A Crowned Queen, by Sydney C. Grier

“Mortimer had long private interview this morning with Queen, who was afterwards observed to have been weeping. A message of recall was despatched to King instantly on M.’s departure. Be on your guard.

D.”

The Princess of Dardania received this missive early in the afternoon. When she had read it, she glanced sharply at the telegram addressed to King Michael, which was lying on her writing-table awaiting his return. The young people had started out in the morning for a picnic, chaperoned by an elderly lady-in-waiting and Princess Lida’s French governess, and the Princess was to meet them with tea at a point agreed upon on their homeward way. As she realised the situation she stretched out her hand towards Ernestine’s telegram, but withdrew it again quickly.

“No, there is no need,” she said to herself. “Drakovics has given me all the information I require, and Ernestine will not attempt an explanation in a telegram. But I think, my dear Michael, that on the whole it will be as well for you not to receive your mother’s message until you return here.”

It was not, therefore, until the picnic-party had reached the villa again that the Princess informed King Michael casually that there was a telegram waiting for him. Before going out she had placed the envelope in the hall, so that it might appear to have arrived during her absence, and she passed on into her sitting-room as she spoke. She was still standing by the table and taking off her gloves when the door was flung open, and King Michael burst in.

“Tant’ Ottilie, my mother wants me to go home at once. She says there are so many things to arrange which she can’t settle without me. And I have only been here one day, and not seen you a bit. It’s shameful—intolerable!”

“Why, Michael, you ought to feel flattered that your mother can’t do without you. It seems very hard that you should be obliged to leave so soon, just when Lida and Bettine had been planning so many delightful excursions, too; but then——”

“I’m not going. My mother doesn’t really want me. She has Count Mortimer to help her with all her fads——”

“Oh, hush, my dear boy! I can’t allow you to speak of your mother in that way, nor can I keep you here when she sends for you. It would appear that I was encouraging you in disobedience. But it is quite evident that it is too late to start to-night, so telegraph to say that you will leave by the nine o’clock train in the morning. And I have a plan. I will come to Bellaviste with you, for I am not satisfied about the decorations I have ordered for the villa next week. I want this house to testify—even though we are away—how much we love our dear Michael and rejoice in his coming to his own, and therefore I must go and see how the devices look before they are quite finished. But don’t tell your mother I am coming. It will be a little surprise for her.”

“When I am really King, I shall stay here as much as I like,” grumbled the boy, moving unwillingly to the door; but as he reached it he found the Princess’s eyes fixed sadly upon him. “Tant’ Ottilie!” he cried, rushing back to her, “what is the matter? Why do you look so sad?”

“Dear Michael, it is nothing—merely that it grieves me to lose you again so soon,” but again and again during the evening King Michael found that fixed, sorrowful gaze upon him. As Cyril had remarked three years before, he cared as yet far more for the Princess of Dardania than for her daughter, and her evident sadness made him miserable. Not until the next morning, however, did an opportunity of asking an explanation offer itself, but as soon as the Princess and he were established in the royal saloon for the journey to Bellaviste, and the attendants dismissed to their separate car, he recurred to the subject immediately.

“Oh, Tant’ Ottilie, tell me what it is that makes you so unhappy. I cannot bear you to look sad. Is it anything that I have done?”

“Dear Michael, no. Will you not believe me when I assure you that it is only sorrow at losing you? It is like losing one of my own sons—almost as bad as when Kazimir first went to join the Scythian army.”

“But that was for such a long time, and I shall come back as soon as ever all the fuss is over. You don’t imagine that I would let anything keep me away?”

“My dear boy, you will not find yourself your own master then any more than you are now—in fact, you will have even less time at your disposal. No, we have been very happy, but we must learn to look upon that particular kind of happiness as past and gone for us.”

“Count Mortimer? What has he to do with it? Surely,” as a thought occurred to him, “you don’t think that it was through him that my mother sent for me home?”

“It looks very like it. She made no objection to your coming—did she? but as soon as she has had time to consult Count Mortimer, she recalls you.”

“Oh, no insubordination, Michael, please! But come and look out of this window. We shall pass the villa in a moment, and you will like to have a last look at it.”

Yes, there they were, standing on the terrace which bounded the grounds of the villa on this side, Princess Bettine demure and dignified—she had cultivated dignity largely since her betrothal had conferred upon her the distinction of being a kind of modern Helen, whose charms were not unlikely to plunge Europe into war—and Princess Lida leaning forward and supporting herself by the branch of a tree as she waved her handkerchief vigorously.

“I am glad they came to see you off,” said the Princess, adding with a sigh, “you will never meet them quite on the same footing again, Michael.”

“Oh, why is everything so horribly mysterious and doleful, Tant’ Ottilie? You talk as if things were all going to be different now, and Lida is just as bad. She ran away when I wanted to say good-bye to her, and wouldn’t let me kiss her, and was as crotchety as she could be.”

“Michael, you are not in earnest? Oh, my poor innocent child, am I too late? No, no, don’t mind what I say, Michael. Forget it—promise me you will forget it. Promise faithfully to banish it from your mind, dear boy.”

“Of course I promise, if you wish it, Tant’ Ottilie,” replied the King, a good deal astonished, but the Princess did not appear to be satisfied.

“I ought to have thought of this. How could I be so culpably blind? But she is so young—it seemed quite safe. Poor little Lida! you will have to learn your lesson early. And Bettine is so thoroughly happy!”

“What do you mean, Tant’ Ottilie?” asked the puzzled boy. “Is any one unkind to Lida? I daresay she will feel lonely just at first when Bettine is married, but I shall come very often, and——”

“My dear Michael, you don’t understand anything about it. You are far too young—but Lida is younger, and she—— Oh, it is hard for her to be sacrificed at her age! But I blame myself. Your mother was wiser. She saw that mischief might happen, when I only thought of you all as children together. But I am punished. If only Lida had not to suffer for my blindness!”

“But she shall not suffer!” cried King Michael. “What is the matter with her? You are not going to send her to Scythia, like Kazimir?”

“Into the army, I suppose? No, Michael; your path and Lida’s will lie very far apart in future. The thought of her suffering need not trouble you; you will know little about her, and care less. You will marry one of the Hercynian Princesses, and live an exemplary domestic life——”

“What! one of those girls with the light-blue eyes and the hair like tow? No, thank you, Tant’ Ottilie. I had as soon marry a doll.”

“My dear boy, you will marry the wife who is chosen for you, without reference to your tastes, and she will not approve of your running down to Praka every now and then. So we shall be left without you, and I shall lose Bettine, and then I suppose Lida will go, for she too must learn, poor child, that with kings and princesses marriage is an affair not of love but of state, no matter what illusions one may have cherished in one’s youth——”

“Look here, Tant’ Ottilie. I have an idea. Why shouldn’t I marry Lida?—when we’re grown up, I mean, of course. It would be better than Frederike or Hermine, at any rate, and we need not do it for a good long time.”

