Читать книгу The Kings of the East - Sydney C. Grier - Страница 6

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During the three days and a half anticipated by Cyril, he and his secretary remained under a ban, and moved about among the crowds of Kurgäste as little noticed as if they had been two invisible men, and almost as freely as if they had had Ludwigsbad to themselves. They were apparently unseen when, with their Bohemian glass tumblers suspended from their buttonholes, they joined the shivering throngs that surround in the early morning the kiosks from which the horrible healing waters are dispensed, and partook of their respective draughts, Cyril taking the proper eight glasses and Mansfield only one, purely for the sake of sociability. In the promenade which followed they met no one who was conscious of ever having seen them before; and when they had bought the regulation rolls and sat down to drink their coffee at a little table surrounded by scores of others, they were not only alone but unperceived in the crowd. In the afternoon they paid no visits and received none; and at dinner-time, when merry parties were formed round all the restaurant-tables, they sat down alone save for the company of the taciturn Thracian secretary Paschics, who seemed to be given over to perpetual mourning for the high position his employer had once held and lost. Not that their isolated condition made their table less gay than the rest. Cyril, always debonnaire and cheerful, exerted himself determinedly on these occasions to bring a smile to the melancholy countenance of Paschics, with the result that Mansfield became almost exhausted with laughing. The waiters hovered attentively in their neighbourhood, eager to catch a stray joke; and even the Kurdirektor, a very high and mighty autocrat indeed, found himself tempted by the peals of laughter to smoke a cigarette and partake of dessert in company with these victims of popular disapproval. One evening there was a dance after dinner at the Kursaal, and Cyril and Mansfield strolled in among the spectators, enjoying hugely the promptness with which way was made for them, as though they had been royal personages, or surrounded by an invisible but tangible fence. That is to say, Cyril enjoyed the experience frankly for its own sake, and Mansfield because he reflected that it was in Cyril’s cause he was undergoing it. Two years of fairly constant intercourse with Lady Philippa Mortimer had not tended to diminish his early veneration for her adored uncle, and there was also the further consolation for such hardship as his lot involved that she would regard it with sympathy—even with admiration.

The evenings on which there was no dancing were equally amusing in their way. Wandering through the shrubberies of the Königspark in the summer twilight, Cyril found himself accosted in sheltered corners first by one man and then by another who did not dare to dispute the general edict in public, but thought it might be advisable to remain friends with both sides under the rose. Naturally these people were not of the class or character with whom friendship was most desirable, being chiefly gentlemen who lived by their wits, with a sprinkling of Jews who believed that the Chevalier Goldberg had bought Cyril for their nation, and that this justified them in claiming his services for themselves, and it was a never-ending amusement to Mansfield to observe the adroitness with which Cyril snubbed them and dropped them promptly back into their proper places. There was one elderly capitalist who seemed to have been mildly coerced by the Chevalier into giving in his adhesion to the national movement, for on three separate occasions he pursued Cyril with a mournful persistence, endeavouring to persuade him that, since the masters of money throughout Europe were now for once united, it was folly to waste the force of such a combination on the mere acquisition of Palestine, when it might be used to establish a universal empire on a financial basis. The contrast between the frail, cringing figure of the old man, and his world-embracing schemes, was sufficiently ludicrous; but he stuck to his point until Cyril asked him what the hapless Jews scattered throughout Europe, on whom the popular fury would at once fall in case his plan was attempted, would think of him. Then he wrung his hands and made as though to rend his clothes, and departed sorrowful.

