BREAKING WITH THE PAST.
A week had passed since Philippa’s departure from the villa before
she entered it again, accompanied by her uncle, to spend the day with
Princess Lida. Cyril’s presence had not been sought by his niece. In
fact, poor Philippa, terrified lest she should be helping to involve
him in the toils of the Princess of Dardania, had assured him plainly,
almost rudely, that she preferred to go by herself. But Cyril could be
singularly dense when he chose. He insisted that he had nothing
particular to do, and could find no more delightful employment for an
idle hour than escorting his niece to the villa. This assurance only
confirmed Philippa’s fears, and the crowning touch was put to her
misery by the message which awaited Cyril on his entrance, that the
Princess would be glad to see him if he could spare her a few minutes.
Philippa cast an imploring glance at him, but he smiled wickedly at
the sight of her woe-begone face, and followed the servant sent to
conduct him to the Princess’s boudoir.
“Some dodge on hand,” he muttered to himself, when the man had left
him with the announcement that her Royal Highness would receive him in
a short time. “I wonder what it is? Ah!”
His eye had been caught by an unfamiliar object in the room, a large
portrait on an easel, carelessly draped with a gold and crimson scarf.
It was turned away from him, and he went round the easel to look at
it, only to recoil with a start which even his self-control could not
restrain. The gay hues of the drapery served only to accentuate the
utter desolation revealed by the photograph. A woman, dressed in
white, was sitting listlessly upon a block of stone, her hands clasped
loosely in her lap. The portrait revealed with cruel distinctness the
grey hair, the lines in the worn face, and the unfathomable sorrow in
the hopeless eyes. The Princess had given special directions that the
reproduction was to be a faithful, not a flattering, one.
“Good heavens!” broke from Cyril under his breath, “and this is
Ernestine!”
The wild rush of remorse and pity almost made him stagger, as he stood
with clenched hands and compressed lip before the portrait; but it was
succeeded by a vehement indignation against the woman who had
deliberately prepared this miserable shock for him. “I showed you
little mercy when last we met, dearest,” he muttered, addressing the
pictured Ernestine; “but she shall have none.”
The sound of his own voice recalled him to himself, and before the
faint _frou-frou_ of the Princess’s silk-lined robes, sweeping over
the polished floor, announced her approach, he had had time to compose
his features, and to adopt an attitude of interest, not untouched with
criticism, as he stood before the portrait. The Princess came rustling
in, exquisitely dressed (during the past week she had mitigated the
severity of her weeds in various scarcely perceptible ways, which
caused the general effect to be considerably less sombre), graceful
and gracious, with the utmost made of every good point in face and
figure. Truth to tell, her mood at the moment was not of the most
tranquil. It had been no part of her plan that Cyril should be left
alone with the portrait of his old love. She had intended to confront
him with it unexpectedly, and to scrutinise with jealous minuteness
the effect it produced upon him, but the stupidity of the footman had
prevented this. If she felt any anxiety as to the result of her
experiment, she did not betray it, however. Her whole manner was
expressive of a superb confidence in her own power to charm, as
compared with the faded and unhappy woman in the photograph. As she
entered, Cyril turned towards her with a start, letting his eye-glass
drop from his hand.
“Pardon me, madame,” he said hastily, without waiting for her to speak
first, “but I cannot help tracing in this portrait some resemblance to
the features of my august mistress, Queen Ernestine. Surely it is not
possible that the photograph is hers?”
“Now who can have put that portrait here?” cried the Princess, in
tones of strong irritation. “Yes, it is the latest likeness of my poor
cousin, and I have just had it enlarged at Vindobona, but it was not
intended for exhibition in public. Birnsdorf is so officious!” She
lifted the scarf as though to cover the picture with it, but Cyril
stopped her.
“Permit me to entreat you to leave the portrait as it is, madame. If
your Royal Highness needed a foil, you could find no better one than
this.”
The callousness of the words would have disgusted most women, but they
rejoiced the Princess’s heart. Her expedient had succeeded. She let
the scarf fall, and stooped to look at the photograph more closely.