The manner of the proposal was not flattering, but the boy’s face was suffused with an honest blush, and the Princess could have kissed him there and then. Yet her response was not encouraging.

“My dear boy, you must not think of such a thing! Count Mortimer—I mean, of course, your mother—would never allow it. And pray don’t breathe such an idea to any one. It would be said that I had taken advantage of your stay with us to entrap you into marrying my daughter.”

“But I could swear you didn’t. You never even suggested the idea, much less mentioned the word. So if you were thinking of making Lida marry some prince who would be unkind to her, and that is what was making you miserable, you can feel that it’s all right now. I suppose that I shall have to marry some one, and I’ll marry her some day.”

“Your views are charmingly naïve, dear boy. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that Count Mortimer is the person who will choose your wife for you. I daresay he has everything arranged already.”

“Then he will have arranged it in vain. I hate the fellow,—he twists my mother round his little finger, but he shan’t get hold of me. I know too much for him, thanks to hearing you talk, Tant’ Ottilie, and if he expects to have me under his thumb, as he has my mother—why, he’s mistaken, that’s all.”

“Ah, but you don’t realise, Michael, that Count Mortimer is a very important person. Thracia would fall to pieces if he were not at the helm, and you must be prepared to make any sacrifices to keep him in office.”

“But look what a pull that gives him over us! No, Tant’ Ottilie, it will be the other way about after next week. Count Mortimer will have to make the sacrifices if he means to hold office under me.”

“Why, Michael, you are quite a youthful Cromwell! But I must warn you that Count Mortimer will make no concessions.”

“Don’t you see that’s exactly what I want? He will have to go then. Why, it makes me want to marry Lida just because I know it will mean getting rid of him. How I hate that smooth, cynical manner of his, as if he were worlds above me! He has done nothing but try to thwart and restrain me all my life, and my mother would have let him have his way. It was you who opened my eyes and helped me to get the better of him.”

“No, my dear boy, I am sure you are mistaken in thinking that I ever spoke against the Premier in your hearing, or encouraged you to oppose him. You may possibly have heard me lament the extraordinary and pernicious influence he exercises over your dear mother, or remark upon the unconstitutional way in which he uses the power he won by such peculiar means. But you drew your own conclusions, and I have merely done my best to protect you against the worst results of his system of training.”

“Very well, Tant’ Ottilie. It comes to much the same thing, after all, and that is, that he goes at the first opportunity.”

“My mother? But when he is gone he will have no more influence over her, and she will not oppose my marrying to please myself.”

“But will she let him go? I am certainly not the person to speak against love-matches, Michael, for my own marriage was a shining example, and I fancy your mother would agree with me in any case but yours, especially——”

“But what in the world have my mother’s views on love-matches to do with Count Mortimer?” asked the boy, bewildered by what seemed to him the sudden change of subject. “Do you call Lida’s and mine a love-match?”

“Of course.” The Princess was not disturbed by her prospective son-in-law’s undisguised amusement at the idea. “What else could it be? But if you don’t see the connection which led me to say what I did, you must not expect me to enlighten you. I am the very last person to do so.”

“What do you mean, Tant’ Ottilie? What are you hinting at? I will know. Don’t sit there and look mysterious, but tell me.”

The Princess opened her firmly closed lips. “My dear Michael, if you are so happy as not to have noticed what every one in the Court knows and every one in the country has heard, it is certainly not for me to destroy your paradise.”

“It would make me unhappy, then? Something about my mother? Tant’ Ottilie, you cannot say that—that she has done anything wrong?”

“Far from it, my dear boy. At the worst it can only be called an amiable indiscretion. Oh no, there is nothing wrong—but I fear you will scarcely be charitable enough to say so when you are invited to receive Count Mortimer as——”

“My dear boy, you quite frighten me. As a stepfather, then, if you must be told.”

“Calm yourself, Michael.” The Princess was a little alarmed by the storm she had raised, and she drew the boy down upon the seat beside her, and laid her soft hand on his clenched fist. “You must make allowances for your mother,” she went on. “When she was left a widow, Count Mortimer occupied a high position in the Court. He made himself useful to her, and worked his way into her confidence. When those Tatarjé difficulties arose, he was able to make it appear that he had rendered her very important services. Your mother was young and impressionable, and very lonely. If she had had a father or brother at hand to advise her—if even I had known what was going on, she would have been held back from the rash step she took. But it so happened that she had no relations near her at the time, and she engaged herself privately to him.”

“Then it is not too late. I am here to save her. She must be protected against herself. The fellow shall go in no time.”

“My dear Michael, you must be careful. Count Mortimer has not been Premier for eleven years without knowing how to entrench himself in his position. He is hand and glove with the Three Powers, and to dismiss him precipitately might lead to very disastrous consequences, besides blazoning abroad the whole matter, which is the last thing one would wish to do. Decidedly you must not give such a reason for dismissing him—and yet it would not do to dismiss him without a reason.”

“I have my reasons—I hate him, and he would oppose my marriage with Lida, and he has the presumption to wish to marry my mother—but I need not give them.”

“You must give some reason, my dear boy. But if possible let it spring out of some misconduct on Count Mortimer’s own part. If only he were Finance Minister, one might produce evidence of peculation; but as Minister of Foreign Affairs, all we can do is to suggest that he has entered into secret understandings with other States. If the Three Powers once come to believe that he has had dealings with Scythia, they will be only too anxious to throw him over; and even if we could not furnish any direct evidence after all, a suspicion of that kind never quite dies away.”

“I see; you mean to disgrace him as well as get rid of him? That will suit me all right. I believe you hate him as much as I do. But you will help me, Tant’ Ottilie? I don’t quite see how I could carry the thing through alone.”

“Help you, dear boy? of course. But tell me first; you are sure that you really love Lida?”

“Of course I do. You said so yourself. Should I want to marry her if I didn’t?” was the unanswerable rejoinder, and the Princess forbore to press the question further.

“Leave everything to me just at present, Michael, and do not appear to have discovered your mother’s secret. I shall try to persuade her to consent to your marriage first. After that, we must take other measures.”

Having attained her various objects in starting the conversation, she said no more, leaving the boy to brood over his discoveries. She had succeeded beyond her utmost expectations in rousing him to the two emotions of love and hate, and now her only fear was lest a chance interview with his mother or with Cyril should lead to an explosion before she had had time to prepare her ground. It was evident that the campaign must be opened quickly on her side if she was not to find her movements anticipated. Her plans were soon laid, and when she met Ernestine, without appearing to notice the start of dismay with which her unexpected arrival was greeted, she whispered as she advanced to kiss her—

“I must have a nice long talk with you to-night, darling Nestchen. I have such sweet, delightful news to give you.”

