CHECK.
“I feel I’ve about earned my night’s repose,” yawned Cyril to
himself in the solitude of his own room. “If all the Thracians have
worked as hard to-day as their king and his brother, they’re an
industrious nation. Hullo! some of them must be at it still. I suppose
old Drakovics has been hurrying them, for fear things won’t be ready
for the coronation.”
His eye had caught a faint glimmer in the eastern windows of St
Peter’s chapel, which could hardly be the effect of moonlight, and as
he lay down he congratulated himself that he was not obliged to work
all through the night at putting up decorations. For an hour or so he
slept the sleep of the weary; then he was aroused by shouts and cries
pealing through the palace.
“Another revolution!” was his first thought, as he jumped out of bed
and groped for his revolver; but as soon as he threw back the
window-curtains, a flood of light poured into the room. The chapel of
St Peter was blazing furiously, and the courtyard was full of guards
and servants, some staring stupidly at the flames, others tumbling
over one another in eager but ineffectual efforts to take measures for
stopping the fire.
“Put on some clothes and come out, Cyril,” said Caerleon’s voice at
the door. “Those idiots there haven’t an idea what to do.”
Hastily obeying, Cyril found himself placed at the head of a band of
water-carriers, while Caerleon took his stand close to the burning
pile, and directed the throwing of the water as the buckets were
passed from hand to hand. There were proper appliances all over the
palace for use in case of an outbreak of fire, but the buckets were
rusted into holes and the hoses were leaky; and if Wright had not
organised from among the onlookers a force to fetch pails from the
stables, it would have been impossible to procure a sufficient
quantity of water. Even as it was, the flames were not finally
vanquished until the roof and walls of the building had fallen in, and
the morning light showed only a heap of smoking ruins. St Peter’s
chapel was a total wreck, and the crown and other regalia of Thracia
were buried under the _débris_.
When the fire had been practically extinguished, Cyril returned to his
room, but not to sleep, for his mind was occupied with a very
pertinent question,--What was the cause of the conflagration? To most
of the household at the palace, the answer appeared obvious. Of course
the men at work in the chapel must have dropped some sparks on the
woodwork or the draperies, or have left a candle burning close to
them. The sentry at the door had noticed nothing until his comrade at
the opposite side of the courtyard, who could see the windows, had
remarked that the workmen must be burning candles enough to light the
whole of Thracia. Astonished to hear this, since he knew that all the
workmen had gone home some hours before, the sentry had at once
alarmed the guard, and the officer in charge procured the chapel key
and opened the door. The place was already a mass of flame within, and
the fire gained additional strength immediately, owing to the rush of
air from the doorway, and burst forth from the windows. The guard
raised the alarm at once, but nothing effectual had been done to
extinguish the flames until Caerleon took command of the amateur
firemen, and his help came too late to be of service. Over all these
details Cyril pondered as he lay in bed. It seemed to him almost
impossible that the fire should have been accidental, for its sudden
outbreak and great strength alike appeared to point to its having been
caused intentionally. Moreover, the time at which it occurred was a
most fortunate one for the Scythian party in the State, for it was
certain that the coronation must now be postponed, if only for a day.
But if the conflagration were the result of a plot, where was the
incendiary to be sought? Was he a traitor in the household, or a
Scythian emissary who had passed himself off as one of the workmen?
Cyril went down-stairs in the morning with his mind full of questions
of this nature, and in the breakfast-room he found M. Drakovics, who
was overflowing with the information he had already gained.
Immediately on hearing of the fire, the Premier had sent to arrest
forthwith all the workmen who had been employed on the decoration of
the chapel; and they had already been interrogated, with the result
that it seemed certain that none of their number was the culprit. The
antecedents of all of them were well known and satisfactory, and the
contractor was able to show that he had purposely employed none but
strong Carlinists on the work. The men were certain that they had left
no lights behind them in the chapel, with the exception of the lamps
always kept burning before the sacred pictures, and they venerated the
place far too highly to smoke there, so that the question of sparks
was disposed of.
“Now,” said M. Drakovics, triumphantly, “we have proved who did not
cause the fire; but beyond that, I am in a position to inform your
Majesty that the miscreant was undoubtedly an emissary of Scythia, and
was either a woman or a man in women’s clothes.”
