CHAPTER XXIV.

A COMBAT _À OUTRANCE_.

“Good morning, ladies! Is her Majesty disengaged at present?”

“Her Majesty will see you, Count, I do not doubt,” and Anna Mirkovics rose to inquire the Queen’s pleasure.

“You are early, Count,” said the other lady, who was Paula von Hilfenstein no longer, having married the eldest son of Prince Mirkovics some seven years before. Her sister-in-law, in spite of the large fortune she inherited from her mother, was still single, but more, people said, by reason of her whole-hearted devotion to the Queen than from any lack of suitors.

“Yes, Princess, I am early; but there are many things to settle.”

“So I should imagine, since the Queen has been seeing people all morning. You are arranging the details of next week’s festivities, I suppose? I hope you are allotting plenty of room to us ladies? I have ordered the most exquisite gowns imaginable from Paris, and it would be heart-rending to have them crushed.”

“Your wishes are law, Princess, and I will give orders, if you like, that twice as much space shall be allotted to you as to any of the other ladies, so that your gowns may be properly displayed. That is the real secret of your anxiety, is it not?”

“Her Majesty will receive you, Count,” said Anna Mirkovics, returning and interrupting her colleague’s laughing disclaimer, and Cyril passed on into Ernestine’s presence. She was sitting in a low chair, looking white and tired, for the Court had only returned from Molzau the day before, and there were endless details to be arranged for the celebration the following week of her son’s attainment of his majority, but the soft flush which never failed to appear at Cyril’s approach crept slowly up her cheek as he kissed her hand.

“I know you would not have asked for an interview unless there was something important to tell me,” she said.

“You are right in supposing my errand to be of importance, but I have nothing to tell--merely a suggestion to make. I want to speak to you about your boy’s marriage.”

Ernestine sat upright, and looked at him in dismay. “Michael’s marriage!” she cried. “But he is only a boy. We need not think of that for five or six years yet--certainly not for four.”

“We need not under ordinary circumstances, I agree with you. But there are reasons in the present case which render it advisable----”

“It is absurd, Cyril. I won’t hear of it. Michael is far too young. He doesn’t know his own mind. He----”

“My dear Ernestine, please hear me out. Nothing could be further from my mind than to suggest an immediate marriage for him, or even a definite betrothal. But it is highly desirable that it should be generally understood that his choice--or our choice for him, if you like--is fixed.”

“Oh, that is not so bad, of course,” said Ernestine, trying to speak calmly. “But,” her tone thrilled with anxiety, “upon whom does your choice fall?”

“On the only possible person, Princess Frederike of Hercynia, your cousin, the Emperor’s daughter.”

“You know that I detest Sigismund, and don’t care for his wife. Nothing shall induce me to allow Michael to marry one of their girls.”

“The feeling seems to be mutual,” thought Cyril, remembering his midnight meeting with the Emperors. “You must not allow your little differences with your cousin to prejudice you against his children,” he added aloud. “I made it my business when at Molzau to observe and find out all I could about the Hercynian Princesses, and I am convinced that they are most excellent and amiable young people, and very well brought up.”

“Well brought up!” said Ernestine scornfully. “They are dull, Cyril--fearfully dull. Michael cannot endure them.”

“That speaks badly for his taste. But as you said just now, he is only a boy, and doesn’t know his own mind. All we have to do is to bring him in contact with Princess Frederike in due time, and propinquity will do the rest.”

“I wish you would not talk like that. I tell you it is impossible. Michael must be allowed to choose for himself.”

“You don’t seem to perceive that by my plan he will choose for himself--as far as any monarch can. You would not wish him to choose a shop-girl or a village maiden, I presume? Try to look at it sensibly, Ernestine. There need be no fuss and no difficulty. Your cousin will write to congratulate you on your son’s coming of age, of course. In your answer, you hint that it is your hope that your families may one day be more nearly connected, and you make the same remark to the Hercynian Envoy when he presents the Emperor’s letter. It is merely the expression of a pious wish on your part--doesn’t even bind you if Michael turns rusty when he gets older, but it tides over this crisis, and makes a good impression. Why, in the name of all that is unreasonable, should you hang back?”

“Because--oh, I must tell you--because my cousin Ottilie and I have arranged for years that he is to marry her daughter Lida. There, you know the truth now!”

“And how long has this beautiful arrangement been in force?” Nothing in Cyril’s tone showed that he had suspected its existence for a long time past.

“Since Michael was three years old. We were at Tatarjé at the time--it was before you and I became friends--and we determined to bring them up together as far as possible, that they might really learn to know one another.”

“And so this is the explanation of all the running wild in woods, and so on?” said Cyril indulgently. “Upon my word! it’s a very pretty idea, Ernestine. Pity that it’s so utterly out of the question.”

“Out of the question! Cyril, I have promised Ottilie. It is to be.”

