‘No, François. You must forgive me. I enjoyed Cordoba and Seville, but for the present I could not face another church or picture gallery. I really think that we should return to Madrid and that I should take a definite decision on how to employ myself in the future.’
The younger man’s face fell, then after a moment he said, ‘All right; let’s cut out Cadiz and go straight down to Algeciras. We can bathe there and could hire a boat to do some sailing, if you like. That would make a change for you, and you could think out what you mean to do more pleasantly while lounging on a beach than in the stifling heat that by now must be making Madrid almost unbearable.’
It was a sensible suggestion, so de Quesnoy agreed. Next morning they drove southward, meeting again on the road many little groups consisting of heavily-laden donkeys and, joggling along on mules, bronze-faced men in flat-crowned hats and sloe-eyed women wearing colourful skirts and scarves typical of Andalusia.
At Algeciras they stayed at the Reina Cristina, which stands on high ground surrounded by a pleasant garden, and looks out across the blue bay to the Rock of Gibraltar. De Quesnoy had never cared much for sailing so they did not hire a boat, but each morning they took a picnic lunch and drove some five miles to a deserted bay where they spent most of the day, either in the water or baking themselves brown on the golden sands.
Nearly all the other guests at the hotel were English, and after dinner the string band played all the hits from the more recent Gaiety shows, but, after a few evenings of sitting in the Palm Court, de Quesnoy again dropped into long periods of moody silence. On their fourth night there, in a new effort to distract him from his thoughts, de Vendôme suggested a visit to the Casino, and they went out to have what they intended to be a mild gamble.
In de Quesnoy’s case it proved far from that. He was generous by nature and rich enough to lose a considerable sum without worry, but he was careful about money, so would not normally have risked more than about twenty pounds. But his mind was not on the game, so he made his bets with indifference and several times ‘Banco’d’ indiscrimately. To everyone’s surprise he won again and again, and after an hour’s play he suddenly realised that he had a pile of high denomination chips in front of him. Seeing that his luck was in he began to plunge, and his luck did not desert him. When they left at three o’clock in the morning he had won nearly seven hundred pounds.
Next morning when they met in their private sitting-room for breakfast de Vendôme congratulated him again on his big win. With a twisted smile he said:
‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love. I’d give every penny of it for one half-hour with Angela. But you and your uncle were right. I’ve got to forget her and make a new life for myself. I shall always remember your kindness to me, François, in taking me on this trip. It helped a lot, but more sight-seeing in Malaga, Granada and the other places won’t get me anywhere. From today I mean to put the past behind me and concentrate on re-making my career. If you have no objection we will pack this morning and start back for Madrid. Then, as soon as possible, I mean to sail for South America.’
The young Prince nodded. ‘I understand; just as you wish. You are right, of course, to take up soldiering again. It’s in your blood, and with the wars and revolutions that are always going on out there you will have no difficulty in obtaining a senior rank in the army of one of the Republics.’
But Fate had other plans for de Quesnoy. When the post arrived there was a letter for him from de Cordoba. A passage in it ran:
François wrote to me from Seville that although you were well, and as cheerful as could be expected in the circumstances, he felt sure that our plan to distract your mind by a tour of Southern Spain was doomed to failure, and that you would not fully recover until you had something definite to occupy it.
Yesterday I spoke of the matter to Don Alfonso. He is greatly concerned for you and he has in mind a mission which he believes may appeal to you. In consequence, S. M. el Rey has commanded me to request you to wait upon him with as little delay as possible at his Palace at Aranjuez, where he is now residing.
3
A dangerous mission
De Quesnoy had refused to interest himself in the oily mysteries of the Hispano Suiza’s engine, but had soon mastered the art of driving the machine. His long-acquired feel for the mouths of horses stood him in good stead when taking the wheel, and every day for the past three weeks he had spent an hour or more at it; so, now that he could take turns with de Vendôme in driving, they hoped to do the journey back to Aranjuez in four days.
In that, luck was against them. Between Linares and Valdepeñas they had their first breakdown. Fortunately it occured within a few miles of the latter place and they were able to hire a team of mules that towed the car into it in something under two hours. But as yet this old market town had no garage and it was only after a prolonged struggle with a telephone system still in its teething stage that the Prince succeeded in getting through to Madrid and arranging for a spare part to be sent off by passenger train that evening. In consequence it was not until July the 3rd that they arrived in Aranjuez.
For the best part of two hundred years the Spanish Royal Family had made a practice of spending some of the hottest months there instead of remaining to swelter in Madrid, and the Infanta Maria Alfonsine had been given a life tenancy of the villa in the Royal Domain, in which they had slept on their outward journey. She and her husband, the Conde Ruiz, were now installed there, and at this time of the year it was also home to de Vendôme; so they drove straight to it.
The villa was, in fact, a miniature palace, playing the rôle that Le Petit Trianon played to Versailles. In the past, Spanish Kings had often kept their mistresses there, but under the Regency of Queen Maria Cristina it had been given a new respectability. It faced on to a pretty little courtyard, was surrounded by woods and contained much beautiful furniture, including a remarkable collection of clocks.
