Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (31 page)

“I have it! The
Chotek shall help us.”

“How? I thought
you disliked her far too much to ask any favour of her?”

Ilona laughed. “I
do. But, like yourself, I am not averse to making use of her. You must ask her
instead of myself to be your guest of honour at Königstein. Nothing delights my
cousin, Franz, so much as to see his morganatic wife treated like an
Archduchess. Act as though she were one. Tell Franz Ferdinand, when you see him
to-morrow night, that you would like to fête them at your castle, but have not
the temerity to invite her. Providing he is not too heavily engaged, he will
certainly accept for them both. Then submit your list of guests, including the
names of myself and my suite.”

“And you would
then be allowed to come?”

“Yes. Unless she
told my cousin to strike my name out, but that is unlikely. Although we are not
friends, I have always been polite to her in public. If the Heir Apparent is to
be present, then there is no rule to prevent me, as his relative, from also
enjoying your hospitality.”

“Then, if
persuasion can do the trick, it shall be done,” declared the Duke happily.

A few minutes
later they were approaching an opening in the wood, from which the road was
visible, so she stopped and said: “I think, Armand, that you had better go on
alone from here.”

He turned and
faced her. “Ilona, it has been a glorious day, and one I shall always treasure
in my memory. May I—may I hope from it that you feel just a little towards me,
as I feel towards you?”

Her eyelashes
fluttered, then she looked down and whispered; “Please don’t ask me. You know
that I must not even allow myself to think such thoughts. But I—I like you more
than anyone I’ve ever met.”

That night was
his last at the
Gasthaus
Pohl. Next morning the eccentric Englishman, dressed
like a Tyrolese, who had begun his stay with incredibly long early-morning
walks and eaten sandwiches instead of dinner, was driven to the station. Before
reaching Linz, he carried his bag along to a lavatory, stripped off his
whiskers, changed his clothes, and emerged from the train with nothing
remaining of his disguise except his grey hair and eyebrows. These were a
somewhat more tricky matter, as a week’s application of powder was going to
take some getting off: but after lunching at Linz, he went to a barbers, told
the attendant that he had been to a fancy-dress dance the night before, and had
a thorough shampoo. Then he caught a train on to Vienna.

Owing to his
having broken his journey for three hours in Linz, it was after seven o’clock
when he arrived in the capital, so he had to hurry. As he entered Sacher’s, he
told the porter to have a taxi waiting for him at eight o’clock, took the sheaf
of letters that the man held out to him, thrust them into his pocket and strode
over to the lift. At ten past eight the taxi set him down outside the
Oberes Belvedere
, and at eight-fifteen, his dark hair now
shining, and immaculate in evening dress, he was kissing the hand which ‘the
Chotek’ extended to him with a gracious smile.

The party again
consisted of about two dozen people, but when they were all assembled De
Richleau saw that, whereas those who had attended the luncheon at which he had
been present had been mostly of the lesser nobility, many of these held
important official positions. Among them were Admiral von Kailer, the chief of
the Austrian Navy, Count Krobatin, the War Minister, and Count Hoyos, von
Berchtold’s right hand man at the Foreign Office. So it was clear that the
Duchess Sophie had done her utmost to impress her principal guest, Count Tisza.

With the
exception of the Hungarians, all the subject peoples of the Dual Monarchy were
treated as subservient to Austria, and enjoyed only the right to send their
elected representatives to the central parliament. But Hungary, under her
ancient constitution, remained a separate kingdom, enjoying a considerable amount
of theoretical independence, with her own parliament, which sat in Budapest.
The Emperor, therefore, had two Prime Ministers or, as they were termed,
Minister-Presidents; Count St
ür
gkh, who represented
the Imperial Austrian electorate, and Count Tisza, who represented the
electorate of Hungary.