“There is no posing in it, you see,” she said. “My unhappy cousin
never knew that she was watched. The original was merely a snap-shot
taken by one of the doctors whom the King sent to Syria to visit his
mother. There was some idea that it might be necessary”--_possible_
was the word on the Princess’s tongue, but she had no intention of
revolting Cyril by an undue display of her hatred towards the woman
she had injured--“to place her under restraint, and indeed it was a
fortnight before she would consent to receive the doctors. But when
they saw her they found that violence formed no part of her disorder,
merely extreme depression, as you perceive there.”
“Madame, it is too sad for words,” returned Cyril, in the perfunctory
tone of one who finds it incumbent upon him to sympathise in a matter
for which he has no sympathy. The Princess noticed his manner with
marked satisfaction.
“Alas, Count! I have bored you. You must forgive me. My poor cousin
and I have always been such devoted friends. But tell me how you have
settled your dispute with England?”
“Without difficulty, madame. The day after my letter reached the
Duchess of Old Sarum, Mr Forfar, speaking in London, took occasion to
dissociate himself and the Government from the views expressed by Lord
Ormsea, and very soon afterwards Lord Ormsea himself, in fear of
losing his post, explained that his words were to be understood only
in a Pickwickian sense. The slight fall in Consols was so adroitly
managed that it seemed the result rather of public alarm than of a
Jewish _coup de main_, and British opinion has definitely ranged
itself on our side.”
“Good generalship usually meets with good fortune,” said the Princess,
with a smile that converted the truism into an infinitely flattering
compliment.
“You are too kind, madame. May I hope for your good wishes in the next
little difficulty that lies before me?”
“Indeed you have them, Count. But what is this new trouble?”
“I am obliged to leave for Vindobona to-morrow, madame. One of our
agents, whose name you may have heard, the scientist Texelius, has
contrived to embroil himself with the Vindobona University, and the
citizens, whose sympathies are strongly Anti-Semitic, are making a
racial question of the matter.”
“And you leave to-morrow?” said the Princess, with an irritation which
she made no attempt to conceal. “It seems quite impossible for me to
keep in touch with your movement as I was hoping to do.”
“If I might have the honour of waiting upon you on my return, madame,
it would be my delight to report such success as I may meet with. Your
wonderful sympathy and kindness----”
“Oh, pray come, Count. You are not mistaken. I am deeply
interested--perhaps more than is altogether wise,” she sighed. “You
don’t know what a practical proof I have just given you of my
sympathy. I have instructed my son Kazimir to withdraw from the
candidature which was so embarrassing to you.”
“Madame, I am overwhelmed. When you graciously offered to exert your
influence on our behalf, I little dreamed of this.”
“It is a sacrifice, I don’t deny,” said the Princess, sighing again.
“With my son enthroned at Jerusalem, I should have little left to wish
for. You know that in crusading times the Kings of Jerusalem were said
to wear the crown of the world? But I felt it my duty, Count. Kazimir
is too young, too inexperienced, for such a post. He would be merely
the mouthpiece of Scythia, and I fear your poor Jews would be as badly
off as they are now. Besides,” her eyes met Cyril’s, “there is a man
who ought to be appointed, and he is not Kazimir.”
“Alas, madame, that I can exert no influence even in favour of your
candidate!”
“It is unnecessary, Count. My candidate will win the suffrages of the
Powers by virtue of his fitness for the post. Even now he would be
found, like Themistocles, second on every list. He has links uniting
him to all the Powers, but he is bound to none. He can work or fight
his way to power, as may be necessary, and it would surprise me very
much if he failed to keep what he had won.”
“Ah, madame! What hope is there that so suitable a person should ever
obtain the post?”
“There is the help of friends, Count, and there is a curious condition
suggested in a letter I have just received from Pavelsburg. The
Emperor consents to withdraw the demand for an Orthodox Prince, but
insists that Orthodox influence shall be present in some form in the
new state. If the future governor were married to an Orthodox
princess, for instance, all would be well. A quaint idea is it not?”