Soon after their arrival a message was sent to the Palace asking when it would be convenient for de Quesnoy to wait upon the King. A reply in Don Alfonso’ own hand was delivered that evening. In it he said he thought it preferable that the Count should not come to the Palace; so he would ride over to the villa the following morning.
At eleven o’clock, a fine boyish figure unattended except for a groom, he clattered into the courtyard. Having kissed his aunt and given vigorous handshakes to Conde Ruiz, the Prince and the Count, who had assembled to receive him, with a light, quick step he led the way up to the drawing-room. Refreshments had been set out there and while they drank a glass of champagne he asked de Vendôme and de Quesnoy about their journey; then, after ten minutes, he said to the Infanta:
‘Aunt, I have a private matter to discuss with M. le Comte de Quesnoy. You will, I am sure, allow us to make use of your drawing-room.’
De Quesnoy had already met the King a score of times—in England with the Londonderrys and at Eaton Hall, where he had stayed as a guest of the Duke and Duchess of Westminster while courting Queen Ena; in Madrid, when installed as a Knight of the Golden Fleece, at numerous functions there and he had played polo with him—but when the King stood up to acknowledge his aunt’s curtsey, as the others smilingly withdrew, the Count could not help being again impressed that one so young should already have acquired such a regal presence.
He was only twenty and looked still younger, but he held himself splendidly upright and this, coupled with his very slender figure, made him appear taller than his medium height. His hair and eyes were dark, his thin face, still cleanshaven, was bronzed, his every movement had springiness and verve, and his mobile mouth broke into frequent smiles. He was wearing a white stock, a long waistcoat, a loose coat and beautifully-cut riding breeches, and his long legs were encased in top-boots polished to the brightness of a mirror.
With amusement and respect the Count recalled hearing about the shock he had given to his ministers when, at the age of sixteen, he had assumed power as a Sovereign. To the surprise and dismay of t
hose elderly gentlemen, after the long and tiring ceremony of taking the oath to observe the Constitution he had declared that he would immediately hold his first Cabinet meeting. At it he had vigorously opposed certain changes that it was planned to make in the army, then laid it down in no uncertain terms that now he was of age the Cabinet’s power to bestow rewards was revoked, and that henceforth he alone would decide who was to receive honours and decorations.
When the others had left the room he said at once to de Quesnoy, ‘Count, after the tragedy that occurred on the day of my wedding I wrote to you expressing my sympathy in your great loss. I wish to assure you now that my letter was no mere formal condolence. Both the Queen and I felt most deeply for you.’
‘Your Majesty is very gracious to concern yourself …’ murmured the Count.
‘But,’ the King brushed aside the acknowledgement and hurried on, ‘it would be another tragedy if a man of your abilities allowed his grief to turn him into a misanthrope; and that, I was distressed to learn from de Cordoba, there seems some danger of your doing.’
De Quesnoy nodded. ‘It is true, Sir. During the past five weeks I’ve been no fit companion for anyone. But when your summons reached me in Algeciras I had just decided to go to South America and take up soldiering again. A break with the past and new activities will, I hope, in time restore my zest for life.’
‘It would be some months at least before you could get there and take up responsibilities weighty enough to distract your mind, whereas I could offer you immediate employment; although I must add that it would be of a very unorthodox nature for a gentleman.’
‘Even so, I’d be interested to hear your idea, Sir.’
‘De Cordoba also told me that on several occasions you had lamented the fact that there was no way in which you could help to stamp out these accursed anarchists.’
‘Nothing, Sir, would give me greater satisfaction.’
‘Well, I can give you the chance. But it would entail your assuming a new identity and living for a while in considerable discomfort.’
‘From that, I assume your Majesty is suggesting that I should undertake to spy upon these people in collaboration with your police?’
‘Spy upon them, yes; but without official assistance of any kind—other than that which I can give you. The very essence of my proposal lies in your having no connection with the police.’
The Count raised his ‘devil’s eyebrows’. ‘I must confess, Sir, I fail to understand. I have no experience in such matters and …’
‘Oh yes you have. François told me how, after your secret return to Paris, you passed yourself off as a Russian revolutionary, ferreted out the secrets of the Masons, and provided the material that brought about the fall of the Government of that atheist Emile Combes.’
‘True;’ de Quesnoy gave a faint smile. ‘I meant only that I know nothing whatever about Spanish anarchists, and unless your secret police collaborate with me …’
‘Have I not made myself clear?’ the King cut in, a shade impatiently. ‘If you agree to undertake this venture I wish you to work entirely independently. I will, of course, furnish you with a certain amount of data with which to begin your investigation, but I intend that the police should be kept in ignorance of your activities.’
‘I accept what you say, Sir, but permit me to remark that I fail to see what you can possibly hope to gain by keeping me in a water-tight compartment. It stands to reason that my chances of success would be far greater if I were to have the help of the department of your police that specialises in following up the activities of anarchists.’
‘Ha!’ exclaimed the King. ‘That is just where you are wrong. But since you are a foreigner it is not surprising that you should be puzzled by my attitude. The great majority of my people would be, too, for very few of them have sufficient knowledge of what goes on behind the scenes to realises the difficulties of my situation.’