As De Richleau
was presented to the Hungarian Minister-President, he took an immediate liking
to him. The Count had both breadth of mind and nobility of thought stamped on
his fine features. His eyes were serious, yet amiable, with a steady, honest
glance. His head was of magnificent proportions, broad, lofty and highly domed
under dark receding hair. When he smiled, white teeth showed beneath his dark
moustache, and a short, pointed beard was not sufficiently heavy to disguise
the firmness of his mouth and chin.

After the
Duchess had made the introduction, she smiled from one to the other, and said: “Do
you know, apart from the fact that Count Königstein is clean shaven, and
something about the eyebrows, you two gentlemen are very much alike.”

Both proclaimed
themselves flattered, as in fact they were, because while De Richleau was the
handsomer of the two, he hoped that he might have as fine a presence as Count
Tisza when he reached the Hungarian’s age. The episode was not lost upon the
Duke as confirming his impression that Sophie von Hohenberg was a very clever
woman.

Soon afterwards
they went in to dinner. De Richleau was seated near the middle of the long
table, so it was not until after the meal that he had any opportunity for a
word with his host or hostess. However, the normally morose Archduke could
become quite a pleasant man when among people whom he knew and liked, so while
they drank their coffee and liqueurs he twice moved round to a different
position at the table in order to talk with as many as possible of his guests,
and his second move placed him next to the Duke.

De Richleau then
took an early opportunity of mentioning his project of opening up Königstein,
and adopted the line that Ilona had suggested. Franz-Ferdinand fingered the
right curl of his heavy moustache for a moment, then replied:

“When I was a
youngster, I once visited Königstein as a guest of your father, Duke, and a
very good shoot we had there too. If my engagements permit, I should much like
to visit your castle again. Besides, it would give me a chance to talk about
the Turkish army with you. As to your project of giving a fête for my wife, I
am sure she will take that as a very pleasant compliment. But ask her yourself,
when we join the ladies, and if she agrees you can arrange a date between you,
as she knows when we are free better than I do myself.”

Well pleased, De
Richleau decided to bide his time before tackling the Duchess. A game of cards
was begun as soon as the men entered the yellow drawing-room, but only about
half the guests took part. The others, Count Tisza among them, sat talking in
little groups; while from time to time the dark-haired Duchess moved from place
to place, deftly changing the composition of the groups so that each of her
guests should have a chance to talk to other people.

About half past
ten she detached an elderly General from the Minister-President, beckoned over
the Duke, and said: “Since you two have quite a physical resemblance, I am sure
you would like to discover if your tastes are also in common.” Then she left
them, to join the elderly lady to whom De Richleau had been talking.

“Well!” smiled
the Count. “Where do we begin? I have been a soldier and am now a politician;
but what little leisure I now have is devoted to shooting and my books.”

De Richleau was
shrewd enough to guess that his campaigns in South America and the Balkans
would prove only of casual interest to an intellectual such as the Count, and
he knew little of the Dual Monarchy’s internal politics: so he fastened at once
upon the great man’s hobbies.

For a while they
talked of shooting; but soon turned to literature, and discovered that they
were both great admirers of the Greco-Roman civilization. They enthused
together over the beauties of Virgil and Horace, then laughed at passages in
Petronius, Aristophanes and Ovid, agreeing how infinitely more sophisticated
they were than the sixteenth and seventeenth century dramatists, and how their
sense of humour possessed a timeless quality that leapt two thousand years,
still to delight any cultured modern.

After a while
Count Tisza said: “You must come some time and browse with me in my library. I
have a few bibelots which I feel sure would interest you.” Then, as an
afterthought, he added: “If you are not engaged to go on anywhere to supper,
why not come back with me when I leave here. I get little free time during the
day. While I show you my treasures, we could drink a glass to those noble
Ancients who lived on a mental plane which we have as yet failed to regain,
despite the advantage that the printed word and the spread of popular education
gives us.”

De Richleau
accepted with alacrity, and when he next spoke to the Duchess was able to tell
her that, although he had not yet talked to Count Tisza about herself, he would
now have an excellent opportunity of doing so without fear of interruption. She
was delighted, and when he mentioned the fête that he wished to give in her
honour for the reopening of Königstein, she was even more so. Having an
excellent memory, she did not need to refer to any list of the Archduke’s major
engagements, and declared that any minor ones could be put off; so they settled
for the visit to be on the 10th and 11th of the coming month.

