Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (37 page)

“Then we are in the very
devil of a mess.”

“I fear you are. To-night
all eyes will be riveted on you and her; and I shall be surprised if you do not
receive an order to quit Vienna as soon as it can be conveyed to you without giving
additional point to this excellent basis for starting a scandal.”

The Duke gave a rather
twisted smile. He had to leave Vienna in any case on Monday. It seemed mean to
take advantage of Ilona’s generosity as an excuse for doing so; yet it would
make her less unhappy to think that he had left in order to protect her from
the results of her own rashness, rather than for any other reason: so he said:

“Then I shall forestall
any such unpleasantness by leaving of my own free will.”

“You could hardly do better
as far as saving her name is concerned,” Adam Grünne agreed with a friendly
smile of appreciation. “But not until to-morrow or Monday. You must appear
to-night to kiss hands on your appointment and ask leave of absence; otherwise
your going will look like an insult and cause more tongues to wag than ever.”

De Richleau was very glad
that the stalwart little Count viewed matters so. Only to save Ilona from open
disgrace could he have brought himself to leave Vienna without saying good-bye
to her; and Grünne’s opinion tallied with his own. Refolding the parchment that
she had so impetuously ordered to be made out in a natural but ill-considered
wish to do public honour to her lover, he observed:

“Your prediction has come
true only too soon, Count. But I trust you do not think too ill of me for not
having taken your advice to leave Vienna ten days ago.”

“In the circumstances you
would hardly have been human if you had. Still, it is to be regretted for both
your sakes that the affair should have gone so far. What occurred between you
at the dance on Thursday night is no business of mine: but she was in the deuce
of a state all yesterday. She couldn’t sit still for two minutes, and coughed
herself sick with excitement. Last night she was running a temperature again,
and Sárolta says that if her doctor saw her he would not allow her to get up
to-day. But, of course, she has forbidden anyone to send for him, and wild
horses won’t prevent her appearing at the ball to-night.”

“What you say makes me
feel very guilty,” said the Duke with grave concern.

Count Adam shrugged his
broad shoulders. “If it had not been you, my friend, it would have been someone
else. I only marvel that she has not fallen a victim to this universal
complaint before. But about your uniform; how soon can you be ready to
accompany me to the regimental tailors? They will do the job somehow, of
course; but it is going to be the very devil of a rush, and you will have to
hold yourself at their disposal for a couple of fittings this afternoon.”

Walking over to the
speaking tube, the Duke blew down it and ordered coffee, rolls and fruit for
two. Then he said, “I’ll go and bath at once. Please help yourself when
breakfast arrives, and I’ll join you as soon as I can. I shall be ready to
leave in three quarters of an hour.”

De Richleau spent most of
the day at the tailors. They almost made the uniform on him; but in an interval
between fittings he managed to find a heart-shaped ruby. It was quite small,
but that was immaterial as Ilona had finer jewels than Rockefeller could have
bought her, and its appropriateness as a gift lay in its unusual shape.

At half past eight he
left Sacher’s, resplendent in sky-blue and silver, with the loose sleeve of the
astrakhan-trimmed half cloak swaying gallantly behind him as he walked, and his
chest glittering with his orders and decorations. A quarter of an hour later a
taxi, which had carried him along the
Link Wiejizeile
into Vienna’s south-western
suburbs, set him down before the Sch
ö
nbrunn
Palace.

Its great courtyard was
full of equipages and running footmen. Inside, its marble halls, staircases and
salons were crowded with hundreds of guests: officers in an immense variety of
uniforms; diplomats wearing black silk breeches, white stockings and cordons of
every colour; Hungarian magnates whose costumes were trimmed with sea otter,
ermine and sable; and bare-shouldered women of all ages, whose tiaras,
necklaces, pendants, rings, ear-rings, brooches and bracelets would together
have stocked for twenty years every jeweller’s shop in the Rue de la Paix. For
the last time, although they could not know it, the noblest blood, the finest
brains, with all the wealth, gallantry and beauty of an ancient Empire, had
gathered there in their splendour to do honour to a daughter of the Imperial
House of Habsburg.

Slowly, through a sea of
nodding plumes, rustling satin, and glittering epaulets, the Duke made his way
across the long range of lofty salons at the back of the palace to the Throne
room. At the far end of it, on a low dais, Ilona was seated in a great gilt
chair, the back of which rose to frame her face with the spreading wings of the
double-headed Habsburg eagle. To her right, on a similar chair, sat her cousin,
Franz Ferdinand; and on her left, another cousin, the young Archduke Charles.
De Richleau solemnly made his three bows to them; then, as the line moved on,
passed into the next salon. He could not but be a little awed at the thought
that the very apex of all this power and glory was a young and beautiful woman
who had declared her love for him. But he was much concerned by her appearance
as the light dusting of powder, which was all the make-up considered
permissible at that date, did not disguise the fact that she was far from well.

Already a number of
people had congratulated him on the birthday honour he had received, and now he
ran into Sophie von Hohenberg. As a morganatic wife she had no special
precedence at official functions, so had to appear as an ordinary guest.

“Well, well, my dear
Colonel!”
she greeted him with a cynical
little smile. “How handsome you look in your new uniform.”

“I thank your Highness,” he
smiled back, offering her his arm as she dismissed her previous cavalier.

“And now, of course,” she
went on in a low voice, “the real reason for your anxiety to have Ilona Theresa
at Königstein is revealed. I must confess that you tricked me very cleverly.”

