could enjoy the murder trial of Madame Caillaux, who had shot the editor of Le Figaro for printing her husband’s love letters.
And Walter could marry Maud.
That was his focus now. The more he thought about the difficulties, the more determined he became to overcome them. Having looked, for a few days, at the joyless prospect of life without her, he was even more sure that he wanted to marry her, regardless of the price they might both have to pay. As he avidly followed the diplomatic game being played on the chessboard of Europe, he scrutinized every move to assess its effect first on him and Maud, and only second on Germany and the world.
He was going to see her tonight, at dinner and at the Duchess of Sussex’s ball. He was already dressed in white tie and tails. It was time to leave. But as he closed the lid of the piano the doorbell rang, and his manservant announced Count Robert von Ulrich.
Robert looked surly. It was a familiar expression. Robert had been a troubled and unhappy young man when they were students together in Vienna. His feelings drew him irresistibly toward a group whom he had been brought up to regard as decadent. Then, when he came home after an evening with men like himself, he wore that look, guilty but defiant. In time he had discovered that homosexuality, like adultery, was officially condemned but-in sophisticated circles, at least-unofficially tolerated; and he had become reconciled to who he was. Today he wore that face for some other reason.
“I’ve just seen the text of the emperor’s note,” Robert said immediately.
Walter’s heart leaped in hope. This might be the peaceful resolution he was waiting for. “What does it say?”
Robert handed him a sheet of paper. “I copied out the main part.”
“Has it been delivered to the Serbian government?”
“Yes, at six o’clock Belgrade time.”
There were ten demands. The first three followed the lines Walter had anticipated, he saw with relief: Serbia had to suppress liberal newspapers, break up the secret society called the Black Hand, and clamp down on nationalist propaganda. Perhaps the moderates in Vienna had won the argument after all, he thought gratefully.
Point four seemed reasonable at first-the Austrians demanded a purge of nationalists in the Serbian civil service-but there was a sting in the tail: the Austrians would supply the names. “That seems a bit strong,” Walter said anxiously. “The Serbian government can’t just sack everyone the Austrians tell them to.”
Robert shrugged. “They will have to.”
“I suppose so.” For the sake of peace, Walter hoped they would.
But there was worse to come.
Point five demanded that Austria assist the Serbian government in crushing subversion, and point six, Walter read with dismay, insisted that Austrian officials take part in Serbia’s judicial inquiry into the assassination. “But Serbia can’t agree to this!” Walter protested. “It would amount to giving up their sovereignty.”
Robert’s face darkened further. “Hardly,” he said peevishly.
“No country in the world could agree to it.”
“Serbia will. It must, or be destroyed.”
“In a war?”
“If necessary.”
“Which could engulf all of Europe!”
Robert wagged his finger. “Not if other governments are sensible.”
Unlike yours, Walter thought, but he bit back the retort and read on. The remaining points were arrogantly expressed, but the Serbs could probably live with them: arrest of conspirators, prevention of smuggling of weapons into Austrian territory, and a clampdown on anti-Austrian pronouncements by Serbian officials.
But there was a forty-eight-hour deadline for reply.
“My God, this is harsh,” said Walter.
“People who defy the Austrian emperor must expect harshness.”
“I know, I know, but he hasn’t even given them room to save face.”
“Why should he?”
Walter let his exasperation show. “For goodness’ sake, does he want war?”
“The emperor’s family, the Habsburg dynasty, has governed vast areas of Europe for hundreds of years. Emperor Franz Joseph knows that God intends him to rule over inferior Slavic peoples. This is his destiny.”
“God spare us from men of destiny,” Walter muttered. “Has my embassy seen this?”
“They will any minute now.”
Walter wondered how others would react. Would they accept this, as Robert had, or be outraged like Walter? Would there be an international howl of protest or just a helpless diplomatic shrug? He would find out this evening. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I’m late for dinner. Are you going to the Duchess of Sussex’s ball later?”
“Yes. I’ll see you there.”
They left the building and parted company in Piccadilly. Walter headed for Fitz’s house, where he was to dine. He felt breathless, as if he had been knocked down. The war he dreaded had come dangerously closer.
He arrived with just enough time to bow to Princess Bea, in a lavender gown festooned with silk bows, and shake hands with Fitz, impossibly handsome in a wing collar and a white bow tie; then dinner was announced. He was glad to find himself assigned to escort Maud through to the dining room. She wore a dark red dress of some soft material that clung to her body the way Walter wanted to. As he held her chair he said: “What a very attractive gown.”
“Paul Poiret,” she said, naming a designer so famous that even Walter had heard of him. She lowered her voice a little. “I thought you might like it.”
The remark was only mildly intimate, but all the same it gave him a thrill, rapidly followed by a shiver of fear at the thought that he could yet lose this enchanting woman.
Fitz’s house was not quite a palace. Its long dining room, at the corner of the street, looked over two thoroughfares. Electric chandeliers burned despite the bright summer evening outside, and reflected lights glittered in the crystal glasses and silver cutlery marshaled at each place. Looking around the table at the other female guests, Walter marveled anew at the indecent amount of bosom revealed by upper-class Englishwomen at dinner.
Such observations were adolescent. It was time he got married.
As soon as he sat down, Maud slipped off a shoe and pushed her stockinged toe up the leg of his trousers. He smiled at her, but she saw immediately that he was distracted. “What’s the matter?” she said.
“Start a conversation about the Austrian ultimatum,” he murmured. “Say you’ve heard it has been delivered.”
Maud addressed Fitz, at the head of the table. “I believe the Austrian emperor’s note has at last been handed in at Belgrade,” she said. “Have you heard anything, Fitz?”
Fitz put down his soup spoon. “The same as you. But no one knows what is in it.”
Walter said: “I believe it is very harsh. The Austrians insist on taking a role in the Serbian judicial process.”
“Taking a role!” said Fitz. “But if the Serbian prime minister agreed to that, he’d have to resign.”
Walter nodded. Fitz foresaw the same consequences as he did. “It is almost as if the Austrians want war.” He was perilously close to speaking disloyally about one of Germany’s allies, but he felt anxious enough not to care. He caught Maud’s eye. She was pale and silent. She, too, had immediately seen the threat.
“One has sympathy for Franz Joseph, of course,” Fitz said. “Nationalist subversion can destabilize an empire if it is not firmly dealt with.” Walter guessed he was thinking of Irish independence campaigners and South African Boers threatening the British empire. “But you don’t need a sledgehammer to crack a nut,” Fitz finished.
Footmen took away the soup bowls and poured a different wine. Walter drank nothing. It was going to be a long evening, and he needed a clear head.
Maud said quietly: “I happened to see Prime Minister Asquith today. He said there could be a real Armageddon.” She looked scared. “I’m afraid I did not believe him-but now I see he might have been right.”
Fitz said: “It’s what we’re all afraid of.”