At half past
eleven, Franz Ferdinand and his wife bade their guests good-night and withdrew.
Then De Richleau accompanied Count Tisza to his car, and they drove to a small
but beautiful little palace which was the Minister-President’s residence in
Vienna.

Feeling certain
that his guest would prove a connoisseur, the Count sent down to his cellar for
a bottle of Tokay of the long-past but once famous vintage, 1763. The wine was
in a squat, crested bottle and when poured was of a rich, bright gold. The
thick, almost treacly, sweetness of such wines when young makes them scarcely
drinkable until half a century old, but enables them to far outlive any port,
sherry, or madeira, and this was still in its prime; the very essence of the
grape, redolent of flowers, honey and sunshine, a fitting nectar with which to
toast the shades of Caesar, Lucretius and Lucullus himself.

When they had
sipped the glorious amber fluid with due appreciation, they began to go round
the quiet library, which glowed with a gentle warmth from its rows of gilt
tooled, calf, morocco, and vellum-bound books. Here and there the Count took
one from a shelf and gave it to his guest to examine. In an hour or so he
produced a hundred rare and beautiful volumes which De Richleau greatly envied
him; among them a Black Letter copy of
Caesar’s Wars
which
had once belonged to that great captain, Charles V of Spain, Heine’s
Catullus,
the Emperor Napoleon’s
Marcus Aurelius,
Goethe’s
Longinus,
the younger Pitt’s
Homer
with his
annotations upon it, and Madame de Pompadour’s
Martial,
bound in blue
silk into which was woven the royal arms of France.

It was the last
which gave the Duke the opportunity to bring up the subject of the lady who had
entertained them both that evening. “Do you think,” he asked, “that if the
Duchess of Hohenberg had remained unmarried to the Archduke, she would have
been able to hold his affections and later play the role of a modern Pompadour?”

“I do,” replied
the Count gravely. “They are extremely devoted, and she is a remarkably clever
woman. I am among those who wish that she had been content to play such a part,
as their marriage has already caused much trouble and will lead to even graver
issues on the death of our aged Emperor.”

“True; but if
you are right, her influence on affairs would not have been greatly lessened.”

“Not behind the
scenes, perhaps. But instead of remaining a
maitresse-en-titre
she
must now become Queen of Hungary.”

“If the question
is not indiscreet, how do you think the Hungarians will view that?”

Count Tisza
shrugged. “We Hungarians are not fond of Czechs, so it is most unlikely that
the people will take kindly to her. As for us nobles, there are few of new
creation amongst us, and the wives of our magnates will be far from willing to
make their curtsy to a woman of such little birth.”

“Yet I believe
she may prove a good friend to Hungary, if the road is not made too difficult
for her to start with,” remarked De Richleau. “I do not know her at all well,
but we had some conversation on the subject recently. I know she feels that if
she could win the Hungarians to her, that would greatly offset the enmity with
which she is regarded by many powerful Austrian families; and she certainly
intends to make the attempt.”

With a slight
narrowing of his eyes Count Tisza asked: “Did she ask you there to-night to
tell me that?”

“Yes,” admitted
the Duke frankly. “But I would not abuse your hospitality now, by acting as her
ambassador, did I not believe it to be true.”

“I willingly
take your word on that. I see, too, that she is every bit as clever as I
thought. It was a shrewd move to choose an intelligent and presumably unbiased
man, such as yourself, to speak on her behalf. And, of course, she is right to
court the support of the people over whom she cannot be prevented from becoming
Queen. If she can persuade us to forget her ancestry, and shows herself another
such champion of Hungarian interests as was the Empress Elizabeth, she will be
more than half way to getting herself made Empress of Austria. I thank you for
having conveyed her ideas to me, and I shall not forget them.”