A LITTLE TOO FAR.
“/Dearest/,--Do not allow the Premier to take you by surprise. I have
told him _nothing_.
/Ernestine/.”
This was all that was contained in the carefully sealed envelope which
Cyril received from the messenger as he descended the steps of the
Palace, but it was enough to put him on his guard. Lighting a match,
he burned the note to its last corner, and scattered the ashes abroad,
then hastened his steps towards the residence of M. Drakovics. What
might be in store for him he did not know; but at least he would do
his best to get it over before the Council met, and so spoil any plan
the Premier might have formed for denouncing him in the presence of
his colleagues. As he intended, he reached the house before any of the
other Ministers, and passing through the room in which the Cabinet was
to meet, came upon M. Drakovics in his private office beyond it.
“You are early, Count,” said the Premier, with a start. “Are you”--he
smiled unpleasantly--“the bearer of any message from the Queen?”
“No; I have not seen her Majesty to-day. But why should you ask, when
you have just been with her yourself?”
“You are too modest, Count. We all know that the post of Court
Minister is a far more important and confidential one--at least under
a female sovereign--than that of Premier.”
“Not quite up to the mark to-day, are you?” asked Cyril,
sympathetically, leaning forward to look at his chief more closely.
“Feeling a little bit run down, eh? You must take a holiday,
Drakovics. We can’t afford to lose you.” “If that doesn’t draw him,
nothing will,” he added to himself.
“I am in my ordinary health,” was the response, uttered with
ungrateful roughness, “and in any case, Count, you are not my
physician. You occupy a far more delicate and delightful position, as
keeper of the Queen’s conscience--or shall we say of her Majesty’s
heart?”
“May I ask what you mean by that remark?”
“The meaning is quite patent to my mind.”
“It is not so to mine. I must request an explanation.”
“You shall have it--in the presence of the rest of the Cabinet,” and
M. Drakovics rose to lead the way into the larger room, but Cyril
stood before the door.
“No, monsieur. As long as I thought your extraordinary remarks were
due to illness, or intended as jokes, I allowed them to pass; but
since they appear to conceal an innuendo of some kind, I insist upon
an explanation before you leave this room.”
“Stand away from the door, Count, or I will summon assistance.”
“No; you will not. It would be painfully undignified to be discovered
struggling with one of your colleagues on account of an insult which
you had offered him and were perfectly unable to justify. Here you
remain until you answer my question.”
“There is little to answer. I merely say that you made good use of
your opportunities of enjoying her Majesty’s society during your
escape from Tatarjé.”
“Or in other words----?”
“In other words, she is in love with you, and would like to marry you
and make you regent. But that she will not do so long as I am in
office. I think you will find it advisable to quit Thracia, my
friend.”
“Wait a moment, please. Your proofs?”
“Proofs? I have seen her look at you.”
“You are truly an observant person, monsieur; but the unsupported
evidence of your eyes will not carry conviction to the mind of every
one.”
“It will convince the Cabinet, and if you make it necessary for me to
proceed to extremities, the Powers. Nor is it my only evidence. After
my trouble in sounding the Powers on the subject of the Queen’s
remarriage, she refused even to suggest a suitor who would be
acceptable to her, or to consider the matter at all. Some influence
must be at work to cause this distaste for matrimony in her own rank,
and whose should it be but yours? You yourself will not attempt to
deny that things are as I have stated.”
“Most certainly I shall deny nothing. There is nothing to deny. You
have not produced a particle of proof in support of your extraordinary
story. In order to further your own designs, you have had the chivalry
to play the spy upon the words and looks of the unfortunate Queen, and
not unnaturally you persuade yourself that you have seen what you
wished to see--in one instance only. Take my advice, Drakovics:
consult your doctor, and make him order you a little rest. Delusions
of this kind are not things to be trifled with.”
“Delusions!” cried the Premier furiously. “The delusion is on your
side, Count, if you think you will turn me from my purpose. You have
had your explanation. Now the rest of the Ministry shall have it.”
“Very well. I gave you a door of escape; but if you will take your
punishment fighting, you will. Allow me to lay before you a little
story--shall we call it a hypothesis, or a concatenation of facts? I
am sure that a person of your penetration never imagined that I should
tamely accept the consequences of such an accusation as this. Picture
to yourself the feelings of the Cabinet when they hear the converse of
your account--when they hear that _you_ had conceived the idea of
marrying the Queen, and thus securing the regency for yourself; that
you had gone so far as to sound the Powers on the subject; that,
finding them wanting in enthusiasm for the idea, you suggested it to
the Queen, hoping to secure her influence on your side. Her Majesty
rejected the idea with contemptuous displeasure, and it was necessary
then to find a scapegoat on whom the blame could be laid, so far as
the Powers are concerned. You fix upon a colleague of whom you are
anxious to be rid, and you try to hound him out of the country by
means of this precious tale!”
