So convinced were the two watchers that the Princess would outwit them if she could, that they did not dare to rest, lest she should become aware of their presence and contrive to slip past without giving them a chance of joining her party; and they felt it wise to keep a strict watch on the telegraph office, lest an attempt should be made to send her a message which might enable her to give orders that the train should pass through the station without stopping. But their efforts were crowned with success, and after all their anxious forebodings it was with a grim satisfaction that they beheld the astonishment of the Princess’s equerry, whom they confronted suddenly when he was preparing to stretch his legs by a hurried walk up and down while the train waited.
“What in the world are you doing here?” he asked, with difficulty composing his face into a decorously mournful expression. “We are incog., you know.”
“I know you would like to be,” said Cyril, “but you are not. Is her Highness awake yet?” glancing towards the Princess’s saloon.
“Sure to be. You had better come and be presented, I suppose. Don’t blame me if her Highness is not exactly pleased to see you.”
They went towards the royal saloon, but the Princess was ready for them. As they approached, the door was flung open, and she appeared on the step.
“Are you here to stop me, Count?” she demanded of Cyril. “If that is your intention, let me tell you that no power on earth will keep a mother from her daughter’s side at such a time of sorrow.”
“On the contrary, madame,” said Cyril, bowing, “I am here to greet your Royal Highness in the Queen’s name, and to hand you a letter from her Majesty,” and he presented it as he spoke.
“I think I scored there,” he said to himself, when the Princess had accepted the letter, and invited Madame Stefanovics into the saloon with her, leaving the chamberlain and Cyril to travel with the equerry, “and it’s always well to begin a war with a small victory; but if I had the honour of the personal acquaintance of an Anarchist or two, I fear some accident would have happened to this train between Lucernebourg and Witska.”
The whole of the next fortnight was occupied by the mournful and protracted ceremonies accompanying the funeral of King Otto Georg. Cyril and M. Drakovics lived in a perpetual whirl. The royal and noble personages who came from the different Courts of Europe to represent their respective sovereigns on the occasion must be received, lodged, and entertained, and the deputations of country people and citizens of provincial towns must find their duties mapped out and a programme arranged for them. There were jealousies, and disputes about precedence, and squabbles between grandees of different nationalities to be settled or concealed, just as though the illustrious throng had come together with the view of deciding the social status of its various members, and not to deplore the fact that the sceptre of Thracia had passed into the uncertain grasp of a child of three.
All was over at length. The crowds of peasants who thronged into Bellaviste had taken their last look at the face of Otto Georg as he lay in state in the cathedral, and the splendid coffin had been conveyed to the vaults in which the bodies of the first two Kings of Thracia, Alexander Franza the Patriot, and his son Peter I., were already resting. The royal and noble personages were taking their leave, escorted to the station or to the frontier by military officers or Court officials according to their degree, and the country-people were returning to their villages, full of vague memories of vast crowds surging along the steep streets and into the cathedral, of black draperies everywhere, of great wax candles and much holy water, and of the dead King lying cold and still on the tall catafalque with its velvet hangings.
The two Ministers on whom had rested the chief anxiety and responsibility for the whole ceremonial were now able to take time to breathe once more, and to turn their thoughts to political matters, which had not stood still in other countries, in spite of the Truce of God in Thracia itself. Since the day of the King’s death, they had been compelled to act entirely on their own judgment, for no opportunity of seeing the Queen had been vouchsafed to them. It was true that she and her mother, shrouded from head to foot in long veils of crape, had taken part in some of the ceremonies connected with the funeral; but if the Ministers ventured to approach the royal apartments with the view of obtaining an audience, they were always received either by the Princess of Weldart or by Baroness von Hilfenstein, who procured the Queen’s signature to documents which were absolutely indispensable, and consulted her as to alterations in the programme drawn up and submitted by Cyril. It was not to be expected that this seclusion could be maintained now that the funeral ceremonies were over, and Cyril and M. Drakovics accepted with satisfaction an intimation that the Queen would receive them on the following morning.
“This is a critical moment,” said the Premier to his colleague, as they stood waiting in the room which had served as the late King’s study. “The whole future history of Thracia may be said to depend upon the course of this interview.”
“That sounds terrifically solemn,” returned Cyril, with the levity which M. Drakovics always found very trying in him. “What has precipitated matters to such an extent this morning?”
“It will be necessary,” said M. Drakovics slowly, “to make the Queen understand that in spite of her position as regent, the country is to be governed by the advice of her Ministers.”
“Which means you,” said Cyril. “But doesn’t it strike you that you are showing your hand a little too plainly? Surely an announcement of that kind is likely to make the Queen look out for a more complaisant set of Ministers?”
“I think not,” said M. Drakovics. “The Queen will not—I might say cannot—dismiss me. I am indispensable.”
“It must be very gratifying for you to feel assured of that; but suppose the Queen decides to try the experiment?”
“In that case,” replied the Premier darkly, “I should still do my best—within certain limits, of course—to preserve the throne to Otto Georg’s son, but there would inevitably be a change in the regency.”
“And in ceasing to be Premier you would merely become regent?”
“I do not say so. I remark simply that Thracia would part with a dozen queens before seeing me dismissed. No; the Queen can do me no harm, but unless she understands that fact at once, she may give me a good deal of trouble. Therefore she must be made to understand it.”
“You never pretended to be a knight-errant, did you?” asked Cyril lazily. “A business-like statesman with somewhat oriental ideas about women—that’s more like you, isn’t it?”
M. Drakovics glanced sharply at his subordinate; but the entrance of the Queen at the moment prevented his offering any answer to the question. Ernestine looked very small and pale in her deep mourning, with the heavy crape veil, which it was de rigueur for her to wear, falling to the ground behind her. Her aspect stirred in Cyril something of indignation, a very unwonted feeling with him, against M. Drakovics, who could talk so calmly of bullying this poor little woman into submission to himself. But this was not a time for indulging in sentiment, and as the Queen and M. Drakovics plunged into the neglected business of the past fortnight, he began to hope that the interview might end without any actual awkwardness. But when the Queen had given the necessary authorisation to the steps which the Premier had been obliged to take, and the list of matters to be discussed at the meeting of the Privy Council on the morrow had been agreed to, and it was Cyril’s turn to present his report and request directions for the future, M. Drakovics seized his opportunity.
“Her Highness will remain with your Majesty for the present?” he asked suddenly, when Cyril was detailing the arrangements made in connection with the visit of the Princess of Weldart. The Queen’s face flushed.
“My mother is good enough to promise to stay here with me until her physicians refuse to allow her to remain longer,” she replied, with a touch of defiance in her tone. “Is there anything extraordinary in that?”
“What could be more natural, madame?”
“My mother is endangering her own health by coming to Thracia at this season,” the Queen went on warmly; “but she refuses to forsake me in my bereavement.”
“Her Royal Highness’s visit is entirely of a personal and private character, madame, if I may presume to ask?”
“Entirely. May I inquire your reason for asking?”
“It is immaterial, madame. Your Majesty’s statement is altogether satisfactory.”
“I must insist on your answering me, monsieur.” The Queen’s tone was imperious, and her eyes shone angrily.
