TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS.
“Will your Excellency be pleased to see the Baroness von
Hilfenstein?”
“Certainly, Paschics. I will go to the carriage to meet her.”
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.”
“You are extremely kind, Baroness.”
“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.
“The Queen!” he cried,--“the Queen is ill!”
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.
“I knew nothing of it,” she gasped. “Oh, Cyril, you believe me?”
“I accept your assurance, madame.”
“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.”
“So I did--once,” he replied.
“And now--now?”
“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.”
“The proper official will relieve you of your portfolio, Count.”
“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.”
“At _her_ service? Whose?”
“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.”
The King frowned heavily. “This is not a time for joking, Count,” he
said.
“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----”
“Oh, you resort to threats, Count?”
“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.”
“I see. We will act with all discretion.”
“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.
“Do you want to earn a good round sum of money, Paschics?”
“That depends upon the way in which it is to be earned, Excellency.”
“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.”
“No, Paschics, I never keep letters. You may be quite easy about
that.”
“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.”
“Are you trying to cast a doubt upon my motives, Count?”
“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.”
“You are disappointed, Count, and therefore I can pardon your
rudeness.”
“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.”
“And if you have any message of farewell to the Queen I shall be
delighted to deliver it,” added the Princess, who was burning to
revenge herself on Cyril for his words to her.
“Ottilie!” said her husband warningly, but Cyril smiled.
“You are too good, madame, but I cannot consent to place myself under
a further obligation to you. You must remember that there is already a
heavy account between us. I will do my best to repay your Royal
Highness promptly; rely upon that.”
He bowed and went out, with a shrill laugh from the Princess, perhaps
a little forced, ringing in his ears, and returned to his own house as
he had come, to find Paschics watching for him, eager to announce,
with much mystery, that there was a lady waiting to see him in his
study. For a moment Cyril was startled, but only for a moment. The
weakness passed, and he entered the room, to find the lady, who was
dressed in black and wore a thick veil, standing by the window.
“Have you not done me harm enough yet?” he asked, never doubting who
it was; but the lady raised her veil, and displayed, not the features
of Ernestine, but the pale plain face of Anna Mirkovics.
“I am the bearer of a message from her Majesty to you, Count,” she
said coldly, giving him a note. “You were right in supposing that she
would wish to come here in person, but by representing the difficulty
she would experience in leaving the Palace unobserved, I induced her
to allow me to be her messenger.”
She turned away again to the window, and Cyril tore open the envelope,
and drew out the blotted and tear-stained missive which it contained.
“Cyril, my Beloved” (Ernestine had written),--“You cannot intend to
leave me like this. They tell me that you are quitting Thracia in
disgrace--but I know that is only my cousin’s malevolence--take me
with you. Let me share your trouble--I will not say disgrace, for that
cannot attach to your name. Send me one word by Anna, and I will come.
Do not think that I shall repent taking the step. You know me well
enough to be sure that neither poverty nor scorn would trouble me if I
was with you. But I know you are saying, as you did the other day,
‘The choice was in your own hands, and you preferred your son to me.’
Dearest, how could I build our happiness on the ruins of my child’s?
You would not wish me to do so; you were trying me, were you not? I
have never opposed you in anything but this, but how could I deprive
Michael of the joy I desired for myself? And if you think I deserve
punishment for following my conscience in this respect, I have
received it. Three days and nights of misery, Cyril! Even you would
pity me if you saw me now--they tell me I am mad, merely because I
love you--or will you not forgive me yet? But if I must go on
suffering in this way, at least do not leave me without a word. Let me
see you once more, just to say good-bye. I will not trouble you with
entreaties, I will only look at you for the last time. Let me have a
kind look to remember, and not the dreadful cold eyes that met mine
the other day. Remember that day in the burning house, that
mountain-path in the snow. You loved me then. Have you the heart to
forsake me without one kind word? But no, you are welcome to overwhelm
me with reproaches, if only you will let me see you. You know how I
love you.--Your broken-hearted
Ernestine.”
“I fear, mademoiselle,” said Cyril to the messenger, crumpling the
note in his hand, “that her Majesty forgets the circumstances of the
case. It would scarcely improve my position in Thracia at the present
moment if I invited the Queen to run away with me. Not,” he dropped
for a moment the hard tone in which he had spoken, and Anna Mirkovics
looked up with sudden hope, “that I do not consider the scandal
involved would inflict a very salutary punishment on King Michael and
his future relatives, but one really must consider one’s own personal
feelings a little in such a matter.”
“Then what answer”--the maid of honour’s voice was almost choked with
indignation--“am I to take to her Majesty?”
“I think it would be best to tell her that there is no answer. To say
that I decline the honour might sound discourteous.”
“But you will see her to say good-bye? You must.”
“Pardon me; such a step would indicate a willingness to do more, and I
have no intention of doing anything.”
“Yes, if you saw her, you must yield. Oh, Count, have pity upon her!
We can do nothing to comfort her, although our hearts are broken by
the sight of her sufferings. She sits in the same place from morning
till night, and neither weeps nor speaks. The Princess and the King
have rallied her, upbraided her, threatened to give out that she has
become insane, but nothing could rouse her until Baroness von
Hilfenstein happened to hear that you had been released and were about
to leave Thracia, and then she determined to make a last effort to
communicate with you. You cannot refuse this one small favour. I will
smuggle you into the Palace as a friend of my own--what does it
signify what they say of me, if I can help to comfort her?--and when
you see her, you must give way.”
“I think not, mademoiselle. I am not a sentimentalist, as you know,
and I cannot flatter myself that the meeting would afford any comfort
to her Majesty. It is not as though things were as they used to be.”
“You mean that you do not now love her? But if that is the case, you
have never loved her. Oh, assure me of that, let me tell her from
yourself that you sought her only for the help she could give to your
political designs, that you awoke her love for you merely that you
might climb to power by its means, and that it was only natural you
should throw off the mask when she refused to serve your purpose any
longer. It will wound her terribly, but her pride will help her to
tear you from her heart. You need not try to keep up the mockery any
longer, surely?”
“I should be delighted to meet your wishes, mademoiselle, but
unfortunately I am not quite quixotic enough to blacken my own
character so gratuitously as you propose. I did love her Majesty at
one time--in fact, until three days ago. I will not say that at any
time I should have been willing to make a fool of myself to please
her, as some men would, but once, at any rate, I was prepared to die
for her. Is it beyond your power to imagine an experience by which
love should be altogether burnt out and destroyed? That was my case
when, thanks to the Queen, I saw my policy overthrown, the labours of
twenty years undone, and myself held up to the ridicule of Europe.”
“But if you love her, you can forgive even that. She was wrong, no
doubt, but has she not suffered for it? Is she not willing to share
with you the consequences of her fault, as the only reparation she can
make? You say you loved her----”
“Pardon me; I fear I have not made my meaning clear. I did once love
her Majesty, but--I do so no longer.”
“You really loved her? I hope you did; I am glad if you did. You think
your love is dead; but it will come to life again to torment you, and
then, perhaps--oh, I trust it will be so!--you will know something of
the pain you are making her suffer, when you feel that you would give
anything to see her and to touch her hand again, and you cannot
approach her. If the time ever came for her to treat you as you are
treating her now, I could die happy.”
“May I suggest, mademoiselle, that I feel a slight delicacy in
listening to these accounts of her Majesty’s feelings--under the
circumstances?”
“You are a cruel, heartless man,” said Anna Mirkovics despairingly,
“and I hope God will punish you as you deserve!”
“I fear that you must rate my deserts very low, mademoiselle, if you
mean to imply that the punishment I merit is even worse than all that
has already happened to me.”
He looked round with a faint smile at the dismantled room and the
untidy packet of papers, and Anna Mirkovics realised dimly that
whatever his punishment was to be in the future, it had begun in the
present.
About a week later, the party gathered for afternoon tea in the great
hall at Llandiarmid Castle were startled by the entrance of a visitor,
who opened the front door and walked in unannounced.
“Uncle Cyril!” cried Usk.
“Cyril, old man!” exclaimed his father. “My dear fellow, why didn’t
you telegraph, and let us send the carriage for you?”
“I didn’t care to make a fuss. No, Caerleon, I am not quite a fool. I
came here in a fly, not plodding through the mud. Nadia, you look
younger than your daughter. Phil, do you still consider it a
compliment to be told you are more like your father than ever? Mr
Mansfield, how are you? I have seen you and Usk so recently that I
really can’t perceive any changes at the moment that ought to be
remarked upon. Caerleon, do sit down, old man, and don’t grip my
shoulder like that. I assure you that I am flesh and blood, and not my
own ghost.”
“You have cut Thracia for good and all?” asked Caerleon, sitting down
opposite his brother, but avoiding looking at him.
“I suppose so--or rather, it has cut me. I have refused their pension,
at any rate.”
“Right! I’m delighted to hear it.”
“No more questions any one wants to ask, are there? You know that old
Drakovics has returned to nominal power, with Vassili as an
under-study of all work?”
“Did all your men go over to him?”
“Most did; but Georgeivics and old Mirkovics resigned. I pointed out
to them that it was foolish; but they would do it.”
“And they were the only ones that remained faithful?”
