GUARDIANS OF THE GREAT.

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 661, 14 January 1933, Page 22 (Supplement)

GUARDIANS OF THE GREAT.

INTIMATE CONTACT WITH ROYALTY

WHEN THE KING OF ENGLAND SPLASHED CHAMPAGNE OVER THE QUEEN —MORE EXPLOITS OF XAVIER PAOLI—BEATEN BY ITALIAN ANARCHISTS PRINCE OF WALES LIKE GRANDFATHER EX-KING ALFONSO’S COURAGE.

(By

EDWIN T. WOODHALL.

-All Rights Reserved.)

“Monsieur Paoli —** Xavier Paoli, tlie celebrated French guarding detective of the sSurete Generale, looked up to see the Honourable l)erek Keppel standing in the corridor of the railway train, lot-king into his compartment. “Monsieur Paoli/* said the messenger, 1 “I am commanded by Their Royal Highnesses to reques* you to g>ve them the pleasure of your company at luncheon in the Royal saloon.** The detective smiled with a flash of white teeth. “But yes! I shall be delighted!** A moment later Paoli entered the saloon of the Royal train which was bear- ! ing the present English King and Queen (then Prince and Princess of Wales; this was in 1908) from Paris on a sight-seeing . tour of France. j A valet had just brought in the luncheon basket and a delightful meal was being laid on the centre table. The Princess set the knives, forks, plates, and glass tumblers in position, and Paoli found himself aiding the Lady Eva Dugdale and the French scholar M. Hua in the arrange-, ment of the dishes of food. __ It was a happy meal and absolutely Without ceremony. Paoli, an old friend of the English Royal family and now responsible for the safety of the two distinguished visitors, was a welcome guest. The present King, laughing as the meal began, told Paoli how enchanted he was with France and the French people, saying, “No wonder my father (King Edward) admires France so much. I must come and see you more often.’* Then, as the Princess was carving the poultry, and Paoli was handing round the plates, the Prince opened a bottle of eham- j pagne, the train rocked slightly round a curve, the cork flew out with a bang like a pistol shot and the frothy liquor squirted out all over the Princess* • dress! Far from being annoyed, the Princess was very much amused, and amidst laughter she 'wiped off the champagne from her dress with a serviette proffered by Paoli, and continued with the meal. It is almost certain that this was Paoli’s last commission to guard English Royalty. In the days of my detective novitiate at New Scotland Yard I heard many stories told of the courage, resource and perspicacity of M. Xavier Paoli, the greatest of all French guarding detectives, and I have seen the letter which marked his disappearance from the ranks of the watchers behind the throne. The letter was from Lord Stamfordham. Comptroller of the Household of the King of England, and read as follows:

Marlborough House, Pall Mall, S.W. February 28, 1909. Ay Dear Paoli, Your letter to me of the 24th inst., has been laid before the Prince and Princess of Wales, who received with feelings of deep regret the announcement that you had asked for and obtained permission to retire. Their Royal Highnesses are indeed aorry to think that they will never again have the advantage of your valuable services, so efficiently and faithfully rendered, and which always greatly conduced to the pleasure and comfort of their Royal Highnesses* stay in France. At the same time the Prince and Princess rejoice to know that you will now enjoy a well-merited repose after forty-two years of an anxious and strenuous service: and they trust you may live to enjoy many years of health and happiness. Their Royal Highnesses are greatly touched by your words of loyal devotion, and thank you heartily for these kind sentiments. As to myself, the thought of your retirement reminds me that a precious link with the. past, and especially with the memory of our great and beloved Queen Victoria, is now broken. I remember so well the first time we met at Modane when Her Majesty was travelling to Italy, and you will ever be inseparably connected in my thoughts with those happy days spent in Her M*jestv*s service in France. Good-bye, my dear Paoli, and believe me to be your ojd and devoted friend, Arthur Bigge (Lord Stamfordham). Fondness For Kings. Of King Edward and King George, Paoli always spoke in the most affectionate and loyal terms. They always asked for him immediately upon landing on French soil, and the bluff, hearty King Edward would call out cheerily, “Aha. Still young and flourishing, Paoli?** Paoli says that King Edward loved to show his knowldge of European matters; he even knew the box-office receipts of the big theatres where successes or failures had been staged, for he was a keen theatre patron. On one occasion the King was staying at his usual pied-a-terre in Paris, the Hotel Bristol, and learned that the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt was Slaying in Paris. “I must see her act! e said. . , , a , Thus it was that the great Sarah was interrupted during her breakfast by a telephone call from a gentleman who refused to give his name. Annoved, Sarah, declined to answer the call. But the servant who brought the message returned again, very apologetic but insistent. , “The gentleman says that madame must come to the ’phone herself. She will know who it is and understand when she speaks to Now quite angry, the actress snatched up the ’phone and asked sharply to whom was she speaking. „ , , . “It is the King of England speaking from the Hotel Bristol! I am sorry to trouble you, but can I have a box for your theatre to-night?” Naturally, the King could have had a box by sending along Paoli, Macarthy or the manager immediately—but he had proffered his request just to give the actress the pleasure of personal courtesy. Sarah Bernhardt never refused to answer nameless telephone calls after that! Under the watchful eyes of Paoli, Macarthy, or Sir Patrick Quinn, the late King Edward went off on all sorts A miniature explorations in France. During one of his stays at Marseilles/ before embarking on his Mediterranean cruise, they were returning from a long motor drive, when a heavy thunder storm caught them, and the King halted his car to stop at a little cafe in the village of Tholouet. The innkeeper of this modest little Mediterranean Coast cafe was out when the Royal suite called, but his wife went on with the serving. Presently the proprietor returned, and seeing the King in the far room, with his back towards him, mistook him in the dim light for one of his particular friends. “What’s the matter Gravery—you look smart to-day—has anyone left you a fortune?” And he walked over to slap the King on the back. Paoli leapt to his feet, interposing only just in time to tell him he was in the presence of “L’Roi de Angleterre.” The innkeeper’s face went red and white in turns, but the King only laughed. And to-day tourists may still see the chair, the glass and the bottle from which the King of England drank—the most cherished possession of the man who mistook royalty for a villager. One great tragedy overshadowed Paoli’s life. The Empress Elizabeth of Austria was about to visit Switzerland, travelling overland from Vienna, and Paoli was asked to travel from Paris to Geneva to guard the Royal person. The news of her impending departure caused him not a 4