“The whole idea is absurd,” said M. Drakovics faintly.
“Excuse me, it is no more absurd than your own. I also can produce
evidence quite as good as yours, if you drive me to it. If looks are
to be counted as proofs, many people will be able to depose that the
Queen has looked at you with dislike. Your correspondence with the
Powers, undertaken on your own initiative, is another link in the
chain, for you don’t expect any sane person to believe that you made
these disinterested inquiries on my behalf. Then I can show that after
a stormy interview with her Majesty you made this charge against
me----”
“How do you know that it was stormy?” was the helpless question.
“I was not sure of it, but you have confessed that it was so. You
intended to blacken that unfortunate woman’s name for the sake of
getting rid of me, did you? I will blacken yours to some purpose if
you try it on.”
“I had never any intention of saying anything against her Majesty.”
“Only to publish throughout Europe that she was in love with me? But
if you attempt to do it, I’ll make Thracia too hot to hold you; and if
anything happens to me, my executors will see that things are put
right.”
“There is no question of publishing anything. You and your Queen may
feel at ease on that subject, Count.”
“If you say anything of that kind again, I will denounce you
forthwith. You are living over a powder-mine, Drakovics. I am silent
as long as you are, but not a moment longer. Tell me, do you believe
that ridiculous tale of yours?”
“I cannot help believing what I saw with my own eyes.”
“Thank you. That is an interesting piece of information for my future
use. I think you can scarcely have intended to enlighten me on such a
delicate subject, did you? At any rate, whatever happens after this,
you will have the pleasure of knowing that you helped it on. But I
don’t fancy that I shall be imprudent enough to take advantage of your
kind disclosure.”
Absolutely confused, and quite unable to decide whether Cyril had or
had not been aware hitherto of the Queen’s feelings towards him, M.
Drakovics preferred not to answer, and made his way into the
council-chamber in silence, while Cyril reflected upon his triumph
with a satisfaction that was not wholly complete.
“Not a moral victory, by any means,” he said to himself--“very much
the reverse. Ernestine would be grievously wounded if she heard the
details of the fight; and as for Princess Soudaroff----! But it was
touch and go. Bluff was the only game, and either Drakovics had to go
under or I. I think he has had his lesson; but it will be awkward if
the Powers refuse to let the thing drop.”
That some of the Powers, at any rate, were suspicious as to the
motives with which M. Drakovics had entered upon his inquiry, Cyril
discovered some days later, when the Queen’s father paid a short visit
to Bellaviste. His Serene Highness Luitpold, Prince of Weldart, was a
gentleman whose proclivities were euphemistically termed by his
friends “artistic,” and who cultivated, for the sake of consistency,
an aureole of hair and a small pointed beard, which gave him the
appearance of a Vandyke portrait gone mad. He had just returned from a
tour in the East, where he had enjoyed himself extremely, although one
or two escapades of a somewhat juvenile character had given more
pleasure to himself than to his suite or his temporary hosts; and it
appeared that a hint had reached him from some quarter which induced
him to break his journey home by a visit to his daughter. He remained
at Bellaviste only two or three days, finding the city intolerably
dull, and the Palace even worse. With Ernestine he was on a footing of
distant acquaintanceship, coloured by mutual dislike, for his
treatment of her mother rankled in her mind, and he perceived the fact
and resented it. Court etiquette was happily successful in preventing
any public exposure of this family skeleton, however; and the
inhabitants of Bellaviste had no excuse for accusing their unpopular
Queen of unfilial conduct towards her father, whom, as the natural
enemy of their _bête noire_, the Princess of Weldart, they chose to
regard with affectionate approval. The visit was so wholly unexpected
that Cyril felt convinced it had been made, not by the Prince of
Weldart’s own wish, but in obedience to the dictates of a higher
power; and he was not surprised when the royal guest took advantage of
a ride, on which Cyril attended him, to ask one or two pertinent
questions at a moment when they happened to have out-distanced the
rest of the party.
“Do you think that your Premier’s health is to be depended upon?” the
Prince asked suddenly, _apropos_ of nothing.
“He has not seemed quite his usual self of late, sir,” returned Cyril
cautiously.
“That is precisely what I mean. I do not mind telling you that he has
done one or two strange things. Only a short time ago, for instance,
he addressed a confidential circular of a most extraordinary nature to
the Powers, dealing with matters which are not in the least likely to
occur, and with which he would have no concern if they did.”
“It is possible, sir, that M. Drakovics has acted so long as a kind of
deputy Providence in Thracia that he wishes to play the same _rôle_
with regard to Europe.”
