Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe

“In that case,” he said at last, “had we not better keep apart, mademoiselle – if it would render your life happier?”

“I only wish I could get rid of that old beast,” she cried wistfully. “But, unfortunately, I can’t. I’m entirely and utterly in his hands.”

“Why?” asked her companion slowly.

But she remained silent, until he had repeated his question.

“Why? Well, because I am,” was her vague, mysterious reply.

“Then he often complains of me?” Waldron asked.

For answer she laughed a nervous little laugh.

“He doesn’t like me, I suppose. Well, there’s no love lost between us, I assure you, mademoiselle. But if you think it best, then we will exercise a wiser discretion in future.”

“No, no,” she replied hastily. “You quite misconstrue my meaning, M’sieur Waldron. You have been exceedingly kind to me, but – ” and then she sighed without concluding her sentence.

Again a silence fell between them.

From across the broad dark waters, in the bosom of which the stars were reflected, came the low, strident voices of the Arab boatmen chanting their monotonous prayer to Allah to give them grace. The still air was heavy with a thousand sweet scents, while about them the big nocturnal insects flitted and buzzed.

A peal of English laughter broke from out the deep shadows, and from somewhere in the vicinity came the twanging of a one-stringed instrument by an Arab, who set up one of those low, haunting refrains of the Nile bank – the ancient songs handed down through the Pagan ages before the birth of Christendom.

Waldron was reflecting deeply. Old Gigleux had always been a mystery. That he was a crafty, cunning old fox was undoubted, and yet he had, he remembered, always treated him with marked friendliness. It was surprising that he should, on the other hand, object to his niece being so frequently in his company.

Lola’s companion questioned her regarding the mysterious old fellow, but all she would reply was:

“There are certain matters, M’sieur Waldron, which I would rather not discuss. That is one of them.”

With this chilly rebuff her companion was compelled to be content, and no amount of diplomatic cross-examination would induce her to reveal anything further.

“Ah,” she cried at last, clenching her small hands and starting to her feet in a sudden frenzy of despair which amazed him, “if you only knew the horror of it all – ah! if you only knew, m’sieur, you would, I am sure, pity me.”

“Horror of it!” he gasped. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing – nothing,” she said hastily, in a voice thick with emotion. “Let us return. We must get back. He will be so angry at my absence.”

“Then you really fear him!” Waldron exclaimed in surprise.

She made no reply. Only as he laid his hand lightly upon her arm to guide her back along the dark path to where the native boat was moored, he felt her shudder.

He walked in silence, utterly bewildered at her sudden change of demeanour. What could it mean? In his career as a diplomat in the foreign capitals he had met thousands of pretty women of all grades, but none so sweet or so dainty as herself; none with a voice so musical, not one whose charm was so ineffable.

Yes, against his own inclination he had become fascinated by her, and already he felt that her interests were his own.

They stepped into the boat, being greeted by salaams from the black-faced crew, and then began to row back.

She uttered not a word. Even when one of the boys brought out the big tom-tom from beneath the seat, she signed to him to put it away. Music jarred upon her nerves.

Waldron sat in wonder, uttering no word, and the black-faced crew were in turn surprised at the sudden silence. Ali spoke some low, soft words in Arabic to his companions which, had the pair been acquainted with that language, would have caused them annoyance. “They are lovers,” he remarked wisely. “They have quarrelled – eh?” And to that theory the two boys agreed.

And so there was silence in the boat until it touched the landing-steps opposite the great hotel, rising dark in the white desert moonshine.

On returning to his room Hubert Waldron found a telegram from Madrid awaiting him. It was from an intimate friend of his, signed “Beatriz.”

He flung himself into a cane chair and re-read the long and rather rambling message. Then he rose, lit a cigarette savagely, and stood gazing across the broad moonlit waters. That telegram was a disquieting one. Its sender was Beatriz Rojas de Ruata, of the Madrid Opera, the tall, thin, black-haired dancer, who had of late been the rage in Petersburg and Paris, and who was now contemplating a season in London.

From life in the slums of Barcelona, where her father was a wharf labourer, she had in three short years risen to the top of her profession, and was now the idol of the jeunesse dorée of Madrid; though, be it said, the only man she really cared for was the calm-faced English diplomat who had never flattered her, and who had always treated her with such profound and courtly respect.

But that message had sorely perturbed him. It was an impetuous demand that he should return from Egypt and meet her in London. A year ago he had promised to show her London, and now that she had accepted a most lucrative engagement she held him to his promise.

“Yes,” he murmured to himself as he paced the room with its bed enshrouded in mosquito curtains, “I’ve been a confounded fool. I thought myself more level-headed, but, like all the others, I suppose, I’ve succumbed to the bright eyes and sweet smiles of a pretty woman.”

For a full twenty minutes or so he pondered, uncertain what reply to send. In any case, even if he left for London on the following morning, he could not arrive at Charing Cross for fully ten days.

At last he took up his cane and hat, and descending in the lift, crossed the great hotel garden, making his way down the short hill towards the town. It was then nearly eleven o’clock, and all was silent and deserted except for the armed Arab watchman in his hooded cloak. On his right as he walked lay a small public garden, a prettily laid out space rising on the huge boulders which form the gorge of the Nile – a place filled by high feathery palms, flaming poinsettias, and a wealth of tropical flowers.

But as he passed the entrance in the shadow there suddenly broke upon his ears a woman’s voice, speaking rapidly in Italian – a language with which he was well conversant.

He halted instantly. The voice was Lola’s! In the shadow he could just distinguish two forms, that of a man and a woman.

He drew back in breathless amazement. Mademoiselle’s eagerness to return across from Elephantine was now explained. She had kept a secret tryst.

As he watched, he heard her speaking quickly and angrily in an imperative tone. The man was standing in the full moonlight, and Waldron could see him quite plainly – a dark, short-bearded man of middle-age and middle-height, wearing a soft felt Tyrolese hat.

He made no response, but only bowed low at his unceremonious dismissal.

The stranger was about to leave her when suddenly, as though on reflection, she exclaimed, still speaking in perfect Italian:

“No. Return here in half an hour. I will go back to the hotel and write my reply. Until then do not be seen. Gigleux must never know that you have been here – you understand? I know that you will remain my friend, though everyone’s hand is now raised against me, but if Gigleux suspected that you had been here he would cable home at once – and then who knows what might not happen! I could never return. I would rather kill myself?”

“The signorina may rely upon my absolute discretion,” declared the man in a low, intense voice.

“Benissimo,” was her hurried response. “Return here in half an hour, and I will give you my answer. It is hard, cruel, inhuman of them to treat me thus! But it is, I suppose, only what I must expect. I am only a woman, and I must make the sacrifice.”

And with a wave of her small, ungloved hand she dismissed him, and took a path which led through the public garden back to the hotel by a shorter cut.

Meanwhile Waldron strode on past the railway station to the quay, glanced at his watch, and then, half an hour later, after he had dispatched his telegram he was lurking in the shadows at that same spot.

He watched Lola hand a letter to the stranger, and wish him “Addio e buon viaggio!”

Then he followed the bearded man down to the station, where, from a European official of whom he made a confidential inquiry, he learnt that the stranger had arrived in Assouan from Cairo only two hours before, bearing a return ticket to Europe by the mail route via Port Said and Brindisi.

With curiosity he watched the Italian leave by the mail for Cairo ten minutes later, and then turned away and retraced his steps to the Cataract Hotel, plunged deep in thought.

There was a mystery somewhere – a strange and very grave mystery.

What could be that message of such extreme importance and secrecy that it could not be trusted to the post?