II
THE BLOWING UP OF THE MAINE
Although the revelations which have been made already in the British House of Commons have thrown some light on the international intrigues which complicated the progress of the Cuban War, the tragic event which caused the United States to draw the sword against Spain has remained a profound mystery to the present hour.
The truth concerning the destruction of the United States warship Maine, in the roadstead of Havana, is known fully to only two persons now alive. One of these two has taken the vow of perpetual silence in the monastery of La Trappe, and his name is already forgotten by the world.
I shall cause some surprise, perhaps, when I venture to assert that had I left my hotel ten minutes earlier on a certain memorable night in the year 1898, the Spanish flag might still be flying over the citadel of Havana.
The extraordinary adventure which I am going to relate had its starting-point in Paris, which is, to a large extent, the clearing-house of international politics—the diplomatic exchange where the representatives of the Powers meet, and sound each other’s minds. For this reason the highest post in the diplomatic service of every country is still the Paris Embassy, although France itself scarcely ranks to-day as a Power of the first magnitude.
It is Paris, as every one is aware, which was the scene of the long negotiation between the representatives of the Cuban insurgents and the Government of Madrid on the question of the terms to be granted by Spain to her discontented colony. In this negotiation it is equally well known that the Cuban delegates received the moral support of the United States; but it is not generally known that the Spanish Government acted throughout in consultation with most of the European Powers.
I was looking on at the negotiation without any very great interest, sharing, as I did, in the general impression that Spain would give way before long, when I was surprised one morning by receiving a visit from a very remarkable character.
Ludwig Kehler was a Bavarian, who had begun life as a candidate for the priesthood. A disgraceful affair, the particulars of which I had never learned, had caused his dismissal from the seminary, and, after drifting about the world for a time, and mixing in very shady company, he suddenly appeared in Berlin in the character of a police agent.
The exact nature of the services which he rendered to the police was a mystery, but I had formed the theory that he was employed as a spy on the German Catholics, whose attachment to the House of Hohenzollern has always been suspected in Berlin.
The presence of this man in Paris was in itself an unusual event. It did not occur to me to connect it with the Spanish-American question, and that for a very simple reason. Germany is the one country in Europe which has never possessed a foot of soil in the New World. Spain, Portugal, England, France, and even Holland and Denmark have planted their flags across the Atlantic, but the German Michael has been content to remain at home while his neighbours were colonising the globe.