I little perturbation, for from his secret 1 sources of information in many countries he had learned that a group of Italian anarchists were plotting to assassinate any members of the reigning house of . Austria that could be caught in the open, i Undoubtedly, said his informants, the blow would be struck now. Frantic, Paoli . telegraphed warning messages to Vienna, asking that the journey be delayed, and that the bodyguard be doubled, and great vigilance exercised. Arrived Too Late. Too late! The Empress had started on her trip. I The famous detective at once hastened ! to {Switzerland. All the way from Paris to Geneva he was tortured by fears. Would he be in time to prevent disaster? j Alighting on the station platform, he 1 saw groups of people engaged in excited discussion, consternation on their faces. He paid no particular attention, however, for he was in a hurry, and hailing a cab, told the man to drive to where the Empress was staying—the Hotel Beau Rivage. They had not travelled more than twenty yards, when the driver turned round on his box seat, saying: “What an awful crime!” “What crime?” said Paoli. “Haven’t you heard?” The Empress of Austria was assassinated this afternoon!” Horrified, Paoli learned that the Empress had been stabbed through the heart by an Italian anarchist, when about to embark on the 1.40 p.m. steamer for Territet. The man had pushed through the crowd round the gangway and seized his opportunity, slipping away quickly ; into the throng. She sank down on the i Quai du Mont Blanc; the people round ! her thought she had fainted, and carried her on board the boat. When they bent over her it was to find Elizabeth, last beautiful Empress of the House of Hapsburg—dead! Paoli was like a stricken man for days afterwards. “I have failed,” he told his friends.

“But it was not your fault,” they protested, “y°u were summoned too late. You did all you could—” “I have failed in my mission,” said Paoli, “and that is the one thing a guarding detective must never do.” But there is humour as well as tragedy in the profession of the guarding detective. I recall several amusing incidents of my own days as a Royal guardian, and most of them centred round those two Royal persons between whom there is a strong .resemblance—the late King Edward and the present Prince of Wales. In many ways grandfather and grandson proved alike. They were both “good mixers,” exceedingly interested in the lives and needs of their subjects, chafing at restraint and the ever-present surveillance of we detectives, and quick to seize every opportunity to outwit us. Dodging the detectives became a kind of game with them both. Most kings are exceedingly careful not to get mixed up in crowds and always adhere scrupulously to the clearly defined programme that is arranged for them, but old King Edward took special delight in throwing all plans out of gear, in tearing up his programme with a grin at the dismay of his entourage. For instance, if his destination could be reached by two routes —one crowded with cheery, noisy people, the other quiet and secluded—King Edward would always choose the crowded way and push and jostle his way through with great good humour. Sometimes he would be recognised, and then we unfortunate guardians had a hectic time protecting him from effusive admirers. The present King George V. of England never causes the slightest anxiety, and works his way methodically through every social programme. Battfe of Wits. I found the Prince very similar. He too possessed what Kipling calls “the common touch,” the knack of being able to leei at home in any company, able to nnd a medium of conversation with the humblest and the highest of his countrym??~7and * ou , n d him even more diffig, uar< * than his grandfather! He loathed the idea of being guarded when soldiering in France, during the World War. He wanted to -be with the tommies, mixing with the rough and tumble of men in dug-outs and billets, sharing their life, “doing his bit.” Every morning the Prince used to join with me in a battle of wits. He would try to dodge me for the rest of the day, and 1 would try to follow him. He knew peifectly well that I had a report to make tq my superiors each evening, detailing his movements during thfe day, and more than once when he had scored a victory and eluded my watchful eye in the morning. he would meet me at night and laughingly say: Now, Woodhall, I’ll help you to make the report out.” Roj '? l guardian and servant of the 1 alace whom I have met agrees with me that he is the living counterpart of King Edward, whose views ou “protective surveillance were summed up when he sai lj\, to K ,n « Alfonso of Spain:—“Well, well! I m very fond of these detectives, but it does them good to have to run around.” And the King of Spain agreed. Alfonso, now in exile, lias borne a charmed life. More than a dozen attempts have been made to assassinate him during Jms reign. Railway trains have been derailed, shots fired, bombs flung, knives thrown, but no assassin hit the mark. Alfonso must be one of the most courageous men alive. Only recently in Marseilles, during his exile, he was attacked by a workman, and retaliated by a well-timed “uppercut” blow that effectively defeated the assailant. Courage is the greatest of all manly attributes, and I shall always think of Alfonso as the boy of nineteen with the laughing eyes, who sat in a wrecked carriage after a vicious bomb attack by anarchists, and 6miled as he told the French President that such incidents are the normal risks of kingship. Of assassins, Alfonso once said:

“Come to think of it, I prefer revolvers to bombs; they do not scatter; you are hit, or you succeed in dodging the bullets. In either case you do not feel responsible for having caused the death of innocent onlookers.”