“But that only shows that his mind must be affected--or at any rate
that he has lost his sense of the fitness of things. I will not
conceal from you, my dear Count, that the circular to which I allude
has produced a most deplorable impression at the Hercynian and
Pannonian Courts.”
“I am indeed distressed to hear it, sir. Am I right in supposing that
the circular foreshadowed some _rapprochement_ between ourselves and
Scythia?”
“Well, not exactly; but there seems to be little doubt that it was
issued in response to a Scythian initiative. Gods of Hellas! I am no
use in matters of diplomacy. Tell me, Count--you have had more
opportunity of studying my daughter’s character of late than I
have--have you seen anything to make you imagine that she cherishes a
_tendresse_ for that blatant Philistine, Nikifor of Klausenmark?”
“Nothing whatever, sir,” responded Cyril, with the most perfect truth.
“So far as I am aware, her Majesty has never even seen his Highness.”
“Ah!” said the Prince, obviously much relieved. “Then the whole thing
may be a mare’s nest evolved by Drakovics out of his own inner
consciousness. For the moment we--that is, the Emperors--I should say,
the Western Powers--were really perturbed. But this will reassure
them. After all, it is sometimes best to ask a plain question instead
of beating about the bush. By the bye, what is your opinion as to the
likelihood of the Queen’s marrying again?”
This was a question so plain as to be startling in its suddenness; but
Cyril met the half-suspicious eyes of the artist-Prince without
blenching as he replied, “I heard the other day, sir, from one who
ought to know, that her Majesty had declared her intention of
remaining unmarried, at any rate until the King is of age.”
“A very good idea, indeed. But that does not lessen the difficulty
about Drakovics. Since he has taken it into his head that she is
likely to marry again, he may go on stirring up uneasiness for years
by circulars of this kind. He is growing old, and we--I--greatly fear
that he is scarcely capable of taking the necessary broad view of the
political situation. Such affairs as this of the circular, for
instance, only disturb the harmony of Europe, and play into the hands
of Scythia, and we--I--could not allow the indiscretion to be
repeated. Could he not be induced to give up a portion of his labours,
even if he will not retire altogether? Is there no friend who would
suggest it to him? You are the person with whom he is on the most
confidential terms, I believe?”
“Your Highness does me too much honour. The only person with whom the
Premier is on confidential terms is his nephew--and political heir.”
“Ah, M. Vassili Drakovics?”
“The same, sir. The office of Mayor of the Palace has a tendency to
become hereditary, as you will remember.”
“Those days are past, Count. Be good enough to mark my words. There is
no room for hereditary Mayors of the Palace in the modern state.
Europe has tolerated Milos Drakovics as the liberator of Thracia; but
a Drakovics dynasty would not be borne. By the immortal gods! what a
view! Be good enough, Count, to summon here my secretary and the
servant who is carrying my sketch-book.”
The colloquy was evidently over, and Cyril, as he fell back to the
rest of the suite, leaving the royal amateur to discuss with his
secretary the merits of the view, and to make a few mysterious dots in
his sketch-book, which were to be worked up afterwards into a finished
picture by an artist who was attached to his household, was at no loss
to understand its drift.
“They want me to get rid of Drakovics for them,” he said to himself.
“They think that Thracia is not big enough for us both, but that they
may make use of one of us to destroy the other. Of course what they
would like best would be for us to wipe one another out--_à la_
Kilkenny cats--but I prefer the method of the survival of the fittest.
Well, as his artistic Highness would say, these things are on the
knees of the gods.”
Little as Cyril appreciated the part allotted to him in the European
concert, the Prince of Weldart was so well satisfied with the results
of his essay in diplomacy that he could not resist alluding to them in
the course of the next visit that he paid, which was to the Court of
his niece, the Princess of Dardania, at Bashi Konak.
“I do not remember whether you know anything of the Englishman
Mortimer,” he said to the Princess, forgetting the early episode of
her engagement to Cyril’s brother. “I had a good deal of conversation
with him at Bellaviste, and I must say that I am glad Ernestine has
him at hand.”
“Indeed?” asked his niece listlessly. “You think that he is to be
depended upon?”
“I should say so, certainly. Knows nothing of art, of course--like all
Englishmen--but faithful in a rude kind of way, because he has not
cunning enough to be otherwise. I think I never saw a man so dense in
the way of understanding any allusion that was in the slightest degree
veiled.”
“And you went out of your way to explain to him all your allusions,
uncle? How truly kind of you! I don’t wonder that Count Mortimer
showed you his best side. And you think him rudely faithful, do you?”
“I do.” The Prince was irritated by her questioning tone. “He has so
proper a sense of his position that even when we trenched upon
somewhat delicate ground he showed no self-consciousness whatever.
