The Chevalier and Cyril were personæ gratissimæ at Court that day, and the latter took advantage of the fact to accomplish another piece of business connected with the Palestine scheme which was destined to astonish the Princess of Dardania when she heard of it. Meanwhile, the Chevalier presented himself as an ambassador of authority and peace at a hastily convened meeting of the representatives of the gas company. The members of the committee were already alarmed by the success of their bold step, and he plunged them into a state of abject terror by hinting at an intention on the part of the government to confiscate the works and carry them on for the public benefit. When they had been reduced to a sufficiently pitiable condition, he raised them suddenly to the seventh heaven by disclosing the arrangement which had been made, and sent them home happy in the prospect of saving something from the wreck. Their defection cut the ground from under the feet of Dr Texelius, who was the next person visited by the financier, and whose only regret hitherto had been that he dared not venture into the streets to observe the working of his revenge. His short-lived satisfaction was ended by the peremptory order to quit Vindobona, and he almost wished that he had not indulged in his trip to the city when he found himself listening to the upbraidings of the Chevalier, who charged him roundly with doing his utmost to ruin the cause of Israel.
The crestfallen philosopher was making his way on foot to the station the next morning, shadowed at a distance by two police officers in plain clothes, when a carriage containing two men drove past him. Although Dr Texelius had prudently kept his name concealed, for fear of the attentions of the populace, the mere fact that he was a Jew had made it impossible for him to procure a cab to convey him to the railway, and his luggage was being carried by a hanger-on of the police. But if the inhabitants of Vindobona were unconscious of the identity of their illustrious guest, the second secretary of the Scythian Embassy, who was one of the occupants of the carriage, was more fortunate.
“Look there!” he said to his companion, to whom he had been recounting with great spirit the humours of the preceding day, “that is the redoubtable Texelius himself. I used to see him continually when I was in South Germany.”
“Would it be possible to express one’s sympathy with the eminent philosopher?”
“Scarcely, Prince—in public, at least. Look at those two fellows behind. They would have a fine story to tell if they saw you speak to him.”
“You are right; they must not see it. Yet it would be a thousand pities if I could not speak to him. Volodia, my dear boy, do you think we could drive back to the station for a moment? I have unfortunately forgotten to inquire about my train.”
“Of course—as many moments as you like.” Prince Soudaroff’s godson knew something of his methods of working. “Am I to do anything?”
“Only watch me, and when I succeed in approaching Texelius, distract the attention of the detectives for a second or so.”
“Very well, Prince.” The secretary was not without practice in work of the kind, so that when Dr Texelius had finished haggling with his porter over his charge, he found himself confronted by a dapper gentleman, exquisitely dressed, whose grey moustache was waxed into points of needle-like sharpness.
“I have the honour of addressing the Herr Professor Texelius?” said the stranger hurriedly in German, laying one finger on his lips.
“I am that most shamefully ill-used man,” snorted Dr Texelius.
“You would like to expose the Mortimer?”
The philosopher’s eyes sparkled. “Only give me the chance!”
The other drew out a sealed envelope, and slipped it into his hand. “That will provide you with the means of doing so. Hide it at once. I am Soudaroff.”
With a dexterity which a professional conjurer might have envied, Dr Texelius made the packet vanish up his sleeve. “It shall be done,” he said.
“When does your paper appear?”
“The day after to-morrow.”
“Let it come out then without fail. Any delay will spoil the effect.”
“It shall be inserted.”
The colloquy, which had scarcely lasted a moment, was over, and the speakers moved apart, Prince Soudaroff to return to his godson, and Dr Texelius to take his place in the train, chuckling with delight over the thought that he had now the means of ruining Cyril and annoying the Chevalier Goldberg at one blow. His revenge would draw down upon him instant punishment from the Chevalier, he knew, but he could afford to disregard that in the joy of the moment.
CHAPTER VIII.
“A KIND OF WILD JUSTICE.”
The business which had called Cyril to Vindobona once ended, he returned to Ludwigsbad with Mansfield, to find awaiting him at the hotel a note from Princess Soudaroff, couched in very urgent terms, and entreating him to come and see her that evening, as she was leaving the baths the next day with Usk and Philippa.
“Do you care to come with me, Mansfield?” he asked, tossing the note across to his secretary.
The smile of gratification which overspread Mansfield’s features at the question disappeared with startling suddenness, for the cuts on his face were still painful, and he murmured dolefully that he was not fit to go anywhere.
“Didn’t know you were so keen about your personal appearance,” said Cyril. “Nonsense! come at once.”
His objections disposed of in this summary fashion, Mansfield submitted with the best grace in the world when Cyril took him by the arm and fairly led him out of the house. Arrived at the gate of Princess Soudaroff’s lodgings, the prisoner found himself suddenly released.
“You may as well wait out here for a minute or two,” said Cyril. “I must explain the origin of your facial adornments, and I’m afraid you would blush yourself to death if you were listening. How many years is it, I wonder, since I was able to blush? I’ll call you in when I have finished.”
In this considerate intention Cyril was foiled by Usk and Philippa, who had been watching for his approach from the verandah, and came to meet him. Mansfield showed signs of a desire to escape, but Cyril seized him again and explained briefly that the fellow had saved his life, and had repented of the deed ever since. Having thus placed matters on a right footing, he went into the house to find the Princess, leaving the three young people together, Usk, with awestruck face, plying Mansfield with every conceivable variety of question. As for Philippa, the tears which threatened to overflow forbade her speaking, but she proffered timidly such little services as occurred to her, seating the hero in an easy-chair, and bringing him, in spite of his protests, a cushion and a footstool. When her further suggestions had been gratefully but firmly declined, she sat down and gazed at him with an expression that made the young man’s heart beat wildly.
“Oh, I say, Lady Phil,” he protested incoherently; “you mustn’t make so much of it. It wasn’t anything, really.”
“He would have been killed but for you,” persisted Philippa; “and you are dreadfully hurt.”
“Nothing but a bruise, truly; and these scratches on my face—not half as bad as those German fellows get in their college duels. I’m ashamed to be tied up so aggressively; but the doctor would do it.”
“Of course,” said Philippa wisely. “And you ought to be proud of your pieces of plaster. I am.”
“No accounting for tastes,” said Usk; for Mansfield was unable to do more than beam gratefully upon Philippa. “Did you get any chance of paying back the chap that threw the stone, old man?”
While Mansfield was fighting the battle o’er again in answer to the questions showered upon him, Cyril had found his way to Princess Soudaroff’s sitting-room. The old lady looked up with a smile as he entered. “We were expecting you,” she said.
“After the blood-curdling note you sent me, you couldn’t well do less, Princess. Please relieve my mind as soon as possible. What is wrong?”
“It was a conversation I had with Philippa that made me send for you. Have you noticed how unhappy she has been looking lately?”
Cyril shook his head solemnly. “Princess, Princess, if you have got a clergyman concealed in the next room, and want me to let my secretary marry Phil on the spot, I must tell you frankly I won’t do it. It wouldn’t be fair to Caerleon and Nadia.”
