the sideboard. Cheshire, who had neither eaten nor drunk since his apéritif in his rooms at the Milan several hours before, helped himself sparingly to the whisky and soda. The Premier was served with Ovaltine from a patent heater but he followed Cheshire’s example in lighting his pipe afterwards.
“We are up against it, my friend,” the former observed. “You are in a worse plight than I am, though. If things go well, not a living soul will ever know the reason. If they go badly, the energies of XYZ will form the subject of discussions in the House, violent diatribes in the Press and abuse from every writer of memoirs of the day throughout the future of history.”
Cheshire smiled confidently.
“I am not afraid, sir,” he declared. “We are simply doing what one other nation at least has done in years gone by. We have carried this war of espionage into the enemy’s country. We have double-crossed him. I am proud of my work, although I say it to you now for the first time. I have only one regret. A single week, sir, a single week and our big card would have been played without risk and we could have sat back and laughed while their thunders faded away. Four days, even, would give us a chance. Our big effort will still be made, but forty-eight hours is running it a little close.”
“That sounds good,” the Premier acknowledged. “I shall be very much surprised if we cannot manage as much as that. The enemy diplomacy is of the bullying type but after all there are neutral journalists and neutral countries in the world to be considered and neither of these bellicose nations will want to go down into history as having been absolutely crude in the finishing touches. Both Dunkerley and Orson-Meade have had it from my own lips. All that we want is a brief delay. I quoted you—the maximum one week’s delay, if possible, the minimum forty-eight hours. Remember that unless our enemies are guilty of a diplomatic faux pas, Dunkerley and Orson-Meade have to make their report not to our Ambassadors in foreign capitals, but to me here. To do that they will have to come back to London. I can see an extraordinarily good chance of a trifle more than forty-eight hours, Cheshire.”
“A week,” Cheshire assured him, “would see a more or less dignified withdrawal on the part of both countries or the German Fleet all in the scrap basket and the Mediterranean in our hands. London might be in a pitiful state and there would be horrible shows all over Great Britain, but on the other hand, no army can ever be landed in this country from even ten thousand aeroplanes. Fight for that week, sir, however much our amour-propre may have to suffer.”
“We have been quite as near war before,” the Premier reflected. “On that occasion, also, it was the enemy who climbed down. I think I can promise you the next four days, Cheshire. I believe, honestly, that you will have the week.”
Cheshire drained the last drop of his whisky and soda and set down the glass empty.
“You will find, sir,” he declared confidently, “that I shall be as good as my word. If I may say so,” he added, “it is an inspiration to find that you, who have the greatest responsibility of all, can maintain all the time so steadfast an attitude.”
The Premier smiled.
“The greatest crime of which a statesman can be guilty, Cheshire,” he said firmly, “is over-optimism, yet as we two are here alone at a critical moment I will tell you this. I do not think that these two nations who are being so troublesome were ever made to be allies. I don’t think that they would ever be able to fight a winning war against the Empire. The people who as a nation are giving us the greatest trouble are disposed to follow the man they worship like a crazed mob, but then, after all, he has only led them to easy victories and all the time he dopes their vanity with fantastic and bombastic addresses. I don’t even believe that the Italian people themselves want another
war. The Germans do, of course, and they will probably get it in time. You know I am a man of peace, Cheshire, but if these two troublesome countries really carry out what seems to me their present intention, I think it will be, in the end, a great blessing for us all. Mind you, I do not want them to embark upon this diabolical enterprise, because of the wave of misery throughout the world which war must bring, but if they are insane enough to do so, they cannot win. If Germany were to wait another ten years, I don’t know that we could ever compete. She would have to regain her colonies then, or some of them. If she starts this trouble now—well, in the long run I should say that her present ruler is making as wicked a mistake as the Kaiser did in ’14.”
“It is an inspiration to hear you talk like that, sir,” Cheshire declared.
“Now, we have done enough talking for the moment,” the Premier observed, finishing his Ovaltine. “Are you going back to the Admiralty?”
“I shall be working all night, sir,” was the prompt reply. “In forty-eight hours, if all goes well, the plans I am engaged on will be in the hands of our prospective enemies. If they once get there we are saved.”
“A trifle confident, aren’t you?”
“I am confident because I know,” the other insisted. “It is a ghastly thing to have to talk about one’s own work like this but there is something that seems, even to me, almost like a thread of genius the whole of the way through these plans. Admiral Maddox, who is the only person who has seen them, agrees with me.”
The Premier walked arm in arm with his departing visitor to the hall door.
“Well, we know where to find you for the next twenty-four hours, Cheshire,” he said. “You’ve a big job to tackle working all alone, but I suppose you know the limits of your own strength. As soon as you have passed on the dope let me know. We will keep in touch all round.”
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