After a moment’s pause, he continued, ‘To accept this mission will be to court considerable danger, Count; so it is only right that I should disclose to you in confidence my reasons for distrusting my own police. That means going back a long way. I assume that, as an educated man, you know the main outlines of Spanish history; but even at the risk of boring you I must recall some of the events of the past in order to make clear to you the effect they have had on the present.’
Standing up, the King began to pace up and down while reeling off facts and dates that had been familiar to him from his earliest boyhood. ‘In the past hundred years the only period in which the Spanish people have enjoyed peace and contentment under a King was the ten years’ reign of my father, Don Alfonso XII of blessed memory. I said “under a King”, mark you; that is important.
‘Let us go back to the era of Napoleon. Charles IV was then King of Spain. He was a weak and foolish man. It is common knowledge that from the time of the French Revolution Queen Maria Louisa’s lover, the upstart Godoy, was the real ruler of the country. So weak was the King that his elder son, Ferdinand, conspired to force his abdication, and more or less succeeded. That was in 1808 and Napoleon took advantage of their quarrel to intervene. Like the wily blackguard he was, he pretended to give both his support, tricked them both into coming to France to confer with him, then compelled both to abdicate and put his brother, Joseph Bonaparte, on the throne.
‘Joseph proved a much better King than might have been expected. He did his best for the Spanish people and eventually quarrelled with his brother through placing their interests before those of France. But his reign was a terrible period for Spain, because the country became for years the battleground between the French and the Duke of Wellington aided by the Spanish patriots who had risen against their conquerors. You know the end. One after the other Napoleon’s Marshals were defeated and by 1814 the French had been driven from the country.
‘By then King Charles was dead; so it was Ferdinand who returned from exile to mount the throne. But meanwhile in 1812 the Cortes had met in Cadiz and given Spain a new Constitution. Abroad there seems to be a myth that Spanish sovereigns are absolute; but that is far from being the case. From mediaeval times there have always been Parliaments here that have to some extent restricted the powers of the monarchy. But the Constitution of 1812 went much further than any preceding one, because it was made by men who had been influenced by the democratic principles that emerged from the French Revolution. That Constitution, with only slight modifications, is still in force and binding upon Spanish sovereigns today. Under it no decree that I may issue is valid unless it is countersigned by one of my Ministers.
‘However, Ferdinand VII accepted and swore to observe it. He did nothing of the kind, and proved the worst type of autocrat. You must have seen his portrait by Goya many times. It would be hard to find a more cunning, shifty face, and that was the nature of the man. He had no sooner assumed power than he arrested all the leading Liberals, threw them into prison and confiscated their property. That was the root from which our worst trouble springs. It divided the Spanish people into two camps: those who supported the monarchy—they were in the majority, because, even under bad rulers, Spain has always been monarchist at heart—and a hard core of democrats made bitter by the persecution and determined sooner or later to get control of the Government.
‘In 1823, driven to desperation by Ferdinand’s arbitrary measures and oppressive taxation, the people revolted and made him a prisoner. But Louis XVIII of France sent an army that crushed the revolution and set him at liberty. One way and another, through trickery, treachery and the support of the Church and foreign troops, he succeeded in ruling as a despot for a quarter of a century. Then, on his very deathbed, this evil genius of my country left Spain another terrible legacy.’
Pausing in his stride for a moment, the King took a drink from his glass, then went on, ‘You will, of course, know that in France the Salic law operated, by which no female could ascend the throne; and that with the ending of the Hapsburg dynasty in 1700 Louis XIV’s gran
dson, the Duc d’Anjou, became the first Bourbon King of Spain as Philip V. It was this French Prince who introduced the Salic law, which previously had not applied here. Ninety years later King Charles IV approved a resolution of the Cortes to revoke this law and revert to the old order of succession but, most unfortunately, the decree was never promulgated. Thus, the question whether a female could legally ascend the throne remained debatable.
‘Ferdinand VII had no son; so two persons were Heirs Apparent: under the Salic law, his brother, Don Carlos, and under the old law, his daughter by his fourth wife, Queen Maria Cristina. In spite of the most vigorous protests from Don Carlos and many of the highest nobility, on his deathbed he designated as his successor his daughter, the Infanta Isabella, who was then only a child of two.
‘Ferdinand had often said with cynical humour that Spain was a bottle of beer of which he was the cork, and that on his death it would blow up. By his malicious decision he ensured that it should. Don Carlos was in many ways a good man, and that he should become King was obviously preferable to saddling the country with the uncertainties of a long minority. Don Carlos decided to fight for what he considered to be his rights, and Spain was plunged into a hideous civil war. Behind him he had the Church, most of the aristocracy and all those best elements in Spain who treasured the old traditions of the country handed down from the time when Spain was a mighty Empire. Yet the forces of the Queen Regent emerged victorious. How, you may well ask? To keep her infant daughter on the throne she took the only course open to her and threw herself into the hands of the Liberals.
Vendetta in Spain Page 4