“Oh, indeed, and what becomes of Michael’s youth, and the impossibility of his knowing his own mind, and so on? It seems to me that you are trying to pin him down pretty strictly to one young lady.”

“It is quite in a different way. They have been destined for each other nearly all their lives.” (“Probably quite all, by Princess Ottilie,” interjected Cyril, _sotto voce_.) “You cannot say that I have entered into the arrangement upon impulse. I was sacrificed in marriage to political considerations, and I determined solemnly that my son’s life should not be spoilt in the same way. You helped to sacrifice me, and that is why I cannot accept your advice about Michael. He shall make his own choice, and fall in love properly with the girl he is to marry.”

“But how are you going to make him fall in love with Princess Lida? It is the last idea that would come into his head after their having been brought up together like brother and sister. More probably he will fall in love with some maid of honour old enough to be his aunt.”

“Cyril, what a coarse thing to say!” Ernestine spoke with chilling disapproval, but it was evident that the shaft had gone home, and Cyril improved his opportunity before she had time to recover herself.

“I know you don’t like it if I venture to say a word against your cousin, Ernestine, but at the risk of displeasing you I must tell you this. She is the champion intriguer of Europe, and this projected marriage is merely the finishing touch to her schemes for bringing the whole of the Balkan States under the control of members of her family. She has almost succeeded in plunging the Powers into war already, by the annexation of Rhodope and the betrothal of her elder daughter to young Albrecht of Mœsia, and for years she has been trying to alienate Michael from you and attach him to herself in order to ensure the success of her plans--a success which would in all probability lead at once to the Great War.”

Ernestine sat silent, with the tears rolling down her face. Ottilie’s schemes and their probable result had never been presented to her so baldly before, although an inkling of their nature had forced itself into her mind. But even now, taken at a disadvantage as she was, she refused to yield her point.

“It is very dreadful, Cyril, and perhaps if I had known it all at the time, I would not have entered into the compact. But Michael and Lida shall not be sacrificed now. I will not break the children’s hearts.”

“My dear Ernestine, pray remember their youth. As you said, it is impossible that Michael can have fixed his heart on her as yet. Unless--surely you have not put the idea into his head?”

“No, indeed. We wanted it all to be quite natural and unprompted. They were to grow up together, and drift into love gently.”

“Well, then, the current must be diverted into another channel, that is all. There need be no difficulty about it. When I am gone, send for your boy, and talk to him about next week. Oh, you know the kind of talk I mean. What do women say on such occasions? Then when you have got him into a suitably softened frame of mind, just let out how happy it would make you if you thought he would one day bring home a bride from Hercynia----”

“But it would not. It would make me miserable.”

“If it preserved the peace of Europe, and thwarted your cousin’s ambitious schemes? Besides, Ernestine, this affair has a further significance for us. If we can spoil the Princess of Dardania’s great plan, the Emperors will look kindly upon our marriage.”

“You expect me to sell my son as the price of my own happiness?”

“No, I don’t. I know you far too well to expect you to do anything so businesslike. But what is the good of our rubbing each other the wrong way like this? Think of me a little, even if the prospect offers no temptation to you. Won’t you allow that to find all I have worked for suddenly within my reach is a thing to tempt a man? I don’t ask you to force your son’s inclination--only to let him know which way your wishes turn. Is that so very much to do for me? I do not often ask a favour from you.”

“No; but when you do they are so very hard to grant. Still, I will moot the matter to Michael, as you wish it so much, Cyril. It cannot well do any harm. But I must wait until he returns from Praka.”

“You don’t mean to say that he is at Praka now? I thought he came home with you, and was in the Palace.”

“No; we separated at Witska, and I came on without him. He wanted to see his cousins again, and besides, he heard that Ottilie had been slighted in some way with regard to the invitation to Molzau, and nothing would satisfy him but going to sympathise with her.”

“This is very bad, Ernestine.” Cyril was seriously disturbed. “If your cousin’s suspicions are aroused as to anything that passed at Molzau, she is quite capable of ruining our plans. You must telegraph to Michael immediately, and desire him to return without delay. I would advise you to send Pavlovics and some of his suite to fetch him--for he is getting too old to be running about the country with only a servant or two--but the Princess might get wind of our intentions and forestall us.”

“But even if Michael is heart-whole, Cyril, and does not object to the idea of marrying Frederike in the course of time, what about Ottilie? How can I ever explain the change to her? And there is no explanation. I am simply breaking my solemn promise.”

“Refer her Royal Highness to me, if you like. We are old acquaintances, and I may be able to remind her of a promise or two that she has herself broken. Lay the blame on Europe, tell her that you object to the honour of being one of the causes of the Great War--but send for your son at once.”

“I will. The telegram shall go immediately.”