He raised his dark ‘devil’s’
eyebrows. “I fear I fail to understand.”

“Oh come! You cannot pull
the wool over my eyes. That little minx is in love with you, and you with her.
I had a suspicion that she was more than ordinarily interested in you when I
saw you waltzing together at the Czernins’ dance but, knowing her reputation
for frigidity, dismissed it as unlikely.”

“Then I pray your
Highness to dismiss the idea again, for it has not one atom of foundation.”

“Why this appointment,
then? It can only be so that, as a Colonel of her regiment, you can gain ready
access to her without the usual formalities.”

That aspect of the matter
had not even occurred to the Duke, and he said so. Then he went on, “You are
right, though, in assuming that it was her visit to Königstein which led to my
appointment; although I had no thought of it before that. It chanced that
during the two dances we had together there we talked of my campaign in the
Balkans. She remarked then that the Austrian army was second to none in
appearance, but had no experience of war: and that as far as her own regiment
was concerned she thought it would be a good thing if they had someone like myself
who could advise on modern training. She was right, of course, and I naturally
agreed with her. Without consulting me further, it seems that she took my
agreement for consent to undertake the work. But no one could have been more
surprised that I was when I received her commission this morning.”

The explanation was a
good one; although the Duchess murmured a little doubtfully, “I had no idea
that Ilona interested herself in military matters,” he felt that he had shaken
her; so he added casually:

“As a matter of fact,
though, she has picked on the wrong man at the moment; as I have to leave
Vienna to-morrow, and shall be detained for some time in Constantinople on
important business.”

The Duchess shrugged. “Ah
well, perhaps I was wrong. In your case it certainly seems so. All the same, I
suspect she is going to be a very disappointed young woman when she hears that
her handsome new Colonel is not remaining here to dance attendance on her.”

The ball was now opening
with a quadrille. Franz Ferdinand led out Ilona and other couples followed in
order of precedence, while the great bulk of the brilliant throng lined the
walls to watch the formal measure. A waltz came next and De Richleau danced it
with the Duchess; then he took up a position not far from the dais, where Ilona
could easily send for him when she wished. Half an hour later she sent her
equerry to him, and in another waltz they took the floor together.

Now that he was close to
her, he was more alarmed than ever by the hectic flush of her cheeks and unnatural
glitter of her eyes. They had hardly completed their first graceful whirl, when
she said unhappily:

“Oh Armand! I have acted
like a fool again.”

“My dear,” he murmured, “please
do not blame yourself for your generous impulse. I was touched to the heart by
it.”

She was almost crying. “I
did it because the temptation to give you some honour was too strong for me;
and I chose this, thinking myself so clever, because it would also give you an
excuse to be able to visit me at any time. But now Sárolta and Adam tell me
that all Vienna will be talking about us, and this afternoon I received a
request from the Emperor for my reasons for making such an appointment.”

“Have you given one?” he
asked quickly.

“Not yet. I can think of
nothing to say, except that I have formed a liking for you; and that will lead
him to suspect the truth.”

“That, we must prevent at
all costs: and I fear it is going to cost us very dear,” he sighed. Then he
told her of the explanation that he had given the Chotek, which would also serve
for the Emperor, and of his intention to kill rumour by leaving Vienna next
day.

She faltered in her step,
clutched at him, and exclaimed: “No, Armand! No!”

Before he could reply she
was seized with a violent fit of coughing. As they were near the side of the
room, he led her from among the dancers without difficulty, and by raising her
big ostrich feather fan she concealed her convulsed face from all but the
people who were standing nearest to them. When the bout had subsided, she said:
“Take me to one of the windows for some air.”

The night was hot and
down one side of the great room a line of French windows stood open, giving
access to a hundred-feet long balcony that was as wide as a normal terrace. A
few couples were drifting in and out and strolling along it, but he did not
dare to take her outside as he knew that scores of people must be watching
them, and that their disappearance for even a few moments would now be certain
to set malicious tongues wagging. On their approaching the nearest window, the
people about it had respectfully drawn back, and as he halted with her in its
entrance no one was within earshot.

“Armand,” she said in a
low voice. “You must not go away. I could not bear it.”

Fearing that if he even
looked at her their expressions might disclose the intensity of their emotions,
he stared straight in front of him across the balustrade into the gardens.
Beyond the great open space below them with its eight lawns patterned by flower
beds, the pleached alleys, laid out with such skill by a famous eighteenth
century gardener, were gay with chains of fairy lamps. In the star-lit distance
beyond the Neptune fountain rose the graceful colonnade of the Gloriette and
the tall trees of the park. The strains of the ‘Merry Widow’ waltz came to them
from within, mellowed by the gliding footsteps and the rustling dresses of five
hundred dancers.

No lovers could have
craved a more perfect setting for romance, but these two, watched as they were
by a score of curious eyes, were blind to the beauty of the scene, deaf to the
lilt of the waltz, and thinking only of striving to prevent the misery that
they felt from showing in their faces.

“Darling, I
must
go,” he said dully.

“No, please!” she
murmured. “You cannot be so cruel. Everything will be all right if only we are
very careful.”

“Not now that all Vienna
suspects us, my sweet.”

“Oh, Armand; you don’t
understand. You—you have loved lots of other women. But with me it’s different.
I’ve never loved anyone before. And I love you so that it hurts. I’ll die if I
must lose you.”