Cyril considered the matter as gravely as if he had believed that the
Emperor was really responsible for the suggestion. “I fear, madame,
that it is only mentioned because it is impracticable,” he said. “How
could the person you speak of aspire so high?”
“Ah, Count, all is fair in--other fine arts as well as politics.
Hearts move faster sometimes than the pens of diplomatists.”
“True, madame, but the world has sometimes occasion to say that
presumption is rightly punished.”
“That, Count, will never be said of the man I mean. If he is willing
to be guided by me, he will leave that part of the matter in my hands.
He will continue his diplomatic campaign, and the rest is my business.
Is there any reason why he should refuse to accept the arrangement,
Count?”
“I see none, madame, unless he is a fool.”
Cyril kissed the hand held out to him, and retired. The Princess flung
the scarf contemptuously over the portrait of Queen Ernestine.
“There!” she cried, “you have done your work, and I don’t want your
miserable eyes staring at me any longer. Birnsdorf, call one of the
servants to take this thing away.”
Following on the complete success of this morning’s experiment,
however, the Princess’s plans were threatened by a danger of an
entirely unforeseen character. Her son’s withdrawal of his candidature
happened very opportunely for the Scythian Court, which was anxious to
climb down gracefully from its untenable position, in view of the
necessity for yielding to the demands of the United Nation. Still, the
opportuneness of the fact could not be allowed to stifle inquiry as to
its cause. There was something suspicious, or at any rate strange,
about the Princess of Dardania’s proceedings, and a suitable emissary
was despatched to look into them. The day after Cyril had left
Ludwigsbad for Vindobona, economising the time spent in travelling by
making notes for the letters which Mansfield, sitting opposite him,
was working off with feverish haste on the typewriter, Prince
Soudaroff arrived at the villa from the north, and requested to be
allowed to wait upon her Royal Highness. The news of his advent
paralysed the Princess with momentary dismay, but an instant’s
reflection decided her to embark upon a bold course.
“You have no bad news for me, I hope, Prince?” she asked anxiously of
the visitor, when he was ushered into her presence.
“None, madame; and I grieve to have alarmed your Royal Highness. My
reason for intruding is a vexatious delay which has interrupted our
communications. We understand that you have ordered your son to
withdraw from his Palestine candidature, but we have not yet been
informed of the reasons for your action.”
“No?” said the Princess sweetly, although this authoritative demand
for an explanation roused her ire. “But you, Prince, can have had no
difficulty in perceiving my motive?”
“I must confess with shame, madame, that your diplomacy is too deep
for me,” was the cautious reply. Prince Soudaroff thought he could
guess the motive very well, but he did not intend to exhibit his
suspicions unnecessarily.
“You will make me too proud, Prince. That you should be baffled by my
little plot, and find it necessary to come to me for information!
Surely you must remember begging me to involve Count Mortimer in some
intrigue that would bring about his political ruin?”
“Naturally I remember it, madame. This step, then, is a part of the
process?”
“Undoubtedly, Prince. The unfortunate man is at this moment captivated
by the double hope of winning my affections and finding himself
appointed Governor of Palestine,” said the Princess, with a hardihood
that was nothing less than magnificent. Prince Soudaroff listened in
amazement.
“The scheme, madame, is colossal in its boldness and simplicity. How
do you propose to bring about the _dénoûment_?”
“That will be your part, I think, unless I can see my way to secure
the pleasure for myself. What do you say, Prince? Will Mortimer be
sufficiently discredited when it is known that he was intriguing for
his own advancement while posing as the disinterested friend of
Israel?”
“It would be enough for Europe, madame, and for his enemies among the
Jews; but there is a large section, with his friend the banker
Goldberg at its head, that would care nothing so long as he did not
betray them.”
“I see. Then we must think of something else. How would a secret
understanding do--say that, in consideration of a handsome sum of
money, he was to resign in favour of a Scythian Grand-Duke a month or
so after his election?”
“It is an excellent idea, madame, for the Jews would be specially
chagrined to find themselves outbidden. But permit me to ask whether
your Royal Highness intends to appear as the temptress, or as a
fellow-dupe, when the _dénoûment_ comes?”
“As the temptress, of course,” replied the Princess, without a
moment’s hesitation. “I can’t resign my European reputation, even for
the sake of sparing Count Mortimer’s feelings.”
Prince Soudaroff found himself foiled. He had felt certain that the
Princess would justify his suspicions at this point, but she had stood
the test, and he had no option but to believe her. “May I ask whether
your Royal Highness’s efforts have been attended with success
hitherto?” he asked.
“I cannot boast that success is absolutely secure,” she replied
thoughtfully. “Every man has his weak spot, as you know, Prince, but
with some men it is very difficult to find. It is my impression,
however, that Count Mortimer is safely landed.”
“You are not afraid that he is encouraging you in that belief for his
own purposes?” Prince Soudaroff suggested, with becoming diffidence.
The Princess’s heart uttered an indignant contradiction, but her lips
did not echo it.
“Do you know,” she said, leaning towards him confidentially, “that has
struck me more than once? ‘What if he is merely amusing himself with
me?’ I have said; but I have seen nothing, absolutely nothing, to
justify the misgiving. And I am a woman of some little experience,
Prince.”
“Indeed, madame, I have often envied you. Since all is secure, then,
we may go forward. The pressure of circumstances has forced us to send
orders to-day to our ambassador at Czarigrad to withdraw his
opposition to the Jewish concession. When Count Mortimer is at the
pinnacle of popularity among his friends on account of this success, I
would propose that we make public his negotiations with you.”
“Excellent, Prince! You won’t publish my name, of course? My sons
might object to that; but a few dots and dashes and asterisks would
only add to the piquancy of the affair.” In her own mind she resolved
quickly, “Then I must marry him before it is generally known that the
concession is granted. That in itself will destroy most of the effect
of the _exposé_ when it comes; and as to the rest--well, I will make
him Prince of Palestine whether Scythia or any one else stands in the
way.”
“It is an unsatisfactory business,” Prince Soudaroff said to himself
as he left the villa. “Clever men have undoubtedly been beguiled by
astute women before now; but it is most unlike Mortimer. I can’t help
suspecting that he has some plot on hand. At all costs we must
anticipate him in exploding the mine.”
The news which had summoned Cyril to the Pannonian capital was
sufficiently grave. Vindobona had long held a bad pre-eminence among
the cities of Europe on account of its malignant Anti-Semitism, and
that most militant of philosophers, Dr Texelius, had managed to bring
matters to a climax at this very unpropitious moment. His feud with
the town was of old standing. Some years before, when his fame was
only beginning to spread beyond the bounds of his own seat of
learning, he had been invited to deliver a course of lectures at
Vindobona. The course was largely attended, but the students of the
University, who came to scoff and remained to howl, formed the greater
part of the audience. To lecture, save in dumb show, was impossible,
and Dr Texelius shook the dust of Vindobona from his feet, declaring
darkly that the city should yet rue the day it had insulted him. The
passage of time and the spread of his fame did not tempt him to forget
his threat, and he devised a scheme of vengeance, which he unfolded,
under a promise of secrecy, to the Chevalier Goldberg. The financier
pointed out that the plan would involve the Jews in universal odium,
and brought pressure upon him promptly to renounce it. Dr Texelius
consented, under protest, to forego his revenge, and would probably
have kept his word but for a hostile move on the part of the
University of Vindobona. The latest idea in the city was to boycott
everything that was Jewish, and in an evil hour the University
resolved to follow the fashion. A boycott was decreed forthwith
against the works of Dr Texelius, which were extensively used by the
students and professors belonging to the faculty of philosophy, and it
proved disastrously effective. The injured author rose up in his
wrath, and descended upon his foes with might and main in the columns
of a newspaper owned by the Chevalier Goldberg. No one thought of
boycotting that particular paper while the wordy war continued, for Dr
Texelius had a pretty taste in opprobrious epithets, and the whole
empire rang with the echoes of the strife. But the University remained
unaffected by the wealth of logic showered upon it. Dr Texelius might
demonstrate the iniquity, folly, illiberality, or anything else of its
conduct, but it was not in his power to bring about the removal of his
books from its Index Expurgatorins. Once convinced of this fact, the
philosopher relieved his feelings in a parting letter that outdid all
its predecessors in scurrility, and prepared to make use of more
material weapons.
Such was the state of affairs when Cyril left Ludwigsbad, summoned to
Vindobona by urgent letters from the Chevalier Goldberg, who was
alarmed by his own knowledge of what Dr Texelius had proposed to do.
Events developed rapidly during the few hours that followed, and when
Cyril reached the city he found one of the Imperial chamberlains
awaiting him on the railway platform, with a face of direful import.
“We were all in darkness last night,” he said, after a hurried
greeting.
“Then Texelius has nobbled the gas company?” asked Cyril.
The official nodded. “We of the Court should not be sorry to see the
municipality punished,” he said, “for they richly deserve it; but
there will be barricades in every street, and a massacre of the Jews,
if this goes on. The electric light is only in use in one or two
quarters.”
The situation was serious enough. The lighting of the city was in the
hands of a company, floated chiefly by means of Jewish capital, upon
the dividends of which the Anti-Semitic majority of the municipality
had for many years cast a covetous eye. An attempt to buy up the plant
and fittings by force had been foiled by appeal to the courts of law,
but the check served only to stimulate the townsmen to discover some
means of coercing the company. The plan at length adopted involved the
expenditure of an enormous sum of money, and a long course of
litigation and chicanery, but it was successful in its object of
exhausting the resources of the victims. The municipality was now in
possession of a lighting system of its own, almost in working order,
and the value of the company’s shares was rapidly approaching the
vanishing point. But the new gas supply was not yet ready for use, and
here Dr Texelius found his opportunity. When the strife first began, a
committee of the company’s shareholders had been formed for the
purpose of defending its rights, and since the majority of its members
were Jews, he had now little difficulty in persuading them to unite in
a last desperate effort. If it did not succeed in saving their
property from spoliation, it would at least incommode their enemies
seriously.
The day before that on which Cyril reached Vindobona was a holiday at
the gasworks. The furnaces were allowed to grow cold, the retorts
remained uncharged, the gas-holders empty, and as soon as the small
amount of gas in reserve had been consumed, every jet in the city,
after flickering precariously for a time, went out. Summer had passed
its prime, and the evenings were drawing in, but the heat was still
intense, and the citizens were enjoying themselves in their
brilliantly lighted public gardens. On this particular evening the
brilliance was somewhat to seek, and there were many complaints even
before the moment at which all became darkness. An Anarchist plot was
the first thought, and an irresistible panic seized the crowds of
pleasure-seekers. Some rushed wildly hither and thither, others waited
tremblingly in the stupefaction of terror. It was some time before
even the police could collect their wits sufficiently to inquire into
the mystery. At length, by the joint exercise of persuasion and moral
force, as typified by the erection of temporary lights at the
street-corners, and the employment of cavalry to disperse the crowds,
they induced the populace to seek their homes, and a commission of
inquiry was despatched post-haste to the gasworks. The explanation
afforded by the few melancholy officials in charge was a simple one.
Owing to the persistent machinations of its enemies, the company’s
dues had been withheld from it, so that it was unable to procure coal
for conversion into gas. Its whole reserve stock had been worked up,
and prompt financial aid alone could enable it to obtain more. The
honourable officials of police had better apply to the municipality.
But the municipal gasworks, the police were well aware, would not be
in working order, even if operations were carried on both day and
night, for a fortnight at least, and it was impossible to contemplate
the horror of a gas-famine lasting for that period. Hence the
appearance of the Imperial chamberlain at the station to meet Cyril
and convey him in a Court carriage to the Schloss, whither the
Chevalier Goldberg had already been summoned; and hence also the
furious mob assembled in the street outside, howling for the
destruction of the Jews and the division of their property among the
burgesses of Vindobona. Just as Cyril reached the carriage with his
conductor, his servant Dietrich, who had been looking after the
luggage, stepped up to him.
“Excellency,” he said hurriedly, “there is a riot. You cannot pass
through the streets in safety.”
“I am not deaf,” said Cyril coldly--then, turning to the chamberlain
with a smile, “My man is an old servant, and privileged, but I don’t
feel obliged to humour him in everything.”
The chamberlain was beginning to look uncomfortable, but he nodded,
and followed Cyril into the carriage. Mansfield took his place upon
the opposite seat, and they drove out of the station, to be greeted
with a storm of yells and execrations. “Traitor! renegade!” were the
epithets that saluted Cyril as soon as his clear-cut, contemptuous
profile was recognised, and the mob surged up to the carriage with
fierce shouts of rage. Those who succeeded in reaching it attempted no
actual violence, for the presence of the man who was so absolutely
unmoved by their clamour seemed to paralyse them, but those behind,
unable to catch a glimpse of the visitor, did not feel the influence
of his silent scorn. Cyril had turned to make a remark to the
chamberlain, when Mansfield sprang up with a cry, and threw himself
before him, only just in time to intercept with his shoulder a large
stone which was hurled through the window, the broken glass cutting
him about the face.
“Well done, Mansfield!” cried Cyril, while the chamberlain called
frantically to the coachman to turn and drive back again into the
station.
“You would never turn tail before a mob?” cried Cyril, roused at last.
“How should I answer to the Emperor if you were injured, Count?” was
the reply. “Besides, it is not expedient to expose the Court vehicles
to insult--and--and this brave young man’s wounds ought to be dressed.
I will merely send to the barracks in the next street for an escort of
cavalry, and we shall not be more than a few minutes.”
The station was gained in safety, and a surgeon summoned, who adorned
Mansfield’s face most artistically with strips of sticking-plaster,
much to the disgust of the victim, who persuaded himself that he could
have stanched the wounds with his handkerchief in another minute, if
that idiot had not poked his nose in. When the decoration was
complete, a troop of lancers was ready to escort the carriage, and the
progress through the streets to the Schloss was made in gallant wise,
a fence of bristling points and fluttering pennons separating the
endangered visitors from the sullen, baffled mob.
At the Schloss the elaborate rules of the ordinary etiquette were
suspended in view of the importance of the crisis, and Cyril was
conducted at once to the Emperor’s private cabinet, where he found the
Chevalier Goldberg and the Minister of the Interior. There was no time
to be lost if Pannonia was to be saved from such an outbreak of
Anti-Semitic fury as might spread all over the continent, and result
in the settlement of the Jewish question in a much more drastic manner
than was contemplated by the United Nation. The Chevalier had already
telegraphed orders, at his own risk, for large supplies of coal, which
was to be converted into gas as fast as it arrived from the various
mining districts, but this was only a temporary expedient. It did not
take long to arrange a concordat, since those assembled in council
were genuinely anxious to come to an agreement, and in less than an
hour it had been decided that a fair purchase price should be paid to
the gas company by means of a loan from the Chevalier. This was to be
guaranteed by the Imperial Government, and repaid by the municipality,
to which coercion was to be applied if necessary. Every effort was to
be made by the company to ensure the full supply of gas to the city
that night and afterwards, and any deficiency was to be supplemented
by means of a free distribution of oil to the poorer citizens. In
conclusion, pressure was to be brought to bear by the Chevalier on the
militant Dr Texelius, and he was to be ordered to leave Vindobona
within twenty-four hours. A special Imperial proclamation spread the
news of the settlement through the city, the streets were patrolled by
troops, who dispersed the mob, and before long the only crowds to be
found were in the vicinity of the railways, where they were watching
the heavily laden coal-trucks as they rolled past on their way to
discharge their load at the gasworks.
The Chevalier and Cyril were _personæ gratissimæ_ at Court that day,
and the latter took advantage of the fact to accomplish another piece
of business connected with the Palestine scheme which was destined to
astonish the Princess of Dardania when she heard of it. Meanwhile, the
Chevalier presented himself as an ambassador of authority and peace at
a hastily convened meeting of the representatives of the gas company.
The members of the committee were already alarmed by the success of
their bold step, and he plunged them into a state of abject terror by
hinting at an intention on the part of the government to confiscate
the works and carry them on for the public benefit. When they had been
reduced to a sufficiently pitiable condition, he raised them suddenly
to the seventh heaven by disclosing the arrangement which had been
made, and sent them home happy in the prospect of saving something
from the wreck. Their defection cut the ground from under the feet of
Dr Texelius, who was the next person visited by the financier, and
whose only regret hitherto had been that he dared not venture into the
streets to observe the working of his revenge. His short-lived
satisfaction was ended by the peremptory order to quit Vindobona, and
he almost wished that he had not indulged in his trip to the city when
he found himself listening to the upbraidings of the Chevalier, who
charged him roundly with doing his utmost to ruin the cause of Israel.
The crestfallen philosopher was making his way on foot to the station
the next morning, shadowed at a distance by two police officers in
plain clothes, when a carriage containing two men drove past him.
Although Dr Texelius had prudently kept his name concealed, for fear
of the attentions of the populace, the mere fact that he was a Jew had
made it impossible for him to procure a cab to convey him to the
railway, and his luggage was being carried by a hanger-on of the
police. But if the inhabitants of Vindobona were unconscious of the
identity of their illustrious guest, the second secretary of the
Scythian Embassy, who was one of the occupants of the carriage, was
more fortunate.
“Look there!” he said to his companion, to whom he had been recounting
with great spirit the humours of the preceding day, “that is the
redoubtable Texelius himself. I used to see him continually when I was
in South Germany.”
“Would it be possible to express one’s sympathy with the eminent
philosopher?”
“Scarcely, Prince--in public, at least. Look at those two fellows
behind. They would have a fine story to tell if they saw you speak to
him.”
“You are right; they must not see it. Yet it would be a thousand
pities if I could not speak to him. Volodia, my dear boy, do you think
we could drive back to the station for a moment? I have unfortunately
forgotten to inquire about my train.”
“Of course--as many moments as you like.” Prince Soudaroff’s godson
knew something of his methods of working. “Am I to do anything?”
“Only watch me, and when I succeed in approaching Texelius, distract
the attention of the detectives for a second or so.”
“Very well, Prince.” The secretary was not without practice in work of
the kind, so that when Dr Texelius had finished haggling with his
porter over his charge, he found himself confronted by a dapper
gentleman, exquisitely dressed, whose grey moustache was waxed into
points of needle-like sharpness.
“I have the honour of addressing the Herr Professor Texelius?” said
the stranger hurriedly in German, laying one finger on his lips.
“I am that most shamefully ill-used man,” snorted Dr Texelius.
“You would like to expose the Mortimer?”
The philosopher’s eyes sparkled. “Only give me the chance!”
The other drew out a sealed envelope, and slipped it into his hand.
“That will provide you with the means of doing so. Hide it at once. I
am Soudaroff.”
With a dexterity which a professional conjurer might have envied, Dr
Texelius made the packet vanish up his sleeve. “It shall be done,” he
said.
“When does your paper appear?”
“The day after to-morrow.”
“Let it come out then without fail. Any delay will spoil the effect.”
“It shall be inserted.”
The colloquy, which had scarcely lasted a moment, was over, and the
speakers moved apart, Prince Soudaroff to return to his godson, and Dr
Texelius to take his place in the train, chuckling with delight over
the thought that he had now the means of ruining Cyril and annoying
the Chevalier Goldberg at one blow. His revenge would draw down upon
him instant punishment from the Chevalier, he knew, but he could
afford to disregard that in the joy of the moment.