Princess Ottilie as a sentimentalist was appearing in a new character, and Ernestine felt a thrill of alarm when she heard her words; but with the conviction that it would be of no avail to defer the evil day, she granted the private interview which her cousin had asked for.

“I do not know when I have felt so happy!” said the Princess, when she had sent her maid away, and she and Ernestine were facing one another in the rose-tinted light of her dressing-room. “Even when dear Albrecht came to tell me that he loved Bettine, I could not feel such complete satisfaction as I do to-day, for you and I have always been such close friends, and it is so thoroughly suitable that our children should—— But how I am running on! Well, Nestchen, our children understand one another. Dearest Michael confessed his love to me to-day—quite without any prompting on my part—and as for my Lida, I have known her innocent little secret for a long time. Is it not delightful that all should have fallen out exactly as we planned?”

Ernestine was sitting very straight in her chair, and her face looked drawn and ghastly in the soft light. “But, Ottilie——” she said, with a sort of gasp.

“What, Ernestine?” cried the Princess. “You don’t mean me to understand that you have changed your mind? You have never even hinted at such a thing.”

“I have not changed my mind,” said Ernestine, speaking with difficulty, “but I wish this had happened two days ago or not at all.”

“I must insist on knowing what you mean, Ernestine. My daughter’s happiness is at stake—which seems to be more to me than your son’s happiness is to you.”

“My son’s happiness is of the very highest importance to me, Ottilie. Your news comes as a shock, because only yesterday morning I was told, by one in whom I have every confidence, that it was impossible, for political reasons, for the marriage to which we have both been looking forward to take place.”

“And you imagine that I shall be content to sacrifice my child to the opinion of some anonymous busybody? But no—I know only too well who your sapient adviser is. It is Count Mortimer.”

“Of course it was. I knew that only to your lover would you dream of sacrificing your child.”

“Because it is true. Deny that he is your lover, if you can—a fact that everybody knows.”

“I have no wish to deny it. I do love Count Mortimer, and I am proud to say that he loves me.”

“There is no question of sacrificing him. What you have told me has put a new complexion on affairs, and it will be necessary to modify any other plans we may have had in view. You are the last person to suggest that I am likely to sacrifice Michael’s happiness, Ottilie. For years I have sacrificed myself in allowing him to spend every spare hour of his time with you, because it seemed to make him happier than keeping him at home.”

“I do not wish to quarrel with you, Ottilie, but your tone is exceedingly strange.”

“Yes, it is strange, is it not, when my Lida’s happiness is wavering in the balance? I don’t know whether you expect me to acquiesce meekly, Ernestine, when in one moment you spring on me your determination to upset the arrangement which was entered into at your own suggestion, and towards which we have been working ever since. Unfortunately I care more for the broken hearts of those poor children than for the success of Count Mortimer’s projects of self-advertisement.”

“I should be glad if you would remember that you are speaking—as you have mentioned once or twice—of the man I love. As I said just now, I shall tell Count Mortimer what you have told me, and inform him that the original scheme must be carried out.”

“And when he pooh-poohs the whole affair—declares that the children are babies, and that the peace of Europe (oh, I know his ways) is not to be imperilled for the sake of giving them what they cry for—what then? Do you think I don’t know that he will talk you over in five minutes, and that you will agree with everything he proposes, wiping away a tear to the memory of the love-story you have ended so cruelly?”

“I must beg of you to leave the matter with me, Ottilie,” said the Queen, rising and going towards the door. “I have confidence in Count Mortimer, if you have not, and I feel sure that he will find a way of settling things happily.”

“Wait, Ernestine!” cried the Princess, crossing the room and putting her hand on the door. “Things would be settled happily for you and him, no doubt, but what about Lida and me? No settlement devised by Count Mortimer would ever prove favourable to my daughter. He will laugh at your scruples, and bring you round to his own way of thinking—or if you should venture to hold out, he would proceed with his plans without reference to you. And do you think that I am going to allow you to sue humbly to such a man in my name, entreating that my daughter shall be permitted to marry your son? No; put things on the right footing at once. It is not Count Mortimer who is master of the situation—it is myself. I hold the winning card, and that is Michael. There is less than a week now before he comes of age, and if Count Mortimer succeeds in obtaining for him in that time the promise of the hand of Frederike of Hercynia, he will repudiate the arrangement as soon as he is his own master. Then your friend must resign, disgraced before all Europe. If he is unwilling to face the prospect, he must give the lie to the whole of his past policy, and accept Lida as his future Queen. That is the choice you have to offer him—a surrender to Michael, and to me, or political ruin.”

“Ottilie,” said the Queen, looking at her in agony, “be merciful. I cannot take him such a message. I love him.”

“Then leave him to discover the alternatives for himself. It will only make his ruin all the surer. He can find no third course. For any other man I would have built a golden bridge—enabled him to make his escape with some remnants of dignity—but for him I have no pity.”

“But what has he done to you, Ottilie? His plan to marry you to his brother failed.”

“Yes; but how did he accept his failure? He insulted me in a way that I shall never forgive. It was the evening of our wedding—the ceremony was just over—and this wretch Mortimer approached Alexis and myself under pretence of offering his congratulations. Every word was an insult, though veiled under the form of politeness. He ventured—he even ventured—to warn Alexis that I should probably prove unfaithful to him. ‘She has deceived her father, and may thee,’ were his words. Alexis did not perceive the drift of the remark, but if I had had a dagger at hand——! I smiled then, but afterwards I vowed that he should pay dearly for the outrage; and now the time for payment has come.”

“But why through me? It is too cruel. Why do not you tell him? But no; at least I can save him from that bitter tongue of yours by telling him myself.”

“Yes, and see how he will regard you afterwards. I wish he loved you, Ernestine—as you love him, poor silly child!—that he might suffer more, but you are nothing but an item in his plans. He has made use of you to work his way to power, he is using you now to recommend himself to the Emperors, and when you prove unable to help him to mount any higher, he will kick you aside. You are of no use to him unless you represent success.”

“Please let me pass, Ottilie,” said the Queen coldly, her calmness restored. “Your calumnies against Count Mortimer are worthy of yourself; I will say no more. As I had decided, I shall see Michael first and question him, and then communicate the situation to Count Mortimer, and ascertain his views.”

It was not until noon of the next day that Ernestine succeeded in obtaining an interview with her son, and in this her cousin anticipated her. King Michael entered his mother’s room armed at all points, and the sight of his sullen, determined face gave Ernestine a strange pang, bringing back, as it did, the first year of her unhappy married life. One day, as she was quitting the room in outraged dignity after a violent quarrel with her husband, she had chanced to catch a glimpse of herself in the great mirror she was passing, and the look which had met her then was repeated now in the face so like her own. After all, for much that was amiss in Michael’s character the blame was hers, and the thought gave a sudden softness to her voice as she stretched out her hand to the boy.