“If you can prove that already, your police must beat ours hollow,”
said Caerleon. “Let us hear about it.”
“In the first place, your Majesty, I have been examining the ruins,
with the aid of a detachment of sappers. We were searching for the
crown jewels--which are now, alas! shapeless lumps of metal, their
precious stones for the most part calcined--and we found distinct
traces of petroleum in more than one spot. Does not that fact speak
for itself? Petroleum is never used in lighting the chapel, and it is
a favourite weapon of incendiaries. Upon making this discovery, I
proceeded to interrogate the guard, who were all under arrest. Those
who were posted at the gates last night were unanimous in declaring
that no unauthorised person had passed in after the workmen had
departed, with the exception of one woman, who said that she was the
mother of one of the decorators employed, and that her son had left
behind him his book of gold-leaf, which she had come to fetch. The
sentries describe her as very old and bent, but with piercing dark
eyes,--and wearing the dress of the respectable artisan class. The
acting master of the household had not yet locked the chapel doors,
and the woman was therefore allowed to go in and look for the book,
which took her some time to find. She came out with it in her hand,
and the door was immediately locked. The theory is that she carried in
with her a supply of petroleum in a can----”
“Or perhaps in bladders hung round her waist, as brandy used to be
smuggled into England,” put in Cyril, who had been following the
details with much interest.
M. Drakovics bowed. “Very possibly, milord. Having saturated the
woodwork behind the screen of the sanctuary with the oil, she would
arrange a slow match which would not come in contact with it for some
hours, and would then take her departure, provided with a book of
gold-leaf to deceive the guard. The master of the household, looking
in from the doorway, would notice nothing, and would lock the door and
take away the key, leaving the match to do its work.”
“But why may not the culprit be the woman she gave herself out to be?”
asked Caerleon.
“Because, your Majesty, the woman’s son and the other members of her
family are all able to swear that from nine to ten o’clock, the hour
at which the incendiary did her work, Nicola Stanovics’s mother was
engaged in a violent quarrel with her daughter-in-law, who had left
her infant at home while she went out to see the illuminations. The
old woman met her at the door as she returned, and their dispute
almost ended in blows. Moreover, the guard, when confronted with
Marynia Stanovics, declared without hesitation that she was not the
woman whom they had admitted.”
“Well, that seems to clear the old lady, at any rate,” said Caerleon.
“Your work has been most successful in a negative direction. Have you
any positive clue to go upon?”
It did not appear that M. Drakovics as yet possessed anything of the
kind, although he was willing to detail the various theories which had
been formed on the subject, but Cyril did not listen. His mind was
occupied with a hypothesis of his own, the foundation fact of which
was Madame O’Malachy’s headache of the evening before. Again and again
he went through the details, for his suspicions at first seemed
preposterous, but the more he thought over the matter, the more likely
did it appear that Madame O’Malachy had slipped out of doors in
disguise, carrying with her the necessary supply of petroleum, and
successfully effected the firing of the chapel. His visit to the hotel
with Caerleon had given him the means of reaching this conclusion,
inasmuch as if they had not happened to call no one would have known
that Madame O’Malachy was not spending the evening hours in the
society of her family. The plot must have been maturing for some time,
since both the disguise and the petroleum would be difficult to
procure in Bellaviste without exciting suspicion, and it could not be
doubted that its object was to delay the coronation,--although whether
the lady had done her work in pursuance of orders from her Scythian
employers, or with an eye to her daughter’s future, Cyril found
himself unable to determine. It was not difficult to guess that she
was playing a double game, and that whereas she had been commissioned
to use every possible means to prevent Caerleon’s ascending the
Thracian throne, she was not unwilling to assist him in establishing
himself there, provided that her daughter shared his elevation. To
pursue at the same time two lines of policy so diametrically opposed
to one another might well need almost superhuman skill, and it
appeared evident to Cyril that for the sake of placing her good faith
to her employers beyond suspicion, Madame O’Malachy had taken a step
so desperate that it bade fair to ruin her private schemes. Had he but
overheard his brother’s parting conversation with her at Witska, he
might have discovered that she had not yet found the problem of
serving two masters an insoluble one. In spite of his ignorance of
this factor in the case, however, he was filled with a lively
admiration for both her resolution and her daring.
“What an actress the woman must be!” he said to himself. “What pluck,
what nerve she has! But this sort of thing won’t do. She will think
nothing of dynamiting us before long, if this is the way she begins.
We shall be obliged to take a hostage from her. She doesn’t care a
scrap for the girl; but if Louis, for whom she does seem to have a
little natural affection, were safely installed here, she would think
twice before blowing us up. I must get that settled.”
“There is one thing that makes me feel less regret than I should
otherwise have done for the postponement of the coronation,” M.
Drakovics was saying. “I have received this morning a despatch in
cipher from my agent at Czarigrad, saying that he finds the Roumi
Government far more favourably disposed towards Thracia and your
Majesty than we could have dared to hope. He has even received a hint
from a very high quarter to the effect that if we could put off the
coronation for a certain length of time, so as to avoid anything that
might have the appearance of a desire to force the hand of the Grand
Signior, our right as a nation to choose our own sovereign would
before very long be recognised. That would strengthen our position in
Europe enormously. If Roum recognises us, Scythia can do little.”
“But Scythia will in the meantime bring pressure on Roum to refuse to
recognise us,” said Cyril. “Surely you are losing a great opportunity
for the chance of grasping at a shadow. Is it decided that the
coronation shall be postponed?”
“What else can we do?” asked M. Drakovics. “The King must be crowned
in St Peter’s chapel, and with the crown of Alexander the Patriot. The
chapel is in ruins, the crown a mere lump of metal, and both must be
restored before they can be used.”
“But this is madness!” cried Cyril. “Do you intend to wait for the
chapel to be rebuilt? It will probably take months. After all, when it
is restored, it won’t be the old chapel, so why not have the
coronation somewhere else at once?”
“Because you are not acquainted with our people, milord,” was the
studiously mild reply of M. Drakovics. “They would not recognise any
king not crowned on that spot, and with that crown. Moreover, in an
emergency like the present, when our actions are certain to be
jealously scrutinised in order to discover the least flaw in the
legality of our proceedings, we must be doubly careful to do
everything in the very strictest order.”
“Then why not clear away the ruins and hold the ceremony in the open
air, or in a tent pitched on the site of the chapel?” cried Cyril.
“There must be jewellers in Bellaviste, who would not take more than
a day to knock together out of your lump of gold something
sufficiently like a crown for all practical purposes. Take my word for
it, M. Drakovics, if we lose the day finally, it will be owing to
delay now.”
“You must allow me to differ from you, milord,” was the answer. “In my
opinion, the day is far more likely to be lost through undue
precipitation. But after all, the matter is entirely in his Majesty’s
hands. Is it your wish, sir, that the coronation should take place
immediately or not?”
“Well,” said Caerleon, “you ought to know best,--and naturally it
would be a very good thing to begin the reign with full recognition
from Roum.”
“Your reign has begun,” said Cyril. “The coronation only puts a seal
upon it, half-sentimental, half-religious.”
“Still,” said Caerleon, “we are not the best judges, Cyril. If M.
Drakovics, who is better acquainted with Thracia than we are, thinks
that it will be more serviceable to the country to delay the
coronation, I have no objection.”
“That’s all very well,” thought Cyril. “You are calculating that in a
month or two you ought to be able to break down Miss O’Malachy’s
scruples. I am sorry to be under the painful necessity of putting a
spoke in your wheel, my dear fellow.”
“If your Majesty is pleased to delay the coronation,” said M.
Drakovics, “may I ask you to visit the Hôtel de Ville with me this
morning? The people have been gathering together from all the country
round to witness the ceremony, and it will be necessary to explain to
them what has occurred. There is another thing I was anxious to know.
Your Majesty mentioned a few days ago that your brother had some idea
of offering himself as your private secretary. I see that
correspondence is already beginning to pour in, and as the office is a
very delicate and important one, I venture to ask whether Milord Cyril
is still in the same mind?”
“M. Drakovics means me to earn my board and lodging,” said Cyril, who
was conscious of a grudge against the statesman for rejecting his
counsel.
“I am quite sure that M. Drakovics means nothing of the kind,” said
Caerleon, sharply. “He knows very well that you are here as my guest.”
“As the guest of the nation, if I may be permitted to correct your
Majesty,” said M. Drakovics. “Thracia owes far too much to your family
not to desire to see as many of its members as possible. My reason for
asking this question to-day is that Milord Cyril has displayed such a
talent for diplomacy that I am anxious not to lose his co-operation in
the work I have in hand at present. His one fault is that, like all
young diplomats, he wishes to begin, as you say in England, at the top
of the tree, and in this he does himself an injustice, for his forte
lies rather in working in combination with others than in isolated
action, if he will allow me to say so.”
“Well, Cyril, the bitter pill is pretty well gilded,” said Caerleon,
laughing. “What do you say? Will you take the situation?”
“I suppose I should have to read all your letters,” said Cyril. “That
sounds fairly interesting. Then I should have to write the
answers--not quite so delightful, but still passable. Yes; I’ll take
it.”
“If your Majesty will permit me, I will give Milord Cyril a few hints
as to the duties of this new position,” said M. Drakovics.
“Very well,” returned Caerleon. “I am going to stroll round to the
stables, Cyril. When your initiation is complete, you’ll find me
there.”
“Now,” said Cyril, closing the door on his brother, and turning to M.
Drakovics, “I want to know what you expect to gain by putting off the
coronation in this way. You are giving the Scythians and their
sympathisers a gratuitous triumph, and losing time, which is of
inestimable value. If you have a reason, why keep it a secret?”
“I have a reason, milord,” answered M. Drakovics. “That my opinion
does not accord with yours is a matter for regret; but I hope that it
will not be anything more. I am deeply anxious that you should remain
at Bellaviste, for I need your help.”
“Oh, I suppose I may as well stay here and take Caerleon’s body home
when you have got him shot as a filibuster by a Scythian force sent to
restore order,” said Cyril.
“You are pleased to be sarcastic, milord,” said M. Drakovics. “Without
in the least allowing that the calamity which you prophesy is likely
to occur, I would ask you to remember that the cause is more important
than the man. If Roum recognises our choice of a king, our future
position as a free nation is unassailable, and we are justified in the
sight of Europe. If your brother is crowned king at once, we are
merely, under present circumstances, a vassal State which has
rebelled, and elected its own ruler. No one could be more grateful to
his Majesty for accepting the crown than I am, but Thracia must come
first.”
“I see,” said Cyril; “your business is to take care of Thracia. Very
well, be it so; mine will be to take care of Caerleon. The kingdom
will only be a secondary thing with me, as part of Caerleon’s
property.”
“Then I hope, milord, that you will prove your care by persuading his
Majesty to exercise greater prudence than you both showed last night.
To walk through the streets alone, and in disguise, in the midst of
crowds of strangers, to the lodging of a family of Scythian spies,
where the merest trifle--an accident with a pistol, a drop of poison
in a cup of coffee--might have effected the utmost that Scythia could
desire, can scarcely be called wise.”
“Well, if you had your eye on us all the time we ought to have been
fairly safe,” said Cyril, angry but taken aback.
“You surely do not imagine that I should allow the King to risk his
life so rashly without taking precautions to ensure his safety?” said
M. Drakovics. “You were followed the whole way by one of my most
trusted agents in the Police, a man whom you will do well always to
order to accompany you if his Majesty chooses to go out again
_incognito_. You had no idea that you were tracked, but he never lost
sight of you.”
“Until we reached the hotel, I suppose?” said Cyril.
“On the contrary, you were never more carefully watched than during
your visit there. Ever since Colonel O’Malachy and his wife arrived in
Bellaviste, a police agent in a room on the opposite side of the
street has kept them under constant surveillance by means of mirrors
ingeniously placed at different angles, so that you were in full view
during the whole time you spent in their _salon_.”
“But what is the object of all this police shadowing?” asked Cyril,
rather disgusted.
“To avert mischief,” returned M. Drakovics. “And although we did not
succeed in preventing the burning of the chapel, yet we have
discovered its author. Perhaps you would be surprised to hear how
Madame O’Malachy was employed during the time of your visit last
night?”
“On the contrary,” said Cyril in his turn; “I am flattered to find
that you have come to the same conclusion as myself. She was burning
the chapel.”