“Since your Majesty insists—If her Royal Highness’s visit were of a political character, I should be compelled to entreat your Majesty to seek another Premier.”
“What! you threaten me, M. le Ministre?”
“Pardon me, madame. I spoke only by your Majesty’s command.”
This was undeniably true, and the Queen turned again to her papers with a good deal of impatience. Presently she looked up once more—
“I believe, monsieur, that my husband intrusted to his valet a letter addressed to you, engaging your care for his son?”
“It is true that his Majesty honoured me so far, madame.”
“I regret that his Majesty did not see fit to ask me to hand it to you. I can assure you I should not have destroyed it.”
“Little fool!” thought Cyril. “If she is trying to irritate Drakovics by a display of petulance, she ought to know that nothing could please him better.” But the Premier was equal to the occasion.
“Madame,” he said, in the tone of one who deals gently with a froward child, “I could not have valued such a proof of his Majesty’s confidence more highly than I do; but my pleasure in it would have been enhanced had I received it from your hands.”
The Queen crimsoned again under the ironical compliment, and M. Drakovics heightened its effect by humbly asking permission to retire, leaving Cyril to finish his business with her. When the door had closed behind the Premier, Cyril took a bold step—
“If your Majesty would allow me to offer a word of advice——”
“You would say, ‘Do not quarrel with M. Drakovics,’” put in the Queen quickly. “Is not that so?”
“I see that there is no need for me to volunteer advice, madame.”
“But tell me, why does he hate my mother so much?”
“Will not your Majesty make some allowance for the natural anxiety of a Minister who sees his country threatened on all sides by insidious foes? Our only hope of preserving Thracia as an independent kingdom lies in our maintaining an equilibrium in the influence of the Powers surrounding us. If we allow one to gain an advantage, we not only encourage that Power to further encroachments, but we stimulate the opposing Powers to demand similar advantages. Not to refer too particularly to past difficulties, need I do more than remind your Majesty that in the past her Royal Highness has not exactly proved herself a successful politician, as we in Thracia consider it? M. Drakovics is doubtless afraid that in the kindness of her heart the Princess might possibly be induced to use her influence with your Majesty in favour of the commercial concessions, say, which Pannonia is now seeking to obtain, and this would complicate his task very much. Of course, the case I have suggested is merely an illustration.”
“Then what is your advice on this point, Count?”
“It is neither brilliant nor particularly agreeable, madame—simply to take no step, enter into no agreement, without the knowledge and hearty assent of your responsible Ministers,—that is to say, of M. Drakovics.”
“Ah, you are the friend of M. Drakovics?”
“I was the friend of your husband, madame, and I promised him to do my best for his son.”
Her face cleared. “Ah, that is it,” she said. “I must not risk Michael’s kingdom for my caprice, nor even to please my mother. You are right to remind me of this, Count. If my child were to lose a single village, or the smallest fraction of the power which he ought to possess in Europe, through any measure of mine, I could never forgive myself. I could not face him when he grew up.”
“His Majesty is to be congratulated on possessing so conscientious a guardian of his interests, madame.”
“But it is not only that. It is not merely a question of preserving the kingdom for him, but of fitting him for the kingdom. During this last dreadful fortnight I have become very anxious about his education. Do you not think he ought to be taught something?”
“For his sake and yours, madame, I trust your Majesty will not teach him to dislike his advisers,” said Cyril drily.
“I think that if he learns that from any one, it will be from the advisers themselves,” said the Queen, an angry flush rising to her forehead; but as Cyril merely bowed in answer to the taunt, her face changed. “I am doing you an injustice, Count. You are thinking of what my husband said that day. But it was not fair.”
As she guessed, Cyril’s thoughts had gone back, like her own, to a day shortly before his visit to England, when Otto Georg and he, catching sight of the little Prince marching solemnly up and down the terrace in charge of Mrs Jones, had sallied out and carried off the child in triumph to the King’s study, where they indulged in a glorious romp. When the fun was at its height the Queen had entered, and without taking any notice of her husband or of Cyril, had led away Prince Michael to his nurse, telling him in her iciest voice that it was the hour for his walk, and that she never allowed it to be interfered with. As she reached the door, dragging with her the unwilling child, puzzled to find himself scolded for what his father had done, the King’s wrath blazed forth—
“Take care, madame! The child is in your hands for the present, but in a year or two it will be a different matter. You had better not teach him to hate his father, for I might return the compliment.”
Cyril could recall now the way in which the Queen had departed without deigning to reply, her head held a little higher as she passed through the door, while Otto Georg, angry that he had forgotten himself so far as to use threats to his wife in the presence of a third party, relieved his feelings by a burst of hearty vituperation as soon as she was out of hearing. This had happened only two months ago.
“His Majesty spoke in a moment of irritation, madame.”
“Naturally; but should I have been likely to teach the child to hate his father? If he perceived that we were not—not on good terms, that I could not help, but the other——”
“Your Majesty wished to say something about the King’s education?”
“Yes,” said the Queen, returning hastily from her attempt at self-justification, “it was an idea of my mother’s. No; she has not been taking part in politics—it is quite a domestic matter. We both feel that the King ought to begin to learn something, and I had looked forward to teaching him myself; but my mother thinks I should not have time to give him regular lessons, and I suppose that is quite true. She suggests that I should appoint as his governess a certain Fräulein von Staubach, who has been lectrice to my aunt the Queen of Mœsia until quite lately. She is a very highly cultivated and excellent woman, besides being very fond of children—But do you know her?”
“And a bitter enemy of Drakovics’s and of mine!” Cyril had added mentally to the list of Fräulein von Staubach’s good qualities. He had no difficulty in fathoming the Princess’s motives when he remembered an occasion on which Fräulein von Staubach had been a passive, if not an active, participant in carrying out a practical joke of which he had been the victim. The mystification had had important political consequences, and Cyril nourished feelings which were the reverse of friendly towards all those who had taken part in it—feelings which he had no doubt were fully reciprocated. But it was unnecessary to explain all this to the Queen.
“I had the honour of meeting the lady some years ago, when I spent a short time in Mœsia, madame,” he answered.
“Ah, then you must know how suitable a person she is for the post. She is devoted to my aunt and to our house, and that is what I want. I could not bear that any one should come between my boy and me.”
“A most natural sentiment, madame.”
“Then you will try and bring M. Drakovics to see it in the same light? Of course, under present circumstances, he will expect to be consulted. But I may depend upon you to smooth the way?”
“So that is what all this frankness comes to!” was Cyril’s mental exclamation. “I might have guessed that she wanted me to do her a favour. Why didn’t the little schemer try some of her wiles upon poor old Otto Georg instead of slanging him? It would have made things pleasanter even if it meant nothing. I will do my utmost to further your Majesty’s wishes,” he said aloud.
“But you are not satisfied,” said the Queen mournfully. “You think I am devising some plot against yourself and your dear friend M. Drakovics. Cannot you understand that my boy is everything to me? If we were parted—if he were turned against me—it would kill me.”
Cyril was saved the embarrassment of a reply by a violent fumbling at the door. At a sign from the Queen he opened it, and admitted the little King, who ran up to his mother with a headless tin soldier in one hand and a picture-book in the other.