“Come and sit here beside me, little son.” The endearing diminutive came naturally to her lips, although King Michael was as tall as herself. “I have scarcely had a word with you yet. What is this that I hear about Lida?”

“I love Lida, and I am going to marry her,” was the answer, as King Michael declined the proffered seat, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, glowering at his mother with wrathful eyes.

“Of course I am. I can’t tell why you should think I don’t know my own mind. If I didn’t love her, why should I want to marry her?”

The plea did not sound as irresistible to Ernestine as it had done to her cousin, but she betrayed no impatience. “I don’t want to appear to cast a doubt on the sincerity of your love, dear boy,” she said, without showing any resentment at his tone, “but you know that it is not with kings as with ordinary men—there are so many things to think of. If you marry Lida, it will mean that some important changes have to be made, and perhaps some sacrifices. I don’t grudge making sacrifices for my boy—I think you know that, Michael?”

A dogged silence was the only answer, and she went on, “I have given you up so much of late years, Michael, that perhaps you scarcely realise how much it has cost me to do it. It never struck you, did it, when you were at Praka or Bashi Konak with your cousins, how lonely I was here? But you were so happy with them that I had not the heart to keep you in this dull place with no one to play with. No, dear, I don’t shrink from any sacrifice for your sake, but I want to be sure that it will not be wasted.”

“I shall never marry any one but Lida,” responded the boy gruffly. “Everything that I like is connected with her—Tant’ Ottilie, and going to Praka, and getting away from ceremony and fuss. I can’t give her up.”

“I am not asking you to give her up, dear boy. If you are sure you love her, I will speak to Count Mortimer, and ask him to make the proper arrangements, though I shall be left more lonely than ever.”

“I am sorry,” said King Michael awkwardly, kissing his mother on the forehead, “but I love her too much to give her up. And, little mother”—the words came with a rush—“you have been so kind about it, I’ll not say anything against your—your settling things with that fellow Mortimer.”

And the King departed in haste, as though fearing that he had compromised himself by his impulsive generosity, and left his mother to face the worst ordeal of all—her interview with Cyril. He arrived not long after King Michael had left the room, and found Ernestine sitting idle, with her hands locked together. She looked at him almost fearfully as he approached her.

“Cyril,” she said in a half-whisper, “I have something to tell you that you will be sorry to hear. Michael and Lida of Dardania are in love with one another.”

“Then it is the Princess’s doing, and nothing else, for any one could see that they had no thought of anything of the kind before.”

“Too late, my dear Ernestine! A boy of sixteen and a girl of fifteen! I will undertake to put a stop to it in no time.”

“Not allow it? Surely you have forgotten that I explained to you the other day that such a marriage was out of the question?”

“So we thought at the time, but this alters everything. We must think of some way in which things can be arranged satisfactorily.”

“But it is impossible. No arrangement could be satisfactory which would give the Princess of Dardania a pretext for interfering in our affairs. Besides, the whole balance of power would be upset.”

“You will be able to devise some scheme which will put things right. You are so skilful; I am depending on you.”

“My scheme is simply to pack Michael off to Vienna as soon as all the fuss next week is over. He has never seen any girls but his cousins, and you will find very soon that there is safety in numbers. I would take him to Paris myself, if it was safe to leave the kingdom for so long. That would cure him very quickly of his calf-love, but Vienna is the next best place.”

“But you don’t seem to understand, Cyril, and yet I told you only two days ago that it was a matter of conscience with me not to thwart Michael in an affair of this kind. I suppose I can’t make you see it quite as I do, but it always seems to me”—her voice faltered—“as if in this way I could make a sort of atonement for the way in which I treated his father. I daresay it sounds very foolish and illogical to you,” as Cyril’s lip curled, “but if I could feel that Michael’s married life, at any rate, was likely to be a happy one, it would not seem as if our unhappy marriage was to go on causing unhappiness to generation after generation.”

“Let me beg of you to look at things from a common-sense point of view, Ernestine. Your husband would have been the last to wish the good of Thracia to be sacrificed for a foolish fancy about making atonement to him.”

“I knew you would not see what I meant. But still, Cyril, even if change and distraction helped Michael to get over his trouble, as you suggest, I should never forgive myself for allowing poor little Lida to be cast aside. No; I have often heard you say that when a misfortune is irremediable, the only sensible thing to do is to accept the situation and start afresh from it.”

“But it can’t be, if you accept it. I thought you might perhaps arrange a compact with Ottilie, that the wedding should not take place for five years, until Michael is twenty-one, and that during that time she should not make any attempt to interfere in Thracian affairs, or to prejudice Michael against you. What do you think?”

“Truly excellent, if the wit of man can devise any possible means of making the Princess of Dardania keep a promise which it suits her to break. And what about breaking faith with the Emperors, and reversing the policy which I have laboured for twelve years to establish? Have women no idea of political morality, of duty to the country? Can you in cold blood imagine that I am likely to hand over Thracia, bound, to Scythia, after all I have done to strengthen her independence and give her a voice among the Powers?”

“Who says?—the Princess of Dardania? That was the secret of your anxiety for me in your suggested compromise, was it? What is the dilemma into which she hopes to force me?”

“She said that you must either reverse your policy and allow Michael to marry Lida, or oppose him for a week and then be dismissed—that there was no alternative. She says Michael will do what she tells him.”

“No doubt. But she is a little out in her calculations. There is another alternative, and it is in your hands. It lies with you to save the situation, Ernestine. Refuse your consent to the marriage. Break with the Princess openly, and take measures to remove Michael from her influence. Your family and the Schwarzwald-Molzaus will back you up, and the Emperors will see fair play.”

“But I have told you I cannot do it, Cyril. I cannot break the children’s hearts.”

“No one wishes you to break their hearts. All that you have to do is gently to guide their vagrant fancies into the right direction. In so doing you will checkmate the Princess and rescue Michael from her clutches. He will see the world a little, and come back to you free from the trammels of his adoration for her; and she, like a wise woman, will have found another match for Princess Lida. Come, I’ll undertake to pull the matter through. You understand? You must do it.”

“Cyril, I can’t. The thought of the children’s misery would haunt me ever after.”

“Nonsense! Michael will be the first to thank you when he is settled down with a quiet, good-tempered girl as a wife, instead of the pretty little intriguer whom your cousin has so carefully trained up to follow in her own footsteps. As for the girl, there is no heart on her side of the question. She is simply doing as her mother tells her. This is not a matter of choice, Ernestine. You must do as I advise you, and there is no time for thinking about it.”