The three days mentioned by Cyril as the duration of the ostracism had elapsed; but when the usual visit to the springs was paid on the fourth morning, Mansfield noticed no change in the demeanour of the Kurgäste. People still looked over, round, and through the two Englishmen, and avoided carefully coming into the slightest personal contact with them as they stood waiting their turn to receive the hot and loathsome beverage. But when the unpleasant duty had been performed, and the drinkers turned away from the kiosk and into the promenade, the event occurred which Cyril had foreseen. Approaching the spring was a tall grey-bearded man of military appearance, walking with two others, who maintained their position a step behind him on either side, and to whom he turned and spoke occasionally. In the foreground, ranged in two lines and leaving an ample path for the new-comer, were all the most aristocratic of the Ludwigsbad visitors, bowing and curtseying with the deepest reverence as he reached them, and manifestly overjoyed when they received a personal greeting.

“The Emperor of Pannonia,” whispered Cyril to Mansfield. “Watch!”

How it happened Mansfield did not clearly see, since he was doing his best to copy the elaborate bows of the Pannonian magnates, but he was aware that the Emperor caught sight of Cyril, beckoned him forward, greeted him warmly, and requested him to turn and walk with him a short distance. Standing rather in the background, Mansfield was able to perceive and appreciate the expressions of astonishment and chagrin which chased one another over the countenances of the crowd that attended the Emperor, but he had little time to reflect upon their discomfiture, for a sign from Cyril warned him to fall into line with the two equerries, so that he could no longer observe the results of the Imperial condescension on the Emperor’s subjects. As for Cyril, he knew the reason of this friendly address, and had anticipated it. A Court scandal of a peculiarly unpleasant character had just been averted by means of the ready help of the Chevalier Goldberg. Not for the first time an archducal household had been established with the aid of the Chevalier’s money, and a secret threatening the honour of the Imperial house and the happiness of a young bride was safely locked up in the Chevalier’s breast. The Emperor was duly grateful, and having been informed of the connection between the Chevalier and Cyril, was doing honour to the one man by way of gratifying the other. He had, moreover, something to say also to Cyril himself.

“This Palestine scheme of yours, Count—I am glad to have the opportunity of speaking to you about it. Is there any prospect of your being successful?”

“I see no insuperable difficulty in our way at present, sir.”

“Well, I only hope you may succeed—as far as possible, that is—for there is no chance of getting rid of the whole body of Jews. The fewer that remain in Europe the more business will there be for those few, and I should fear that the emigrants will all come flocking back when they see how things are going. Still, you may relieve us of the lowest class of Jew for a time, at any rate, and that will do something to simplify our heart-breaking problems here. But before I can commend your scheme unreservedly, Count, I must be satisfied on one point of the utmost importance. You are aware that I number among my titles that of King of Jerusalem, and that two at least of my brother monarchs claim the right to do the same. We are hereditary guardians of the Holy Places, and you must see that it would not only be abhorrent to ourselves personally, but absolutely impossible, in view of the sentiment of Christendom, to place them in the power of the Jews.”

“That has been clearly foreseen, sir. It was the intention of the board whom I represent to request the Powers to nominate a Christian governor, who should make the Holy Places his chief care.”

“You make no suggestion as to the person to be nominated, Count?” The Emperor turned a keen glance upon Cyril.

“None, sir. It is obvious that the Prince to be chosen must be a man of liberal views, or he would fail to obtain the suffrages of all the Powers, but that is the only suggestion we could venture to offer. I suppose the governor would maintain order, as at present, by the aid of a Moslem guard; but it would be necessary to allow the Jews free access to the spots which they consider holy, and which they are now debarred from approaching. That proviso can hardly fail to commend itself to your Majesty as fair, I think?”

“It is only natural, and would affect no one but the Roumis, I imagine. Well, Count, you have relieved my mind. It will not surprise you to hear that urgent representations against your scheme have been made to me from several quarters, and without this very equitable proposal of yours I should have been forced to fall in with the views they expressed. Now, however, I am able to say that in my opinion you offer adequate protection for Christianity and the Holy Places, and I shall act accordingly. You are taking the waters here, I believe? I am glad to know you are at hand, in case I wish to consult you again on this subject.”