Well, there is no harm in my telling you what it was. Drakovics had
got it into his head--at least, so I gathered, for he would deal in
nothing but vague hints--that Ernestine wanted to marry this man
Mortimer. Of course the very idea was preposterous, and I let
Drakovics see what I thought of it; but to make sure, I determined to
watch them both, and I soon saw that there was nothing in it.”
“That was very satisfactory, I am sure.”
“Most satisfactory. I watched Mortimer when he was in Ernestine’s
presence, spoke to him of her when we were alone together--even, as I
said, hinted at the rumours that had reached me--but he never so much
as changed colour. Not a muscle moved, his eyes met mine without the
slightest confusion. He is an honest man.”
“Dear uncle! how pleased you must be to feel assured of that. And
Ernestine?”
“Yes. I watched her too, and there is nothing there either. There was
not a particle of difference in the way she spoke to him and
to--myself, I was going to say, but of course that is only a figure of
speech. You know that _empressé_ manner of hers--a smile and a blush
for every one? It is by no means regal; but it would make her popular
in any country but Thracia, I believe. Still, Ottilie, I am going to
give you a piece of advice. You have daughters; do not bring them up
as children of nature. Nature is at a discount in Court life, and it
detracts from their political--or shall I say matrimonial?--value.”
“You are becoming quite a philosopher, uncle. I assure you that
Bettine and Lida will be as finished pieces of art as I can make
them.”
“Ah, your mother was a sensible woman, my dear niece. But I am no
philosopher--merely an unworthy devotee of art. And that reminds me;
you will not forget to let your little cherubs sit to me to-morrow?”
“You do not think I could forget such an engagement as that, uncle?”
reproachfully. “I have wished for years that I had the opportunity of
having the children painted by a really first-rate artist.”
“My dear Ottilie, you flatter me. But what my humble powers can do to
perpetuate on canvas the charms of childhood---- Ah, your good husband
summons me. He wishes to show me the statue he purchased at the late
Exhibition. I have never considered him a judge of art, but still----”
“Then Drakovics thought she wanted to marry him?” said Princess
Ottilie to herself as her uncle left her. “That shows there was
something in it. But it must not be allowed--or, in any case, only as
a last resort. Count Mortimer is honest and simple-minded, is he? I
think his excellent acting almost deserves success. But he must not
know that I have heard--nor must Ernestine. Still, Lida’s crown is in
danger; I must see what is going on. I think I will offer to pay
Ernestine a visit, and take Lida with me. Yes; that will be best.”
But circumstances prevented the Princess of Dardania from carrying out
her intention immediately, and before her visit to Bellaviste took
place important political changes had occurred in Thracia. The
beginning of this period of transition was marked to Cyril by the
sudden apparition of his valet Dietrich at his bedside one morning,
with the news that the Metropolitan, who had been ailing for some
time, had died in the night. The intelligence would not have appeared
startling to Cyril in ordinary circumstances; but at present, with the
O’Malachy’s letter fresh in his memory, it was full of excitement for
him. Now, if ever, M. Drakovics must show his hand.
At first the course of affairs appeared to be unchanged by the
Archbishop’s death. The Queen, who had learnt to respect the old man
the more for his return to loyalty after his one outburst of
fanaticism, took the little King, who had conceived a whimsical liking
for the prisoner he had released, to the cathedral, where the body lay
in state, and she even consented to sprinkle the corpse with holy
water--a concession which produced an excellent impression on the
people. But when the gorgeous funeral ceremonies were over, and
Archbishop Dionysius slept with his predecessors in the vault next to
that of the Kings of Thracia, there arose a question as to who should
be his successor. The appointment of ecclesiastical dignitaries was
managed in Thracia in such a way as to meet as far as possible the
claims of both church and state. The Metropolitan was chosen from
among the existing Bishops by the Synod of the kingdom; but it was
understood that he was previously nominated by the Government, while
the assent of the sovereign was necessary before he could be
considered duly elected. At the present juncture the person to whom
all looked as the natural successor to the late Metropolitan was
Bishop Andreas of Karajevo, Prince Mirkovics’s brother, the senior
Bishop, and a man eminently fitted for the responsible position of
ecclesiastical head of the realm. But Bishop Andreas was unpopular
among the clergy generally, and more especially among the less
educated and more fanatic portion of them, owing to his liberal views,
which were evidenced not only by his attempt to protect the persecuted
Jews in his diocese, but also by his refusal to curse the emissaries
of an English Society who had been discovered selling Bibles in
Karajevo. In more ordinary circumstances, however, the feeling against
him would not have been allowed to sway the action of the Synod, far
less that of the Government; but now rumours began to be current that
M. Drakovics did not intend to nominate him for the vacant post--nay,
more, that he was about to name Bishop Philaret of Tatarjé in his
stead. As soon as this was said openly, Cyril scented battle close at
hand, and prepared with zest for the meeting of the Cabinet at which
M. Drakovics would announce his selection. Two hours before the
Cabinet met, however, he received an urgent message from Ernestine,
desiring him to come to the Palace at once; and, guessing that the
rumour had penetrated to her, he obeyed. He found her alone, and in a
state of much excitement.