“As though I should dream of such a thing!” Princess Soudaroff was more nearly angry than Cyril had ever seen her. “A clandestine marriage for my darling Phil, and under my auspices! Lord Cyril, you should be ashamed of yourself for suggesting it. No, Philippa’s anxiety, and mine too, is all on your account.”
“Ought I to be more flattered by your interest, or grieved for your anxiety, Princess?”
“You are incorrigible, Lord Cyril. I assure you I am absolutely in earnest. Phil is making herself miserable with the notion that you are in love with the Princess of Dardania, although I have done my best to show her its absurdity. No man who had loved Queen Ernestine, however imperfectly, could transfer his affections to the woman who wrecked her happiness.”
“Your sentiments are mine, Princess.”
“Then what are you doing? Your passion for the Princess has become a by-word in her household. Even Princess Lida amused herself with it in talking to Phil. You cannot profess to be ignorant of this, Lord Cyril. You are not the man to drift into such a position blindfold, and I can only judge that you have some object in pursuing this course.”
“See what it is to have at hand a critic acquainted with all the follies of one’s youth! I must congratulate you upon your clear-sightedness, Princess.”
“But you and she have been enemies too long to work together with any confidence. It must be in the hope of improving your political position that you are trying to induce her to marry you.”
“No, Princess; there you are wrong.” Cyril spoke with a firmness that carried conviction. “Nothing on earth could make me marry the Princess of Dardania, or any woman in the world but Ernestine. I don’t know why I should tell you this, except that I suspect you to be in communication with Ernestine, and I don’t want to add to her troubles.”
“Then you still love Ernestine?”
“I still love Ernestine—have always loved her—though I own that for a few days I thought I should be glad never to see her again. She thwarted me, and at the time I could think of nothing but punishing her. I won’t cant and say that I suffered as much as she did; but when I turned my back on her, I punished myself. The want of her has tormented me ever since.”
“And now you are making love to her cousin!”
“I see you don’t understand me yet, Princess. I cherish a hope—a dream, you may call it—of finding my way some day to Ernestine, and entreating her forgiveness—her compassion. But something else must come first.”
“And what is that?”
“The woman who separated us has to be dealt with.”
“You are deliberately deceiving the unhappy creature?”
“You will make me conceited, Princess. Is it for me to plume myself upon having produced an impression upon the heart of her Royal Highness?”
The Princess waived the evasion away impatiently. “You are seeking to revenge yourself upon a woman.”
“When a woman has twice pitted her wits successfully against mine, Princess, she is entitled to be treated as a man.”
“But who are you, to revenge yourself upon her?”
“Simply a man she has injured. I treat her as she treated Ernestine.”
“As you treated Ernestine, you mean. Your hands are no cleaner than hers. It was your wounded ambition that enabled her to separate you from the Queen.”
“I don’t deny it, Princess. I behaved like a brute, I know—possibly like a fool, which is worse. But she has ruined young Michael, inflicted enormous injury upon Thracia, and hunted Ernestine rancorously from place to place.”
“You gave her the opportunity of doing it all. And think; you speak of returning to Ernestine. Would she wish you to avenge her wrongs in this way?”
“Certainly not; but then I don’t do it to gratify her. I tell you, Princess, a few days ago I had almost decided to be satisfied with the political portion of my revenge, and to forego the rest of it. Then the woman took it into her head to boast in my presence of her cruelty to Ernestine—to flaunt her own insolent charms in contrast with Ernestine’s misery—intending, I suppose, to complete her conquest of me; and I swore that she should have no mercy, since she showed none. That is why I am going on to the bitter end.”
“But how can you expect a blessing on what you are doing?”
Cyril’s momentary fury cooled into mild impatience. “My dear Princess, I am not in search of a blessing. What I want is revenge.”
“Think what sorrow you have brought upon Queen Ernestine already. Can you—dare you—expose her, when your lives are linked together, to the retribution which must follow upon this plot of yours?”
“I can bear my own punishment, Princess. It would be a singularly unjust dispensation of Providence that visited my sins on Ernestine. I fancy that had not occurred to you, had it?”
“Her love for you will make your punishment hers. She would not escape it if she could. Do you forget that the Princess of Dardania is an unscrupulous and vindictive woman? She is not likely to allow herself to be slighted with impunity, and she may make your life with Ernestine a misery to both of you.”
“If I succeed this time, Princess, the luck will have turned, and I am not afraid of its turning again.”
“Lord Cyril, will nothing turn you from your purpose? I have known you now for many years, and each time that I see you leaves a sadder impression on my mind than the last. It seems to me that God must deal with you very signally before you will learn to give up your own way. I am an old woman, on the very border of the grave, and I do entreat you, by any kindness you may have for me, by your love for Ernestine, by the great work in which you are engaged, to relinquish this plan of revenge.”
The old lady bent forward with clasped hands, panting in her eagerness, her eyes fixed anxiously on Cyril’s face. He met her look with good-humoured frankness.
“Really, Princess, I am sorry not to be able to please you. One doesn’t often get a chance of redressing the inequalities of the world a little, and I can’t give it up when it comes.”
“Then I feel it my duty to say that I intend to warn the Princess of Dardania against you. I shall postpone my journey for a day, and ask for an interview with her. I shall make no use of what you have told me, of course; to bear of my own suspicions should serve to put her on her guard.”
“As you please, Princess. Her Royal Highness may possibly prefer my word to yours, after all. How can the poor old lady be so quixotic as to show me her hand?” he asked himself as he went out. “It only means that I must be at the villa first.”
A cipher telegram from Czarigrad was awaiting him when he returned to his hotel. “Scythian opposition withdrawn; concession will probably be granted in a day or two,” it ran, and Cyril smiled.
“I think that for many reasons to-morrow will be a good day for undeceiving her Royal Highness, and possibly for electrifying the world,” he said to himself, all unconscious that Dr Texelius had already prepared the way for both processes, by means of the indictment so considerately drawn up by Prince Soudaroff.
When Cyril repaired to the villa early the next day, he was ushered into the great drawing-room, which he found deserted, almost for the first time in his experience. The servant who had admitted him went to seek Countess Birnsdorf, but had no sooner closed the door behind him than Cyril heard the Countess’s voice in the inner room.
“The Princess Soudaroff is very anxious to wait upon you, madame.”
“What, that old heretic?” Like other converts, the Princess was inclined to be more orthodox than the Orthodox themselves. “I don’t want to listen to her sermons. She hopes to convert me, I suppose? No, Birnsdorf, I won’t see her.”
“I think, madame, that her only wish is to express her thanks for your kindness to her god-daughter, Lady Philippa.”
“That is quite unnecessary. I sent a message to her by the girl, requesting her not to give herself the trouble. I can’t stand these psalm-singing Evangelicals, although I tolerated little Philippa for the sake of—her family.” Cyril smiled, gathering from this remark that the household at the villa had found Philippa’s society as little congenial as she had found theirs.
“The lady is very old, madame,” ventured the Countess, “and she seems extremely desirous to see you. She entreated me——”
“I tell you, Birnsdorf, I won’t see her. What impertinence! Tell her that I am engaged—that I am always engaged at this hour. As though I should put off Count Mortimer for the sake of receiving her! Didn’t you say you saw him coming? Bring him in, if he has arrived.”