M. Drakovics was a little disconcerted. “I congratulate you on the
soundness of your instincts, milord,” he said.
“But why did you not prevent the fire, if you knew of it beforehand?”
asked Cyril.
“Unfortunately, milord, my agent was so much occupied in watching his
Majesty and yourself, that he failed to observe Madame O’Malachy
leaving the hotel, and only saw her return. It was not until he heard
the evidence of the sentries that he divined what her errand had been.
But perhaps you will now agree with me in my estimate of the O’Malachy
family?”
“By the bye,” said Cyril, quickly, “what did you mean just now by
saying that you needed my help?”
“It was on the subject of his Majesty’s marriage,” said M. Drakovics,
looking rather confused. “This morning, before you came in, I ventured
to suggest to the King the advisability of his consolidating his
position by an alliance with some lady belonging to a royal house, but
he refused to allow me to say anything on the subject.”
“It’s just what I told you!” cried Cyril. “Englishmen are not
accustomed to have their marriages arranged for them, and Caerleon is
the very last man to stand it. Now, M. Drakovics, I thought this
matter was to be left to me. Am I to have a free hand or not? If I am
to be interfered with, I will have nothing to do with it.”
“If you can guarantee a successful result, milord, I shall be most
happy to leave it to you,” returned M. Drakovics.
“Because,” continued Cyril, “you are making exactly the same mistake
as Miss O’Malachy. I believe she thinks that she can tire Caerleon out
by snubbing him, and you intend to make use of the information you
have gained, by dint of spying on her mother, to terrify the whole
family into leaving the kingdom. Miss O’Malachy is as anxious to be
out of Thracia as you are to get her out; but you had better not put
that beautiful plan of yours into execution unless you want Caerleon
to go after her. He will have his answer, and if you leave things to
me I will arrange that he shall have it soon, so that the affair may
be over.”
“You seem very certain of success, milord.”
“If I am to succeed, I must be absolutely free. The first thing to be
done is to give Lieutenant O’Malachy a commission in the palace
guard.”
“And why, milord?”
“To keep him out of mischief, and to prevent his mother’s perceiving
that we have discovered her little game. This is my test of the extent
of your confidence in me, monsieur. Is it to be accepted?”
“It shall be,” returned M. Drakovics, after a severe mental struggle.
“The matter is so important that it is worth even a dangerous
experiment.”
When his protracted interview with M. Drakovics was over and Cyril
went in search of Caerleon, his first words on finding him were to
suggest that it would be a graceful recognition of the sacrifices
Louis O’Malachy had made in the cause of Thracia to appoint him at
once to a lieutenancy in the palace guard, thus showing him special
favour by placing him close to the sovereign’s own person. Caerleon
looked surprised.
“I think it’s a very good idea,” he said; “but you have always been so
suspicious of the poor fellow’s motives that I should not have
expected you to propose it. I will have the commission made out at
once. And as we are now on the subject of the O’Malachy family, I may
as well remind you of something of which Drakovics apparently is not
aware. He attacked me this morning about marrying; but you know, if he
doesn’t, that I intend to marry Miss O’Malachy, and no one else.”
“I never imagined that you wanted to imitate the Grand Signior of
Roum, and marry twenty or thirty ladies at once,” said Cyril; but
seeing Caerleon’s face darken, he added hastily, “I beg your pardon,
old man. I was only joking. Do you intend to make formal proposals at
once to papa for the hand of mademoiselle?”
“Not yet,” said Caerleon. “You see,” he went on quickly, as if it was
a relief to unburden himself to his brother, “I can’t tell a bit how
she’ll take it. She has never given me the least encouragement, and
last night she scarcely spoke to me. Unfortunately, I can’t help
guessing that the kingdom would weigh pretty heavily with her parents
in my favour, and I don’t want the poor girl worried into marrying me,
nor her life made a burden to her because she won’t. Madame O’Malachy
has promised me her support; but though it sounds a little ungrateful,
I would rather manage the business without her interference.”
“I don’t think any amount of worrying would make Miss O’Malachy do a
thing she had made up her mind not to do,” said Cyril. “But seriously,
Caerleon, I can’t believe she means to marry you. She gave you the
cold shoulder pointedly enough last night. Can’t you chuck up the
business, old man? I don’t imagine you care for her very
particularly.”