“Oh, Cyril, wait!” She came close to him, and laid her hands on his arm. “I cannot do it; I am pledged both to Michael and Ottilie. I would save you if I could, but not in this way—anything but this. Explain to the Emperors how the matter stands, and resign at once. Then I will marry you next week, and we will leave Thracia—leave Michael to be happy. If you will give up office for me, I will give him up for you—if I can do it knowing that all is well with him. We love each other; we will live somewhere quietly, and forget politics. Am I not enough for you?”

“Good heavens, Ernestine, you would drive a man mad! Well, if you must have an answer, you are not enough, if Thracia has to be left to the Princess and to Scythia, and all my work undone.”

“Cyril, I have obeyed you, yielded to you, given up so much for you already. Give up this for me.”

CHAPTER XXV.
TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS.

But the Baroness was already standing in the hall, to the discomfiture of Paschics, who felt that he had erred in not escorting her up the steps. She accepted his hurried apology graciously, however, and passed on with Cyril into his private office. It was the day following that on which Cyril had delivered his ultimatum to Ernestine.

“I am the bearer of a message from her Majesty, Count,” said the Baroness, when she was satisfied that they could not be overheard. “My daughter had offered to bring it; but one cannot be too careful in questions of etiquette, and Prince Boris is extremely particular.”

This was no exaggeration, for Boris Mirkovics was commonly reported to be the most jealous husband in Thracia, although his pretty wife made the best of things by affecting to regard the feeling as a compliment; and Cyril was grateful to the Baroness for saving him from a possible complication in that quarter. His patience was sorely tried, however, when the old lady, after settling her laces, clearing her throat two or three times, and refreshing herself by a sniff at her bottle of smelling-salts, remarked, in a tone of chilling disapproval—

“You are aware, Count, of the aversion with which I have always regarded the—the state of things between her Majesty and yourself——”

“Pardon me, Baroness,” interrupted Cyril, “but would you have any objection to giving me your message at once? We can go into the moral aspects of the situation afterwards. Has the Queen come to any definite decision upon the matters which I had the honour of laying before her yesterday?”

“Forgive me,” said the Baroness. “I should have remembered that the question was one of deep importance to you. No, her Majesty has not arrived at any definite decision, save that she is still convinced that it is impossible for her to break her pledges to the King and to the Princess of Dardania; but she begs that you will be good enough to postpone any further discussion of the subject, or action in connection with it, until after the conclusion of next week’s festivities. She is anxious that they should pass off without any disagreeable contretemps, and trusts that in the interval you may be able to devise some settlement that may be satisfactory to all parties.”

“No one can be more desirous of obliging her Majesty than I am,” returned Cyril; “but you must know, Baroness, that it is not so much a question of my doing nothing, as of the Princess of Dardania’s consenting to remain inactive. I appeal to you, without fear of misconstruction, for I know that since her mother’s death the Queen has confided everything to you: do you think the Princess may be trusted not to steal a march on me?”

“Perhaps I am not too friendly to the Princess,” said the Baroness thoughtfully, “for her Royal Highness and I have long had a difference of opinion on the subject of etiquette, on many points of which her ideas seem to me inexcusably lax for one in her high position, but I think she would scarcely break the truce which the Queen proposes. I know that her Majesty has had a long interview with her, in which she steadily refused to retreat from the ground she took up immediately upon her arrival, but consented to the postponement of the question.”

“If she could be depended upon to play fair, it would be the best temporary solution possible under the circumstances, but that’s where the doubt comes in. However, one may almost say that it’s the only thing to be done, and it certainly gives us a breathing-space. If we can only get through the festivities without an esclandre, we may be able to hit on something. By the bye, Baroness, I believe I was rude enough to interrupt you just now?”

“It is forgotten,” said the Baroness graciously. “I was about to say, my dear Count, that in spite of the horror with which I am bound to regard anything in the nature of a misalliance, I cannot bring myself to hope that this difficulty will end in the breaking-off of the engagement between her Majesty and yourself, as it is, I fear, my duty to do.”

“I am afraid that I may be failing in my obligations to her Majesty, Count, but it is certain that I have lately come to regard this affair as differing from others of the kind. It may be that one’s judgments soften as one grows older, or it may merely be that I am getting old and foolish, but I hope that it may be possible for her Majesty to marry you. I have watched the sad course of her life, I have seen her misery since her quarrel with you yesterday, and my heart fails me when I think of her suffering if she lost you. You will wonder that I should thus betray the Queen’s feelings to you, but I have a reason. Count, I was aghast when I heard of the definite choice you had placed before her Majesty.”

“I agree with you, Baroness, that the form of the words was unsuitable. If I had been wise I should have employed a different method—entreated and not commanded. I’m afraid the truth is that I lost my head in the excitement of the moment. I never did such a thing before, but my nerve is not what it was. Twenty years of hard work, with practically no holidays, take it out of a man. But it’s no use hedging now, and besides, the Queen’s yielding furnishes the only possible solution of the difficulty.”

“But you would not in any case proceed to the extremities you threatened? You have unfortunately arrayed all her Majesty’s highest feelings against you in thus placing her own happiness in the scale against that of her son. It was not wisely done. And surely, my dear Count, the mental fatigue of which you speak is a warning to you to rest? Marrying her Majesty, you would live quietly and happily, as your English poet says, ‘The world forgetting, by the world forgot.’”

“Are you holding that out as an inducement to me, Baroness? I am afraid you scarcely realise the hold which the world has upon some people. What, you must go? Let me entreat your influence to induce her Majesty to yield, for the sake of the Powers and of European peace, and also, if you will have it, because I cannot pretend to say that if she is obdurate I should not carry out my threat, as you called it just now.”

The Baroness shook her head sadly as Cyril escorted her to her carriage, and he himself failed, for once, to regard the outlook with any confidence. The postponement of the necessity for decision was a great relief, but he could not see any means of saving the situation if the Queen should fail him.

Meanwhile the preparations for the festivities went on apace, and royal guests began to arrive at Bellaviste, until the Palace was fuller than it had been for many years, and extra accommodation had to be found in some of the principal hotels. Among the earliest arrivals was the Crown Prince of Hercynia, representing his father, and attended by Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal. The news that the Imperial Chancellor would visit Thracia had caused much comment, and some excitement, throughout Europe, and it had been freely stated that the object of his coming was to arrange a match between the young King and one of his master’s daughters. The futility of this course under the circumstances had not become generally known, but Cyril was relieved to find that it was not necessary for him to recount to his fellow-statesman the untoward events of the past week. The Hercynian Government had been kept informed by its own representatives of the appearance at Bellaviste of the Princess of Dardania, and of the evident strain which had ensued in the relations of the King and Queen, and had drawn the obvious conclusion, so that Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal had been specially commissioned to ascertain whether Cyril was concerned in the plot, and had played the two Emperors false. If this should prove not to be the case, he was empowered to concert with him as to the means by which the Princess might be baulked of the results of her diplomacy.