Cyril had moved noiselessly to the farther side of the drawing-room before Countess Birnsdorf lifted the curtain that hung over the doorway. He caught the look of annoyance on her face as she realised that the door between the two rooms was open, but he met her with an expression so absolutely unmoved as enabled her to comfort herself with the assurance that he could not have heard anything.
“Her Royal Highness will receive you, Count,” she said, and the Princess looked up with a very natural start as he passed under the curtained doorway. She was reading a newspaper, which Cyril recognised immediately as the ‘Jewish Colonist,’ a journal conducted by Dr Texelius in German and Jargon, to promote the agricultural and commercial development of Palestine, and its re-population by the Hebrew race. It was not quite the kind of paper one would expect to find in the hands of a great lady of rigidly Orthodox views, but there could be no doubt that the Princess was deeply interested in it.
“Well, Count, are you come to scathe me with bitter reproaches?” she cried, looking up from the closely printed page.
“Alas, madame! your conscience must have outrun my just indignation. I was not even aware I had been injured until now.”
“What a misfortune it is to be in too great a hurry!” cried the Princess. “I thought, of course, that you had heard of my treachery from our friend here, and were come to denounce me. There is no hope of hiding it from you now.”
She handed him the paper, which displayed in a conspicuous position the announcement that it would appear no more under its present editorship. An editorial note explained that Dr Texelius, aware that his independent course was distasteful to the proprietor of the journal, felt it his duty to throw up his post and wreck the paper. His position thus indicated, the editor proceeded to business. He had always, he said, doubted the disinterestedness of Count Mortimer, but he had forborne to ventilate his suspicions until accident had shown them to be entirely justified. The man who posed as the high-minded friend of Israel was merely a vulgar schemer, seeking to exploit the greatest movement of the age for his own benefit. His ambition had led him to lend a ready ear to the blandishments of Scythia, the natural enemy of Zion, and he had fallen victim to the wiles of a Delilah hired to entrap him. While deceiving his unfortunate supporters, he had been deceived himself. The post of Governor of Palestine had been promised him, together with the hand of his enchantress, as the price of his care of Scythian interests throughout the negotiations, and in consideration of a large sum of money he was to resign his position in favour of a Scythian nominee immediately after his election. There had never been the slightest intention of keeping faith with him, however. The lady, whose identity was not obscurely hinted at, had held him in play as long as he was useful, only to cast him aside when she had done with him. He had betrayed Jewish interests in vain, and now that it suited Scythia to throw him over, he stood revealed in all his baseness as a faithless agent and an unsuccessful traitor. Through this indictment, couched in terms which did not err on the side of refinement, Cyril glanced carelessly, and, having read it, handed it back to the Princess.
“Well, what have you to say?” she asked him.
“I am utterly at a loss, madame. I have nothing to say.”
“What, Count! you don’t even feel called upon to testify the slightest sorrow for the way in which my name is involved in your proceedings?—for it is impossible for any one not to see who is meant.”
“Ah, madame, my assailant has displayed a scrupulous regard for your feelings. You are the conqueror throughout, not the victim.”
“Then you accept the rôle of victim, Count?”
“Even so, madame. What can I do but acknowledge your triumph and ask your gracious leave to retire? A discredited traitor is no fit associate for your Royal Highness.”
“Stop, Count! You have carried on this farce long enough. Why pretend to take the man’s nonsense seriously? You know as well as I do that whoever may have been deceived, you were not.”
“What, madame! Are you trying to restore my lost self-esteem! to re-establish your empire over me, according to Dr Texelius?” Cyril was smiling.
“Pray, Count, be serious. What is the object of raising a new barrier between us at this moment, when this kind enemy of yours has unintentionally broken them all down? The hero and heroine occupy the stage, every eye is fixed upon them, and the stupid audience, which thinks it has followed the play with the deepest attention, anticipates what it imagines to be the dénoûment. But it is mistaken, for it has failed to see what was before its eyes. The true dénoûment is the simplest, the most unconventional possible—all honour to the actors who have grafted it on so hackneyed a plot.”
“I fear I am very dense, madame. Am I to understand that you and I have been acting some comedy for the edification of the spectators? or should it be a tragedy?”
“Why play upon words, Count? A tragedy is what the audience expected, undoubtedly, for the fall of a great man is far more tragic than his death, but the slightest possible alteration in the original motif makes a happy ending not only natural, but inevitable.”
“My stupidity is colossal, madame. Might I venture to entreat you to point out to me the alteration to which you refer?”
“Are you trying to tease me, Count? The audience saw only a pair of politicians, each striving to outwit the other. But on the stage were a man and woman playing into each other’s hands.”
“With reference to what, madame?”
“You are indeed dense, my dear Count.” There was some irritation in the Princess’s tone. “You force me to speak with disagreeable plainness. They were playing for a crown and a ring. But why this extraordinary display of ignorance in a matter you have discussed with me for weeks?”
“It seems to me, madame, that one of the actors on the stage was under the same delusion as the audience. Would it suit your Royal Highness to drop metaphor for a moment, and let us see how we stand?”
The Princess was genuinely puzzled. She lifted her eyes to Cyril’s face, but discovered there no response to her smile. Was it possible that the man had misunderstood her from the beginning? No, it was merely that he was cautious, he would not commit himself without specific encouragement. “You cannot have forgotten our compact already?” she cried merrily.
“I was not aware that there was any compact between us, madame.”
The Princess began to perceive whither all this tended. “Not that I was to make you Prince of Palestine? and you——” she stopped suddenly.
“Far from it, madame. My hopes have never climbed so high.”
Horror was taking hold upon her, but she was still unconquered. “Let them make the effort, then, Count. Otherwise Europe will see you as the traitor this journalist calls you. You are too deeply involved to draw back with honour. I hold your reputation in my hands, and Prince Soudaroff is behind me. Choose! Safety and——” she touched the wedding-ring on her finger, “or——”
“Evidently, madame, you are unaware that I have just recommended the Emperor of Pannonia to nominate Prince Franz Immanuel of Schwarzwald-Molzau as his candidate for the post—one of the posts—you are good enough to offer me. His religious opinions are so truly liberal—for in view of the uncertainty as to his future he has been brought up on an admirably eclectic system, so as to be ready for any country that may need a king—that he seems the very man for it.”
The vague terror which had seized the Princess became certainty. Her face hardened, her lips grew tense, and her right hand went swiftly to her head. Cyril understood the movement. The peasant-girls of Dardania carry in their hair a silver-hilted dagger as a part of their elaborate head-dress, and the Princess had worn the national costume constantly before her widowhood. He wondered mechanically whether she had contrived to retain the weapon under the folds of her cap, and if so, how many seconds he had to live. Almost before the thought had crossed his mind, however, the hand dropped again, empty. The dagger was not there. The Princess pointed silently to the door, and he bowed and retreated. Her voice arrested him before he reached the threshold.
“Why have you done this?” she demanded passionately. “Oh, I know—I have not forgotten your threat to revenge yourself on me. But that I should have been deceived by you—I!”
She sat for a moment without speaking, then rose and came towards him.