Thus graciously dismissed, Cyril mingled again with the crowd—a crowd that was now as anxious to propitiate as it had hitherto been to ignore him. During the next five minutes, three men, one of whom was the arbiter of fashion, asked him to dinner that night, and the Countess von Hohenthurm vouchsafed him the honour of carrying the paper bag containing her breakfast-roll. Tactless people complained of their bad eyesight, or lamented that they had not heard Count Mortimer was at the baths until this morning, but the tactful simply took up their acquaintance with him at the point where they had dropped it three days before. Cyril met their overtures in the same spirit, and his sole piece of revenge was to tell his entertainers at breakfast all the news of the last three days, as though they had only just arrived—a piece of pleasantry which brought to Mansfield’s face a passing gleam of satisfaction. Cyril took him to task for his lowering brow as they returned to the hotel, and told him that when the Countess von Hohenthurm was so condescending as to show an interest in a young man, it behoved that young man to be grateful, and to look it.

“They are all a set of sycophants!” returned Mansfield sharply. “How you can make friends of them again, I can’t imagine.”

“I don’t make friends of them, but they are fellow-members of society, and it would serve no good purpose to quarrel with them. If I was in their place, I should have acted precisely as they have done.”

“You won’t get me to believe that!” said Mansfield, with an air of mild reproof which Cyril found irresistibly comic.

“Why, how would you have had me mark my sense of their behaviour?” he asked.

“I don’t see how you can meet them again with any cordiality. Why not decline the honour of their further acquaintance?”

“Because we live in the great world, and not in Arcadia. You young people brought up virtuously in England have something terribly stagey about you. You are all for great coups, but that sort of thing doesn’t do in ordinary life. You remind me very much of my brother Caerleon as a young fellow. I don’t think I was ever so ineffably young myself. I hope not, at any rate. Melodrama is not good form.”

Much crushed by these remarks, which he received as a rebuke, Mansfield remained silent, and Cyril, observing this, administered a restorative as they entered the hotel.

“Never mind. I prefer you as you are. A little melodrama in private is rather amusing than otherwise, and in society you are a model of discretion, except as regards your looks. Those you must learn to control a little, but don’t think that I want you not to tell me what you think.”

He spoke rather absently, for the post had come in while they were out, and the table in his room was covered with letters and newspapers. He began at once to open the letters, while Mansfield turned to the papers and began his daily task of looking through them in search of any reference to the United Nation scheme.

“There is a very hostile article in this Scythian paper, Count,” he said after a time, looking round.

“Ah! what paper?”

“The ‘Pavelsburg Gazette.’”

“Good! then it’s inspired. Give me a rough translation, please.”

Mansfield was now accustomed to requests of this kind, and went through the article as rapidly as his somewhat imperfect knowledge of Scythian permitted. The writer was absolutely appalled by the news which had come from Czarigrad by way of England, and called upon all Christians to rise and prevent the proposed transfer of Palestine to Jewish hands. So sacrilegious an outrage could not be allowed to proceed, and it was the glorious privilege of the Emperor of Scythia, as head of the Orthodox Church and protector of the Holy Places, to prevent it. There was not a Scythian that would not give his life freely in such a cause, and the sooner the necessary steps were taken the better. It might be well even to proclaim a crusade, and end the Jewish difficulty at one blow by sweeping the whole of the accursed race from the earth.

“Very pretty!” said Cyril, “and evidently meant to prepare the way for effective action. Scythia has already sounded the other Powers, no doubt; I thought as much from what the Emperor said to me just now. Well, I have put a spoke in her wheel, I fancy. When she finds there is nothing to be done in that direction, she will proceed to push matters to extremities at Czarigrad, and then comes the tug of war.”

“But can you hope to put sufficient backbone into the Grand Seignior to enable Roum to stand up against her?” asked Mansfield, surprised by the confident tone.

“No, that would be beyond the wit of man, but I intend to put a little gentle pressure on Scythia instead.”

“Would it spoil your plans if you told me how you intend to do it? I can’t imagine how you will manage.”

Cyril smiled pleasantly. “There is a famine in Scythia at this moment,” he said; “so much you know already. You know also that it must be pretty bad for the Scythian papers to be allowed to acknowledge its existence at all. There is also a rising in Central Asia that looks threatening. The sufferers from the famine must be helped, and the rising must be put down, but where is the money to come from? Such hoards as the peasantry may have amassed in good years are exhausted by this time, and there are no Jews left in the rural districts to borrow from. The Government will have to step in, but though the war-chest is full, its contents must be kept intact in view of a possible European war, and there is very little money in the country otherwise. To improve matters, certain shrewd gentlemen in America have arranged a corner in cereals, with a special eye to this famine and the consequent demand. Now do you see where we come in, when it becomes evident that there is no money to be obtained in all Europe if our scheme is thwarted at Czarigrad?”

“You mean to starve them out?” said Mansfield, with more than a touch of horror in his tone.

“By no means. We take our pound of flesh, which is Palestine, that’s all.”

“What a queer-looking old chap that is over there, Count!” said Mansfield to Cyril, as they were taking their walk one morning about a week after the Emperor’s arrival. “He might be a stage brigand.”

Cyril glanced in the direction he indicated. “Why, that is my venerable friend Prince Mirkovics!” he cried. “Who would ever have dreamt of meeting him here? I thought he never left Thracia.”

He crossed the promenade with a rapid step, and accosted the old man whose truculent air and fierce white moustache had attracted Mansfield’s attention. The garb of civilisation sat awkwardly upon Prince Mirkovics, and it was obvious that he felt ill at ease without the pistols and dagger which adorned his girdle when in Thracian costume; but the scornful frown with which he had been contemplating the vanities of Ludwigsbad vanished when he caught sight of Cyril, whom he greeted with beaming smiles.

“I will join you in your walk, Count, if you will allow me,” he said, when Mansfield had been duly introduced to him. “I have a good deal to tell you.”

“Two years’ Thracian news!” said Cyril lightly. “I have avoided hearing or reading anything of the kind, on principle, since I left Thracia, but I felt all the time that it was only accumulating, to overwhelm me some day.”

“His Excellency loves to jest,” remarked Prince Mirkovics solemnly to Mansfield. “Perhaps,” he added, turning again to Cyril, “you are not even aware that his Majesty intends to visit Ludwigsbad? I believe he was to arrive to-day.”

“What, King Michael?” cried Cyril. “No, I had not heard it. Why, Mr Mansfield, how is this? It’s your business to keep me posted up in the names of the expected arrivals. Oh, is that it?” as Mansfield began a stammering defence; “you thought it might call up unpleasant memories, and therefore you left me to meet him unawares? I am not quite so sensitive as that, you know, and you needn’t be so very anxious to spare my feelings.”

“The Princess of Dardania is naturally coming as well,” continued Prince Mirkovics.

“Surely not? Why, her husband has only been dead for ten or twelve months. She is far too clever to outrage propriety by coming to such a place as this so soon.”

“She does not dare to stay away, Count. The quarrel with her eldest son has forced her to quit Dardania, and the coolness which came to a head before that between herself and her elder daughter closes Mœsia to her. Thracia is her only hope, for if King Michael should break his promise to marry the Princess Ludmilla, she would be discredited on all sides.”

Cyril’s eyes flashed ominously. “Then her Nemesis has overtaken her already?” he said.

“It has, Count, at least so far as regards the marriage project which threw you out of office. Her Royal Highness is a clever woman, but she has so much at stake in this affair that she has failed to show her customary tact. She has kept too tight a hand over young Michael, made the chain by which she has bound him to her daughter too evident, and if he could muster sufficient courage, he would break it. He slipped away from Thracia without her knowledge, well aware that she would oppose his coming here, and she, her daughter, and her household, are following him promptly. But everything will be done with propriety, my dear Count. She has borrowed the Grand-Duke Eugen’s villa, and will receive none but relations.”

“Still, the proceeding sounds a little undignified,” said Cyril drily.

“So much the better, Count, provided it fails. That woman is the curse of Thracia. Since you left us she has filled the Ministry, the army, and the civil service with Scythian sympathisers—for Drakovics, in his second childhood, is nothing but her tool—with the result that we are now bankrupt in all but name.”

“Bankrupt? and I left the treasury full!”

“Bankrupt. Such changes cost money, Count, both for rewarding friends and bribing foes. The King, again—he is a young gentleman of taste, and must spend liberally on his pleasures. The increase of the army—we could approve of that, for he is Otto Georg’s son, and should be a born soldier. The beautifying of the capital and the construction of needless public works—well, it provides employment for the proletariat, and no doubt he has inherited his mother’s charitable disposition. But when it comes to squandering money upon theatres and pictures, and subsidising musicians and dubious foreigners of all sorts—then, Count, we remember that he is the grandson of Luitpold of Weldart, and we tremble.”

“And does the Princess approve of these artistic pleasures?”

“By no means, Count; but she cannot persuade his Majesty to relinquish them, and since his mother left Thracia there is no one else who can even pretend to influence him.”

“But what a shameful thing for the Queen to leave Thracia when she had allowed her son to bring all this trouble upon the kingdom!” broke in Mansfield, who had imbibed from Lady Philippa an inveterate dislike of the woman whom she regarded as her uncle’s evil genius. “What has she done with herself?”

“Young man,” said Prince Mirkovics severely, “her Majesty was deeply affected by the unhappy events which drove Count Mortimer from Thracia. Her uncontrollable grief reflected so severely upon her son and the Princess of Dardania, that they proposed to place her in seclusion, alleging that she suffered from delusions. Warned in time, the Queen succeeded in escaping from the kingdom, accompanied by several faithful members of her household. From Czarigrad, where she took refuge, she made terms with her son, who agreed to pay her jointure without protest if she withdrew altogether from politics in future. Her Majesty then retired to a community of Protestant nuns on Mount Lebanon, where she occupies herself in good works and in bewailing the past. My daughter is one of those who share her exile, gladly devoting their lives to the service of their unfortunate mistress. Count Mortimer knows that I disliked the Queen’s being appointed regent, but nothing can excuse King Michael’s conduct to his mother.”

Cyril had remained silent while Prince Mirkovics spoke. His face was very pale, and it was with evident difficulty that he said—

“Have you no remedy to propose for the state of things in Thracia, Prince?”

“I have; but it is a drastic one. You wonder, perhaps, to see me here? Do you know that I am on my way home from England—I who have never left Thracia before? I visited your brother, to inquire whether there was any hope of his returning to the throne in this extremity.”

“My dear Prince!”

“How are we better off than when we were under the house of Franza, Count? Your brother came to our help then, but he refuses now.”

“And quite right, too. Accepting the offer of a vacant throne is a very different thing from annexing an occupied one.”

“Well, Count, we turn to you. Will you return to Thracia as Prime Minister? The country is on our side, and we propose to set before the King the alternatives of accepting you as Premier or as Regent. The Constitution makes provision for such an appointment in case of the incurable extravagance or deliberate viciousness of the monarch.”

“Pray speak lower, Prince. You are talking treason, and in Ludwigsbad the very rocks have ears. No; I cannot come. I have other work on hand.”

“You are doing something for the Jews. Oh, throw them over.”

“Not in favour of Thracia, at any rate. Thracia had me once, and resigned me with quite unnecessary willingness. Now she may want me, but she can’t have me. The punishment is deserved.”

“But for our sakes, Count—your friends?”

“No, Prince, I am not up to it. I gave the best part of my life to building up a workable and fairly honest system of government, and two years have been enough to reduce it to chaos. I could not submit to the years of weary office drudgery over again. New work I can take up and carry through; but I have lost the patience and elasticity I used to possess, and I will not fail where I succeeded once.”