At eleven o’clock Waldron stood before the long cheval glass arranging his tight uniform collar. Then he placed his decorations exactly at the right angle, settled the hang of his pearl-handled diplomatic sword, and took his white gloves from Peters’ hand.
His face was dark and clouded. On the one hand he had no desire to meet the corrupt Minister who was bringing disaster and defeat upon his country, while on the other he knew that his Chief expected him to turn up there and be on show, as is the duty of those attached to the Embassies.
His Majesty, too, would be there. What, in face of those words of his concerning His Excellency, could he think? Truly, the head upon which lies a crown must, indeed, be very weary. How little does the general public know of that narrow, glittering, fevered world which, in every capital, surrounds a throne—that world where place-seekers intrigue, where money brings power, where morality is so often scoffed at as antiquated and out-of-date, and where the true, honest love of man and woman is forbidden because of rank and blood.
How little do the readers of our daily Press ever dream of the many bitter romances of love that are to-day being enacted beneath the shadows of the thrones of Europe, for the social columns tell nothing save what those mentioned desire that the world shall know, while the scandals which find their way into print are only the sordid ones. How little, indeed, do the public dream of the hearts which lie broken near the thrones of Europe, of the mad passion, of the steel fetters of royalty, or of the true, honest affection of those beyond the pale. It is only when there is a morganatic marriage, or when a Prince or Princess of the blood-royal renounces their royal rights that that public pause for a second to reflect. And then, alas! they too often put it down to mental derangement.
But the public are in ignorance of the world behind the walls of the royal palace, the pomp, the splendour, the officialdom, and, alas! the constant intrigue.
Only those in the immediate entourage of the Sovereign and the diplomat know the truth. And, after all, it is that little fevered world of its own which rules the greater world outside. And so the Powers of Europe struggle on, one against the other, for wealth and supremacy.
At eleven o’clock Hubert Waldron’s taxi drove into the great courtyard of the Ministry of War, that huge, handsome building at the other end of the Via Venti Settembre to where the British Embassy was situated.
As he descended, the sentries, noticing his uniform, saluted, and returning their salute, he entered the great vestibule, threw his cloak to one of the gorgeously dressed flunkeys, and with his cocked hat tucked beneath his arm made his way up the great red-carpeted staircase to the first floor where the reception was being held.
As he went up he could hear the tuneful strains of dance music being played above by one of the military bands, bright military uniforms were everywhere, the place, usually so dark and sombre, had been adorned by flowers and palms, and was now brilliantly lit by festoons of coloured electric lamps.
Italy, par excellence the country of the British tourist, has its charm even in its officialdom.