“You have heard what they are saying about the Bishop of Tatarjé?”
was her greeting, almost before the door was shut.
“Yes; it has been hinted at for several days.”
“And you never told me? Do you think it is true?”
“I fear so. Drakovics would not have allowed the rumour to get about
if it had not suited his purpose.”
“Very well. What do you intend to do?”
“In what way?”
“When the Cabinet meets, for instance. Will any of the other Ministers
sustain you in a protest, or are they all the slaves of M. Drakovics?”
“I could count on Georgeivics, certainly, and on Mirkovics and the
nobles; but I would not reckon too much on the effect of a protest,
Ernestine.”
“You mean that they would shrink from maintaining their protest by
resigning office?”
“Not necessarily. I mean that their resignation would not stop
Drakovics.”
“But not the resignation of half his Cabinet?”
“By no means. You forget that under the delicious system of
dictatorship by which Thracia is governed, Drakovics, for all
practical purposes, is the Cabinet. If all the rest of us resigned
to-day, he would fill our places to-morrow with creatures of his own,
and go on merrily.”
“But not in defiance of the opinion of the country?”
“He has the Legislature behind him, and the great mass of the
people--so long as he is in power. We have the nobles and the mountain
clans--possibly the army as well--who would be useful in a civil war;
but Europe would never let us get to that.”
“Don’t talk of it!” said Ernestine, with a shudder. “Well, then, if
the Cabinet can do nothing, the responsibility falls on me. If M.
Drakovics ventures to ask my assent to Bishop Philaret’s nomination, I
shall refuse it.”
“You must do nothing of the kind. Why, the political heavens would
fall!”
“Let them. M. Drakovics shall find that he has gone too far. I have
stood a great deal for the sake of peace; but when he tries to force
on me the man who laid that plot for Michael’s conversion, and who
issued knowingly the lying proclamation which might have cost us all
our lives--for I am convinced, and so is Paula von Hilfenstein, that
he knew the truth the whole time--he must learn that it is beyond
endurance.”
“My dear Ernestine, I don’t think you foresee the gravity of the
situation that would be created. Drakovics would resign.”
“That is exactly what I want. I shall make you Premier instead.”
“I am deeply grateful for your kind thought of me; but I should expect
to have a voice in the matter, and it would be a negative one.”
“What!” her eyes gleamed with indignation; “you refuse to help me? But
you must help me--you shall. I have always deferred to your wishes
hitherto, now I insist on your yielding to mine.”
“My dearest”--Cyril kept his temper admirably--“you will always find
me ready to help you in any enterprise that has the faintest chance of
success; but I am not the man to throw everything away for a miserable
fizzle.”
“I do not know that word,” said the Queen, with great dignity. They
were speaking English.
“I am sorry my words do not please you. They enshrine a weighty truth,
even if it is an unpleasant one. You know what fiasco means, I
suppose, and you can guess that I should object to figure in such an
exploit?”
“No; you would not--for me,” she said, with sudden softness, crossing
the room to where he sat, and laying her hands on his shoulders. “Dear
Cyril, you will not leave me to fight this battle all alone?”
“Never, dearest; but you must allow me to choose the ground. Is that
settled?” He looked up at her, but her face showed no signs of
yielding, and he went on. “Unfortunately for your heroic scheme, it is
just what Drakovics has been counting upon, and he has laid beautiful
traps for us in every direction in case we adopt it.”
“In what way?” asked Ernestine doubtfully.
“You may not have heard, as I have frequently of late, expressions of
astonishment at the way in which Drakovics has neglected to bring in
the Estimates this year, although the legislative session is nearly
over. It is evident that he had private knowledge that the
Metropolitan’s illness was more serious than was generally supposed,
and laid his plans accordingly. To use a classic phrase, there are
three courses open to us, and whichever we adopt, he stands to win.”
“But how can this be?”
“It is tolerably simple. Let us first suppose that you dismiss him,
and that I take office, supported by Mirkovics and his party. But the
Legislature is delivered over body and soul to Drakovics, and refuses
to pass our Estimates. We resign, and you have no option but to send
for him again. Next, we might dispense with the Estimates, and proceed
to dissolve the Legislature at once. Then we should find ourselves
without money to pay the army or carry on the government, or--which is
more important--to carry through a general election. The provincial
treasuries dare not hand us over the revenue until they have been
authorised to do so by the Legislature.”
“But I thought it was usual to make some arrangement----”
“Between the incoming and outgoing Premiers, as to the passing of the
Estimates? Yes; but that is in civilised countries. You must remember
that Drakovics does not want to smooth our path, nor to help us in
appealing to the country--quite the contrary. Well, your third course
would be to dissolve the Legislature at once, leaving Drakovics in
power, which would be the maddest thing of all. You know that in this
part of the world it is the Government that wins in a general
election, and Drakovics would simply pursue the usual tactics, and
romp in gaily at the head of the poll.”
“But is there nothing that would enable us to outmanœuvre him?”
“Oh yes: a sum of money sufficient to assist us to pay current
expenses and conduct the election without the help of the Estimates.”
“Is that all? Why, I will sell my diamonds.”
“The merest drop in the ocean, dear.”
“Then,” Ernestine lowered her voice and glanced round guiltily, “let
us pledge the crown jewels.”
“My dear child, who would advance us anything on such security?
Moreover, you forget that Drakovics holds one of the keys of the chest
in which the regalia is kept, and he is scarcely likely to see the
matter from our point of view.”
“Cyril!” Ernestine sprang to her feet again, and her voice was full of
resolution, “rather than yield to him I will dismiss him and dissolve
the Legislature without summoning a new one, and govern the country
through the permanent officials.”
“Alas! my dear innocent child, you are a constitutional monarch, and
the Constitution is guaranteed by the Powers, and adored, in theory,
by the people. Why, Drakovics would have you and Michael deposed and
conducted across the frontier just in time to meet the representatives
of Europe coming to sit in judgment upon you, and there would be an
end of your dynasty.”
“But can you suggest no means of getting this money? Think of
something.”
“Really, I am not a magician. We might mortgage the kingdom to Scythia
for the required sum, no doubt; but that would not help matters much,
even if Drakovics did not manage to let the Three Powers have an
inkling of our little scheme.”
“Cyril, you are joking!” fiery indignation thrilled in her tones. “It
is cruel, unmanly, shameful--at such a time.”
“My dearest, if I saw any hope of success I would say so. There is
just one man from whom it might be possible to obtain the money; but I
should be obliged to go to Vienna and interview him, and I dare not
leave the kingdom for three days at this crisis. I am certain that I
should find you and Michael and the Germans belonging to the Court
encamped on the other side of the frontier when I returned. However,
some opportunity may offer, and if it does, you may be sure I will
take it.”
“Then you will do nothing now?” her voice was tragic.
“Yes, you very exacting person; I will resign my seat in the Cabinet
for your sweet sake, for it will do no practical good whatever. When
you have Vassili Drakovics comfortably established as Court Minister,
perhaps you will regret the past. Adieu, madame; I kiss your hand for
the last time as one of your Majesty’s Ministers!”
He almost expected a burst of remonstrance from her; but although her
lips quivered, she looked at him steadily.
“I shall feel it more than I can tell you,” she said; “but it has come
to this, that I must ask the sacrifice of you and of myself. I cannot
accept Bishop Philaret as Metropolitan, for that would be to barter my
boy’s prerogative for a few years of peace. Rather than do that I
would abdicate.”
“Well, we shall be a pleasant party to cross the frontier,” said Cyril
lightly, and took his departure. As he approached M. Drakovics’s house
some one tapped him on the shoulder, and, looking round, he saw Prince
Mirkovics.
“You have heard this rumour?” asked the old nobleman.
“About the archbishopric? Yes.”
“And you think it is true? I see you do.”
“I fear it must be. It is too preposterous to be an invention.”
“And the reason? You think it is the result of some compact arising
out of the Tatarjé business? So do I. Count, that stand of which we
spoke some time ago ought to be made to-day. You will lead us? You
perceive that I am handicapped by the fact of my brother’s interest in
the matter.”
“I will speak, certainly, and join you in resigning, if we get as far
as that. I may tell you in confidence that her Majesty is with us, and
declares she will refuse her assent to the nomination of Philaret; but
we must do all we can to prevent its coming to a constitutional
struggle.”
“You are right, Count. Any honourable compromise, then, but no
surrender on the main point.”
The members of the Cabinet were not kept long in suspense by their
chief. After the transaction of some routine business, M. Drakovics
announced briefly that he was about to nominate Bishop Philaret to the
Synod, for promotion to the metropolitical see, and made as though he
would pass immediately to the next matter. But this was not allowed,
and it is scarcely probable that he expected it would be. An
astonished question from one of the nobles whom the rumour had not
reached opened the ball, and then Cyril spoke, followed by the other
members of his party. The claims of Bishop Andreas, the notoriously
pro-Scythian sympathies of Philaret, his part in the late plot and the
doubtful justification he had offered, the certainty that his
appointment would be painful to the Queen and displeasing to the
majority of the Powers, were all set forth, to be replied to by the
Premier in a few sentences which were contemptuous in their brevity.
Bishop Andreas was unpopular, while his rival was a favourite with the
clergy, Bishop Philaret had received due punishment for his innocent
participation in the plot, and should now be treated with
leniency,--these were his chief arguments, and when the dissentients
still protested, he hinted darkly at reasons of state which rendered
it necessary to make the Bishop of Tatarjé Metropolitan. This was a
question of confidence, he declared, and those members of the Cabinet
who were not prepared to support him would do well to leave it, since
he could easily govern Thracia alone, but not when surrounded by
half-hearted traitors. After this plain speaking the meeting broke up
in confusion, and adjourned to the following day.
The breathing-space before the final struggle was spent by Cyril
largely in consultation with his fellow-dissentients; and they
succeeded in arranging the terms of a compromise, which, if M.
Drakovics could be induced to accept it, might yet avert the danger of
a strife between the Crown and the representative of the people. How
the Premier had spent the time became evident to the Ministers as soon
as they left their houses to attend the adjourned meeting of the
Cabinet, for the streets and the market-place were filled with excited
crowds, led on in many cases by priests, who clamoured for Philaret as
their archbishop, and greeted the hostile party with hootings and
threats.
“Rather an interesting commentary on the supposed secrecy of our
deliberations,” observed Cyril to Prince Mirkovics, as they paused for
a minute on the Premier’s steps. “There is no one who could have
imparted what passed yesterday to the public except Drakovics
himself.”
They went on into the council-chamber, where M. Drakovics received
them with a countenance of more than Roman sternness, in which,
however, there lurked a perceptible touch of anxiety. The play was for
high stakes, and it was evident that he feared lest his opponents had
thought better of their hostility, in which case he would have lost
the opportunity of getting rid of them. He looked visibly more
cheerful when they displayed no inclination to fall in with his views,
although his anxiety returned for a moment when Prince Mirkovics
presented his proposed compromise. A message had been sent to Bishop
Andreas, who had returned to his diocese, and was now busily engaged
in reducing it to order, to inquire his views on the subject of the
vacant see, and he had replied by a strong expression of his
determination to remain where he was, lest the malcontents should
imagine that they had driven him out. Since this answer removed the
favourite of one side from the contest, the proposal was that M.
Drakovics should also withdraw his candidate, and that both parties
should agree to the nomination of Bishop Socrates of Feodoratz, a man
of moderate political views, who was a _persona grata_ to all but the
extremists among the clergy. To the indignation of the Mirkovics
party, the compromise was brusquely declined without even a show of
argument, and the Premier reiterated his resolve to nominate Philaret,
and none but Philaret, to supply the vacant place. To this there could
be but one reply, and Cyril, the War Minister, Prince Mirkovics, and
three other members of the Cabinet rose and retired from the council,
with the announcement that they were about to tender to the Queen
their resignation of the offices they held.
Emerging from the doorway of M. Drakovics’s house, the dissentient
Ministers found themselves a target for all the abuse of the crowds
collected in the square. Their purpose in thus withdrawing in a body
was evident, and they were saluted with a storm of execration. Prince
Mirkovics and the other nobles were hailed as mountain-rats (feeling
runs high in Thracia between highlander and lowlander), M. Georgeivics
as a brutal tyrant (under his _régime_ the discipline of the army had
much improved), and Cyril as a poverty-stricken foreigner, who lived
by doing dirty work. So violent were the mob that at first it was
impossible to pass through them, and the Ministers stood at the top of
the steps while a force of police, who had been energetically doing
nothing on the opposite side of the square, proceeded languidly to
their assistance.
“You smile, Count?” said Prince Mirkovics to Cyril.
“Doesn’t it strike you as funny,” was the reply, “that these fellows
would treat Drakovics in the same way next week if he was in our
place? I have known----” the words were cut short by a man who bounded
suddenly up the steps. A gleaming knife was in his hand, and with a
cry of “Die, traitor!” he struck furiously at Cyril, who raised his
left arm mechanically to ward off the weapon. The blow failed of its
intended effect, but gashed his arm from wrist to elbow, leaving his
coat-sleeve hanging in shreds. Realising that he had missed his aim,
the man uttered a curse and lifted his knife a second time; but Prince
Mirkovics, recovering from his momentary stupefaction, drew a pistol
from his girdle and shot him dead. A low murmur broke from the crowd;
but they were too much astonished by the turn events had taken to
attempt to follow up the attack.
“Who can he be?” asked M. Georgeivics, bending over the body of the
would be assassin. “A theological student, evidently, and an
extremist, from his shaggy hair and beard; but why should he single
out Count Mortimer in especial?”
“He is a theological student and a fanatic,” said Cyril, “and he did
his best to betray us when the King and Queen were escaping from
Tatarjé. No doubt he knew me again. But when you have feasted your
eyes sufficiently on his body,” he added faintly, “perhaps one of you
will tie something round my arm?”
With a murmur of compunction, Prince Mirkovics twisted a silk
handkerchief into a cord, and fastened it tightly round the injured
limb, from which the blood was flowing fast, then increased the
pressure by inserting the handle of his knife under the bandage and
screwing it round.
“We must get you to a surgeon at once,” he said. “Can you walk?”
“If you will give me your arm. I don’t want them to think I am dead
yet. By the bye, Drakovics,” he turned to the Premier, who was
contemplating the scene from his doorway, “it would be advisable to
choose your instruments better on the next occasion.”
“My instruments! Do you then accuse me of planning this outrage,
Count?”
“I make no accusations, monsieur. The facts suffice.”
And taking Prince Mirkovics’s arm, Cyril proceeded to descend the
steps with as much dignity as his loss of blood would allow. Happily
they had not far to go before reaching a surgeon, and the people made
way for them with sullen acquiescence. It was of course out of the
question now to go to the Palace and tender their resignations; but
Cyril’s colleagues waited for him outside the surgeon’s house,
intending to escort him home, lest another attack should be made upon
him. Before he was out of the doctor’s hands, however, Prince
Mirkovics entered the surgery.
“Her Majesty is at the door, Count,” he said. “It seems that she was
taking a drive, and that some rumour of your misfortune reached her.
She drove here at once, and seeing me, asked for particulars. I have
relieved her anxiety; but she insists on conveying you to your house
in her carriage. As she says, her escort will be a protection for
you.”
“But we don’t want to get her associated with us in the minds of the
people,” said Cyril hastily. “Tell her that I have sent for my own
carriage--anything.”
“I--I think that perhaps you had better comply,” said Prince
Mirkovics, with a shade of embarrassment in his tone. “Her Majesty
appeared to be most anxious about you, and says that she will wait
until you come.”
“Then perhaps it is as well that I am ready,” said Cyril, rising with
some difficulty from the doctor’s chair. “Prince,” he added hurriedly
as they passed through the hall, “you will have to temporise for two
or three days, for I foresee that I shall not be up to much. Put
forward all you know in the way of compromises if the Queen tries to
mediate, but concede nothing, of course. Simply keep things hanging
on; you understand?”
With some bewilderment Prince Mirkovics signified his comprehension,
and Cyril was helped out of the house and into the Queen’s carriage,
where she and Anna Mirkovics, who was her companion, made him as
comfortable as they could. As soon as the carriage was in motion, she
bent across to him eagerly, speaking in English--
“Oh, thank God you are not killed, as we heard at first! But how could
you be so incautious as to let M. Drakovics see that you suspected him
of trying to murder you? It is simply tempting him to do it again.
Such imprudence is not like you.”
“But I did not suspect him of anything of the kind. You don’t imagine
that I should let him see it if I did? It was merely a declaration of
war. There can be no peace between us after that.”
“If you thought he had done it, I would have had him hunted down like
a wolf,” she said fiercely.
“My dear child, don’t be excited. Look about now and then, and make
remarks on the weather, and bow to the people. I want to say something
very important, but no one must guess.”
“Very well,” said Ernestine, bowing pleasantly to a passing lady of
her acquaintance for the benefit of the curious crowd that lined the
pavements.
“You are not to be frightened when you hear that I am worse, and you
are not to attempt to see me. You may send to inquire, of course; but
whatever the answer may be, you will know that the illness is nothing
but a diplomatic one. If that makes you appear unsympathetic, it will
be all the better for us.”
“You are very unkind,” she replied, with a dazzling smile to a woman
who was holding up her child to see the Queen pass.
“I am talking business. Another thing is, that you must manage somehow
to defer the acceptance of our resignations for three days from
to-morrow. Make Stefanovics your messenger, and let him come and go
between Drakovics and Mirkovics and the other four, trying to arrange
a compromise. He may try the wildest schemes he can think of, but he
must spin the matter out. If you come to an absolute deadlock, consult
Paschics; he will communicate the difficulty to me, if it is possible.
Only remember to do nothing definite for three days.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Ernestine, looking down the street.
“That I cannot tell you. All that you know is that for three days I
shall be so ill as to be able to do nothing, and that I can see no
one.”
“I think you might trust me a little more,” she said reproachfully.