“My dear Caerleon, pray don’t be so tragic. A man doesn’t want further
depressing when he has come to such glorious smash already as I have.
No, Paschics is persistently and stupidly determined to follow my
fallen fortunes. I left him in London, to delude the interviewers. And
Dietrich is also in my train, more taciturn than ever now that his
belief in my star has been so rudely shattered. Oh, and by the bye,
there is an old Jew named Goldberg, whom you may remember hearing of.
When I was passing through Vienna, he came and played the Good
Samaritan. There is a sum of two million florins about which he and I
had dealings together once, and he informs me that when it was
returned to him he invested it at once in my name, and that it is at
my service now. I daresay I shall go and stay with him a little later
on. Those are all that I have found faithful among the faithless, I
believe.”
“But the Queen, Uncle Cyril?” asked Usk. “You said that she always
supported you. Did she change sides, or has she really gone mad? The
papers hint at all kinds of things.”
Cyril looked round upon the group with a rather strained smile. “I
don’t want to sound melodramatic,” he said, “but I should feel deeply
obliged if you would mention the Queen’s name to me as little as
possible. Her Majesty chose suddenly to forsake my advice, and adopt
that of my bitterest enemy, and that sort of thing puts a man a little
out of conceit with her.”
“I can’t stand this any longer,” said Caerleon hoarsely. “This place
is too hot, or draughty, or something. For goodness’ sake, Cyril, come
out on the terrace and have a smoke.”
“Anything for a quiet life!” said Cyril, acquiescing readily.
“Oh, mother!” cried Philippa, as the door closed behind her father and
uncle, “it was worse than that, I’m sure. He loved her, and she has
played him false. Didn’t you see his face?”
“He is awfully changed since we saw him less than a month ago,” said
Usk.
“I should scarcely have known him to be the same man,” Mansfield
agreed.
“Oh, how could she? how could she?” cried Philippa. “To draw him on,
and win his love, and then throw him over--a splendid man like Uncle
Cyril! The wicked woman, I hate her! It is not a thing to be cried
over”--and she dashed away an indignant tear as she spoke--“I should
like to kill her! She has taken all the best years of his life, and
left him
‘Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream’s sake.’”
“Don’t get into the habit of quoting poetry when you are excited,
Phil,” said her uncle’s voice at the open window. He had been passing,
and had overheard the last words. “It is very hard to break oneself
off it, and it has got me into trouble more than once. People think it
sounds stagey, you know.”
“I suppose,” pursued Philippa, in a lower tone, but still with
boundless indignation, “that she thought he was not grand enough for
her to marry! And so she used him as long as she wanted his help, and
then cast him aside. As if she ought not to have been glad of the
chance of giving up everything for him because she loved him--if she
did!”
“There may be excuses for her of which we know nothing,” said Lady
Caerleon, observing that Mansfield was hanging on Philippa’s words in
rapt admiration, as much for the speaker as for the sentiments she
expressed. “She may even think she is acting rightly. It is quite
possible,” with a sigh, “to do wrong from the best motives.”
“No, mother, I am sure it was just wicked, horrible pride. She thought
only of herself, and not a bit of him, and calmly broke his heart
because he did not happen to be born a King.”
And there was no one to tell her that it was Cyril, and not Ernestine,
who had found place and power too much to give up for love.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.
Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.
This book is part of the author’s “Balkan Series.” The full series, in
order, being:
An Uncrowned King
A Crowned Queen
The Kings of the East
The Prince of the Captivity
Alterations to the text:
[Title Page]
Add brief note indicating this novel’s position in the series. See
above.
[Chapter I]
Change “in that _georgeous_ company” to _gorgeous_.
“With the _certainity_ that neither principal” to _certainty_.
[Chapter II]
“understand that his _pore_ pa is struck” to _poor_.
[Chapter IV]
“her unaccustomed _graciousnesness_ was merely” to _graciousness_.
“representing St Gabriel of _Tartarjé_” to _Tatarjé_.
[Chapter V]
“Come, _count_, I wish to go to the” to _Count_.
[Chapter IX]
“striking his mother ... with his little _first_” to _fist_.
“because she is--well, angry _himself_” to _herself_.
[Chapter XVI]
“The loyalty of my _familty_ is not dependent” to _family_.
[Chapter XX]
“I’m afraid I had _forgotton_” to _forgotten_.
[Chapter XXI]
“Ernestine placed _himself_ between them” to _herself_.
“she owed it to _himself_ that it was” to _herself_.
[Chapter XXII]
“like his Majesty’s _contrairy_ ways” to _contrary_.
[Chapter XXV]
“saw a way out of the _diffculty_” to _difficulty_.
[End of Text]