“Come, Count, you have had your revenge, and enjoyed it, no doubt. You had a right to it, I will confess, so let it pass. We are quits now. Why not start afresh? Purely as a matter of business, don’t you think you are very foolish to quarrel with me? You and I together could do anything we chose. What is the use of pitting our wits continually against each other? You know what I can do for you—you have no prospects otherwise. Let us blot out the last quarter of an hour. Why should not our compact remain in force? What do you say?” She laid her hand upon his arm, and behind her honeyed smile a passionate eagerness shone in her eyes and trembled upon her lips. Many men would have succumbed to the temptation of the woman and what she offered. Not so Cyril.
“I can only repeat, madame, that I know of no compact.”
She drew back from him and stood erect. “Then there is some other woman,” she said, absolute certainty in her voice. “Is it Ernestine?”
“It is Ernestine.”
“I wish you joy, then. Go!”
She pointed again to the door, and he went out, conscious that she would have sold her soul for a weapon ready to her hand, and that if wishes could kill, neither Ernestine nor he would live much longer. In the excitement of the moment the Princess had ordered him out by the private door at the back of the boudoir, instead of that opening into the large drawing-room. As he entered the anteroom a female figure quitted it hastily by the opposite door, and the Scythian Captain Roburoff tried to look as if he had been alone for some hours.
“Ah, Roburoff, you here?” said Cyril, nodding to him.
“Simply on an errand for his Majesty, Count. I was the bearer of a letter to her Royal Highness.”
“And you were tempering duty with pleasure when I came in?”
The Scythian’s face darkened. “Do you—would you insult—pray consider, Count——”
“My dear fellow, we were all young once, even ladies-in-waiting. I wish you an uninterrupted interview next time.”
“All the same,” murmured Cyril, as he quitted the villa by the private door, leaving Captain Roburoff reassured, “I am much mistaken if the young lady was not Princess Lida, and not a dame d’honneur at all. I fear there are further troubles in store for my poor friend the Princess; but after thrusting King Michael back upon the unhappy girl once already, I really can’t bring myself to spoil her plans a second time. I wonder how long they have been carrying on this affair?”
CHAPTER IX.
VERSIONS DIFFER.
“Birnsdorf!” said the Princess.
There was no answer. Truth to tell, poor Countess Birnsdorf was dozing in an uncomfortable high-backed chair in the great drawing-room, where she had remained during Cyril’s interview with her mistress, after delivering a softened version of the latter’s message to Princess Soudaroff. Her knitting and her spectacles were left behind in the anteroom beyond the boudoir, where Captain Roburoff was improving the shining hour in a way that would have made her hair stand on end had she known of it, and the low murmur of voices from the intervening room had lulled her to sleep. The imperious tone in which the Princess repeated her summons reached her ears, however, and she made her appearance, full of apologies, at the inner door. The Princess was sitting at the table, her head supported pensively upon her hand.
“If Count Mortimer should present himself here again, Birnsdorf, remember that I will not receive him,” she said.
“No, madame?” hazarded the Countess, consumed with curiosity. It was evident that the crisis which every member of the household had been anticipating, although the Princess had apparently been blind to its approach, had come; but how, and with what result?
“He would scarcely venture to show himself,” pursued the Princess, meditatively, “but one can never tell. And exciting scenes of the kind are too much for me. Positively, I cannot stand them. I am too tender-hearted.”
“Indeed, madame, it has made you look frightfully ill.” Countess Birnsdorf was horrified by the strained paleness of her mistress’s face. “You will permit me to summon a physician? No?” Then, her indignation increasing as the Princess shook her head with the smile of a martyr, “I could never have believed that Count Mortimer would forget himself so far as to persist in a conversation disagreeable to your Highness, even if he had the bad taste to enter upon it.”
“Ah, when these self-restrained men have once lost control of themselves, there is no holding them. Did you see the poor man go out, Birnsdorf?”
“No, madame. I am certain he did not pass through the drawing-room.”
“Oh no, of course. I allowed him to escape by the private stair. One does not wish to subject to public humiliation a man who is already unhappy, even though it is by his own fault.”
“Ah, madame, in presence of your angelic kindness, I do not wonder that the unhappy nobleman forgot himself.”
“Nonsense, Birnsdorf! You are a sad flatterer,” with pathetic sweetness. “Where is Lida?”
“I believe her Highness is walking in the gardens with Mlle. Delacroix, madame,” replied the Countess, with a perceptible sniff. The elderly Frenchwoman who had been Princess Lida’s governess, and was now her chosen confidant, played the part of Mordecai to Countess Birnsdorf’s Haman.
“Beg her to come to me when she returns to the house. I have something important to say to her.” The lady-in-waiting departed, and the Princess, finding herself alone, threw aside the mask for a moment. Her right hand clenched itself involuntarily, the left was pressed upon her heart as she rose and paced the room.
“Yes,” she said to herself, “I will be prudent. I cannot afford to fail again. Lida must be safely married, or I shall lose my only chance of returning to power. I must have some standing-ground from which to move my world—a recognised position in some country or other. But as soon as I am sure of my footing—then, Count, look to yourself! You shall not return to Ernestine. You may scorn me if you like, but she shall not have you. I will track you step by step when you try to slink back to her, and, when you think you have won her, I will come between you. I can tell her a few little truths that will place you in a new light, my dear Count!”
She laughed mirthlessly, and returned with a swift step to her seat at the table as she heard her daughter crossing the anteroom. There was a pretty mixture of triumph and girlish timidity in Princess Lida’s manner as she came into the room, and her shining eyes and rose-flushed cheeks were eloquent of shy happiness. At any other time her mother’s eagle glance would have perceived the change immediately, but now the Princess was too much engrossed with her own thoughts to observe it.
“Ah, Lida!” she said. “I wanted to tell you that I think it advisable to hasten on your wedding a little. It will be a year next month since your father died, and there is no reason why you should not be married the month after.”
“Oh, mamma!” faltered Princess Lida, in dire dismay. “Michael is such a boy,” she explained, recovering herself.
“He will be nineteen then. Many kings have been younger when they married.”
“But he is so—so disagreeable. You know, when I have complained to you of his behaviour, you have always said he would undergo a change and become quite different before we were married; but he hasn’t done anything of the kind yet. Lately he has been worse than ever.”
“Well, you will have the pleasure of superintending his reformation yourself. You are not the girl I think you if you can’t make him treat you with proper respect.”
“Oh, I am not afraid of that.” Princess Lida raised her dark head proudly. “But, mamma, I don’t see any reason for being in such a hurry. I don’t care to be married just yet.”
“My dear child, you talk as if you had only to hold up your finger and Michael would come whenever you chose to claim him. But that is not the case. He would be little Philippa’s bridegroom now if she would have taken him.”
“I only wish she had!”
“Lida, this is childish. Michael can give you a crown, and you don’t find crowns hanging on every bush. The eligible princes of Europe are not contending for the light of your beaux yeux, my dear—far from it. You must take what you can get, or you will end by getting nothing.”
“It’s very hard,” pouted Princess Lida, “that the only person I can get should be so horrid. Bettine had no trouble of this kind. Look how devoted Albrecht is to her.”