Nothing could have come as a more acceptable balm to Cyril’s wounded feelings than this tacit acknowledgment that he alone was considered capable of dealing with the situation satisfactorily, but he was unable to give much comfort in return. Everything depended on the Queen, and although Cyril did his utmost whenever he saw her alone to emphasise the importance of the crisis, he could not flatter himself that he had secured her assistance. He had not expected her to hold out so long after receiving his ultimatum, and he blamed himself ever more and more for the form in which he had chosen to present it. Labouring day by day to remove the unfortunate impression he had produced, he still found himself compelled to report failure to Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal, and when the week of festivity began, he had not so much as obtained from Ernestine a promise to consider her ways. But his ill-success made him only the more determined to win in the end, and he grudged the loss of time caused by the state ceremonies, which kept him from taking active measures, such as were beginning to suggest themselves to his mind, although they were of the doleful nature of counsels of despair.

Balls and banquets, church services and gala performances at the theatre, the reception of congratulatory addresses and the taking and receiving of various oaths of allegiance, filled up day after day, and the guests, with an endurance and a politeness only to be found in royal personages, contrived to appear not only tolerant of the rush of uninteresting events, but even pleased with it. No contretemps marred the festivities, and the concluding function was reached without even the symptoms of a difference of opinion among those assembled to do honour to King Michael. The Pannonian Arch-Duke showed no signs of remembering the barrier which had arisen of late years between the Three Powers and the princely family of Dardania, the Princess and the Queen were on almost oppressively good terms, and M. Drakovics comported himself in a sufficiently friendly manner even towards Cyril. Thus the last of the series of entertainments, the luncheon-party on the Saturday, to which the foreign royal personages were invited previous to their departure from Bellaviste in the course of the afternoon, marked the conclusion of a week of perfect harmony.

When lunch was over, King Michael rose to propose the health of his guests, and to express due gratitude for their presence and support during the ceremonies of the week. His speech had been written out for him by Cyril in order that he might commit it to memory; but it seemed that among the many distractions of the past few days he had failed to study it as carefully as he should have done, for he was noticeably nervous—a quality which no one had remarked in him before. He succeeded, however, in getting through his list with a little prompting and some reference to his notes, and his audience, who were prepared to be more than merciful, applauded in the right places and helped to cover his confusion. But when the end of the speech was almost reached, and the requisite compliments had been paid to the delegates of the Emperors, to the Kings present or represented by members of their families, to the houses of Weldart and Schwarzwald-Molzau, from which the speaker traced his descent, he hesitated for a moment. There was only one family that still remained to be complimented, and the King’s slight pause merely rendered more effective the raised tones in which he uttered words which had never appeared in Cyril’s written oration:—

“And lastly—although my own wishes would have led me to propose this toast first of all—I ask you to drink to the health of my dear cousins the Prince and Princess of Dardania, with whose family it is my hope and purpose to be even more intimately connected in the future than at present. Hoch, hoch, hoch!” and he bowed to the Prince and Princess over his raised glass.

A bombshell exploding in their midst could scarcely have proved more startling to the company assembled than this sentence. All had guessed at the plans of the Emperors, and most were more or less definitely acquainted with them; but now it was plain that the diplomacy of Hercynia and Pannonia had suffered a defeat, and that the victory lay with the dark-haired lady in yellow brocade and sable, whose eyes were brighter than her diamonds as she replied smilingly behind her fan to the whispered congratulations of the young King of Mœsia. Cyril’s glance had met that of Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal, as the fateful words were uttered, and the monosyllable “Done!” had escaped his lips, while the Baron replied by a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders to the look of blank helplessness which the Crown Prince of Hercynia turned upon him. The Pannonian Arch-Duke was the only person who had sufficient presence of mind to drink the toast without betraying the conflicting emotions which were agitating him at the moment; but before there had been time to respond to it the Prince of Dardania created a sudden diversion.

Ernestine had fallen back in her chair, her face as white as the ermine on her gown, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Her jewelled fingers were clenched before her on the table—clenched, as the Court physician remarked afterwards to a confrère, like the contorted hands of a person in fierce bodily agony. She did not seem to notice the alarm and anxiety around her; but when the Princess of Dardania waved away the rest of the guests with, “Leave her to me: the agitation of this joyful week has been too much for her,” she drew herself away from her with a shudder of repulsion which did not escape the notice of others. The Princess laughed lightly, but not without some embarrassment, as she resigned her place to Baroness von Hilfenstein, who ignored her with a wrathful contempt which was patent to every one as she helped to convey the Queen to another room. Pausing on the threshold, Ernestine made a painful effort to speak; but her blanched lips refused their office, and her eyes, full of dumb anguish, wandered helplessly over the sympathising faces around. The Baroness understood her, however.

“You wish his Excellency the Premier to wait on you, madame? Count, will you be good enough to hold yourself in readiness until her Majesty is sufficiently recovered to receive you?”

The rest of the company passed on into the other rooms, but Cyril waited in the deserted dining-room. It was not long before he was summoned by one of the ladies, and under her guidance entered the room in which interviews with Ernestine had so often been granted to him. She was seated now beside her writing-table, with her hair and her rich dress in disorder, and as she turned towards him at the sound of his step a fit of strong trembling seized her.

“Cyril, upbraid me, scold me—anything but look at me like that! Don’t speak so coldly, I can’t bear it. Cyril, what are you going to do?”

Her voice was almost a scream as she rose from her chair and tried to reach him, but tottered and fell at his feet, clinging to his hands in an agony of terror. He raised her silently, and placed her in her chair again.

“Cyril,” she said, holding his hand fast, “say something. Don’t look at me in that way. I thought you loved me once.”

“I think it would be unnecessary, and perhaps painful to your Majesty, to enter into that question.”

“But you could not be so cruel as to punish me when I was as much astonished by what Michael said as you were? I have lost my son, I have lost Ottilie, who was once my friend—you cannot mean that I must lose you?”

“It is surely self-evident, madame, that a discredited politician out of office is not a fit match for a Queen.”

“Discredited—out of office! As though I cared! I love you, not your office—you more than ever, now that you have failed and are in trouble. You could not punish me so cruelly, Cyril? You will not forsake me after all the years that I have waited for you?”

“Pray do not lay the blame upon me, madame. The choice was in your own hands. You preferred your son’s whim to the success of my policy, and it only remains for me to congratulate your Majesty upon the acquisition of a most charming daughter-in-law, and to withdraw.”

“No, you shall not go.” She clung to his hand so tightly that he was unable to free himself. “You must hear me, Cyril. Ottilie promised me solemnly that nothing should be done until the festivities were over, and I believed her. So did you. Why punish me, then? Only let me come with you if you mean to leave Thracia. I do not mind being poor. I had rather be poor, with you.”

