It is with painful feelings, and only after long consideration,
that I have resolved to lift the veil from the tragic mystery which
surrounds the fate of the Queen who perished under the knives of
assassins in Belgrade in the month of June 1903.
The hesitation I have felt in approaching this melancholy story is
due to reasons of a personal character. Many years before, when the
late Queen of Servia occupied a private station, it was my lot to
meet her, and to fall under the spell of that fascination which this
extraordinary woman possessed over men, and which will cause her to
be remembered in history with Helen and Cleopatra, and all those
enchantresses who have involved kingdoms in ruin by their charms.
I had no right to suppose that the Countess, as she then was,
distinguished me from the crowd of those who paid homage to her;
but yet it seems as though I had in some manner inspired her with a
feeling of confidence and regard warmer than that usually felt by
any woman for a man who is neither her lover nor her kinsman.
I believe myself to be the only survivor of the tragedy who possesses
the key to that strange and terrible career, and that in imparting my
knowledge to the world I am discharging what has become a sacred duty
to the dead.
With this apology I will come straight to the history.
It was some years since I had seen or heard anything of the
Countess Draga, though, of course, I was aware, in common with all
well-informed students of contemporary politics, of the passion which
she had inspired in the young King of Servia, when I was astonished
by receiving one day a private letter from her, imploring me to
come to Belgrade at once to advise her on a matter of the highest
importance.
I lost no time in obeying the summons, by which I was singularly
moved, since there is only one thing which can ever be of the highest
importance to a woman.
It was in the courtyard garden of an old stonewalled Servian
house--more like a fortified farmhouse than a private mansion--that
the revelation burst on my ears which was so soon to startle the
capitals of Europe.
A fountain plashed into a marble basin strewn with rose leaves, and
the faint scent of myrtle and lemon blossom came from the curtain
of shrubs which screened the gateway in the thick grey wall. The
beautiful woman whose name was the object of maledictions throughout
a continent, reclined on a low couch heaped with Oriental cushions,
and fixed her dark eyes on me with a tragic intensity of appeal, as
she confessed her secret.
‘I need the advice of a disinterested friend, one who stands apart
from the intrigues which centre round the Servian throne.’
I sat upright on the French chair provided for me, and gazed down at
her, outwardly calm and stern as ever, but gripping the throttle of
emotions whose strength none can know but myself.
‘My advice will be disinterested in one sense,’ I answered slowly.
‘I care nothing for the plots and conspiracies which, under the name
of politics, serve as a substitute for the old brigandage of the
Balkans. But I am interested in your happiness.’
The Countess Draga let her eyelids fall for a moment as a quick spasm
of pain crossed her face.
‘Do not let us speak of my happiness,’ she said in low tones. ‘It is
of Alexander I must think.’