"Pleasant evening in store for us, Herr von Bohlen," said the Prince to Bertha’s fiancé.
He rang for his adjutant. "You would not like to go back to Brandenburg?" he began pleasantly.
"Nor to any other provincial hole, Your Highness," answered the Baron Reiff, clicking his heels together.
"In that case see that His Majesty does not complain of draughts while here."
The adjutant raised a hand to his left ear. Bülow nodded. "I will have to hold you responsible, Reiff," he said in tones of unwonted severity.
The Chancellor’s palace was _en fête_. The brilliantly lit corridors and stairs were alive with guests, eager to pay homage to Princess Maria: Scions of Royalty and mere beggar counts, as the great Frederick used to style poor nobles; masters of statecraft and prima donnas; generals and blue-blooded cornets, courtiers and members of the hierarchy. And as many lackeys in blue and silver as visitors.
Most of the guests longed for sight of the Chancellor, and would have given much to have a peep at the room where Bismarck bullied and ruled Europe, but the glass doors leading to the grand garden salon were guarded inside and out by Secret Service men, while Baron Reiff flitted to and fro, scrutinising faces and keeping an eye on everybody.
In the grand salon of the Bel Etage, Enrico Caruso was exchanging notes of purity for the immaculate ones of the Bank of England, when the siren of the royal automobile cried shame on Verdi. Three blasts and a half. Her Highness’s master of ceremony, at the foot of the staircase, rapped frantically; the doorkeeper rushed forward with an enormous umbrella, though the sky was clear; Baron Reiff looked daggers, and conversation was cut as by the executioner’s axe.
Narrow lips frozen together under a carroty-greyish moustache with points threatening the white of his eyes; face a dead yellow; a masterful, defiant chin thrust forward; eyes flashing, but dark of aspect in general appearance despite his white, red and silver accoutrements, the War Lord strode into the Chancellor’s room.
He looked so stony, a stranger both to joy and pity, that Herr von Bohlen told Bertha afterwards that the War Lord seemed, to him, like a man whose veins were clogged with salt and clay instead of running warm blood.