“I know he is, my dear child; but that can’t be helped. Bettine’s marriage was arranged for her just as yours was, and we could not tell how differently Michael and Albrecht would turn out. Of course circumstances were more favourable at the time of her wedding. Your father’s death, and your brother’s unkind behaviour in depriving us of a home, place us in a difficult position at present, and Michael does not show the consideration he might. But for your comfort, Lida, I will say this. Michael is one of the most pliable men I know, if you take him the right way. Once get rid of his present companions, and make yourself necessary to him, and he will be your devoted slave as long as you take care not to pull the chain too tight.”
“I should like to snap it at once. I don’t want to marry him. Mamma, you married for love, didn’t you?”
“My dear Lida!” The Princess was shocked. “Who has been talking to you of such things? You have picked up a wrong idea, of course. What really happened was only that when my father chose to turn against the lover whom he had himself recommended to me, I did not.”
“I knew that was it! And you married him?”
“I did; but then, you see, we had been allowed to fall in love with one another. I have taken care that there should be no complication of the sort in your case.”
“But Bettine and Albrecht love one another.”
“My dear child, pray don’t cavil. I mean, of course, that I have taken care you should have no chance of falling in love with any one but the man you are to marry.”
“But he doesn’t love me.”
“You are becoming a little tiresome, Lida. There were unfortunate circumstances which obliged me to hasten on your betrothal before Michael had perceived the nature of his feeling for you, and unhappily he resents being bound, as he considers it. But I have already said that you will be able to set things right as soon as you are married, if you go the right way to work.”
“But, mamma, you say you were right in disobeying your father because it was for your lover’s sake. If I had a lover, mamma——?” She came forward a little with clasped hands, and her eyes rested entreatingly on her mother’s face. The Princess laughed coldly.
“Don’t imagine impossibilities, my dear child. You have no lover—could not have one without my knowledge, and I have no intention of allowing you such a luxury. You will marry Michael two months hence, and I shall write to him to-day to make arrangements. The letter will take some time, for I must be careful how I put things. That equerry of his had better wait until to-morrow before returning, Czartoriski and he must amuse one another.”
“We were thinking of a ride this afternoon,” suggested Princess Lida meekly. Her mother nodded assent.
“That will do very well. By the bye, Lida, if you should come across Count Mortimer, you need not speak to him. Bow, of course, but nothing more.”
“Yes, mamma. Has he done anything?” Princess Lida’s eyes were dancing.
“Count Mortimer has thought fit to lose sight of the difference between his position and mine, and address me in a very strange way. That is all.”
It was enough for Princess Lida, who never dreamt of regarding Cyril as anything but an unhappy victim of her mother’s charms. She told the story with great glee to Mlle. Delacroix, and Mlle. Delacroix retailed it to a compatriot who was visiting the baths. Since every one at Ludwigsbad takes a childlike and unabashed interest in every one else’s affairs, it was known by the evening from one end of the little town to the other that Count Mortimer had conceived a romantic adoration for the Princess of Dardania—and had declared it to its object! Coming so soon after the revelations put forth by Dr Texelius, the story met with instant and universal acceptance, and there were only a few people who remarked that Count Mortimer must have been playing for very high stakes when he allowed himself to appear such a fool. Mansfield had been spending the afternoon at one of the shooting-galleries, where the gilded youth of both sexes were wont to consume much valuable time in massacring little wooden soldiers by means of air-guns. Here he heard the tale, and returned to the hotel with a settled gloom on his countenance such as even the fact of Philippa’s departure had been insufficient to produce.
“Why so sad, gentle youth?” asked Cyril, catching sight of his face.
“They are saying all over the place that the Princess of Dardania has—has given you the sack, Count,” said Mansfield tragically.
“They are—are they? Really there’s something positively demoniacal about that woman’s cleverness! And you, Mansfield, you—try to comfort me in my misery with the assurance that my sad plight is known all over the town!”
“It’s not true?” burst from Mansfield.
“Since the Princess has spread the report, she must intend it to be believed. Is it for me to contradict a lady? Rather let me study how best to corroborate her assertion. I must go to dinner in a Norfolk jacket, I suppose, and neglect my appearance generally. If Dietrich could only be induced to forget to shave me! But perhaps it would be just as effective if I let my moustache droop for a day or two. What do you say, Mansfield? You will look disconsolate too, of course—in fact, you are doing it already—but you will wear your rue with a difference. The Confidant is only allowed to go mad in white linen, you know. Tilburina’s white satin must be reserved for me.”
“But the Princess has given orders that you are to be refused admission if you try to see her.”
“Oh, that’s what is afflicting you, is it? Make your mind easy; I have no intention whatever of trying to see the Princess.”
“But will you let her go on spreading these lies about you?”
“Why not, if it pleases her? They are telling worse lies about me all over Europe, and it does me no harm. You and the Chevalier Goldberg seem to take these things to heart much more than I do. By the bye, mind you show up when the Chevalier arrives to-morrow. He wants to speak to you.”
The Chevalier’s reason for wishing to see Mansfield was made clear on his arrival the next day, when the unwilling secretary found himself invested with a gold watch and chain of surpassing magnificence. The watch was decorated with an inscription to the effect that it was a slight token of admiration and gratitude for Mansfield’s bravery in saving Count Mortimer’s life, and the chain carried a small fortune in the way of charms, which puzzled the recipient not a little. The Chevalier had originally intended his testimonial of gratitude to take the form of a diamond ring of the size and lustre commonly seen only on South African mine-owners and the monarchs of high finance, but on consulting Cyril he found that such an ornament in Mansfield’s possession would never see the light of day, and with reluctance chose instead the best watch that money could buy. He had taken a great fancy to Mansfield, purely on Cyril’s account, and he dismissed him now with an assurance of future favour which would have driven one of his own nation wild with joy. Mansfield, who was English, and failed to appreciate properly the power which the Chevalier possessed in right of his millions, received the promise without any particular emotion, and went out for a mountain walk. Left alone together, the Chevalier and Cyril turned their attention to business. They spoke in English, for the Chevalier was proud of his proficiency in that language, and liked to keep himself in practice.
“Well, have you come to tell me that I am the best-execrated man in Europe?” asked Cyril.
“If dere was such noose to tell you, I would not be de men to do it,” was the quick response. “No, my frient, de storm is passed ofer your head like water off a duck’s beck.”
Cyril smiled involuntarily. “This is extremely gratifying, Chevalier. You think Texelius has overreached himself, then?”
“Undoubtedly. You know he was placed on de board off manachement off de United Nation? Well, de directors met yesterday, and expelled him, solely on account of his atteck on you.”
“But that was purely your doing, of course.”
“Not at all. Dere were some det took your side from de first, and de rest came ofer to it ess soon ess dey heard off your confersation wid de Emperor about Prince Franz Immanuel. Dey saw at once det you hed been foolink de Scythians all de time dey thought dey were foolink you, and det it was not you, but de mysterious lady, who hed been deceifed in de metter.”
“But how did the Franz Immanuel business come out?”
“I saw to det, my frient. Dere was an inspired paragreph in all de Findobona papers yesterday which related de fects.”
“I am sorry you did that, Chevalier. If the proposal has become public, it means that there is no hope of getting it adopted.”
“Dere nefer wass any,” said the Chevalier calmly. “I hed sent an achent to sound de Prince’s parents, and dey would not hear off his goink to Pelestine. Dey mean him to merry de young Queen of Frisia.”
“Another check!” cried Cyril. “I thought we were on firm ground at last. Then my journey to Vindobona was all for nothing?”
“By no means, Count. De proposal may hef failed, but at least it safed you first. It was so netural and so suitable det no one could beliefe de story off Texelius. Herschel Rubenssohn, whom I met passink through Vindobona, hess written a great article on de subchect in my paper, which I hef wid me, and you shell see it. Transferrink his republican fiews to you, he says det de nobility off your cheracter and aims would prefent you from efer dessirink to make yourself a prince.”
“It is dangerous to dogmatise,” said Cyril gravely. “If Palestine was offered me by a unanimous vote of the Powers, I fear all Mr Rubenssohn’s pledges on my behalf would not make me refuse it.”
The Chevalier smiled, but wistfully. “Ah, my frient, why were you not born a prince—efen a Cherman princelink?” he said.
“Probably because Europe would have been too small to hold me. Now, pray, Chevalier, no hankering after impossibilities.”
“You might efen now become a confert to Rome, and buy a dukedom from de Fatican,” suggested the financier, with the uneasy smile of a man experimenting on the edge of a slumbering volcano. “De money iss et your serfice, and wid de Chews supportink you on one side and de Chesuits on de oder, not efen Scythia could hope to keep you out of Pelestine.”
“Ah, if I could take you over to Rome with me, there might be something in the idea,” responded Cyril instantly. “The Goldberg millions would be welcome indeed at the Papal Court. But without them—— No, Chevalier, it won’t do. And what has happened to Texelius?”
“He retains de direction off de colonisink scheme, but he hess lost his influence in our cheneral councils,” replied the Chevalier, accepting the change of subject obediently and gratefully. “Det will allow Koepfle to come to de front—a better men off business, dough widout de European lustre off Texelius, and one det hess nefer yet receifed de full recognition he desserfes. It was from an idea off his det I gained de first notion off foundink our Syndicate, in order to help to completion de schemes he hed outlined. We shell do better now den before, I think.”
“When do you expect to get your concession?” asked Cyril suddenly.
“Fery soon,” replied the Chevalier. “It may be two—three days, det iss all.”
“And when you have got it, you will have no need of me for a month or so? I want a holiday. A trip to Syria would do me good, I think.”
“To Syria? to Pelestine, you mean. Ah, my frient, you hef a plen! You will not hide it from me? De Goldberg millions are all et your serfice. You intend to make yourself master off de Land by a coup de main?”
“My dear Chevalier, I don’t intend anything of the kind. I am quite in earnest in saying that the governorship is out of my reach. My visit would be purely private and unofficial. You may call it a pilgrimage if you like, although the saint whose shrine I have in view is alive and not dead.”
“You would not deceife your frient?—dough I shell not be engry if I hear you hef esteblished yourself dere. I know your prudence, Count. But you will not be lonk away? Our affairs in Europe will go to ruin widout you.”
“I don’t expect to be long, but it depends on the success I may meet with. If others get before me, I shall have a poor chance. But business first, Chevalier. If you need me in Europe, I won’t go.”
“My frient, if dis fissit iss for your adfantache or pleassure, you shell go whatefer heppens. Dere iss always the telegreph by which I may consult you.”
In the fulness of his generosity, the Chevalier proceeded to develop a plan by which a staff of operators with a field telegraph were to follow Cyril from place to place, so as to keep him always in touch with the European headquarters of the Jewish movement. His schemes were interrupted by the arrival of a telegram in cipher, which he read to Cyril with triumph in his tones: “Czarigrad. You are wanted here. Concession will probably issue to-morrow or next day.”
“It iss well,” said the Chevalier. “To-night I leafe for Czarigrad. I return wid de concession, den you start for Pelestine. One confersation we must hef first, to settle our line off ection in future.”
“All right,” said Cyril, and the financier departed. On his return from his walk, the astonished Mansfield was desired to hold himself in readiness for a journey to Syria, which might become necessary at any time within the next month. No explanation was given, but he attributed the probable necessity to the business of the Syndicate, and having made his preparations, awaited placidly the summons to start.
CHAPTER X.
TAKING COUNSEL WITH BABES.
On the third morning after the departure of the Chevalier, Mansfield was sitting writing in the anteroom at the hotel, when the garden door opened violently, and an elderly lady hurried up to the house. Mansfield thought she was a Kurgäste who had lost her way, for she was wrapped in a loose cloak, and had a lace scarf thrown over her head, in the style affected early in the day by ladies who were taking the waters. On going to the door, he was astonished to find himself face to face with Countess Birnsdorf, in a state of violent excitement.
“Where is Count Mortimer?” she cried, trying to push past him. “I insist on seeing him immediately.”
“I will find out whether his Excellency is able to see you, Countess,” said Mansfield, holding his ground. “He may be engaged.”
“Oh, then he is here? Then I am not too late!” and the old lady sank down upon a bench and broke into gasping sobs. “Oh, Mr Secretary, let me see him. I must see him, I tell you!”
Surprised and perplexed, Mansfield knocked at Cyril’s door. “Countess Birnsdorf is here, Count, and says she must see you. She is in a terrible state about something,” he added, stepping inside the room.
“What can be the matter now?” said Cyril. “Some trick of the Princess’s, I suppose. Well, you had better ask her in.”
Before Mansfield could obey, the Countess, her suspicions roused by his closing the door behind him, forced her way in. For an instant she stared wildly round the room and incredulously at Cyril, then flung herself at his feet.
“Oh, Count, give her back to us! Where is she? What have you done with her—my little Princess? She never did you any harm. You may cherish a grudge against her mother, but have you the heart to revenge yourself on the child?”
“Calm yourself, Countess,” said Cyril, so gently that the old lady choked back her sobs and allowed him to raise her and lead her to a seat. “What has happened to the Princess? I don’t understand you.”
“She is gone,” sobbed Countess Birnsdorf, “and so is the Frenchwoman, her attendant. No one saw them leave the house, and there is not so much as a note to say where they are gone. As soon as the poor Princess—her mother—heard the awful news, she said, ‘This is Count Mortimer’s doing. He is taking his revenge on me,’ and I threw on a cloak and ran all the way here in the hope of softening your heart before it was too late.”
“Alas, Countess, I cannot tell you where the Princess is,” said Cyril. “But let us consider what we can do to obtain news of her Highness. You did not intend to speak before my secretary, did you? Mr Mansfield, please see that this visit is not mentioned.”
Mansfield retired, and finding in the garden the old man-servant who had accompanied Countess Birnsdorf, told him to wait in Paschics’s room, lest his livery should be recognised by the hotel servants. Scarcely had he returned to his writing when footsteps upon the path announced a second visitor. This time the intruder was Colonel Czartoriski, a white-moustached veteran of many fights, and master of the household to the Princess of Dardania.
“Where is your master, young man?” he inquired, looking Mansfield over in a peculiarly irritating way.
“Count Mortimer is in his office,” returned Mansfield curtly, resenting the style of address.
“Oh, indeed! Then I wish to see him.”
“Unfortunately you can’t. His Excellency is engaged.”
“So early?” very mildly. “I am indeed unfortunate. Who is with him, may I ask?”
“A lady.”
Colonel Czartoriski’s face became livid. “And you venture to acknowledge that to me?” he roared. “Who is the lady?”
“I am not at liberty to mention her name.”
“Out of the way, young man! Let me pass.”
“Gently,” said Mansfield, shifting the old soldier adroitly from the inner door. “I don’t know what you mean by coming here and behaving as if you were in a comic opera, but it won’t take much more to make me kick you down the steps.”
Colonel Czartoriski’s hand went promptly to the place where his sword-hilt was wont to be, but remembering that he was in plain clothes, he repressed his wrath, and made a gallant effort to be calm.
“I ask your pardon, young sir. If you knew the reason for my excitement, you would excuse it, but you have not, I am sure, fathomed the full villainy of your master’s character. No,” as Mansfield made a threatening movement, “I will not speak against him. I ask you only to risk his displeasure for a moment for the sake of the honour of an august family, and the future of an unfortunate and misguided young lady.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Mansfield, unconvinced.
“You see my position?” Colonel Czartoriski turned to the wall, and stood with his face almost touching a map of Western Asia which he appeared to be studying. “I give you my word of honour that I will maintain this attitude while you approach the lady, and entreat her to return immediately with her attendant to the home she has forsaken. I will not move until she is outside the garden, when I will venture to attend her back to the villa. I shall not have seen her here, you are a young man of honour and will not speak, the world will only know of an early walk. Come, you will help me to save her?”
“I am sure you are making some mistake about the lady,” said Mansfield, in much perplexity; but he approached the door of Cyril’s study, reaching it just as the owner opened it to escort Countess Birnsdorf to the gate. The old lady’s cry of surprise on catching sight of him made Colonel Czartoriski forget his promise and turn round, and both looked unutterably guilty.
“I suppose,” said Cyril, “that I ought to feel flattered at your both regarding me as such a Lothario; but I assure you the honour is quite undeserved.”
“It was the words the Princess used,” explained Countess Birnsdorf, apologetically. “A mother’s instinct——”
“I am afraid her Royal Highness’s instincts are not to be trusted where I am concerned. This is not the first rumour she has set afloat about me, you will remember.”
“Do you intend to impute malice to her Highness, Count?” demanded Colonel Czartoriski hotly.
“By no means, Colonel. I merely state a fact.”
“Of course,” said Countess Birnsdorf, unaware of the admission she was making. “How can you try to pick a quarrel with the Count, Colonel, when he may have given us a clue to our poor Princess’s flight? If you will make inquiries about Captain Roburoff’s destination when he left this place three days ago, while I go home to try and calm her Highness’s mind, it may help us a little.”
“Oh, if Captain Roburoff has acted as Count Mortimer’s deputy——”
“The Count once saw him talking to Princess Lida, that’s all. But if you go on wasting time like this, how are we to save her? Come, come,” and Countess Birnsdorf hurried the old soldier out of the house, and saw him start in the direction of the station. But her haste was in vain. A telegram which arrived that evening from Princess Lida informed her mother that she was married to Captain Roburoff, and that the ceremony had been performed by an Orthodox priest in the chapel attached to the Thracian Legation at Vindobona. This astonishing fact made it clear that some personage high in authority had been acting in collusion with the fugitives, and before long every one at Ludwigsbad knew that the Princess of Dardania had solemnly declared she would never forgive Count Mortimer for his part in the affair. Cyril smiled when the news reached him.
“Excellent!” he said. “She has now a legitimate reason for hating me, whereas before she could not very well avow the cause of her enmity.”
The person who had told him of the rumour, and to whom he spoke, was the Chevalier Goldberg, just returned in triumph from Czarigrad with the long-coveted concession in his hands. The possession of Palestine was once more secured to the Hebrew race.
“But wid whom is she seekink to inchure you?” asked the financier in reply. “Europe knows now de truth about her defeat in de affair celebrated by Texelius, and will not beliefe her. Dere must be some one outside de ranche off politics det she wishes to influence.”
“It is just possible,” said Cyril drily. The Chevalier took heart of grace.
“My goot frient,” he said, “you will not take it amiss if I alloode to your prifate affairs? You hef nefer honoured me wid your confidence about dem, and I do not ask it off you; but chust et dis moment it iss so closely connected wid de future off our great enterprice, det unless you command me epsolutely to be silent, I must speak.”
“My dear Chevalier, there was nothing to confide. My private affairs are common property all over Europe, it seems to me. If you have any contribution to make to the discussion, pray let me hear it.”
“I hef a request to make off you first. You must know det since it became efident det de concession would be granted, we hef hed ill noose from Pelestine. Rubenssohn, who iss chust gone out dere to inspect de colonies, says de officials are prepared to ressent our comink. A pasha here, a sheikh dere—dey all fear we shell confiscate deir offices and cut short deir dishonest gains. De Greek and Letin Churches encourache dem in dis epprehension, hopink to raise a rebellion against us, so det Europe may step in and refuse us de Land. Now, you are about to fissit Pelestine. Will you go about amonk dese officials ess de emissary off de Syndicate, and quiet deir minds? Dey could nefer stend out against you.”
“You are very kind. If I can do any good by reassuring the timid, I shall be glad to be useful.”
“You will make what arranchements and promises you please; dey shell be kerried out. Some off de officials might be continued in deir posts et a fixed selary, oders be pensioned off. Den dere are de Beni Ismail—dose Arabs in de desert between Damascus and Baghdad. Dey hef been told by some enemy det we intend to gerrison Palmyra and exect a heafy tribute from dem, and deir chieftainess, whom dey call de Queen off de Desert, threatens to appeal to Europe. You will come to terms wid de lady, and reassure her ess to our intentions? Dere nefer wass a woman you could not talk ofer.”
“I will certainly do my best to conciliate her dusky Majesty. An appeal to the Powers would land us in endless complications.”
“True; but dere iss more at stake still. While de diplomatists are squabblink in Europe ofer de gofernorship off Pelestine, you are on de spot, treffellink ess a prifate indifidual, yet makink peace and pleasantness wherefer you go. It iss well for you to be out off Europe et dis moment, my frient, but it is better for you to be in Pelestine. You are already a persona grata et Czarigrad, et Vindobona, et de Magnagrecian Court. Hercynia will follow Pannonia. You are de right men for Pelestine, and dey must see it.”
Cyril shook his head. “It sounds excellent, Chevalier, but, after all, I am not big enough for them. They might accept me as an emergency man, just to do the dirty work and put the place in order; but it would be strictly stipulated that as soon as things were pretty quiet some princeling should step into my shoes.”
“No!” cried the Chevalier, with almost a shout. “Not if your prifate intention in goink to Pelestine iss what I think. De saint you desire to fenerate—pardon my boldness—iss it not de Queen Ernestine?”
“It is,” said Cyril, not quite calmly.
“Den all iss well. You merry de Queen; dere iss de position you need. Through her you are connected wid half de royal femilies off Europe. Dey must profide for her, find some post not disgraceful for you. Here it iss.”