The Queen kept her word, without taking any one into her counsels; yet only an hour or so later a second telegram left Bellaviste, also for Praka, but addressed to the Princess of Dardania. The contents were in cipher, and translated, read thus:--

“Mortimer had long private interview this morning with Queen, who was afterwards observed to have been weeping. A message of recall was despatched to King instantly on M.’s departure. Be on your guard.

/D/.”

The Princess of Dardania received this missive early in the afternoon. When she had read it, she glanced sharply at the telegram addressed to King Michael, which was lying on her writing-table awaiting his return. The young people had started out in the morning for a picnic, chaperoned by an elderly lady-in-waiting and Princess Lida’s French governess, and the Princess was to meet them with tea at a point agreed upon on their homeward way. As she realised the situation she stretched out her hand towards Ernestine’s telegram, but withdrew it again quickly.

“No, there is no need,” she said to herself. “Drakovics has given me all the information I require, and Ernestine will not attempt an explanation in a telegram. But I think, my dear Michael, that on the whole it will be as well for you not to receive your mother’s message until you return here.”

It was not, therefore, until the picnic-party had reached the villa again that the Princess informed King Michael casually that there was a telegram waiting for him. Before going out she had placed the envelope in the hall, so that it might appear to have arrived during her absence, and she passed on into her sitting-room as she spoke. She was still standing by the table and taking off her gloves when the door was flung open, and King Michael burst in.

“Tant’ Ottilie, my mother wants me to go home at once. She says there are so many things to arrange which she can’t settle without me. And I have only been here one day, and not seen you a bit. It’s shameful--intolerable!”

“Why, Michael, you ought to feel flattered that your mother can’t do without you. It seems very hard that you should be obliged to leave so soon, just when Lida and Bettine had been planning so many delightful excursions, too; but then----”

“I’m not going. My mother doesn’t really want me. She has Count Mortimer to help her with all her fads----”

“Oh, hush, my dear boy! I can’t allow you to speak of your mother in that way, nor can I keep you here when she sends for you. It would appear that I was encouraging you in disobedience. But it is quite evident that it is too late to start to-night, so telegraph to say that you will leave by the nine o’clock train in the morning. And I have a plan. I will come to Bellaviste with you, for I am not satisfied about the decorations I have ordered for the villa next week. I want this house to testify--even though we are away--how much we love our dear Michael and rejoice in his coming to his own, and therefore I must go and see how the devices look before they are quite finished. But don’t tell your mother I am coming. It will be a little surprise for her.”

“When I am really King, I shall stay here as much as I like,” grumbled the boy, moving unwillingly to the door; but as he reached it he found the Princess’s eyes fixed sadly upon him. “Tant’ Ottilie!” he cried, rushing back to her, “what is the matter? Why do you look so sad?”

“Dear Michael, it is nothing--merely that it grieves me to lose you again so soon,” but again and again during the evening King Michael found that fixed, sorrowful gaze upon him. As Cyril had remarked three years before, he cared as yet far more for the Princess of Dardania than for her daughter, and her evident sadness made him miserable. Not until the next morning, however, did an opportunity of asking an explanation offer itself, but as soon as the Princess and he were established in the royal saloon for the journey to Bellaviste, and the attendants dismissed to their separate car, he recurred to the subject immediately.

“Oh, Tant’ Ottilie, tell me what it is that makes you so unhappy. I cannot bear you to look sad. Is it anything that I have done?”

“Dear Michael, no. Will you not believe me when I assure you that it is only sorrow at losing you? It is like losing one of my own sons--almost as bad as when Kazimir first went to join the Scythian army.”

“But that was for such a long time, and I shall come back as soon as ever all the fuss is over. You don’t imagine that I would let anything keep me away?”

“My dear boy, you will not find yourself your own master then any more than you are now--in fact, you will have even less time at your disposal. No, we have been very happy, but we must learn to look upon that particular kind of happiness as past and gone for us.”

“Tant’ Ottilie, how can you say such things? I shall almost live here.”

“I am afraid Count Mortimer will have something to say to that.”

“Count Mortimer? What has he to do with it? Surely,” as a thought occurred to him, “you don’t think that it was through him that my mother sent for me home?”

“It looks very like it. She made no objection to your coming--did she? but as soon as she has had time to consult Count Mortimer, she recalls you.”

“It’s too bad. But after next week he shall see whether I----”

“Oh, no insubordination, Michael, please! But come and look out of this window. We shall pass the villa in a moment, and you will like to have a last look at it.”

“It is not my last look. It shall not be. Oh, there are the girls!”

Yes, there they were, standing on the terrace which bounded the grounds of the villa on this side, Princess Bettine demure and dignified--she had cultivated dignity largely since her betrothal had conferred upon her the distinction of being a kind of modern Helen, whose charms were not unlikely to plunge Europe into war--and Princess Lida leaning forward and supporting herself by the branch of a tree as she waved her handkerchief vigorously.

“I am glad they came to see you off,” said the Princess, adding with a sigh, “you will never meet them quite on the same footing again, Michael.”

“Oh, why is everything so horribly mysterious and doleful, Tant’ Ottilie? You talk as if things were all going to be different now, and Lida is just as bad. She ran away when I wanted to say good-bye to her, and wouldn’t let me kiss her, and was as crotchety as she could be.”

“Michael, you are not in earnest? Oh, my poor innocent child, am I too late? No, no, don’t mind what I say, Michael. Forget it--promise me you will forget it. Promise faithfully to banish it from your mind, dear boy.”

“Of course I promise, if you wish it, Tant’ Ottilie,” replied the King, a good deal astonished, but the Princess did not appear to be satisfied.

“I ought to have thought of this. How could I be so culpably blind? But she is so young--it seemed quite safe. Poor little Lida! you will have to learn your lesson early. And Bettine is so thoroughly happy!”

“What _do_ you mean, Tant’ Ottilie?” asked the puzzled boy. “Is any one unkind to Lida? I daresay she will feel lonely just at first when Bettine is married, but I shall come very often, and----”

“My dear Michael, you don’t understand anything about it. You are far too young--but Lida is younger, and she---- Oh, it is hard for her to be sacrificed at her age! But I blame myself. Your mother was wiser. She saw that mischief might happen, when I only thought of you all as children together. But I am punished. If only Lida had not to suffer for my blindness!”

“But she shall not suffer!” cried King Michael. “What is the matter with her? You are not going to send her to Scythia, like Kazimir?”

“Into the army, I suppose? No, Michael; your path and Lida’s will lie very far apart in future. The thought of her suffering need not trouble you; you will know little about her, and care less. You will marry one of the Hercynian Princesses, and live an exemplary domestic life----”

“What! one of those girls with the light-blue eyes and the hair like tow? No, thank you, Tant’ Ottilie. I had as soon marry a doll.”

“My dear boy, you will marry the wife who is chosen for you, without reference to your tastes, and she will not approve of your running down to Praka every now and then. So we shall be left without you, and I shall lose Bettine, and then I suppose Lida will go, for she too must learn, poor child, that with kings and princesses marriage is an affair not of love but of state, no matter what illusions one may have cherished in one’s youth----”

“Look here, Tant’ Ottilie. I have an idea. Why shouldn’t I marry Lida?--when we’re grown up, I mean, of course. It would be better than Frederike or Hermine, at any rate, and we need not do it for a good long time.”

The manner of the proposal was not flattering, but the boy’s face was suffused with an honest blush, and the Princess could have kissed him there and then. Yet her response was not encouraging.

“My dear boy, you must not think of such a thing! Count Mortimer--I mean, of course, your mother--would never allow it. And pray don’t breathe such an idea to any one. It would be said that I had taken advantage of your stay with us to entrap you into marrying my daughter.”

“But I could swear you didn’t. You never even suggested the idea, much less mentioned the word. So if you were thinking of making Lida marry some prince who would be unkind to her, and that is what was making you miserable, you can feel that it’s all right now. I suppose that I shall have to marry some one, and I’ll marry her some day.”

“Your views are charmingly naïve, dear boy. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that Count Mortimer is the person who will choose your wife for you. I daresay he has everything arranged already.”

“Then he will have arranged it in vain. I hate the fellow,--he twists my mother round his little finger, but he shan’t get hold of me. I know too much for him, thanks to hearing you talk, Tant’ Ottilie, and if he expects to have me under his thumb, as he has my mother--why, he’s mistaken, that’s all.”

“Ah, but you don’t realise, Michael, that Count Mortimer is a very important person. Thracia would fall to pieces if he were not at the helm, and you must be prepared to make any sacrifices to keep him in office.”

“But look what a pull that gives him over us! No, Tant’ Ottilie, it will be the other way about after next week. Count Mortimer will have to make the sacrifices if he means to hold office under me.”

“Why, Michael, you are quite a youthful Cromwell! But I must warn you that Count Mortimer will make no concessions.”

“Don’t you see that’s exactly what I want? He will have to go then. Why, it makes me want to marry Lida just because I know it will mean getting rid of him. How I hate that smooth, cynical manner of his, as if he were worlds above me! He has done nothing but try to thwart and restrain me all my life, and my mother would have let him have his way. It was you who opened my eyes and helped me to get the better of him.”

“No, my dear boy, I am sure you are mistaken in thinking that I ever spoke against the Premier in your hearing, or encouraged you to oppose him. You may possibly have heard me lament the extraordinary and pernicious influence he exercises over your dear mother, or remark upon the unconstitutional way in which he uses the power he won by such peculiar means. But you drew your own conclusions, and I have merely done my best to protect you against the worst results of his system of training.”

“Very well, Tant’ Ottilie. It comes to much the same thing, after all, and that is, that he goes at the first opportunity.”

“I fancy that you will have to reckon with your mother there, Michael.”

“My mother? But when he is gone he will have no more influence over her, and she will not oppose my marrying to please myself.”

“But will she let him go? I am certainly not the person to speak against love-matches, Michael, for my own marriage was a shining example, and I fancy your mother would agree with me in any case but yours, especially----”

“But what in the world have my mother’s views on love-matches to do with Count Mortimer?” asked the boy, bewildered by what seemed to him the sudden change of subject. “Do you call Lida’s and mine a love-match?”

“Of course.” The Princess was not disturbed by her prospective son-in-law’s undisguised amusement at the idea. “What else could it be? But if you don’t see the connection which led me to say what I did, you must not expect me to enlighten you. I am the very last person to do so.”

“What do you mean, Tant’ Ottilie? What are you hinting at? I will know. Don’t sit there and look mysterious, but tell me.”

The Princess opened her firmly closed lips. “My dear Michael, if you are so happy as not to have noticed what every one in the Court knows and every one in the country has heard, it is certainly not for me to destroy your paradise.”

“It would make me unhappy, then? Something about my mother? Tant’ Ottilie, you cannot say that--that she has done anything wrong?”

“Far from it, my dear boy. At the worst it can only be called an amiable indiscretion. Oh no, there is nothing wrong--but I fear you will scarcely be charitable enough to say so when you are invited to receive Count Mortimer as----”

“As what? I insist on knowing.”

“My dear boy, you quite frighten me. As a stepfather, then, if you must be told.”

“My mother intends to put that upstart in my father’s place?”

“That she can scarcely do, but she intends to marry him.”

“She shall not do it. I will have him killed first.”

“Calm yourself, Michael.” The Princess was a little alarmed by the storm she had raised, and she drew the boy down upon the seat beside her, and laid her soft hand on his clenched fist. “You must make allowances for your mother,” she went on. “When she was left a widow, Count Mortimer occupied a high position in the Court. He made himself useful to her, and worked his way into her confidence. When those Tatarjé difficulties arose, he was able to make it appear that he had rendered her very important services. Your mother was young and impressionable, and very lonely. If she had had a father or brother at hand to advise her--if even I had known what was going on, she would have been held back from the rash step she took. But it so happened that she had no relations near her at the time, and she engaged herself privately to him.”

“And married him?”

“No; I think it is safe to say that they are not married.”

“Then it is not too late. I am here to save her. She must be protected against herself. The fellow shall go in no time.”

“My dear Michael, you must be careful. Count Mortimer has not been Premier for eleven years without knowing how to entrench himself in his position. He is hand and glove with the Three Powers, and to dismiss him precipitately might lead to very disastrous consequences, besides blazoning abroad the whole matter, which is the last thing one would wish to do. Decidedly you must not give such a reason for dismissing him--and yet it would not do to dismiss him without a reason.”

“I have my reasons--I hate him, and he would oppose my marriage with Lida, and he has the presumption to wish to marry my mother--but I need not give them.”

“You must give some reason, my dear boy. But if possible let it spring out of some misconduct on Count Mortimer’s own part. If only he were Finance Minister, one might produce evidence of peculation; but as Minister of Foreign Affairs, all we can do is to suggest that he has entered into secret understandings with other States. If the Three Powers once come to believe that he has had dealings with Scythia, they will be only too anxious to throw him over; and even if we could not furnish any direct evidence after all, a suspicion of that kind never quite dies away.”

“I see; you mean to disgrace him as well as get rid of him? That will suit me all right. I believe you hate him as much as I do. But you will help me, Tant’ Ottilie? I don’t quite see how I could carry the thing through alone.”

“Help you, dear boy? of course. But tell me first; you are sure that you really love Lida?”

“Of course I do. You said so yourself. Should I want to marry her if I didn’t?” was the unanswerable rejoinder, and the Princess forbore to press the question further.

“Leave everything to me just at present, Michael, and do not appear to have discovered your mother’s secret. I shall try to persuade her to consent to your marriage first. After that, we must take other measures.”

Having attained her various objects in starting the conversation, she said no more, leaving the boy to brood over his discoveries. She had succeeded beyond her utmost expectations in rousing him to the two emotions of love and hate, and now her only fear was lest a chance interview with his mother or with Cyril should lead to an explosion before she had had time to prepare her ground. It was evident that the campaign must be opened quickly on her side if she was not to find her movements anticipated. Her plans were soon laid, and when she met Ernestine, without appearing to notice the start of dismay with which her unexpected arrival was greeted, she whispered as she advanced to kiss her--

“I must have a nice long talk with you to-night, darling Nestchen. I have such sweet, delightful news to give you.”

Princess Ottilie as a sentimentalist was appearing in a new character, and Ernestine felt a thrill of alarm when she heard her words; but with the conviction that it would be of no avail to defer the evil day, she granted the private interview which her cousin had asked for.

“I do not know when I have felt so happy!” said the Princess, when she had sent her maid away, and she and Ernestine were facing one another in the rose-tinted light of her dressing-room. “Even when dear Albrecht came to tell me that he loved Bettine, I could not feel such complete satisfaction as I do to-day, for you and I have always been such close friends, and it is so thoroughly suitable that our children should---- But how I am running on! Well, Nestchen, our children understand one another. Dearest Michael confessed his love to me to-day--quite without any prompting on my part--and as for my Lida, I have known her innocent little secret for a long time. Is it not delightful that all should have fallen out exactly as we planned?”

Ernestine was sitting very straight in her chair, and her face looked drawn and ghastly in the soft light. “But, Ottilie----” she said, with a sort of gasp.

“What, Ernestine?” cried the Princess. “You don’t mean me to understand that you have changed your mind? You have never even hinted at such a thing.”

“I have not changed my mind,” said Ernestine, speaking with difficulty, “but I wish this had happened two days ago or not at all.”

“I must insist on knowing what you mean, Ernestine. My daughter’s happiness is at stake--which seems to be more to me than your son’s happiness is to you.”

“My son’s happiness is of the very highest importance to me, Ottilie. Your news comes as a shock, because only yesterday morning I was told, by one in whom I have every confidence, that it was impossible, for political reasons, for the marriage to which we have both been looking forward to take place.”

“And you imagine that I shall be content to sacrifice my child to the opinion of some anonymous busybody? But no--I know only too well who your sapient adviser is. It is Count Mortimer.”

“You are right. It was Count Mortimer.”

“Of course it was. I knew that only to your lover would you dream of sacrificing your child.”

“Are you mad, Ottilie? How dare you say such a thing to me?”

“Because it is true. Deny that he is your lover, if you can--a fact that everybody knows.”

“I have no wish to deny it. I do love Count Mortimer, and I am proud to say that he loves me.”

“And to please him you will sacrifice your son? Are you proud to say that?”

“There is no question of sacrificing him. What you have told me has put a new complexion on affairs, and it will be necessary to modify any other plans we may have had in view. You are the last person to suggest that I am likely to sacrifice Michael’s happiness, Ottilie. For years I have sacrificed myself in allowing him to spend every spare hour of his time with you, because it seemed to make him happier than keeping him at home.”

“Or because it allowed you to enjoy more of the society of your lover?”

“I do not wish to quarrel with you, Ottilie, but your tone is exceedingly strange.”

“Yes, it is strange, is it not, when my Lida’s happiness is wavering in the balance? I don’t know whether you expect me to acquiesce meekly, Ernestine, when in one moment you spring on me your determination to upset the arrangement which was entered into at your own suggestion, and towards which we have been working ever since. Unfortunately I care more for the broken hearts of those poor children than for the success of Count Mortimer’s projects of self-advertisement.”

“I should be glad if you would remember that you are speaking--as you have mentioned once or twice--of the man I love. As I said just now, I shall tell Count Mortimer what you have told me, and inform him that the original scheme must be carried out.”

“And when he pooh-poohs the whole affair--declares that the children are babies, and that the peace of Europe (oh, I know his ways) is not to be imperilled for the sake of giving them what they cry for--what then? Do you think I don’t know that he will talk you over in five minutes, and that you will agree with everything he proposes, wiping away a tear to the memory of the love-story you have ended so cruelly?”

“I must beg of you to leave the matter with me, Ottilie,” said the Queen, rising and going towards the door. “I have confidence in Count Mortimer, if you have not, and I feel sure that he will find a way of settling things happily.”

“Wait, Ernestine!” cried the Princess, crossing the room and putting her hand on the door. “Things would be settled happily for you and him, no doubt, but what about Lida and me? No settlement devised by Count Mortimer would ever prove favourable to my daughter. He will laugh at your scruples, and bring you round to his own way of thinking--or if you should venture to hold out, he would proceed with his plans without reference to you. And do you think that I am going to allow you to sue humbly to such a man in my name, entreating that my daughter shall be permitted to marry your son? No; put things on the right footing at once. It is not Count Mortimer who is master of the situation--it is myself. I hold the winning card, and that is Michael. There is less than a week now before he comes of age, and if Count Mortimer succeeds in obtaining for him in that time the promise of the hand of Frederike of Hercynia, he will repudiate the arrangement as soon as he is his own master. Then your friend must resign, disgraced before all Europe. If he is unwilling to face the prospect, he must give the lie to the whole of his past policy, and accept Lida as his future Queen. That is the choice you have to offer him--a surrender to Michael, and to me, or political ruin.”

“Ottilie,” said the Queen, looking at her in agony, “be merciful. I cannot take him such a message. I love him.”

“Then leave him to discover the alternatives for himself. It will only make his ruin all the surer. He can find no third course. For any other man I would have built a golden bridge--enabled him to make his escape with some remnants of dignity--but for him I have no pity.”

“But what has he done to you, Ottilie? His plan to marry you to his brother failed.”

“Yes; but how did he accept his failure? He insulted me in a way that I shall never forgive. It was the evening of our wedding--the ceremony was just over--and this wretch Mortimer approached Alexis and myself under pretence of offering his congratulations. Every word was an insult, though veiled under the form of politeness. He ventured--he even ventured--to warn Alexis that I should probably prove unfaithful to him. ‘She has deceived her father, and may thee,’ were his words. Alexis did not perceive the drift of the remark, but if I had had a dagger at hand----! I smiled then, but afterwards I vowed that he should pay dearly for the outrage; and now the time for payment has come.”

“But why through me? It is too cruel. Why do not you tell him? But no; at least I can save him from that bitter tongue of yours by telling him myself.”

“Yes, and see how he will regard you afterwards. I wish he loved you, Ernestine--as you love him, poor silly child!--that he might suffer more, but you are nothing but an item in his plans. He has made use of you to work his way to power, he is using you now to recommend himself to the Emperors, and when you prove unable to help him to mount any higher, he will kick you aside. You are of no use to him unless you represent success.”

“Please let me pass, Ottilie,” said the Queen coldly, her calmness restored. “Your calumnies against Count Mortimer are worthy of yourself; I will say no more. As I had decided, I shall see Michael first and question him, and then communicate the situation to Count Mortimer, and ascertain his views.”

It was not until noon of the next day that Ernestine succeeded in obtaining an interview with her son, and in this her cousin anticipated her. King Michael entered his mother’s room armed at all points, and the sight of his sullen, determined face gave Ernestine a strange pang, bringing back, as it did, the first year of her unhappy married life. One day, as she was quitting the room in outraged dignity after a violent quarrel with her husband, she had chanced to catch a glimpse of herself in the great mirror she was passing, and the look which had met her then was repeated now in the face so like her own. After all, for much that was amiss in Michael’s character the blame was hers, and the thought gave a sudden softness to her voice as she stretched out her hand to the boy.

“Come and sit here beside me, little son.” The endearing diminutive came naturally to her lips, although King Michael was as tall as herself. “I have scarcely had a word with you yet. What is this that I hear about Lida?”

“I love Lida, and I am going to marry her,” was the answer, as King Michael declined the proffered seat, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, glowering at his mother with wrathful eyes.

“You are sure that you really love her, Michael?”

“Of course I am. I can’t tell why you should think I don’t know my own mind. If I didn’t love her, why should I want to marry her?”

The plea did not sound as irresistible to Ernestine as it had done to her cousin, but she betrayed no impatience. “I don’t want to appear to cast a doubt on the sincerity of your love, dear boy,” she said, without showing any resentment at his tone, “but you know that it is not with kings as with ordinary men--there are so many things to think of. If you marry Lida, it will mean that some important changes have to be made, and perhaps some sacrifices. I don’t grudge making sacrifices for my boy--I think you know that, Michael?”

A dogged silence was the only answer, and she went on, “I have given you up so much of late years, Michael, that perhaps you scarcely realise how much it has cost me to do it. It never struck you, did it, when you were at Praka or Bashi Konak with your cousins, how lonely I was here? But you were so happy with them that I had not the heart to keep you in this dull place with no one to play with. No, dear, I don’t shrink from any sacrifice for your sake, but I want to be sure that it will not be wasted.”

“I shall never marry any one but Lida,” responded the boy gruffly. “Everything that I like is connected with her--Tant’ Ottilie, and going to Praka, and getting away from ceremony and fuss. I can’t give her up.”

“I am not asking you to give her up, dear boy. If you are sure you love her, I will speak to Count Mortimer, and ask him to make the proper arrangements, though I shall be left more lonely than ever.”

“I am sorry,” said King Michael awkwardly, kissing his mother on the forehead, “but I love her too much to give her up. And, little mother”--the words came with a rush--“you have been so kind about it, I’ll not say anything against your--your settling things with that fellow Mortimer.”

And the King departed in haste, as though fearing that he had compromised himself by his impulsive generosity, and left his mother to face the worst ordeal of all--her interview with Cyril. He arrived not long after King Michael had left the room, and found Ernestine sitting idle, with her hands locked together. She looked at him almost fearfully as he approached her.

“Cyril,” she said in a half-whisper, “I have something to tell you that you will be sorry to hear. Michael and Lida of Dardania are in love with one another.”

“Then it is the Princess’s doing, and nothing else, for any one could see that they had no thought of anything of the kind before.”

“I don’t know how it happened, but it is too late to stop it now.”

“Too late, my dear Ernestine! A boy of sixteen and a girl of fifteen! I will undertake to put a stop to it in no time.”

“But, Cyril, you must not. I cannot allow that.”

“Not allow it? Surely you have forgotten that I explained to you the other day that such a marriage was out of the question?”

“So we thought at the time, but this alters everything. We must think of some way in which things can be arranged satisfactorily.”

“But it is impossible. No arrangement could be satisfactory which would give the Princess of Dardania a pretext for interfering in our affairs. Besides, the whole balance of power would be upset.”

“You will be able to devise some scheme which will put things right. You are so skilful; I am depending on you.”

“My scheme is simply to pack Michael off to Vienna as soon as all the fuss next week is over. He has never seen any girls but his cousins, and you will find very soon that there is safety in numbers. I would take him to Paris myself, if it was safe to leave the kingdom for so long. That would cure him very quickly of his calf-love, but Vienna is the next best place.”

“But you don’t seem to understand, Cyril, and yet I told you only two days ago that it was a matter of conscience with me not to thwart Michael in an affair of this kind. I suppose I can’t make you see it quite as I do, but it always seems to me”--her voice faltered--“as if in this way I could make a sort of atonement for the way in which I treated his father. I daresay it sounds very foolish and illogical to you,” as Cyril’s lip curled, “but if I could feel that Michael’s married life, at any rate, was likely to be a happy one, it would not seem as if our unhappy marriage was to go on causing unhappiness to generation after generation.”

“Let me beg of you to look at things from a common-sense point of view, Ernestine. Your husband would have been the last to wish the good of Thracia to be sacrificed for a foolish fancy about making atonement to him.”

“I knew you would not see what I meant. But still, Cyril, even if change and distraction helped Michael to get over his trouble, as you suggest, I should never forgive myself for allowing poor little Lida to be cast aside. No; I have often heard you say that when a misfortune is irremediable, the only sensible thing to do is to accept the situation and start afresh from it.”

“But when the situation is absolutely impossible, what then?”

“But it can’t be, if you accept it. I thought you might perhaps arrange a compact with Ottilie, that the wedding should not take place for five years, until Michael is twenty-one, and that during that time she should not make any attempt to interfere in Thracian affairs, or to prejudice Michael against you. What do you think?”

“Truly excellent, if the wit of man can devise any possible means of making the Princess of Dardania keep a promise which it suits her to break. And what about breaking faith with the Emperors, and reversing the policy which I have laboured for twelve years to establish? Have women no idea of political morality, of duty to the country? Can you in cold blood imagine that I am likely to hand over Thracia, bound, to Scythia, after all I have done to strengthen her independence and give her a voice among the Powers?”

“But she says you have no choice,” faltered Ernestine.

“Who says?--the Princess of Dardania? That was the secret of your anxiety for me in your suggested compromise, was it? What is the dilemma into which she hopes to force me?”

“She said that you must either reverse your policy and allow Michael to marry Lida, or oppose him for a week and then be dismissed--that there was no alternative. She says Michael will do what she tells him.”

“No doubt. But she is a little out in her calculations. There is another alternative, and it is in your hands. It lies with you to save the situation, Ernestine. Refuse your consent to the marriage. Break with the Princess openly, and take measures to remove Michael from her influence. Your family and the Schwarzwald-Molzaus will back you up, and the Emperors will see fair play.”

“But I have told you I cannot do it, Cyril. I cannot break the children’s hearts.”

“No one wishes you to break their hearts. All that you have to do is gently to guide their vagrant fancies into the right direction. In so doing you will checkmate the Princess and rescue Michael from her clutches. He will see the world a little, and come back to you free from the trammels of his adoration for her; and she, like a wise woman, will have found another match for Princess Lida. Come, I’ll undertake to pull the matter through. You understand? You must do it.”

“Cyril, I can’t. The thought of the children’s misery would haunt me ever after.”

“Nonsense! Michael will be the first to thank you when he is settled down with a quiet, good-tempered girl as a wife, instead of the pretty little intriguer whom your cousin has so carefully trained up to follow in her own footsteps. As for the girl, there is no heart on her side of the question. She is simply doing as her mother tells her. This is not a matter of choice, Ernestine. You must do as I advise you, and there is no time for thinking about it.”

“Oh, Cyril, wait!” She came close to him, and laid her hands on his arm. “I cannot do it; I am pledged both to Michael and Ottilie. I would save you if I could, but not in this way--anything but this. Explain to the Emperors how the matter stands, and resign at once. Then I will marry you next week, and we will leave Thracia--leave Michael to be happy. If you will give up office for me, I will give him up for you--if I can do it knowing that all is well with him. We love each other; we will live somewhere quietly, and forget politics. Am I not enough for you?”

“Good heavens, Ernestine, you would drive a man mad! Well, if you must have an answer, you are not enough, if Thracia has to be left to the Princess and to Scythia, and all my work undone.”

“Cyril, I have obeyed you, yielded to you, given up so much for you already. Give up this for me.”

“It is impossible, Ernestine. You must choose between your boy and me.”