“Little mother, there’s no one to play with me,” he wailed, dropping his toys and climbing into her lap. She gathered him up in her arms, and looked across him at Cyril.
“He is all I have left,” she said reproachfully, “and I am all that he has. You see that he cannot do without me. I rely on you to help me in appointing Fräulein von Staubach. She will not try to separate him from me. You were his father’s friend.”
With another assurance of his full intention of furthering her wishes, Cyril took his departure, laughing silently at the effective tableau which had crowned so opportunely the Queen’s argument.
“Either she is a different creature since Otto Georg’s death,” he said to himself, “or she is the finest actress I know. She used to be simply a jealous wife; at her husband’s death-bed she was a heroine of tragedy; and now she is nothing but a scheming little woman, who hasn’t art enough to conceal the fact that she is a schemer. What a creature of moods she must be! I could have sworn that she would never forgive me that death-bed reconciliation; but though it is disappointing, artistically speaking, that she has stepped down from her tragic pedestal, it will make her much easier to work with if only the phase lasts. But it really is much less interesting. Can it possibly be all acting? Was she merely wearing a mask to-day? But no, it was too clumsy. The transition from hatred to friendliness was not gradual enough to be artistic. No! I see what it is. The Princess, finding her daughter in a state of hot indignation against me on her arrival, has talked at me industriously for the fortnight. At first the Queen agreed with her, then she got bored, and lastly she became indignant. She determined to prove her mother in the wrong by converting the enemy into a friend. If she could succeed, it would justify her for being so weak as to promise she would trust me. Ah, Madame la Princesse! you have done me a service you little intended, simply through not seeing when you had said enough. And as for you, Queen Ernestine, I shall know how to manage you in future. When you are intending to play a very deep game, you shouldn’t show your cards quite so openly.”
But in spite of Cyril’s lack of illusions, the picture of the Queen as he had last seen her recurred to him. Her dark eyes looked tearfully at him over the child’s golden curls and white frock, and her reproachful voice said, “He is all that I have left.” He could only succeed in banishing the impression from his mind by assuring himself that she had arranged for the little King’s appearance at the moment, with a view to the effect to be produced on himself, and even then it was apt to return to him unbidden. This was especially the case one afternoon about a week later, when, looking in at the Premier’s office, he found M. Drakovics sitting idle, gazing into futurity with knitted brows and folded arms.
“Sorry to see that you have something on your mind, monsieur!” was the irreverent greeting which roused the Premier from his brown study. He sat up suddenly, and tried to look as though the shot had not told.
“You are wiser than I am, Count. I am not aware that there is anything special on my mind at present.”
“No?” asked Cyril, with a note of concern in his voice. “And yet such sudden lapses of memory as this are a bad sign, surely?” and he met M. Drakovics’s frown with a gaze of bland unconsciousness.
“Allow me to remind you, Count,” said the Premier severely, “that you have not now his late Majesty to deal with. Wit and humour—even the most brilliant jokes—are wasted upon me.”
“But not in this case, when the jokes are your own?” was the prompt reply. “Surely you can’t imagine that I should venture to joke with you?”
M. Drakovics gave up the attempt at concealment. “I will not deny,” he said slowly, “that my mind has been much exercised of late by certain remarks which fell from Prince Soudaroff when he paid me his farewell visit.”
“Ah, now we are coming to it!” said Cyril to himself. A good deal of comment had been excited in the political world by the fact that the Emperor of Scythia had selected as his representative at the funeral of King Otto Georg a diplomatist of such European celebrity as Prince Soudaroff, and the opinion had been freely expressed that some change of policy was in the air. “Were the Prince’s remarks of a reassuring character?” he asked aloud.
“Very much so, on one condition. Prince Soudaroff emphasised the goodwill by which his master was actuated towards Thracia, and mentioned, casually, that that goodwill might be testified in a substantial form if only an Orthodox prince sat on the Thracian throne.”
“So that’s it, is it? Very pretty, of course; but it can’t be done.”
“That is your opinion, then?”
“Most certainly it is, if you mean to ask me whether the Queen will ever consent to King Michael’s conversion to the Orthodox faith.”
“And yet,” pursued M. Drakovics, “why should it be impossible? A change which would be humiliating or even disgraceful in the case of a grown-up man, such as our late King, or—or your brother, would be quite simple and natural in the case of a child. He knows nothing as yet of religion, and it means merely that he would be brought up in one form of faith instead of another. Popa instead of pastor, that is all.”
“And Bellaviste vaut bien une messe?” said Cyril. “When do you intend to lay your views before the Queen?”
“I do not intend to broach the matter to her unless I can do so with some prospect of success. What is your opinion?”
“That you will see her Majesty shaking the dust of Thracia from her feet, and retiring to Germany with her son, before she will compromise his spiritual welfare by such a step.”
“You forget that I am a member of the Orthodox Church, Count.”
“True, monsieur. I had forgotten that you were anything but a statesman.”
“You flatter me. But consider the enormous advantages to be gained by the sacrifice. The cost is ludicrously small. Could we not convince her Majesty by means of an object-lesson?”
“By some one else’s conversion, I suppose? Will you try the British Minister or Lady Stratford to begin with?”
“We will start nearer home, I think. An excellent impression would be produced by your reception into the Orthodox Church, my dear Count.”
“And what sort of impression on the Queen?” was Cyril’s mental comment. “This is a little dodge to get me shunted out of your way, my good Drakovics.” Aloud he replied, “You do me too much honour, monsieur; I really cannot pretend to be a personage of so much importance as you kindly hint. Besides, my creed is too valuable for me to sacrifice it merely as an object-lesson. Who knows whether I may not be able to barter it for a crown some day?”
M. Drakovics bit his bushy grey moustache angrily, for the hit galled him. “We will turn to considerations of policy rather than of commerce, Count, if you please. Surely you cannot be blind to the advantages of such an event as the King’s conversion?”
“I see that you would be exhibited to all Europe as implicitly following the dictation of Scythia, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”
“Not at all,” said the Premier quickly. “To have a king of their own faith is the great desire of the Thracians. They would rally round the throne to an extraordinary degree if the conversion took place. It would be simply and wholly in response to their wishes, and the Queen would gain enormously in popularity.”
“Quite so,” said Cyril. “Explain that to Pannonia and Hercynia, and see how they will look at it. Sigismund of Hercynia might be brought to acquiesce if he were allowed to exhibit his powers as a theologian by conducting the conversion himself, but otherwise he is more likely to preach a crusade against you. Do you really believe that they would not see the finger of Scythia in the event?”
“I suppose you are right. Nevertheless——”
“And Queen Ernestine would pose as a Christian martyr for the benefit of all Europe. She would take her stand on the marriage settlement, as she has every right to do, and all the men with the faintest spark of chivalry about them, and all women with children of their own, would adopt her cause.” He spoke strongly, with a vivid recollection of the picture which he persuaded himself had been devised for his benefit. “Statecraft is a good thing, my dear Drakovics, but sentiment occasionally goes one better.”
“You are right; I give up the plan. For a week I have been trying to find a way of working it out, but I feared it would prove insuperable. Happily I had not adopted it as one of my measures.”
“Or you would have felt bound to carry it out by fair means or foul? You broached it to no one, I suppose?”
“To no one. I disregarded studiously Prince Soudaroff’s remarks during our interview, in order to gain time for thought.”
“Ah, he expected that, of course. He may be trusted to have said nothing to any one else, you think?”
“He paid private visits to no one but the Metropolitan, besides myself, and he would scarcely enter upon the subject with him.”
“I wish we could be sure of that, for the Metropolitan is just the sort of weak man to be persuaded into believing that he has a mission to bring the conversion about. However, it’s quite certain that we can’t arrest him on suspicion, although I shouldn’t wonder if we have to do it after he has preached to-morrow. It would be his business to try to stir the people’s curiosity by vague hints, and he is fanatic enough to rejoice in running the risk. One would do one’s best to secure his silence beforehand, if one didn’t know that it would be the safest way of setting him talking. If only Prince Soudaroff had been a Catholic or a Mohammedan, and had not paid him more than a formal visit!”
“One could prohibit the Metropolitan from preaching to-morrow.”
“And convince him that there’s something in the wind if Prince Soudaroff said nothing to him, and give him a glorious handle against us if he has been tampered with. He is yearning already for an opportunity of denouncing us as oppressors of the Church, and I believe he and his clergy are the hottest pro-Scythians in Thracia.”
“Then you would do nothing?”
“Far from it. Hope for the best, and keep the police ready for action.”
And with this shameless parody of the Puritan leader’s charge to his troops Cyril took his leave. The misgivings which assailed him caused him to take a very unusual step on the morrow, which happened to be the festival of a holy man of local celebrity, known as St Gabriel of Tatarjé. St Gabriel was supposed to have been martyred by the Roumis about the end of the fourteenth century (the chronology of his life and times was somewhat uncertain), and the traditions of the country required that on the anniversary of his death the Metropolitan should preach a sermon in his honour at the cathedral of Bellaviste. On this occasion Cyril was one of those who attended the service. He had no wish to obtrude his presence on the Thracian portion of the congregation, and as a good many foreigners, either tourists or members of the various legations, had seized the opportunity of witnessing informally the solemn pageantry of the Greek saint’s-day celebration, he was able to obtain a place behind one of the pillars without attracting attention. The earlier portion of the service passed off quietly; but when the Metropolitan began his sermon Cyril perceived at once that his fears had been only too well founded. Without the slightest attempt at disguise the preacher went straight to the point, denouncing the royal house as heretics, and M. Drakovics as their supporter, with great vigour. Through the Premier it had come about that Thracia had accepted a monarch and a code of laws from the ungodly and schismatical nations of the West, instead of finding a peaceful shelter under the protecting wings of the great Orthodox Empire, at whose head stood the heir of the Eastern Cæsars. It was a just retribution that the late King had been removed in his prime, and the kingdom left as the battle-ground of the western heretics. Another opportunity was providentially granted to the Thracians by reason of the youth of their present sovereign, and it was not too late to accept with gratitude the overtures of peace newly made to them by the long-suffering head of their faith. What did the Queen’s inevitable objections signify? Her son did not belong to her, but to Thracia. She was a German—a Jewess—who had filled the Court and the city with her creatures, and had set herself deliberately to frustrate the hopes of the nation from the day of her first entrance into Thracia. Was she to be allowed to come between the kingdom and its manifest destiny, the fulfilment of its burning desire for reunion with the race to which it really belonged, and to which it owed its freedom? Let her be given the choice between preserving her heresy and her son’s throne. If she was obdurate, she must be set aside and another regent appointed, with the concurrence of the Orthodox Emperor, who would see that the King was brought up in the true faith.
Cyril dared not delay longer. The conclusion of the sermon would no doubt be interesting, but to wait for it would mean that there would be no hope of anticipating its effect on the crowded congregation, belonging chiefly to the peasant and artisan classes, which filled the cathedral. Holding his handkerchief to his face, both as a disguise and as an excuse for departing, he slipped from his place and made his way to the door. Once outside the cathedral, he thought for a moment of the possibility of bringing up a sufficient force of police to overawe the congregation as they came out, and ensure their dispersing quietly. But the idea was negatived as soon as it arose, for the police-barracks were on the other side of the town, and it might cause a fatal loss of time to go thither, or even to turn aside and telephone to the chief of police. The Palace was Cyril’s charge, and until the Palace was safe, he could not think of anything else. Even before he had brought his train of reasoning to this conclusion, he was climbing the steep street which led to the Palace, and only just in time, for, turning as he entered the gate, he saw the congregation beginning to pour out of the cathedral. It was the work of a moment to call out the guard and close the gates, and then Cyril hurried to his office in order to telephone to the barracks a request for a strong force of police, and to M. Drakovics the news of the situation. He had little fear that any mob would be able to break into the Palace before the arrival of the police, for the guards were all drawn from the famous Carlino regiment, the best in the Thracian army, to which this honour had been committed since the disbandment of the untrustworthy Palace Guard of earlier years. It could not be doubted that with the advantages of position and discipline they would be able to keep the mob at bay at the gates; but the extent of wall to be defended was so large, and so easily to be scaled by one man climbing on the shoulders of another, that to avoid any risk from isolated intruders he sent a message to the Queen by M. Stefanovics, entreating her to remain with the King in her own apartments for the present.
No sooner had the message been sent than Cyril, from his commanding position at the head of the great flight of steps leading to the door of the Palace, caught sight of the advance-guard of an excited crowd debouching from the street he had just traversed. He could see the mob pressing up to the iron gates and shaking them in vain efforts to enter, then brandishing sticks and fists at the guards, and demanding with imprecations that the gates should be opened. Loud shouts were raised for the Queen and the little King, but not by any means as demonstrations of loyalty. Rather they were frantic demands that the Queen should at once yield to the wishes of her subjects, and agree to the King’s conversion, on pain either of being separated from him, or driven from Thracia with him. Cyril congratulated himself on his foresight in keeping the inmates of the Palace from coming in contact with the rioters, but it was not long before he became aware that he had rejoiced too soon. Hearing Stefanovics coming back, he turned to speak to him, and perceived to his dismay that the chamberlain was escorting Queen Ernestine, who held the little King by the hand, while a lady-in-waiting followed.
“I do not understand your message, Count,” said the Queen, pausing as Cyril confronted her. “My son’s subjects are anxious to see him on their festival-day, and you take it upon yourself to exclude them from the Palace. Have the goodness to throw open the gates and admit the people, so that the King may receive their loyal congratulations from the steps.”
“Allow me to entreat you, madame, to return to your apartments with his Majesty,” said Cyril. “This gathering is not what you think.”
She looked at him with disdainful displeasure. “Do you think I am deaf?” she asked scornfully. “They are crying, ‘The King! the Queen! let us see the Queen!’ You are afraid that this demonstration may embarrass M. Drakovics and his Government, and therefore you try to prevent the people from seeing their King.”
“If your Majesty is not deaf, and will listen for a moment,” said Cyril, exasperated, “you will find that the shouts are by no means of a gratifying nature. Does that, for instance, commend itself to you, madame?” as a long-drawn howl of execration forced itself on the Queen’s reluctant ears, making her start and turn pale.
“It is a riot? they are in revolt?” she asked, with trembling lips. “What is the reason?”
“They have just been excited by an inflammatory sermon from the Metropolitan on the subject of their religion, madame. It is possible that your Majesty can guess the direction their thoughts have taken.”
“They threaten my son’s faith? Never! Admit the insolents immediately, Count. They shall hear my answer from my own lips. With my child in my arms I will defy them.”
“Pardon me, madame; the mob of Bellaviste has not even the chivalry of that of Paris, and—you are not a Marie Antoinette. At the risk of incurring your displeasure, I must decline to obey you in this.”
He uttered the last sentence in a lowered voice, to avoid the appearance of wishing to humiliate her in the hearing of Stefanovics. For a moment her angry eyes looked defiantly into his, then they fell.
“I am a prisoner in my own Palace, it seems!” she said wrathfully. “When your wife returns from the cathedral, M. Stefanovics, be so good as to send her to me immediately. I must know all about this affair.”
And she turned her back on Cyril, and retired.
“There come the police at last!” said Stefanovics.
The mob had been dispersed by the police, and Cyril found himself able to breathe freely once more. The Metropolitan, arrested by the order of M. Drakovics as soon as the news of the sermon and the consequent outbreak had reached him, was under police supervision in his own palace, and bodies of cavalry were patrolling the streets. The Queen had not shown herself outside her own apartments after the rude awakening she had experienced, but Cyril was kept informed by Stefanovics of all that passed behind the closed doors. It seemed that Madame Stefanovics, on her return from the service, had been required to relate to her royal mistress all that she could remember of the sermon, and that her powers of accuracy and memory were stimulated by a severe cross-examination. The Princess of Weldart was much moved, the lady-in-waiting told her husband, who passed on the fact promptly to Cyril, but the Queen was almost out of her mind. She walked up and down the room in feverish excitement and anger, and broke at last into a flood of passionate tears. Now that her feelings had found this relief, she was more calm, and had spent the afternoon closeted with her secretary, who was kept hard at work drafting and writing letters. This piece of information served in a measure to reassure Cyril.
“She will work it off in that way,” he said to himself. “Writing letters and drawing up proclamations will keep her busy without doing any harm. To-morrow she will be cooler, and we can think about business.”
He remained at the Palace during the whole of the afternoon and evening, expecting to be summoned to assist the Queen in her labours, or at any rate to receive some communication from her relating to the punishment of the rioters who had been arrested. He would not have objected to this. It would be unconstitutional, no doubt, but it might keep her from doing anything worse. As time passed on, and no summons reached him, he became a little uneasy as to what this continued silence might portend; but on hearing from Stefanovics that the Queen appeared much calmer and even happier after her long afternoon’s work, he felt it safe to retire to his own house, which stood just outside the Palace grounds. As he passed out of the gate, and the guards presented arms, he noticed a man slinking through in the shadow, and recognised the Queen’s secretary, a young German. It was late for any one employed at the Palace to be going out, and the uncharitable conclusion at which Cyril arrived instantly was that the secretary was on his way to join some disreputable associates in the town. There was a half-furtive, half-triumphant look about him which seemed to accord with this suspicion, and as the Minister of the Household walked home he indulged in a little moralising on the ease with which young men fall into mischief when away from the control of their parents and guardians. His mind was sufficiently at ease to allow of this, for although earlier in the day he had been conscious of some curiosity, and even a slight degree of apprehension, as to the effect the events of the morning were likely to have on his own position in the Court, he had no intention of allowing himself to be worried by unnecessary fears, and after wrestling with the intricacies of the Palace accounts for an hour or two, went to bed and slept peacefully. At an unwonted hour in the morning, however, he was awakened in a sufficiently startling way.
“Excellency, his Excellency the Premier!” panted Dietrich, throwing the bedroom door open, and as it were flinging the announcement into the room. Apparently he had only managed to keep ahead of the visitor by climbing the stairs at a record pace, for M. Drakovics was inside the door before the words were out of his mouth.
“You are early, my dear Drakovics,” remarked Cyril, sitting up in bed, and rejoicing, not for the first time, that he possessed the faculty of awaking instantaneously with all his wits at work.
“I am early,” shouted M. Drakovics, “and I may well be! Tell that idiot of yours to go to Jericho, and give me your attention.”
“Politeness is never wasted,” returned Cyril. “Dietrich, you may go. Now, monsieur, to what am I indebted for this honour?”
M. Drakovics was literally unable to speak, but he glared furiously at Cyril as he brandished a bundle of papers in his face. Supposing that he was intended to read them, Cyril laid hold of the bundle.
“No, not all!” gasped M. Drakovics. “I—I will break the news to you gently,” with a ghastly smile. “Read that first,” and he selected from the bundle and handed to Cyril a letter in the handwriting of the Queen’s secretary.
“Take a seat,” said Cyril, nodding towards a chair; “you seem somewhat agitated,” and with another mirthless smile the Premier obeyed, choosing a place from which he could watch every change in the expression of his host’s face.
“A letter addressed by the Queen to the Emperor of Scythia!” said Cyril. “H’m, that’s bad. Has it been sent off?”
“Unfortunately it has. The secretary took it to the Scythian Legation last night, and placed it, I believe, in the hands of the Minister himself.”
“What a way of doing business!” groaned Cyril in disgust. “Well, that’s bad too—worse, in fact. Now to read this precious epistle.”
He applied himself to the task, while M. Drakovics ejaculated with a hollow laugh, “Wait a little. You have not heard the worst yet,” and watched him again.
“It’s pretty strong,” remarked Cyril, reassuringly, “but it’s not badly put together—would make a magnificent stage letter. Yes, this bit would certainly bring down the house: ‘It is less than a month since I was deprived of the protection of my husband, and left to battle with the world for my son’s rights. Your Majesty chooses this moment to attack a lonely woman in her tenderest point. This is the chivalry of Scythia!’ And the pit would shout itself hoarse over the conclusion: ‘But it is possible to pay too high a price even for the favour of an Emperor. To save my son’s kingdom, I would sacrifice much—wealth, comfort, happiness, life itself; but my child’s faith and honour—never! Your Majesty may regard it as an excellent piece of diplomacy to send your representative to stir up the fanaticism of a nation which, thanks to the intrigues of your agents in the past, has as yet scarcely emerged from barbarism; but rather than yield to such dictation, I will quit Thracia with my child, knowing that when he grows up he will thank me for thus depriving him of his inheritance. Europe shall judge—Heaven shall judge between us—you seeking to turn a little child from the faith of his parents for the sake of a paltry political advantage, I preferring to see my son reduced to the position of a mere cadet of his father’s house, but with a stainless name, rather than the pervert King of a nation sunk in subservience to you.’ Good gracious! this must be stopped at any cost,” cried Cyril. “We shall have the Scythian Legation withdrawn, and the choice given us of fighting or knuckling under—and how we are to fight, when Scythia makes public, as she is safe to do, the Queen’s unflattering opinion of the Thracians, as expressed in this letter, I don’t know.”
“And have you any measure to propose?”
“Has the letter, of which this is the draft, left the Legation yet?”
“No; I think we may be sure that it has not.”
“Then there is a hope. We must get at Baron Natarin, and have the letter back. What excuses precisely are to be offered we can consider later; but I think we can make him see that the choice lies between his surrendering the document and our justifying the charges contained in it, which we can do at the trial of the Metropolitan. Soudaroff is sure not to have gone beyond his instructions, though it’s pretty clear that he mistook his man, and we shall have some interesting revelations to make, which will prove that Scythia has been interfering most unwarrantably in our internal affairs. Yes; I think they will prefer to hush it up.”
“That is now scarcely possible, unfortunately,” said M. Drakovics, with a kind of sombre triumph in his tones, “for look here.”
He spread out on the bed copies of that morning’s issues of the three daily newspapers published in Bellaviste, in each of which Cyril, to his utter horror, saw the fateful letter facing him in all the boldness and clearness of the largest print.
“The woman must be mad!” he said, scarcely able to believe his eyes as he turned mechanically from one reproduction of the “Letter addressed by her Majesty the Queen-Regent to the Emperor of Scythia” to another. M. Drakovics sat regarding him in stony silence, and, after a moment’s stupefaction he pulled himself together.
“Have you discovered how the letter got to the newspaper-offices?”
“Yes; the secretary took them each a copy.”
“Ah! a copy signed by the Queen?”
“No; merely one in his own writing.”
“Good; then we may conclude that he was not authorised to do so.”
“Probably not, since he sold the letter to the editor for a considerable sum in each case.”
“Better and better! I was almost afraid to hope for such a thing. And what measures have you taken with regard to the papers?”
“Naturally I have seized all the copies printed, broken up the plates, and placed every one employed in the offices under arrest.”
“And you think that will be effectual?”
“It is the best we can do. The editors and printers know of the letter, of course, and we cannot silence them all.”
“No; but we can square them. Set them at liberty on condition of their printing the account of the matter with which you will furnish them, and let them bring out their papers as soon as they can, so as to attract as little notice as possible by the delay. I am sorry you broke up the type, for it would have come in useful, with merely this precious letter and the comments on it struck out. However, you must do the best you can.”
“And if the editors refuse, or persist in giving their own version?”
“Surely you have your editors in better order than that? But send a censor to examine the papers before they are allowed to be distributed, and if there is any difficulty, suppress the paper at once, and proceed against all concerned for conspiracy. They would stand convicted of being partakers in a plot to embroil us with Scythia.”
“Excellent! That is to be our idea, then?”
“Of course. Put it all on the secretary, and sack him promptly. We may thank our stars that the notion of feathering his own nest out of the affair occurred to him. Otherwise we should have found it extremely difficult to make him the scapegoat, but now he has put himself beyond the pale of mercy.”
“I have already ordered his arrest; but I am expecting every moment to receive an angry message from the Queen, demanding that he should be released. Are we to keep up the conspiracy idea with her, or not?”
“By no means. It wouldn’t be any use. We must have it out with her, and come to an understanding. This sort of thing must not occur again. If you will be good enough to go down-stairs, Drakovics, and tell my people to get you some breakfast, I will come with you to the Palace as soon as I am dressed. Then after that I will go and interview Natarin, and get the original letter back by hook or by crook. I suppose you have the Legation under surveillance?”
“Yes; and any one who leaves it is to be followed. Of course, we can take no steps openly.”
“Rather not; but I am of opinion that Natarin is too old a bird to allow that letter to go out of his hands before hearing from you. We must replace it, of course, with a dignified message of protest. The fact that some such letter was written must have got about; but if we allow it to become known that the secretary, with a view to his own aggrandisement, despatched and published an early draft without authority, and that the real epistle contains nothing that could offend the Emperor, while it defines politely the Queen’s position, it seems to me that we shall not score so badly.”
M. Drakovics departed with a sigh of polite incredulity; but the resourcefulness of his host had cheered him to such an extent that he succeeded in partaking of a remarkably good breakfast while waiting for Cyril to accompany him to the Palace. By virtue of their office, both Ministers possessed the right of requesting an audience of the Queen at any time, and the chamberlain to whom they stated their desire to be received by her Majesty expressed no surprise, in spite of the early hour. He led them to the apartment in which the Queen was accustomed to spend her mornings, and requested the lady-in-waiting in the anteroom to inquire her Majesty’s pleasure. As the door was opened they had a glimpse into the room, and M. Drakovics turned to Cyril behind the chamberlain’s back with a glance that expressed unutterable things. The day was a cool one in early autumn, and a small fire was burning in the English grate, before which the Queen was sitting on the hearthrug, playing with the little King, while her mother looked on benignantly.
“At any rate,” observed Cyril in a low voice, for the comfort of his chief, “we serve a sovereign whom age can never wither, nor custom stale her infinite variety. We expected to find an outraged mother defying the world——”
“And we see a thoughtless child!” burst from M. Drakovics; but by this time the chamberlain had received his orders, and bowing as he held the door open, invited them to enter. A sudden transformation had been effected in the appearance of the room. King Michael had been relegated to his high chair and a picture-book; the Princess of Weldart had withdrawn into a corner, and was exclusively occupied with her embroidery; while the Queen, her face a little flushed, and her hair under the peaked edge of the black cap slightly awry, was sitting at the table.
“Your Excellency finds us en famille,” she remarked to M. Drakovics, somewhat too airily for the tone to be quite natural. “She means to brazen it out,” said Cyril to himself.
“It is possible that you might prefer to receive Count Mortimer and myself in private, madame,” said M. Drakovics pointedly.
“I have no secrets from my mother,” returned the Queen. “This is not a Council of State, I think?”
“Technically speaking, it is not,” M. Drakovics agreed, “but I think your Majesty can scarcely be ignorant that the object of our visit is to discuss a very grave matter of State.”
“It is not hard to guess,” said the Queen, “that you refer to the Metropolitan’s sermon yesterday, and the events that followed it.”
“And to a slight—pardon me—a slight indiscretion on your own part, madame, which followed the events,” said M. Drakovics, irritated by what seemed to him her prevarication.
“I am at a loss to understand your Excellency,” said the Queen angrily, darting a lightning glance of wrath at Cyril.
“I allude to the letter which your Majesty has thought fit to address to the Emperor of Scythia without consulting your advisers.”
“And may I ask how long my advisers have considered it a part of their duty to supervise my private correspondence?”
“A correspondence which appears in the public prints is scarcely to be called private, madame.”
“In the papers? I fear that your Excellency has been imposed upon by some forgery. The letter which I drew up yesterday and dictated to Herr Christophle has never left my possession.”
“I am inexpressibly relieved to hear it, madame.”
“But you do not believe me? Must I show you the letter itself?” And with one of her impulsive movements, she sprang up and crossed the room to an escritoire. Unlocking a drawer, she pressed a spring and drew out a smaller drawer, in which, with a sudden change of countenance, she began to search anxiously.