Cyril rose involuntarily from his seat, and began to walk up and down the room, while his companion, trembling with excitement, watched him narrowly. “You have taken me by surprise, Chevalier,” he said at last, returning to his place. “It was my last thought, in seeking to recall myself to the memory of the lady you mention, to better my own fortunes.”
“Yes, yes; I understend det. But what do you say now?”
“The matter is too complicated for me,” said Cyril idly. “I must refer it to some one who can only see one side to a question. I will take counsel with babes, and be guided by the advice they give me. Mansfield,” he stepped into the anteroom, “I want your opinion on a point of morals.”
Mansfield glanced up quickly, suspecting a hidden irony in the request; but Cyril’s eyes met his gravely enough.
“Suppose you had behaved badly to the woman you loved—broken her heart in fact. Oh, for pity’s sake——” as Mansfield attempted a protest, “isolate your thoughts from my niece for the moment, and imagine it possible that you could treat a woman cruelly. What would you do when you repented and wished to undo the past?”
“Go to her and ask her to forgive me—if I could muster up sufficient cheek.”
“Quite so. And if she refused to look at you?”
“I think,” with diffidence, “I should ask her again.”
“And worry her until she consented, I suppose? Well, that is not the question I wanted you to consider. Suppose a reconciliation with the lady meant the greatest possible improvement in your worldly prospects, would you still feel free to seek her forgiveness?”
“I see.” It was evident that Mansfield was somewhat staggered by this view of the case. He sat silent, turning it over in his mind, for some minutes. “It would be perfectly beastly if people—or she herself—thought one had done it for the money,” he muttered at last. “Is it supposed that the lady still cares for you—I mean me—Count?” he asked suddenly.
“How can I tell? Well, yes; suppose she does.”
“Oh, that makes it all right, of course; if it would be a comfort to her. A man couldn’t fight shy of making what amends he could, just because of what people might say, could he? If she seemed inclined to forgive him, I suppose he would have to tell her about the money, and see what she said. If she was willing to take him on again——”
“He must be doubly grateful, and behave better in future,” interrupted Cyril, finishing the sentence for him. “Thanks, Mansfield. See what a good thing it is to know exactly what other people ought to do! Well, Chevalier, the oracle has spoken, and the die is cast. I go to Palestine.”
The Chevalier’s beaming countenance testified his delight, and he proceeded to draw up, and submit for Cyril’s approval, a paragraph to be sent to the newspapers, stating that Count Mortimer was about to visit Palestine in the interests of the Jewish race, with a view to the discovery of spots where new colonies might advantageously be located. When the paragraph appeared the next day, the Princess of Dardania was among those into whose hands it came. She smiled contemptuously at the reason given for the journey, and called to Countess Birnsdorf for writing materials. That evening Colonel Czartoriski passed through Vindobona on his way to Syria, in charge of an autograph letter from his mistress, which he was ordered to deliver to no one but Queen Ernestine herself. The old soldier was frankly exultant on the subject of his errand. The villain who had lured away Princess Lida would at any rate not be allowed to find happiness with another woman.
In the meantime, the person whose life was most deeply affected by Princess Lida’s elopement bore himself with the utmost equanimity. It was Prince Mirkovics who outstripped the courier despatched from Ludwigsbad, and carried the news to King Michael in his mountain shooting-box. When he had delivered himself of his self-imposed message, the old nobleman paused suddenly, his weather-beaten face shining with fresh hope. The King, who had listened to the announcement with sullen acquiescence, glanced up and perceived his expression.
“What is it, Prince? You look as if a bright idea had struck you.”
“That is the case, sir. Does it not occur to your Majesty that this event removes the chief obstacle to your marriage with Lady Philippa Mortimer?”
The King laughed harshly. “The chief obstacle?” he said. “You should have heard what Count Mortimer said when I spoke to him on the subject. I might have been a pickpocket. He told me I was not fit to look at her.”
“Sir,” said Prince Mirkovics, “I am no courtier. I cannot, as your Majesty knows, twist my rough tongue to speak smoothly, and I will not attempt to say that Count Mortimer was wrong. Even when I was doing my utmost to marry you to Carlino’s daughter a few weeks back, I was ashamed of my own schemes. You were not fit then to address words of love to her, sir; you are not fit now. But the remedy lies in your own hands. Do you wish to be worthy of the lady?”
“You mean that I might promise to give up all this sort of thing?” King Michael gave a comprehensive wave of the hand, which included at once the pictures that adorned the walls of his room, the empty bottles on the table, and the scattered cards strewing the floor. “If she would marry me, I should be perfectly willing to make such a promise—and I would keep it, too,” he added, with some anxiety, for Prince Mirkovics still looked forbidding.
“No, sir, that would not be sufficient. I know Lady Philippa and her parents well enough to feel sure that they would not be satisfied with promises. Your Majesty must give up all these habits at once, and submit to a period of probation, to show that you have really forsaken them, before you attempt to obtain the lady’s hand.”
“What a disgusting idea!” The King looked blank. He had paved the way carefully for his own suggestion, but it was quite another matter to adopt the uncompromising scheme of reform set before him. “It would be so wretchedly hard to have to do it all without even being sure of her,” he added.
“Is the lady worth it, sir?” demanded Prince Mirkovics. “And would it not give you a claim on her respect, her admiration, if you could go to her and say, ‘Without seeking to bind you, I gave up all my unworthy pleasures for your sake, merely in the hope of rendering myself less unfit to address you. In order to have more to offer you, I have tried to govern my people better, and to raise my kingdom again to the position it occupied under your uncle’s administration’?”
“But suppose she won’t marry me after all?”
“I would not suppose such a thing, sir. The lady could scarcely fail to see that it was her duty to marry your Majesty, in order to secure the happiness of your people and the welfare of the kingdom, and I am certain that she will do whatever she feels to be her duty.”
“All right, then!” King Michael dashed his fist upon the table. “By the bye, you know, you must take office if all this has to be done. I can’t carry it through alone. Roburoff’s conduct furnishes us with an excellent pretext for coolness towards Scythia, and then the Ministry will have to go. You shall be Premier, and cultivate Pannonia instead. That will only be until we are married, of course. Lady Philippa will certainly want her uncle to return to Thracia with her. Oh, I say, that reminds me; what about that secretary fellow? Roburoff declares he is in love with Philippa, and Count Mortimer makes a great pet of him. What is there to prevent his running off with her while I am carrying out my reformation?”
“I saw Count Mortimer only this morning, sir, before I left Ludwigsbad, and he mentioned that he was about to make a pilgrimage to Palestine, taking his suite with him. The secretary will be farther from the lady than your Majesty.”
“So he will. Well, Prince, I will try your plan for three months—not a day longer. That ought to be proof enough for any girl of a man’s sincerity. Don’t you think you have reason to be grateful to Roburoff? I should be if I hadn’t paid him in full. Oblige me by looking at this.” He held out a folded paper, which Prince Mirkovics received doubtfully, and read with astonishment. It was a promise on the part of the King to pay Captain Roburoff a sum of money which to the frugal mind of the Thracian appeared colossal.