Ranklin reached up to lay a restraining hand on his chest. “I don’t think you’ve met the Archduke Franz Ferdinand before, have you? Well, you’ve met him now. Sit down and have a cognac.”
O’Gilroy let himself be pushed, more gently this time, into a chair, and sat there fizzing like an unexploded shell. Ranklin filled the time until their coffee and cognacs arrived by lighting, then relighting, his pipe; it was an unfamiliar French tobacco and he had packed it too loosely.
When O’Gilroy had gulped half his brandy and sipped most of the rest, he had calmed down enough to say: “So that fat dogrobber’s the Emperor’s son, ye say?”
“No, his nephew, but still the next Emperor. Franz Josef’s son committed suicide nearly fifteen years ago (you can take your pick of stories about that one). Then the Empress got murdered a year later. When you think of it, the old boy’s had a tough row to hoe. And people respect him: the old-fashioned virtues.”
“Like having more manners than a bedbug.”
“So I believe.”
“Be an interesting day when that bastard comes Emperor.”
“Ye-es, I fancy it’ll take more than a drill-corporal’s manner to hold the Monarchy together: the Hungarians loathe him, you’ll find. And he’s supposed to be one of the War Party – anxious to take on Serbia, even Russia – along with the Army chief, Conrad. But if it doesn’t offend you too deeply, I can tell you one sympathetic story about him.”
O’Gilroy looked at him with quiet but total disbelief. “Make it with the Little People and pots of gold and mebbe I’ll listen.”
“He married for love, and not the right woman to be Empress. Just a countess – though she’s a duchess now – Sophie Chotek. They tried everything to dissuade him, but he went right ahead. So he had to sign away her right to be Empress and their children’s rights to become anything. That’s what true love does for you.”
“The tears are running down me leg. And what did he give up for himself? – not becoming Emperor, I observe.”
“That’s true,” Ranklin admitted, not having looked at the story from that angle before. “But he became a bit of an outcast. Viennese society’s very catty about them, and her in particular. He spends most of his time with the Army.”
“God help the Army, then.”
That, Ranklin accepted, was a reasonable request. But Franz Ferdinand was presumably heading for Vienna today – and presumably on Army business. Why right now?
Most of the European passengers ended their journey at Vienna, being politely delayed until the Archduke and his colleagues had gone. There was no ceremony, only two men waiting for a quick exchange of salutes and bows, then all striding away through a crowd of dipping heads.
When the other passengers had gone, Ranklin and O’Gilroy got down to stretch their legs and buy newspapers and illustrated magazines: along with news, Ranklin wanted to put faces to the names of Austro-Hungarian society and hierarchy. They were still pacing in slow circles when the Hornbeam entourage arrived: Corinna, Hornbeam himself, daughter Lucy, various well-fed grandees and enough porters to help discover the source of the Nile.
Corinna greeted them. “Evening, boys. Is this the right train for the mysterious East? Don’t walk in step, you look like you’ve been in the Army.”
She was a meadow breeze in the warm grimy air of the Westbahnhof and they both grinned as they raised their hats. So did the Chef de Brigade as he saluted and bowed simultaneously – a gesture that only the French can do with conviction.
She recognised him, of course. “Good evening, Monsieur Claude. Have we got time for coffee before we dress? Hop aboard, boys; what news on the Rivoli?”
They had already been treated as the elite – as they should have been, on that train – but for the next few hours to Budapest Ranklin foresaw they would be the select elite. Probably there still remained the especially select elite treatment, perhaps reserved for polite archdukes, if one ever got born, but Ranklin wasn’t complaining. He hopped aboard.
Corinna dictated the seating for dinner, so that Ranklin shared a four-place table with Hornbeam and Lucy whilst she partnered O’Gilroy at a two-seater.
“Do you know Budapest well, Mr Ranklin?” Lucy asked. “Somebody told me it looks a lot like Paris.” She had a sharp, intelligent, but not yet sensitive, face and manner. Her dress and hair style were perfect but not quite part of her, as if she were an understudy suddenly called on to play the leading role.
“Budapest’s got a number of wide boulevards,” Ranklin recalled, “and was mostly built in the last century, so …”
“But in Vienna they said it’s just a poor imitation of Vienna.”
“They would. Yes, there’s a lot of rivalry – ”
“Do you know Vienna well? I think it’s a wonderful place. The people are so gallant and gay, and the palaces! – only they don’t let you into them, like in Paris.”
“I told you, sweetheart,” Hornbeam said, quietly amused, “you’ll have to wait until they see the light and become a republic. Then you’ll be able to visit the palaces.”
“Well, I think it’s just mean of them. And the Emperor was out of town and the Archduke. We met a couple of archdukes – did you know there were seventy archhdukes? – but not the wicked Archduke Franzie.”
Hornbeam winced; Ranklin said gravely: “The Archduke had lunch in this very dining-car today on his way to Vienna.”
“Oh, he didn’t! What was he like?”
Ranklin thought of referring her to O’Gilroy, but perhaps she was too young. “Very Archducal,” he said lamely.
“We’d heard,” Hornbeam said, “that he was hunting near Salzburg.”
“That’s where he got on. You didn’t happen to hear why he might be in Vienna just now?”
Hornbeam shook his head, perhaps reluctant to get involved in gossip. But Lucy waded in, lowering her voice and almost licking her lips. “They say he has crazy rages sometimes, that’s why he has to stay in the country, and people won’t go hunting with him because he’s shot one servant already and had to hush it up.”
“Sweetheart,” Hornbeam looked uneasy, “I don’t think we should believe every story we heard in Vienna – do you, Mr Ranklin?” he appealed.
“I think one should take most Viennese stories as plots for operettas rather than as factual reports.”
“Well, that’s what we heard,” Lucy said firmly, “and I believe there’s no smoke without gunfire, so. Are you staying in the same hotel as we are, Mr Ranklin? It’s on a place called Margaret Island. Do you know it? They say it’s very peaceful but right in the middle of the city like living in Central Park …”
Just how Lucy had managed to hear anything in Vienna above the sound of her own voice baffled Ranklin. But for the moment he was happy for her to answer her own questions, since his own knowledge of Budapest came from recent reading on top of a brief tourist visit many years before.
The train moved more slowly and swayed more as they trundled out of Europe’s drawing-room country and into its darker and more exotic back parlours. Onion- and half-onion-domed churches raised their silhouettes against the darkening sky, and Ranklin watched O’Gilroy watching the landscape jog by, attentive but non-committal.
With Lucy for once trying to be silent, since she was eating a peach, Ranklin had a chance to prompt Hornbeam: “I hear your talks went well in Vienna, sir?”
“Why, yes, I’m inclined to believe they did. And maybe did a little good, too. I think it’s time for the countries of Europe to be considering matters of international law right now. Did I understand from Corinna that you were at the Embassy in Paris last week?”
“That’s right, sir. I found it fascinating – though I confess some of it was rather deep for me.”
Hornbeam smiled benignly and stroked his white moustache. It was the same voice coming across the table as had filled the Embassy ballroom, only the volume was precisely controlled – as you might expect of an experienced lawyer. Ranklin saw why actors and lawyers studied each other’s delivery.