“Don’t you?” asked Caerleon, looking down on him with a smile. “My
dear boy, you are very young still.”
“If you mean to insinuate that I haven’t had twice as much experience
in affairs of the kind as you have,” began Cyril, with a great show of
indignation, “I’ll----”
“I daresay--ten times as much. That accounts for your ignorance.”
“Well, don’t look so horribly superior. It’s awfully riling for the
other fellow, don’t you know? Now, look here, you leave this thing to
me, and I’ll do you a good turn. You want to find out the state of
Miss O’Malachy’s feelings before approaching her father. I’ll manage
to get you a chance of speaking to her alone.”
“Thanks, but I think I can look after my own opportunities.”
“No, you can’t; not as king, with Drakovics and his spies always
prowling about after you. Do you know that we had a fellow shadowing
us last night?”
“Yes, I felt sure at the time that we were being dogged.”
“But why didn’t you say so?”
“I didn’t want to make you nervous.”
“Stuff!” cried Cyril, ungratefully. “You were afraid I should consider
it wiser to give up the expedition and go back. Keep your
thoughtfulness for Miss O’Malachy in future. After that piece of
cheek, you don’t deserve a good turn, but I will mention that I am
going down to the O’Malachys’ this morning to tell them about dear
Louie’s commission. Shall I take any message from you?”
“I’ll come too,” said Caerleon, promptly.
“No, you won’t. You are due at the Hôtel de Ville, to hear old
Drakovics spout from the balcony. It would be ‘Hamlet’ with Hamlet
left out if you weren’t there. Well, shall I take her a bouquet in
your name? No, that would be too pronounced--might be regarded by the
family as a declaration. Shall I say anything to her for you?”
“Yes; you can say that I mean to begin this very day the inquiry she
suggested to me.”
“All right; nothing like setting to work at once. Now, off you go to
uniform and duty. I am the best off this morning.”
Sauntering down to the hotel, Cyril came upon Louis and his father in
the hall, waiting impatiently for Madame O’Malachy, who was going with
them to hear the speeches in the market-place. Going up-stairs, he
found Nadia in the sitting-room, arranging the flowers for the table,
carefully and conscientiously, as she did everything, adding a spray
here, and taking one away there, and holding up the vase to see the
effect, then lifting everything out and beginning again.
Before her stood a glass in which her mother had placed carelessly two
or three blossoms and a spray or two of feathery fern, which seemed to
have arranged themselves, but of which the effect was perfect. By the
table stood Madame O’Malachy, buttoning her long gloves and
criticising freely her daughter’s work.
“You have no taste, Nadia. Surely it must be evident, even to you,
that a brick is not the best model for a bouquet? Don’t pull the
flowers about so much; you will ruin them, and I cannot afford any
more to-day.”
“I am commissioned to say that the hothouses at the palace are at your
disposal, madame, if you would honour my brother by allowing him to
send you some flowers,” said Cyril, coming forward.
“His Majesty’s conduct is angelic,” returned Madame O’Malachy. “But of
what use are all the flowers in Thracia if the artist’s eye for their
arrangement is wanting?” She had taken the vase from Nadia and removed
half its contents, then, with a twirl here and a poke there, she
transformed the remainder into a thing of beauty. “I regret to
perceive that the artistic instinct, the soul of poetry, is wanting in
my daughter. She is very thorough, extremely conscientious, but what
one may call--not heavy, that would be unkind--shall we say _solid_? I
am perpetually worrying myself to discover why she bears no
resemblance at all to me. ‘A reversion to an earlier type,’ I suppose
the scientific gentlemen would call it; _I_ say that she is one of the
trials of my life. For me, I am not at all conscientious, I do nothing
thoroughly; but I think I am not heavy?” She paused with her eyebrows
uplifted in interrogation; and Cyril, though he had been reflecting
what wretchedly bad form it was for a woman to try to make her
daughter feel small in this way, had presence of mind enough to answer
that such a word could never be mentioned in the same breath with the
name of Madame O’Malachy.
“But I must hurry away,” the lady went on, “or O’Malachy will come up
to look for me. I shall hear your news when I return, Milord Cyril.”