“I think, Count,” said King Michael’s voice, as the newly enfranchised sovereign appeared at the door which led into the ante-room, “that you can scarcely be aware that Dr Danilovics gave special directions that her Majesty was not to be agitated. Need I point out that so long an audience is extremely injurious to her in her present condition of illness and excitement?”

“I did not know that you had been invited to assist at this interview, sir.”

“If I choose to protect my mother from the schemes of a political adventurer, Count, that is my affair.”

“Such a remark, addressed to one who was your father’s friend and has served your mother faithfully, comes with an ill grace from you, sir, and necessarily deprives me of the honour of serving you in the future.”

“Your Majesty’s consideration is unbounded. That I may not appear backward in responding to it, allow me to say that should my successor desire any information as to the routine work of the post, I am entirely at her service.”

“Surely, sir, it is patent to all that her Royal Highness the Princess of Dardania becomes, ipso facto, Foreign Minister and Premier of Thracia. It is impossible that I should be mistaken.”

“Pardon me, sir, but it is a little unkind to wish to keep all the enjoyment to yourself. The practical joke which her Royal Highness has just carried out with your Majesty’s assistance would make the fortune of a farce.”

The King’s dignity was touched. He had an uneasy feeling, which would never have oppressed the Princess of Dardania, that the suave, cynical man before him was amused rather than thunder-struck by his great coup, and he grasped eagerly at the first chance that offered itself for terminating the interview. “This wrangling, Count, is unseemly in the presence of her Majesty,” he said reprovingly, with a glance at his mother, who was looking from one to the other in bewildered misery.

“Nothing, sir, could be more contrary to my wishes than that my presence should cast a shadow on her Majesty’s pleasure in this joyful occasion. With your permission I will retire to England as soon as the formalities attendant upon my resignation are completed.”

“No, Count. There are certain charges”—the King looked sharply at Cyril to see whether he blenched, but in vain—“to be inquired into first.”

“As your Majesty pleases. I can only hope that the result may be as satisfactory to my accusers as it is bound to be to myself.” It was his turn to look at the King, who moved uneasily.

“Cyril,” cried the Queen, rousing herself from her lethargy, as he prepared to retire, “you will not leave me in this way? Cyril!”

“You forget, madame, that we are not alone,” Cyril heard the King say, laying a hand on his mother’s shoulder as she tried to rise, and with her despairing face before his eyes, the defeated Premier left the room. Once outside the door, the realisation of all that this meant came upon him like a flood. One moment he gasped for breath, and his hands gripped his coat as though to tear it open: then his self-control returned to him, and he stepped out from under the portière to pass through the rooms filled with the gaudy, glittering crowd, that knew him to be discomfited and disgraced. If they had expected him to show the consciousness of his failure in his face, they were disappointed, for he appeared amongst them absolutely unmoved, although a smile lingered on his lips for a moment as he noticed the rapidity with which men and women alike hastened out of his way, leaving him a clear path, for fear of his attempting to speak to any of them, and thus branding them with the taint of having been an intimate of the fallen Minister. He spoke to no one, but before he had crossed the first room a tall awkward youth, with his honest face ablaze with indignation, had deliberately stepped forward and placed himself at his side, glorifying the retreat by the splendour of his uniform and the magnificence of the decorations with which his breast was covered. It was the Crown Prince of Hercynia, whose incurable kindness of heart made him the despair of his father, and who was reported to run no small risk of being passed over in the succession in favour of his younger brother, Prince Friedrich Karl. He placed his arm through Cyril’s, and began to talk stammeringly and incoherently, not because he had anything to say, but obviously in order to set his protégé at his ease. In spite of his unavoidable amusement, Cyril could not help being touched, but at the door he freed himself resolutely from the Prince’s hold.

“I am unutterably grateful for your Imperial Highness’s condescension, but I must refuse to bring you into trouble with your father.”

For one moment the Prince looked startled, then he took Cyril’s arm again. “You have been doing our work,” he said, “and you shall not be thrown aside because the task has proved too much for you.”

In the corridor they came face to face with Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal, who was hurrying towards them, drawn by the flying report which had reached him of the extraordinary conduct of the Crown Prince. A glance at the young man’s face showed him that no remonstrance would serve his turn, and he begged therefore that he might be allowed a few moments’ conversation with Count Mortimer on political matters of the utmost importance. The Prince hesitated, half-suspecting the ruse, then saw a way out of the difficulty.

“We must not detain his Excellency here, Baron. Do you walk home with him—to his house, you understand?—as I was intending to do, and talk on the way.”

It is to be feared that the Baron’s murmured acquiescence did not adequately represent his feelings at the moment, but he obeyed, and walked on with Cyril, the Crown Prince looking after them.

“Good fellow that Prince of yours,” remarked Cyril, when they were crossing the courtyard, “but a terrible fool. Accept my condolences, Baron. If you feel as sick as you look, I’m afraid Hercynia will soon be without a Chancellor.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” said the Baron, pulling himself together. “No one can fight against folly. Can I do anything for you, by the way?”

“Yes, you can. Wire to my brother—you have stayed with him, so you know his address—and tell him to take no steps whatever about me. When I am ready, I’ll come home. I don’t want the might of the British Empire invoked to protect me against the spite of an angry woman.”

“What?” said the Baron, looking at him narrowly; “it is more than mere dismissal, is it?”

“Impeachment, if they can manage it. By the bye, Baron, in a trial it is possible that certain facts might come out which would throw a light upon recent Hercynian policy——”

“By no means, my dear Baron. Threats between old friends and old political hands like you and me? Why, you should be grateful to me for simply directing your attention to possible dangerous contingencies. You know enough of me and of my methods to be sure that if the Princess of Dardania wishes to base her action against me upon documentary evidence she must forge it—and in that case she will not stop at implicating me. In self-defence, I might find it necessary to declare the truth, which might prove only less damaging to other people than the forgeries. You understand me?”

“I do. You wish us to make representations to the King, based upon the impolicy and ingratitude of his conduct towards the friend and servant of his parents?”

“That’s it. The Prince of Dardania is a sensible man at bottom, and I think he will interfere and restrain his wife and young Michael when he sees how their proceedings are regarded; but to make matters sure you might let your Government journals insert a vague note touching the means by which a recent successful conspiracy in the Balkans was promoted—extensive use of forged documents, and so on. I can put you on the track of one or two little things connected with the Rhodope business if you find it necessary to go further, but I think you will scarcely need them.”

“Just so; and now here we are at my hospitable door. You won’t come in, I fear? Well, thanks for your company, and the trouble you are going to take. I’ll do the same for you when young Hopeful kicks you out because you are too much identified with the bold bad diplomacy of his father’s days.”

“Many thanks. If I were in your place at the present moment, I am not sure that I would remain to run the risk of a trial. Public opinion does not seem particularly well affected towards you, and you have escaped assassination once already.”