“It is gone!” she said, looking round with a frightened face. “Christophle and my mother thought it would be well to send it last night, but I said I would sleep over it before despatching it.”
“Had the secretary Christophle access to your Majesty’s escritoire?” inquired M. Drakovics drily; for it had not escaped either Cyril or himself that the Princess of Weldart had sat up suddenly, as though about to speak, when the Queen had first risen from her chair, but had relapsed again immediately into an ostentatious indifference to all that was going on.
“No, certainly not. What should he want with the letter? Besides, the key is on my watch-chain.”
“I do not know what his business with the letter was, madame, nor will I offer an opinion as to the means by which he obtained possession of it. All I can say is, that late last night Herr Christophle not only delivered your Majesty’s signed letter to Baron Natarin at the Scythian Legation, but also sold copies on his own account to all the papers of the capital.”
“Impossible!” cried the Queen. “How could he sell copies of my letter to the papers? And how did he obtain possession of the letter itself?”
“I see nothing to make all this commotion about,” put in the Princess of Weldart briskly. “When a letter is written, why should it not be delivered?”
The Queen glanced sharply at her, then turned to the Ministers with a stunned look on her face. “I fear that Christophle must have made use of that argument,” she said falteringly. “In any case, I shall rebuke him sharply for his officiousness.”
“Pardon me, madame, but that is not enough,” said M. Drakovics.
“Not enough? You tell me to my face that I am not competent to control my own servants? I say that it is enough, M. le Ministre!”
“My regret at being compelled to differ from your Majesty is only enhanced by the consequent necessity of placing my resignation in your hands, madame.”
“What! your Excellency does not dream of retiring from office for the sake of such a trifle?” Her tone was one of genuine alarm.
“When your advisers have the misfortune to lose your confidence, madame, it is undoubtedly their duty, as well as your pleasure, that they should yield their places to more favoured individuals.”
“Is this the way in which you fulfil your friend’s dying charge, Count?” she asked bitterly of Cyril, while the Princess of Weldart, who had dropped her work, looked up with gleaming eyes.
“Madame, no one can accuse me of neglecting his Majesty’s dying command so long as I could carry it out with honour; but I cannot stand by and see you plunge Thracia into a ruinous war in which your son’s kingdom will be irretrievably swallowed up.” He had given M. Drakovics no authority to include his resignation with his own, but this was a case in which unity was all-important.
“Oh, you are a true friend!” said the Queen ironically; but her mother rose and stood in front of her, waving the Ministers away.
“This is enough, my daughter. I will not see you lowered by appealing any longer to the patriotism or natural piety of these gentlemen. They have insulted you grossly in your own palace, in their anxiety to serve the interests of Scythia—an anxiety for which they will doubtless receive a suitable reward. I believe that the Emperor is extremely generous towards his foreign pensioners. M. Drakovics, Count Mortimer, you may retire. Her Majesty the Queen-Regent dispenses with your services.”
But the Princess, in her eagerness to clinch matters, had gone too far. Queen Ernestine was not to be superseded in the exercise of her prerogative, even by her mother. She rose from her chair a second time, with her lips tightened ominously.
“I am afraid that our discussions have disturbed you, mamma. His Excellency the Premier,” she laid a stress on the word, “was right when he suggested that this was scarcely the place for them. Messieurs,” she turned to the two Ministers with her most winning manner, “will you be so good as to accompany me into the next room? There we can discuss things without fear of interrupting any one.”
“Am I to understand that your Majesty endorses the remarks of her Royal Highness?” inquired M. Drakovics, without offering to move.
The Queen shot a glance of reproach at her mother. “See in what a position you have placed me!” it seemed to say. “Your Excellency,” she said, “I must apologise unreservedly for my mother’s words, which can only be excused by her ignorance of Thracia and its statesmen. If she knew you and Count Mortimer as I do, she would recognise the absurdity of her accusation.”
To Cyril’s intense amusement, M. Drakovics fell on his knees, and kissed the Queen’s hand.
“Madame,” he said, “I am overwhelmed. The pain I experienced on hearing the words of her Royal Highness is only equalled by the shame I feel for having appeared to demand an apology from yourself. I am your Majesty’s servant to command.”
“The little witch has won a triumph indeed!” reflected Cyril, as he and M. Drakovics, bowing to the Princess, followed the Queen into the next room. “It is quite worth while her stooping to conquer Drakovics. And he has taken a leaf out of her book, which shows that the lesson has not been lost upon him.”
“It will please me, messieurs,” said the Queen, when Cyril had shut the door, “if you will have the goodness to regard the incident which has just occurred as though it had not taken place. Will your Excellency,” she turned to M. Drakovics, “be kind enough to explain to me the words which fell from Count Mortimer a few minutes ago as to plunging Thracia into a hopeless war?”
“It is my duty to inform your Majesty,” returned the Premier, with great solemnity, “that the letter so mysteriously abstracted and so iniquitously published would infallibly plunge us into a war with Scythia, into which other nations would certainly be drawn. Whatever the result of the whole contest, it can scarcely be doubted that Thracia would be swallowed up by one of the victorious Powers.”
The Queen grew paler and paler. “And is there any measure you can propose to avert this disaster?” she asked, in a voice that was almost a whisper.
“In the confidence that I was honoured with your Majesty’s favour, I have already, with Count Mortimer’s assistance, taken steps which we hope may ensure that object, madame.”
“You rejoice me, monsieur. Pray unfold them to me. But,” her voice took a firmer tone, “I must desire that no inquiry be made into the abstraction of the letter from my escritoire. I propose to deal with that myself.”
“Your Majesty shall be obeyed. The measures I would venture to suggest are briefly these: that your Majesty should write another letter to replace that now in the hands of Baron Natarin, if we can by any means obtain its restoration; that the secretary Christophle be instantly dismissed in disgrace——”
“Oh no, not dismissed!” cried the Queen. “He was wrong, but he erred from excess of zeal. I dictated and signed the letter; the writing alone was his. He must not be punished for—for my fault.”
“Am I to understand that your Majesty commissioned Herr Christophle to sell your letter to the daily newspapers?”
“Certainly not. Why should I wish it to appear in them?”
“I cannot tell, madame; but it did appear there. The issues of the papers in which it appeared are now suppressed, but that cannot excuse the secretary. He has rendered himself liable to very heavy punishment for betraying State secrets, and we shall be able to deal with him effectively in that way.”
“After a trial?” asked the Queen, alarmed. “That must not be. Your Excellency will see that after his long employment here he must be in a position to reveal—to reveal many things of importance if he is hard pressed.”
“Your Majesty would prefer that he should be sent back to Hercynia with the warning that the law will be set in motion against him if he tells anything he knows? Dismissed and disgraced he must be, for the sake of the moral effect on Europe.”
“Of course—I suppose so. And about this letter—do you wish me to write it now?”
“If your Majesty pleases. It might be well if Count Mortimer would be good enough to act as secretary, in order to avoid any further treachery.”
“Your advice is excellent, monsieur. You will lend us the assistance of your pen on this occasion, Count?”
“My pen, like myself, is always at your Majesty’s service,” Cyril answered, grimly enough, all unmoved by the dazzling smile with which she turned to him. He noted her heaving breast and trembling hands, and knew that her unaccustomed graciousness was merely the outcome of her desperate eagerness to shield her mother from being identified as a sharer in the secretary’s treachery. She read his thoughts, and cast a piteous glance at him as he sat down and dipped a pen in the ink. “I have conquered even Drakovics, but you will not allow yourself to be won over!” it seemed to say; but Cyril was not to be touched. His eyes met hers unmoved when he looked towards her, and she gave a frightened little sigh as she turned to M. Drakovics to consult him as to the opening words of the letter. Nothing could well have been more unlike the fateful missive which might have plunged Europe into war than the epistle which left Cyril’s hands at last. There was no reproach, no defiance in it from beginning to end. The Queen was made merely to insist on the sorrow and astonishment with which she had heard that the Metropolitan claimed the support of the Emperor for his extraordinary conduct. It was altogether beyond the bounds of possibility to suppose that anything said by Prince Soudaroff could bear the meaning placed upon it by the Archbishop’s distorted brain, for no one knew better than the Queen that the Emperor would be the last person to wish to disturb a settlement approved by Europe, and confirmed by the most solemn engagements. (Cyril and M. Drakovics could not resist stealing a glance at one another at this point, and the Queen laughed drearily.) The letter concluded by remarking that the Metropolitan’s mind was without doubt temporarily unhinged, and assuring the Emperor that a sufficient period of rest and seclusion would be granted him to ensure that he should no longer entertain, or at any rate promulgate, such delusions as those under the influence of which he was now labouring.
“We have come off better than I expected,” said M. Drakovics to Cyril, as they retired in triumph with the letter; “but I foresee that we shall be obliged to get rid of the old lady, or she will get rid of us.”
“You may well say so,” returned Cyril. “In fact, if she had had a little more tact, she would have succeeded in doing it already.”
In the morning-room, at the moment, the Queen was locking her escritoire and fastening the key to her watch-chain without saying a word. When she had finished, she turned to her mother.
“One must be careful after what one has heard to-day,” she said. “It is evident that there is some one in the household who cannot be trusted. I never thought it necessary to put my keys under my pillow before; but this one, at any rate, shall never be left in my jewel-case at night again.”
Under her hostile, accusing eyes the Princess of Weldart blenched. She knew perfectly well the hidden meaning of the words, and felt grateful that the charge which she would have found it difficult to rebut was not framed more definitely. The best policy was to say nothing, and she adopted it.
In the meantime Cyril, armed with the newly written letter as a guarantee of good faith, had paid the all-important visit to the Scythian Minister. As he had expected, he found Baron Natarin by no means averse from accepting his view of the case. In any circumstances, it would have been difficult to decline to surrender a missive which had been surreptitiously obtained and presented without the knowledge of the Queen, probably in order to gratify the spite or vanity of the man who had stolen it; but there was a failure in Scythian diplomacy to be covered as well. Prince Soudaroff had not gone beyond his instructions, but, as Cyril had divined, he had mistaken his man. The words which had been intended to initiate a long and persistent agitation, extending throughout the country, had kindled in the Archbishop’s breast an enthusiasm which had wasted itself in stirring up the short and abortive riot at the capital, and fanaticism had undone what policy had hoped to effect. The Scythian Minister returned the letter, expressing a hope that it would be found possible to allow the Metropolitan to escape lightly, and Cyril retired, retaining the second letter, which was to be forwarded to the Thracian Minister at Pavelsburg, and presented by him to the Emperor in due course.
Baron Natarin’s pious aspiration, which was in reality a request, almost a warning, as to the fate of the Metropolitan, was not allowed to remain unfulfilled, although it required a good deal of ingenuity to bring it to pass. The Archbishop was tried privately, and sentenced to a year’s residence in a monastery remote from the capital, and now the difficulty presented itself—how was he to be released? It had been absolutely necessary that he should be brought to trial, in order to vindicate the prestige both of the law and of the reigning house, and also to prevent similar outbreaks in future; but to enforce the sentence would raise awkward questions as to the necessity of depriving the prisoner of his important post, whether permanently or merely for the year. The Queen could not pardon him, since her doing so would seem an insult to the Emperor of Scythia, of whose name, according to the now accepted view, the Metropolitan had made such an unwarrantable use. At the same time, the Emperor could not ask for his pardon without appearing to identify himself with the disloyal views to which he had given utterance. In this dilemma, it was necessary to arrange a little plot in order to effect the desired end, and the details were left in Cyril’s hands.
It so happened that the police barracks at Bellaviste had lately been enlarged, and that, as had been previously settled, the Queen paid an informal visit to the new buildings one morning, accompanied by the little King, who was deeply interested in all that he saw. The cells struck him most, and he catechised his guides about them during his visit, and talked about them all day after it, the horrors of prison-life appearing to be deeply impressed upon his youthful mind. The next afternoon, when his mother and he were driving along the New Road, which is the Bois de Boulogne of Bellaviste, they met a closed carriage surrounded by an armed escort. Inside the carriage sat the Metropolitan, with his chaplain and a secretary, on the way to the distant monastery appointed for his residence.
“Mamma, a prisoner!” cried the little King, jumping up in the carriage. “Oh, poor man, are they taking him to jail?”
“I am afraid so, my little son.”
The tears gathered in the child’s eyes. “Poor, poor man!—Oh, mamma, it is the nice old gentleman who gave me the funny picture!” The picture in question was not intentionally comic. It was a jewelled icon representing St Gabriel of Tatarjé, which the Metropolitan had presented to Prince Michael upon his last birthday.
“Yes, dear, it is.”
“But has he done anything wicked? Will they put him in one of those dreadful places? Oh, mamma, must he go?”
“Ask Count Mortimer, little son. He will be able to tell you.”
“Oh, Herr Graf,” cried the child, as Cyril rode up to the side of the carriage, “is he very bad? Must he go to prison?”
“He has been very bad, but I think he is sorry, Majestät,” responded Cyril, with perfect gravity; “and he need not go to prison if you can get the Queen to forgive him.”
“Mamma, you aren’t sending him to prison?” cried King Michael; “you won’t make him go? Oh, do let him off, please do. It is your own little son who asks you,” and he buried his tear-stained face in his mother’s dress.
“Darling, I should be delighted to let him go,” said the Queen, blushing, and somewhat confused by the presence of the deeply interested crowd which had gathered round the two vehicles, and was listening with the utmost attention to all that passed; “but I am afraid——”
“Will you promise that he shall be good in future, Majestät?” interposed Cyril. “A King’s word must be kept, you know.”
“Oh yes!” cried the child joyfully. “Prisoner, please come out.” The Metropolitan descended from his own carriage, and approaching that of the Queen, kissed the hand which King Michael, talking all the time, held out to him. “I know I ought to call you something else, but I can’t remember it; and you are a prisoner now, aren’t you? Mamma is going to let you off, and not send you to prison, but you must be good now, because I have said you will be, and a King’s word must be kept.”
“Madame,” began the Metropolitan, “I owe your Majesty many thanks,” but she interrupted him.