CHAPTER XXV.

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]