CHAPTER VII.

CHECK.

“I feel I’ve about earned my night’s repose,” yawned Cyril to himself in the solitude of his own room. “If all the Thracians have worked as hard to-day as their king and his brother, they’re an industrious nation. Hullo! some of them must be at it still. I suppose old Drakovics has been hurrying them, for fear things won’t be ready for the coronation.”

His eye had caught a faint glimmer in the eastern windows of St Peter’s chapel, which could hardly be the effect of moonlight, and as he lay down he congratulated himself that he was not obliged to work all through the night at putting up decorations. For an hour or so he slept the sleep of the weary; then he was aroused by shouts and cries pealing through the palace.

“Another revolution!” was his first thought, as he jumped out of bed and groped for his revolver; but as soon as he threw back the window-curtains, a flood of light poured into the room. The chapel of St Peter was blazing furiously, and the courtyard was full of guards and servants, some staring stupidly at the flames, others tumbling over one another in eager but ineffectual efforts to take measures for stopping the fire.

“Put on some clothes and come out, Cyril,” said Caerleon’s voice at the door. “Those idiots there haven’t an idea what to do.”

Hastily obeying, Cyril found himself placed at the head of a band of water-carriers, while Caerleon took his stand close to the burning pile, and directed the throwing of the water as the buckets were passed from hand to hand. There were proper appliances all over the palace for use in case of an outbreak of fire, but the buckets were rusted into holes and the hoses were leaky; and if Wright had not organised from among the onlookers a force to fetch pails from the stables, it would have been impossible to procure a sufficient quantity of water. Even as it was, the flames were not finally vanquished until the roof and walls of the building had fallen in, and the morning light showed only a heap of smoking ruins. St Peter’s chapel was a total wreck, and the crown and other regalia of Thracia were buried under the _débris_.

When the fire had been practically extinguished, Cyril returned to his room, but not to sleep, for his mind was occupied with a very pertinent question,--What was the cause of the conflagration? To most of the household at the palace, the answer appeared obvious. Of course the men at work in the chapel must have dropped some sparks on the woodwork or the draperies, or have left a candle burning close to them. The sentry at the door had noticed nothing until his comrade at the opposite side of the courtyard, who could see the windows, had remarked that the workmen must be burning candles enough to light the whole of Thracia. Astonished to hear this, since he knew that all the workmen had gone home some hours before, the sentry had at once alarmed the guard, and the officer in charge procured the chapel key and opened the door. The place was already a mass of flame within, and the fire gained additional strength immediately, owing to the rush of air from the doorway, and burst forth from the windows. The guard raised the alarm at once, but nothing effectual had been done to extinguish the flames until Caerleon took command of the amateur firemen, and his help came too late to be of service. Over all these details Cyril pondered as he lay in bed. It seemed to him almost impossible that the fire should have been accidental, for its sudden outbreak and great strength alike appeared to point to its having been caused intentionally. Moreover, the time at which it occurred was a most fortunate one for the Scythian party in the State, for it was certain that the coronation must now be postponed, if only for a day. But if the conflagration were the result of a plot, where was the incendiary to be sought? Was he a traitor in the household, or a Scythian emissary who had passed himself off as one of the workmen? Cyril went down-stairs in the morning with his mind full of questions of this nature, and in the breakfast-room he found M. Drakovics, who was overflowing with the information he had already gained.

Immediately on hearing of the fire, the Premier had sent to arrest forthwith all the workmen who had been employed on the decoration of the chapel; and they had already been interrogated, with the result that it seemed certain that none of their number was the culprit. The antecedents of all of them were well known and satisfactory, and the contractor was able to show that he had purposely employed none but strong Carlinists on the work. The men were certain that they had left no lights behind them in the chapel, with the exception of the lamps always kept burning before the sacred pictures, and they venerated the place far too highly to smoke there, so that the question of sparks was disposed of.

“Now,” said M. Drakovics, triumphantly, “we have proved who did not cause the fire; but beyond that, I am in a position to inform your Majesty that the miscreant was undoubtedly an emissary of Scythia, and was either a woman or a man in women’s clothes.”

“If you can prove that already, your police must beat ours hollow,” said Caerleon. “Let us hear about it.”

“In the first place, your Majesty, I have been examining the ruins, with the aid of a detachment of sappers. We were searching for the crown jewels--which are now, alas! shapeless lumps of metal, their precious stones for the most part calcined--and we found distinct traces of petroleum in more than one spot. Does not that fact speak for itself? Petroleum is never used in lighting the chapel, and it is a favourite weapon of incendiaries. Upon making this discovery, I proceeded to interrogate the guard, who were all under arrest. Those who were posted at the gates last night were unanimous in declaring that no unauthorised person had passed in after the workmen had departed, with the exception of one woman, who said that she was the mother of one of the decorators employed, and that her son had left behind him his book of gold-leaf, which she had come to fetch. The sentries describe her as very old and bent, but with piercing dark eyes,--and wearing the dress of the respectable artisan class. The acting master of the household had not yet locked the chapel doors, and the woman was therefore allowed to go in and look for the book, which took her some time to find. She came out with it in her hand, and the door was immediately locked. The theory is that she carried in with her a supply of petroleum in a can----”

“Or perhaps in bladders hung round her waist, as brandy used to be smuggled into England,” put in Cyril, who had been following the details with much interest.

M. Drakovics bowed. “Very possibly, milord. Having saturated the woodwork behind the screen of the sanctuary with the oil, she would arrange a slow match which would not come in contact with it for some hours, and would then take her departure, provided with a book of gold-leaf to deceive the guard. The master of the household, looking in from the doorway, would notice nothing, and would lock the door and take away the key, leaving the match to do its work.”

“But why may not the culprit be the woman she gave herself out to be?” asked Caerleon.

“Because, your Majesty, the woman’s son and the other members of her family are all able to swear that from nine to ten o’clock, the hour at which the incendiary did her work, Nicola Stanovics’s mother was engaged in a violent quarrel with her daughter-in-law, who had left her infant at home while she went out to see the illuminations. The old woman met her at the door as she returned, and their dispute almost ended in blows. Moreover, the guard, when confronted with Marynia Stanovics, declared without hesitation that she was not the woman whom they had admitted.”

“Well, that seems to clear the old lady, at any rate,” said Caerleon. “Your work has been most successful in a negative direction. Have you any positive clue to go upon?”

It did not appear that M. Drakovics as yet possessed anything of the kind, although he was willing to detail the various theories which had been formed on the subject, but Cyril did not listen. His mind was occupied with a hypothesis of his own, the foundation fact of which was Madame O’Malachy’s headache of the evening before. Again and again he went through the details, for his suspicions at first seemed preposterous, but the more he thought over the matter, the more likely did it appear that Madame O’Malachy had slipped out of doors in disguise, carrying with her the necessary supply of petroleum, and successfully effected the firing of the chapel. His visit to the hotel with Caerleon had given him the means of reaching this conclusion, inasmuch as if they had not happened to call no one would have known that Madame O’Malachy was not spending the evening hours in the society of her family. The plot must have been maturing for some time, since both the disguise and the petroleum would be difficult to procure in Bellaviste without exciting suspicion, and it could not be doubted that its object was to delay the coronation,--although whether the lady had done her work in pursuance of orders from her Scythian employers, or with an eye to her daughter’s future, Cyril found himself unable to determine. It was not difficult to guess that she was playing a double game, and that whereas she had been commissioned to use every possible means to prevent Caerleon’s ascending the Thracian throne, she was not unwilling to assist him in establishing himself there, provided that her daughter shared his elevation. To pursue at the same time two lines of policy so diametrically opposed to one another might well need almost superhuman skill, and it appeared evident to Cyril that for the sake of placing her good faith to her employers beyond suspicion, Madame O’Malachy had taken a step so desperate that it bade fair to ruin her private schemes. Had he but overheard his brother’s parting conversation with her at Witska, he might have discovered that she had not yet found the problem of serving two masters an insoluble one. In spite of his ignorance of this factor in the case, however, he was filled with a lively admiration for both her resolution and her daring.

“What an actress the woman must be!” he said to himself. “What pluck, what nerve she has! But this sort of thing won’t do. She will think nothing of dynamiting us before long, if this is the way she begins. We shall be obliged to take a hostage from her. She doesn’t care a scrap for the girl; but if Louis, for whom she does seem to have a little natural affection, were safely installed here, she would think twice before blowing us up. I must get that settled.”

“There is one thing that makes me feel less regret than I should otherwise have done for the postponement of the coronation,” M. Drakovics was saying. “I have received this morning a despatch in cipher from my agent at Czarigrad, saying that he finds the Roumi Government far more favourably disposed towards Thracia and your Majesty than we could have dared to hope. He has even received a hint from a very high quarter to the effect that if we could put off the coronation for a certain length of time, so as to avoid anything that might have the appearance of a desire to force the hand of the Grand Signior, our right as a nation to choose our own sovereign would before very long be recognised. That would strengthen our position in Europe enormously. If Roum recognises us, Scythia can do little.”

“But Scythia will in the meantime bring pressure on Roum to refuse to recognise us,” said Cyril. “Surely you are losing a great opportunity for the chance of grasping at a shadow. Is it decided that the coronation shall be postponed?”

“What else can we do?” asked M. Drakovics. “The King must be crowned in St Peter’s chapel, and with the crown of Alexander the Patriot. The chapel is in ruins, the crown a mere lump of metal, and both must be restored before they can be used.”

“But this is madness!” cried Cyril. “Do you intend to wait for the chapel to be rebuilt? It will probably take months. After all, when it is restored, it won’t be the old chapel, so why not have the coronation somewhere else at once?”

“Because you are not acquainted with our people, milord,” was the studiously mild reply of M. Drakovics. “They would not recognise any king not crowned on that spot, and with that crown. Moreover, in an emergency like the present, when our actions are certain to be jealously scrutinised in order to discover the least flaw in the legality of our proceedings, we must be doubly careful to do everything in the very strictest order.”

“Then why not clear away the ruins and hold the ceremony in the open air, or in a tent pitched on the site of the chapel?” cried Cyril. “There must be jewellers in Bellaviste, who would not take more than a day to knock together out of your lump of gold something sufficiently like a crown for all practical purposes. Take my word for it, M. Drakovics, if we lose the day finally, it will be owing to delay now.”

“You must allow me to differ from you, milord,” was the answer. “In my opinion, the day is far more likely to be lost through undue precipitation. But after all, the matter is entirely in his Majesty’s hands. Is it your wish, sir, that the coronation should take place immediately or not?”

“Well,” said Caerleon, “you ought to know best,--and naturally it would be a very good thing to begin the reign with full recognition from Roum.”

“Your reign has begun,” said Cyril. “The coronation only puts a seal upon it, half-sentimental, half-religious.”

“Still,” said Caerleon, “we are not the best judges, Cyril. If M. Drakovics, who is better acquainted with Thracia than we are, thinks that it will be more serviceable to the country to delay the coronation, I have no objection.”

“That’s all very well,” thought Cyril. “You are calculating that in a month or two you ought to be able to break down Miss O’Malachy’s scruples. I am sorry to be under the painful necessity of putting a spoke in your wheel, my dear fellow.”

“If your Majesty is pleased to delay the coronation,” said M. Drakovics, “may I ask you to visit the Hôtel de Ville with me this morning? The people have been gathering together from all the country round to witness the ceremony, and it will be necessary to explain to them what has occurred. There is another thing I was anxious to know. Your Majesty mentioned a few days ago that your brother had some idea of offering himself as your private secretary. I see that correspondence is already beginning to pour in, and as the office is a very delicate and important one, I venture to ask whether Milord Cyril is still in the same mind?”

“M. Drakovics means me to earn my board and lodging,” said Cyril, who was conscious of a grudge against the statesman for rejecting his counsel.

“I am quite sure that M. Drakovics means nothing of the kind,” said Caerleon, sharply. “He knows very well that you are here as my guest.”

“As the guest of the nation, if I may be permitted to correct your Majesty,” said M. Drakovics. “Thracia owes far too much to your family not to desire to see as many of its members as possible. My reason for asking this question to-day is that Milord Cyril has displayed such a talent for diplomacy that I am anxious not to lose his co-operation in the work I have in hand at present. His one fault is that, like all young diplomats, he wishes to begin, as you say in England, at the top of the tree, and in this he does himself an injustice, for his forte lies rather in working in combination with others than in isolated action, if he will allow me to say so.”

“Well, Cyril, the bitter pill is pretty well gilded,” said Caerleon, laughing. “What do you say? Will you take the situation?”

“I suppose I should have to read all your letters,” said Cyril. “That sounds fairly interesting. Then I should have to write the answers--not quite so delightful, but still passable. Yes; I’ll take it.”

“If your Majesty will permit me, I will give Milord Cyril a few hints as to the duties of this new position,” said M. Drakovics.

“Very well,” returned Caerleon. “I am going to stroll round to the stables, Cyril. When your initiation is complete, you’ll find me there.”

“Now,” said Cyril, closing the door on his brother, and turning to M. Drakovics, “I want to know what you expect to gain by putting off the coronation in this way. You are giving the Scythians and their sympathisers a gratuitous triumph, and losing time, which is of inestimable value. If you have a reason, why keep it a secret?”

“I have a reason, milord,” answered M. Drakovics. “That my opinion does not accord with yours is a matter for regret; but I hope that it will not be anything more. I am deeply anxious that you should remain at Bellaviste, for I need your help.”

“Oh, I suppose I may as well stay here and take Caerleon’s body home when you have got him shot as a filibuster by a Scythian force sent to restore order,” said Cyril.

“You are pleased to be sarcastic, milord,” said M. Drakovics. “Without in the least allowing that the calamity which you prophesy is likely to occur, I would ask you to remember that the cause is more important than the man. If Roum recognises our choice of a king, our future position as a free nation is unassailable, and we are justified in the sight of Europe. If your brother is crowned king at once, we are merely, under present circumstances, a vassal State which has rebelled, and elected its own ruler. No one could be more grateful to his Majesty for accepting the crown than I am, but Thracia must come first.”

“I see,” said Cyril; “your business is to take care of Thracia. Very well, be it so; mine will be to take care of Caerleon. The kingdom will only be a secondary thing with me, as part of Caerleon’s property.”

“Then I hope, milord, that you will prove your care by persuading his Majesty to exercise greater prudence than you both showed last night. To walk through the streets alone, and in disguise, in the midst of crowds of strangers, to the lodging of a family of Scythian spies, where the merest trifle--an accident with a pistol, a drop of poison in a cup of coffee--might have effected the utmost that Scythia could desire, can scarcely be called wise.”

“Well, if you had your eye on us all the time we ought to have been fairly safe,” said Cyril, angry but taken aback.

“You surely do not imagine that I should allow the King to risk his life so rashly without taking precautions to ensure his safety?” said M. Drakovics. “You were followed the whole way by one of my most trusted agents in the Police, a man whom you will do well always to order to accompany you if his Majesty chooses to go out again _incognito_. You had no idea that you were tracked, but he never lost sight of you.”

“Until we reached the hotel, I suppose?” said Cyril.

“On the contrary, you were never more carefully watched than during your visit there. Ever since Colonel O’Malachy and his wife arrived in Bellaviste, a police agent in a room on the opposite side of the street has kept them under constant surveillance by means of mirrors ingeniously placed at different angles, so that you were in full view during the whole time you spent in their _salon_.”

“But what is the object of all this police shadowing?” asked Cyril, rather disgusted.

“To avert mischief,” returned M. Drakovics. “And although we did not succeed in preventing the burning of the chapel, yet we have discovered its author. Perhaps you would be surprised to hear how Madame O’Malachy was employed during the time of your visit last night?”

“On the contrary,” said Cyril in his turn; “I am flattered to find that you have come to the same conclusion as myself. She was burning the chapel.”

M. Drakovics was a little disconcerted. “I congratulate you on the soundness of your instincts, milord,” he said.

“But why did you not prevent the fire, if you knew of it beforehand?” asked Cyril.

“Unfortunately, milord, my agent was so much occupied in watching his Majesty and yourself, that he failed to observe Madame O’Malachy leaving the hotel, and only saw her return. It was not until he heard the evidence of the sentries that he divined what her errand had been. But perhaps you will now agree with me in my estimate of the O’Malachy family?”

“By the bye,” said Cyril, quickly, “what did you mean just now by saying that you needed my help?”

“It was on the subject of his Majesty’s marriage,” said M. Drakovics, looking rather confused. “This morning, before you came in, I ventured to suggest to the King the advisability of his consolidating his position by an alliance with some lady belonging to a royal house, but he refused to allow me to say anything on the subject.”

“It’s just what I told you!” cried Cyril. “Englishmen are not accustomed to have their marriages arranged for them, and Caerleon is the very last man to stand it. Now, M. Drakovics, I thought this matter was to be left to me. Am I to have a free hand or not? If I am to be interfered with, I will have nothing to do with it.”

“If you can guarantee a successful result, milord, I shall be most happy to leave it to you,” returned M. Drakovics.

“Because,” continued Cyril, “you are making exactly the same mistake as Miss O’Malachy. I believe she thinks that she can tire Caerleon out by snubbing him, and you intend to make use of the information you have gained, by dint of spying on her mother, to terrify the whole family into leaving the kingdom. Miss O’Malachy is as anxious to be out of Thracia as you are to get her out; but you had better not put that beautiful plan of yours into execution unless you want Caerleon to go after her. He will have his answer, and if you leave things to me I will arrange that he shall have it soon, so that the affair may be over.”

“You seem very certain of success, milord.”

“If I am to succeed, I must be absolutely free. The first thing to be done is to give Lieutenant O’Malachy a commission in the palace guard.”

“And why, milord?”

“To keep him out of mischief, and to prevent his mother’s perceiving that we have discovered her little game. This is my test of the extent of your confidence in me, monsieur. Is it to be accepted?”

“It shall be,” returned M. Drakovics, after a severe mental struggle. “The matter is so important that it is worth even a dangerous experiment.”

When his protracted interview with M. Drakovics was over and Cyril went in search of Caerleon, his first words on finding him were to suggest that it would be a graceful recognition of the sacrifices Louis O’Malachy had made in the cause of Thracia to appoint him at once to a lieutenancy in the palace guard, thus showing him special favour by placing him close to the sovereign’s own person. Caerleon looked surprised.

“I think it’s a very good idea,” he said; “but you have always been so suspicious of the poor fellow’s motives that I should not have expected you to propose it. I will have the commission made out at once. And as we are now on the subject of the O’Malachy family, I may as well remind you of something of which Drakovics apparently is not aware. He attacked me this morning about marrying; but you know, if he doesn’t, that I intend to marry Miss O’Malachy, and no one else.”

“I never imagined that you wanted to imitate the Grand Signior of Roum, and marry twenty or thirty ladies at once,” said Cyril; but seeing Caerleon’s face darken, he added hastily, “I beg your pardon, old man. I was only joking. Do you intend to make formal proposals at once to papa for the hand of mademoiselle?”

“Not yet,” said Caerleon. “You see,” he went on quickly, as if it was a relief to unburden himself to his brother, “I can’t tell a bit how she’ll take it. She has never given me the least encouragement, and last night she scarcely spoke to me. Unfortunately, I can’t help guessing that the kingdom would weigh pretty heavily with her parents in my favour, and I don’t want the poor girl worried into marrying me, nor her life made a burden to her because she won’t. Madame O’Malachy has promised me her support; but though it sounds a little ungrateful, I would rather manage the business without her interference.”

“I don’t think any amount of worrying would make Miss O’Malachy do a thing she had made up her mind not to do,” said Cyril. “But seriously, Caerleon, I can’t believe she means to marry you. She gave you the cold shoulder pointedly enough last night. Can’t you chuck up the business, old man? I don’t imagine you care for her very particularly.”

“Don’t you?” asked Caerleon, looking down on him with a smile. “My dear boy, you are very young still.”

“If you mean to insinuate that I haven’t had twice as much experience in affairs of the kind as you have,” began Cyril, with a great show of indignation, “I’ll----”

“I daresay--ten times as much. That accounts for your ignorance.”

“Well, don’t look so horribly superior. It’s awfully riling for the other fellow, don’t you know? Now, look here, you leave this thing to me, and I’ll do you a good turn. You want to find out the state of Miss O’Malachy’s feelings before approaching her father. I’ll manage to get you a chance of speaking to her alone.”

“Thanks, but I think I can look after my own opportunities.”

“No, you can’t; not as king, with Drakovics and his spies always prowling about after you. Do you know that we had a fellow shadowing us last night?”

“Yes, I felt sure at the time that we were being dogged.”

“But why didn’t you say so?”

“I didn’t want to make you nervous.”

“Stuff!” cried Cyril, ungratefully. “You were afraid I should consider it wiser to give up the expedition and go back. Keep your thoughtfulness for Miss O’Malachy in future. After that piece of cheek, you don’t deserve a good turn, but I will mention that I am going down to the O’Malachys’ this morning to tell them about dear Louie’s commission. Shall I take any message from you?”

“I’ll come too,” said Caerleon, promptly.

“No, you won’t. You are due at the Hôtel de Ville, to hear old Drakovics spout from the balcony. It would be ‘Hamlet’ with Hamlet left out if you weren’t there. Well, shall I take her a bouquet in your name? No, that would be too pronounced--might be regarded by the family as a declaration. Shall I say anything to her for you?”

“Yes; you can say that I mean to begin this very day the inquiry she suggested to me.”

“All right; nothing like setting to work at once. Now, off you go to uniform and duty. I am the best off this morning.”

Sauntering down to the hotel, Cyril came upon Louis and his father in the hall, waiting impatiently for Madame O’Malachy, who was going with them to hear the speeches in the market-place. Going up-stairs, he found Nadia in the sitting-room, arranging the flowers for the table, carefully and conscientiously, as she did everything, adding a spray here, and taking one away there, and holding up the vase to see the effect, then lifting everything out and beginning again.

Before her stood a glass in which her mother had placed carelessly two or three blossoms and a spray or two of feathery fern, which seemed to have arranged themselves, but of which the effect was perfect. By the table stood Madame O’Malachy, buttoning her long gloves and criticising freely her daughter’s work.

“You have no taste, Nadia. Surely it must be evident, even to you, that a brick is not the best model for a bouquet? Don’t pull the flowers about so much; you will ruin them, and I cannot afford any more to-day.”

“I am commissioned to say that the hothouses at the palace are at your disposal, madame, if you would honour my brother by allowing him to send you some flowers,” said Cyril, coming forward.

“His Majesty’s conduct is angelic,” returned Madame O’Malachy. “But of what use are all the flowers in Thracia if the artist’s eye for their arrangement is wanting?” She had taken the vase from Nadia and removed half its contents, then, with a twirl here and a poke there, she transformed the remainder into a thing of beauty. “I regret to perceive that the artistic instinct, the soul of poetry, is wanting in my daughter. She is very thorough, extremely conscientious, but what one may call--not heavy, that would be unkind--shall we say _solid_? I am perpetually worrying myself to discover why she bears no resemblance at all to me. ‘A reversion to an earlier type,’ I suppose the scientific gentlemen would call it; _I_ say that she is one of the trials of my life. For me, I am not at all conscientious, I do nothing thoroughly; but I think I am not heavy?” She paused with her eyebrows uplifted in interrogation; and Cyril, though he had been reflecting what wretchedly bad form it was for a woman to try to make her daughter feel small in this way, had presence of mind enough to answer that such a word could never be mentioned in the same breath with the name of Madame O’Malachy.

“But I must hurry away,” the lady went on, “or O’Malachy will come up to look for me. I shall hear your news when I return, Milord Cyril.”