“Really, Baron, I fear you under-estimate either my age or my intelligence,” was Cyril’s reply to this little stab, which the Baron emphasised by a nod towards the crowd gathered in the street,—a hostile, murmuring, uncertain crowd, that had heard rumours of the great Minister’s downfall, but felt it hardly safe to believe them on seeing him walking quietly home in the company of the Hercynian Chancellor. There was one, however, who felt no misgivings. The crowd parted to allow of the passage of a bath-chair, and its occupant, an old white-haired man, threw a glance of triumph and hatred at Cyril as he stood on the steps.

“My turn once, yours now!” he cried, in a shrill voice which in its cracked tones bore only a faint resemblance to that which had formerly been able to sway a multitude. “Bonjour, feu M. le Ministre!”

They were the words with which Ernestine had dismissed M. Drakovics eleven years before, and Cyril laughed bitterly as he bowed with peculiar politeness to his old enemy, and retreated into the house, pursued by the loud hisses and hootings of the mob, which had divined the truth from the old man’s speech. Turning into the secretary’s office, Cyril met the concerned gaze of Paschics.

“Oh, you need only swear that I have intrigued with the Scythian Court, and bring forward a forged document or two to support your statement, and the Emperor Sigismund will pay you almost any sum you like to name.”

“Your Excellency is over-tired, or you would not insult by such a suggestion a man who has always tried to serve you faithfully.”

“You are right, Paschics. Well, come into my office, and let us go through this solemn farce with becoming dignity.”

They had scarcely taken their seats when the King’s private secretary arrived to demand the delivery of the seals of office. Following him came the Chief of Police, with several subordinates.

“I am instructed to seal up your Excellency’s papers in your presence, and take them to my Bureau for examination,” he said. “Your Excellency is to be placed under arrest in your own house. You can obtain what you wish from without through the police, but you will not be allowed to communicate with any one outside.”

“Very good,” said Cyril. “What a blessing I have sent my message to Caerleon before this!” he added to himself. “What is the matter, Paschics?”

“Your Excellency,” in a quick whisper, as the attention of the police was distracted by their task, “if there is anything among the papers—any letters—which you would not desire to have seen, tell me at once, and I will destroy it before they take possession of them, whatever the risks.”

“Your Excellency,” the secretary’s fingers were twitching as he stood beside Cyril, “will you endure this? They are treating you like a common criminal. Only give me the word, and I will strangle the Prefect there.”

“My good Paschics, keep quiet, and don’t make things worse. Why should not the police tumble my papers about, if they like? It doesn’t hurt us. I am really grateful to them for giving me something to think about.”

Understanding now the full extent of the disaster, Paschics was silent, but when the police had gone into another room, he crept out after them. In a moment he returned, his face beaming with delight.

“Your Excellency, the door is unguarded, and there are none of them in the hall. I can disguise you in a moment, and you will be able to escape.”

“No, thank you, Paschics. Don’t you see their little dodge? They would like it better than anything else if I went slinking away in disguise, but I don’t mean to gratify them. We will stay here.”

After all, the imprisonment lasted only two days. At the end of that time the papers were returned and the police guard removed from the house, and Cyril was informed that he might go whither he would. Of this permission, however, he refused to avail himself, declining to skulk out of the country like a man desiring to escape notice. In consequence of his maintenance of this unbending attitude, one of the Court carriages was sent on the following day to convey him to the Palace, with the message that the King wished to see him. With the young monarch he found the Prince of Dardania, who took the leading part in the conversation which followed. A little to one side sat the Princess, with a piece of embroidery in her hand.

“Her Royal Highness is present, Count,” said King Michael sharply, when Cyril had saluted him and the Prince.

“I crave her Royal Highness’s pardon, sir. I had imagined that this was a business interview, and that the Princess’s presence would be more properly ignored, but since your Majesty informs me that it is a social occasion, I can only express my gratification at being admitted to such a pleasant family gathering.”

“Count,” said the Prince of Dardania hastily, “his Majesty has asked me to express his regret at the treatment you have received. In consequence of the receipt of mistaken information, you were placed under arrest, and your papers seized. I need scarcely say that nothing to justify the seizure was discovered, and strong representations as to the harshness of the course pursued have been made by several personages whose advice the King is bound to respect. Under these circumstances, his Majesty’s only desire is to make you a suitable recompense for the inconvenience to which you have been put. There are personal and family reasons, which it is unnecessary to particularise, which would render it undesirable for you to continue to hold the office of Premier, but you are of course entitled to the usual pension, and if with this you care to accept the position of Thracian Minister to the Pannonian Court, I think you would find it a post well suited to your tastes and abilities.”

“I am deeply indebted to your Highness for the handsome things you have said. With respect to the offers you have been instructed to make to me in the name of his Majesty, perhaps you will convey to him the pleasing intelligence that I decline them utterly, for personal reasons, which it is unnecessary to particularise. I will not accept a pension, nor will I take the post of Minister to Pannonia, and there is certainly one person in this room who has reason to be grateful that I will not. But I demand an authorised statement in the ‘Gazette’ that I resigned office on account of failing health, induced by long and unremitting devotion to the duties of my position, and also a full apology for the inexcusable blunder committed by the police. I shall expect also to receive the marks of distinction usual on quitting an office such as I have held, and to be treated with due honour on quitting Thracia. Otherwise I stay.”

“I know why you refuse his Majesty’s offers,” said the Princess, leaning forward confidentially, while her husband and the King discussed Cyril’s demands in an undertone. “You wish to injure Thracia, and therefore do not like to take her money. I did not know you were so scrupulous.”

“It is quite unnecessary for me to injure Thracia. I leave that to your Royal Highness, in the full conviction that the task will be efficiently performed.”

“By no means, madame—only on your powers. If you had married my brother, you and I would have ruled Europe. As it is, I fear you will find it difficult to rule the Balkans.”

“Disappointed, madame? Oh no; remember that I have seen a good deal. You do not imagine that I cannot make allowances for a child who has just grasped power, and for a lady who is anxious to get her daughter off her hands?”

“You had better give him what he wants, and let him go,” said the Princess, in a stage whisper to the King. “Otherwise you will have no peace in Thracia.”

“Count,” said the Prince of Dardania, “his Majesty is graciously pleased to grant your requests. Naturally the simplest plan would be to give orders to the police to convey you to the frontier immediately;” here Cyril raised his eyebrows, and the Prince, remembering the warnings of the Three Powers, hesitated and became somewhat confused, “but your long services—your friendship with the late King—in fact, your demands are granted. The ‘Gazette’ you suggest will appear to-morrow, and you will be free to leave Thracia on the following day.”

CHAPTER XXV. TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS.

CHAPTER XXV.
TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS.