Читать книгу A Crowned Queen - Sydney C. Grier - Страница 6

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The whole of the next fortnight was occupied by the mournful and protracted ceremonies accompanying the funeral of King Otto Georg. Cyril and M. Drakovics lived in a perpetual whirl. The royal and noble personages who came from the different Courts of Europe to represent their respective sovereigns on the occasion must be received, lodged, and entertained, and the deputations of country people and citizens of provincial towns must find their duties mapped out and a programme arranged for them. There were jealousies, and disputes about precedence, and squabbles between grandees of different nationalities to be settled or concealed, just as though the illustrious throng had come together with the view of deciding the social status of its various members, and not to deplore the fact that the sceptre of Thracia had passed into the uncertain grasp of a child of three.

All was over at length. The crowds of peasants who thronged into Bellaviste had taken their last look at the face of Otto Georg as he lay in state in the cathedral, and the splendid coffin had been conveyed to the vaults in which the bodies of the first two Kings of Thracia, Alexander Franza the Patriot, and his son Peter I., were already resting. The royal and noble personages were taking their leave, escorted to the station or to the frontier by military officers or Court officials according to their degree, and the country-people were returning to their villages, full of vague memories of vast crowds surging along the steep streets and into the cathedral, of black draperies everywhere, of great wax candles and much holy water, and of the dead King lying cold and still on the tall catafalque with its velvet hangings.

The two Ministers on whom had rested the chief anxiety and responsibility for the whole ceremonial were now able to take time to breathe once more, and to turn their thoughts to political matters, which had not stood still in other countries, in spite of the Truce of God in Thracia itself. Since the day of the King’s death, they had been compelled to act entirely on their own judgment, for no opportunity of seeing the Queen had been vouchsafed to them. It was true that she and her mother, shrouded from head to foot in long veils of crape, had taken part in some of the ceremonies connected with the funeral; but if the Ministers ventured to approach the royal apartments with the view of obtaining an audience, they were always received either by the Princess of Weldart or by Baroness von Hilfenstein, who procured the Queen’s signature to documents which were absolutely indispensable, and consulted her as to alterations in the programme drawn up and submitted by Cyril. It was not to be expected that this seclusion could be maintained now that the funeral ceremonies were over, and Cyril and M. Drakovics accepted with satisfaction an intimation that the Queen would receive them on the following morning.

“This is a critical moment,” said the Premier to his colleague, as they stood waiting in the room which had served as the late King’s study. “The whole future history of Thracia may be said to depend upon the course of this interview.”

“That sounds terrifically solemn,” returned Cyril, with the levity which M. Drakovics always found very trying in him. “What has precipitated matters to such an extent this morning?”

“It will be necessary,” said M. Drakovics slowly, “to make the Queen understand that in spite of her position as regent, the country is to be governed by the advice of her Ministers.”

“Which means you,” said Cyril. “But doesn’t it strike you that you are showing your hand a little too plainly? Surely an announcement of that kind is likely to make the Queen look out for a more complaisant set of Ministers?”

“I think not,” said M. Drakovics. “The Queen will not—I might say cannot—dismiss me. I am indispensable.”

“It must be very gratifying for you to feel assured of that; but suppose the Queen decides to try the experiment?”

“In that case,” replied the Premier darkly, “I should still do my best—within certain limits, of course—to preserve the throne to Otto Georg’s son, but there would inevitably be a change in the regency.”

“And in ceasing to be Premier you would merely become regent?”

“I do not say so. I remark simply that Thracia would part with a dozen queens before seeing me dismissed. No; the Queen can do me no harm, but unless she understands that fact at once, she may give me a good deal of trouble. Therefore she must be made to understand it.”

“You never pretended to be a knight-errant, did you?” asked Cyril lazily. “A business-like statesman with somewhat oriental ideas about women—that’s more like you, isn’t it?”

M. Drakovics glanced sharply at his subordinate; but the entrance of the Queen at the moment prevented his offering any answer to the question. Ernestine looked very small and pale in her deep mourning, with the heavy crape veil, which it was de rigueur for her to wear, falling to the ground behind her. Her aspect stirred in Cyril something of indignation, a very unwonted feeling with him, against M. Drakovics, who could talk so calmly of bullying this poor little woman into submission to himself. But this was not a time for indulging in sentiment, and as the Queen and M. Drakovics plunged into the neglected business of the past fortnight, he began to hope that the interview might end without any actual awkwardness. But when the Queen had given the necessary authorisation to the steps which the Premier had been obliged to take, and the list of matters to be discussed at the meeting of the Privy Council on the morrow had been agreed to, and it was Cyril’s turn to present his report and request directions for the future, M. Drakovics seized his opportunity.

“Her Highness will remain with your Majesty for the present?” he asked suddenly, when Cyril was detailing the arrangements made in connection with the visit of the Princess of Weldart. The Queen’s face flushed.

“My mother is good enough to promise to stay here with me until her physicians refuse to allow her to remain longer,” she replied, with a touch of defiance in her tone. “Is there anything extraordinary in that?”

“What could be more natural, madame?”

“My mother is endangering her own health by coming to Thracia at this season,” the Queen went on warmly; “but she refuses to forsake me in my bereavement.”

“Her Royal Highness’s visit is entirely of a personal and private character, madame, if I may presume to ask?”

“Entirely. May I inquire your reason for asking?”

“It is immaterial, madame. Your Majesty’s statement is altogether satisfactory.”

“I must insist on your answering me, monsieur.” The Queen’s tone was imperious, and her eyes shone angrily.

“Since your Majesty insists—If her Royal Highness’s visit were of a political character, I should be compelled to entreat your Majesty to seek another Premier.”

“What! you threaten me, M. le Ministre?”

“Pardon me, madame. I spoke only by your Majesty’s command.”

This was undeniably true, and the Queen turned again to her papers with a good deal of impatience. Presently she looked up once more—

“I believe, monsieur, that my husband intrusted to his valet a letter addressed to you, engaging your care for his son?”

“It is true that his Majesty honoured me so far, madame.”

“I regret that his Majesty did not see fit to ask me to hand it to you. I can assure you I should not have destroyed it.”

“Little fool!” thought Cyril. “If she is trying to irritate Drakovics by a display of petulance, she ought to know that nothing could please him better.” But the Premier was equal to the occasion.

“Madame,” he said, in the tone of one who deals gently with a froward child, “I could not have valued such a proof of his Majesty’s confidence more highly than I do; but my pleasure in it would have been enhanced had I received it from your hands.”

The Queen crimsoned again under the ironical compliment, and M. Drakovics heightened its effect by humbly asking permission to retire, leaving Cyril to finish his business with her. When the door had closed behind the Premier, Cyril took a bold step—

“If your Majesty would allow me to offer a word of advice——”

“You would say, ‘Do not quarrel with M. Drakovics,’” put in the Queen quickly. “Is not that so?”

“I see that there is no need for me to volunteer advice, madame.”

“But tell me, why does he hate my mother so much?”

“Will not your Majesty make some allowance for the natural anxiety of a Minister who sees his country threatened on all sides by insidious foes? Our only hope of preserving Thracia as an independent kingdom lies in our maintaining an equilibrium in the influence of the Powers surrounding us. If we allow one to gain an advantage, we not only encourage that Power to further encroachments, but we stimulate the opposing Powers to demand similar advantages. Not to refer too particularly to past difficulties, need I do more than remind your Majesty that in the past her Royal Highness has not exactly proved herself a successful politician, as we in Thracia consider it? M. Drakovics is doubtless afraid that in the kindness of her heart the Princess might possibly be induced to use her influence with your Majesty in favour of the commercial concessions, say, which Pannonia is now seeking to obtain, and this would complicate his task very much. Of course, the case I have suggested is merely an illustration.”

“Then what is your advice on this point, Count?”

“It is neither brilliant nor particularly agreeable, madame—simply to take no step, enter into no agreement, without the knowledge and hearty assent of your responsible Ministers,—that is to say, of M. Drakovics.”

“Ah, you are the friend of M. Drakovics?”

“I was the friend of your husband, madame, and I promised him to do my best for his son.”

Her face cleared. “Ah, that is it,” she said. “I must not risk Michael’s kingdom for my caprice, nor even to please my mother. You are right to remind me of this, Count. If my child were to lose a single village, or the smallest fraction of the power which he ought to possess in Europe, through any measure of mine, I could never forgive myself. I could not face him when he grew up.”

“His Majesty is to be congratulated on possessing so conscientious a guardian of his interests, madame.”

“But it is not only that. It is not merely a question of preserving the kingdom for him, but of fitting him for the kingdom. During this last dreadful fortnight I have become very anxious about his education. Do you not think he ought to be taught something?”

“For his sake and yours, madame, I trust your Majesty will not teach him to dislike his advisers,” said Cyril drily.

“I think that if he learns that from any one, it will be from the advisers themselves,” said the Queen, an angry flush rising to her forehead; but as Cyril merely bowed in answer to the taunt, her face changed. “I am doing you an injustice, Count. You are thinking of what my husband said that day. But it was not fair.”

As she guessed, Cyril’s thoughts had gone back, like her own, to a day shortly before his visit to England, when Otto Georg and he, catching sight of the little Prince marching solemnly up and down the terrace in charge of Mrs Jones, had sallied out and carried off the child in triumph to the King’s study, where they indulged in a glorious romp. When the fun was at its height the Queen had entered, and without taking any notice of her husband or of Cyril, had led away Prince Michael to his nurse, telling him in her iciest voice that it was the hour for his walk, and that she never allowed it to be interfered with. As she reached the door, dragging with her the unwilling child, puzzled to find himself scolded for what his father had done, the King’s wrath blazed forth—

“Take care, madame! The child is in your hands for the present, but in a year or two it will be a different matter. You had better not teach him to hate his father, for I might return the compliment.”

Cyril could recall now the way in which the Queen had departed without deigning to reply, her head held a little higher as she passed through the door, while Otto Georg, angry that he had forgotten himself so far as to use threats to his wife in the presence of a third party, relieved his feelings by a burst of hearty vituperation as soon as she was out of hearing. This had happened only two months ago.

“His Majesty spoke in a moment of irritation, madame.”

“Naturally; but should I have been likely to teach the child to hate his father? If he perceived that we were not—not on good terms, that I could not help, but the other——”

“Your Majesty wished to say something about the King’s education?”

“Yes,” said the Queen, returning hastily from her attempt at self-justification, “it was an idea of my mother’s. No; she has not been taking part in politics—it is quite a domestic matter. We both feel that the King ought to begin to learn something, and I had looked forward to teaching him myself; but my mother thinks I should not have time to give him regular lessons, and I suppose that is quite true. She suggests that I should appoint as his governess a certain Fräulein von Staubach, who has been lectrice to my aunt the Queen of Mœsia until quite lately. She is a very highly cultivated and excellent woman, besides being very fond of children—But do you know her?”

“And a bitter enemy of Drakovics’s and of mine!” Cyril had added mentally to the list of Fräulein von Staubach’s good qualities. He had no difficulty in fathoming the Princess’s motives when he remembered an occasion on which Fräulein von Staubach had been a passive, if not an active, participant in carrying out a practical joke of which he had been the victim. The mystification had had important political consequences, and Cyril nourished feelings which were the reverse of friendly towards all those who had taken part in it—feelings which he had no doubt were fully reciprocated. But it was unnecessary to explain all this to the Queen.

“I had the honour of meeting the lady some years ago, when I spent a short time in Mœsia, madame,” he answered.

“Ah, then you must know how suitable a person she is for the post. She is devoted to my aunt and to our house, and that is what I want. I could not bear that any one should come between my boy and me.”

“A most natural sentiment, madame.”

“Then you will try and bring M. Drakovics to see it in the same light? Of course, under present circumstances, he will expect to be consulted. But I may depend upon you to smooth the way?”

“So that is what all this frankness comes to!” was Cyril’s mental exclamation. “I might have guessed that she wanted me to do her a favour. Why didn’t the little schemer try some of her wiles upon poor old Otto Georg instead of slanging him? It would have made things pleasanter even if it meant nothing. I will do my utmost to further your Majesty’s wishes,” he said aloud.

“But you are not satisfied,” said the Queen mournfully. “You think I am devising some plot against yourself and your dear friend M. Drakovics. Cannot you understand that my boy is everything to me? If we were parted—if he were turned against me—it would kill me.”

Cyril was saved the embarrassment of a reply by a violent fumbling at the door. At a sign from the Queen he opened it, and admitted the little King, who ran up to his mother with a headless tin soldier in one hand and a picture-book in the other.

“Little mother, there’s no one to play with me,” he wailed, dropping his toys and climbing into her lap. She gathered him up in her arms, and looked across him at Cyril.

“He is all I have left,” she said reproachfully, “and I am all that he has. You see that he cannot do without me. I rely on you to help me in appointing Fräulein von Staubach. She will not try to separate him from me. You were his father’s friend.”

With another assurance of his full intention of furthering her wishes, Cyril took his departure, laughing silently at the effective tableau which had crowned so opportunely the Queen’s argument.

“Either she is a different creature since Otto Georg’s death,” he said to himself, “or she is the finest actress I know. She used to be simply a jealous wife; at her husband’s death-bed she was a heroine of tragedy; and now she is nothing but a scheming little woman, who hasn’t art enough to conceal the fact that she is a schemer. What a creature of moods she must be! I could have sworn that she would never forgive me that death-bed reconciliation; but though it is disappointing, artistically speaking, that she has stepped down from her tragic pedestal, it will make her much easier to work with if only the phase lasts. But it really is much less interesting. Can it possibly be all acting? Was she merely wearing a mask to-day? But no, it was too clumsy. The transition from hatred to friendliness was not gradual enough to be artistic. No! I see what it is. The Princess, finding her daughter in a state of hot indignation against me on her arrival, has talked at me industriously for the fortnight. At first the Queen agreed with her, then she got bored, and lastly she became indignant. She determined to prove her mother in the wrong by converting the enemy into a friend. If she could succeed, it would justify her for being so weak as to promise she would trust me. Ah, Madame la Princesse! you have done me a service you little intended, simply through not seeing when you had said enough. And as for you, Queen Ernestine, I shall know how to manage you in future. When you are intending to play a very deep game, you shouldn’t show your cards quite so openly.”

But in spite of Cyril’s lack of illusions, the picture of the Queen as he had last seen her recurred to him. Her dark eyes looked tearfully at him over the child’s golden curls and white frock, and her reproachful voice said, “He is all that I have left.” He could only succeed in banishing the impression from his mind by assuring himself that she had arranged for the little King’s appearance at the moment, with a view to the effect to be produced on himself, and even then it was apt to return to him unbidden. This was especially the case one afternoon about a week later, when, looking in at the Premier’s office, he found M. Drakovics sitting idle, gazing into futurity with knitted brows and folded arms.

“Sorry to see that you have something on your mind, monsieur!” was the irreverent greeting which roused the Premier from his brown study. He sat up suddenly, and tried to look as though the shot had not told.

“You are wiser than I am, Count. I am not aware that there is anything special on my mind at present.”

“No?” asked Cyril, with a note of concern in his voice. “And yet such sudden lapses of memory as this are a bad sign, surely?” and he met M. Drakovics’s frown with a gaze of bland unconsciousness.

“Allow me to remind you, Count,” said the Premier severely, “that you have not now his late Majesty to deal with. Wit and humour—even the most brilliant jokes—are wasted upon me.”

“But not in this case, when the jokes are your own?” was the prompt reply. “Surely you can’t imagine that I should venture to joke with you?”

M. Drakovics gave up the attempt at concealment. “I will not deny,” he said slowly, “that my mind has been much exercised of late by certain remarks which fell from Prince Soudaroff when he paid me his farewell visit.”

“Ah, now we are coming to it!” said Cyril to himself. A good deal of comment had been excited in the political world by the fact that the Emperor of Scythia had selected as his representative at the funeral of King Otto Georg a diplomatist of such European celebrity as Prince Soudaroff, and the opinion had been freely expressed that some change of policy was in the air. “Were the Prince’s remarks of a reassuring character?” he asked aloud.

“Very much so, on one condition. Prince Soudaroff emphasised the goodwill by which his master was actuated towards Thracia, and mentioned, casually, that that goodwill might be testified in a substantial form if only an Orthodox prince sat on the Thracian throne.”

“So that’s it, is it? Very pretty, of course; but it can’t be done.”

“That is your opinion, then?”

“Most certainly it is, if you mean to ask me whether the Queen will ever consent to King Michael’s conversion to the Orthodox faith.”

“And yet,” pursued M. Drakovics, “why should it be impossible? A change which would be humiliating or even disgraceful in the case of a grown-up man, such as our late King, or—or your brother, would be quite simple and natural in the case of a child. He knows nothing as yet of religion, and it means merely that he would be brought up in one form of faith instead of another. Popa instead of pastor, that is all.”

“And Bellaviste vaut bien une messe?” said Cyril. “When do you intend to lay your views before the Queen?”

“I do not intend to broach the matter to her unless I can do so with some prospect of success. What is your opinion?”

“That you will see her Majesty shaking the dust of Thracia from her feet, and retiring to Germany with her son, before she will compromise his spiritual welfare by such a step.”

“You forget that I am a member of the Orthodox Church, Count.”

“True, monsieur. I had forgotten that you were anything but a statesman.”

“You flatter me. But consider the enormous advantages to be gained by the sacrifice. The cost is ludicrously small. Could we not convince her Majesty by means of an object-lesson?”

“By some one else’s conversion, I suppose? Will you try the British Minister or Lady Stratford to begin with?”

“We will start nearer home, I think. An excellent impression would be produced by your reception into the Orthodox Church, my dear Count.”

“And what sort of impression on the Queen?” was Cyril’s mental comment. “This is a little dodge to get me shunted out of your way, my good Drakovics.” Aloud he replied, “You do me too much honour, monsieur; I really cannot pretend to be a personage of so much importance as you kindly hint. Besides, my creed is too valuable for me to sacrifice it merely as an object-lesson. Who knows whether I may not be able to barter it for a crown some day?”

M. Drakovics bit his bushy grey moustache angrily, for the hit galled him. “We will turn to considerations of policy rather than of commerce, Count, if you please. Surely you cannot be blind to the advantages of such an event as the King’s conversion?”

“I see that you would be exhibited to all Europe as implicitly following the dictation of Scythia, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”

“Not at all,” said the Premier quickly. “To have a king of their own faith is the great desire of the Thracians. They would rally round the throne to an extraordinary degree if the conversion took place. It would be simply and wholly in response to their wishes, and the Queen would gain enormously in popularity.”

“Quite so,” said Cyril. “Explain that to Pannonia and Hercynia, and see how they will look at it. Sigismund of Hercynia might be brought to acquiesce if he were allowed to exhibit his powers as a theologian by conducting the conversion himself, but otherwise he is more likely to preach a crusade against you. Do you really believe that they would not see the finger of Scythia in the event?”

“I suppose you are right. Nevertheless——”

“And Queen Ernestine would pose as a Christian martyr for the benefit of all Europe. She would take her stand on the marriage settlement, as she has every right to do, and all the men with the faintest spark of chivalry about them, and all women with children of their own, would adopt her cause.” He spoke strongly, with a vivid recollection of the picture which he persuaded himself had been devised for his benefit. “Statecraft is a good thing, my dear Drakovics, but sentiment occasionally goes one better.”

“You are right; I give up the plan. For a week I have been trying to find a way of working it out, but I feared it would prove insuperable. Happily I had not adopted it as one of my measures.”

“Or you would have felt bound to carry it out by fair means or foul? You broached it to no one, I suppose?”

“To no one. I disregarded studiously Prince Soudaroff’s remarks during our interview, in order to gain time for thought.”

“Ah, he expected that, of course. He may be trusted to have said nothing to any one else, you think?”

“He paid private visits to no one but the Metropolitan, besides myself, and he would scarcely enter upon the subject with him.”

“I wish we could be sure of that, for the Metropolitan is just the sort of weak man to be persuaded into believing that he has a mission to bring the conversion about. However, it’s quite certain that we can’t arrest him on suspicion, although I shouldn’t wonder if we have to do it after he has preached to-morrow. It would be his business to try to stir the people’s curiosity by vague hints, and he is fanatic enough to rejoice in running the risk. One would do one’s best to secure his silence beforehand, if one didn’t know that it would be the safest way of setting him talking. If only Prince Soudaroff had been a Catholic or a Mohammedan, and had not paid him more than a formal visit!”

“One could prohibit the Metropolitan from preaching to-morrow.”

“And convince him that there’s something in the wind if Prince Soudaroff said nothing to him, and give him a glorious handle against us if he has been tampered with. He is yearning already for an opportunity of denouncing us as oppressors of the Church, and I believe he and his clergy are the hottest pro-Scythians in Thracia.”

“Then you would do nothing?”

“Far from it. Hope for the best, and keep the police ready for action.”

And with this shameless parody of the Puritan leader’s charge to his troops Cyril took his leave. The misgivings which assailed him caused him to take a very unusual step on the morrow, which happened to be the festival of a holy man of local celebrity, known as St Gabriel of Tatarjé. St Gabriel was supposed to have been martyred by the Roumis about the end of the fourteenth century (the chronology of his life and times was somewhat uncertain), and the traditions of the country required that on the anniversary of his death the Metropolitan should preach a sermon in his honour at the cathedral of Bellaviste. On this occasion Cyril was one of those who attended the service. He had no wish to obtrude his presence on the Thracian portion of the congregation, and as a good many foreigners, either tourists or members of the various legations, had seized the opportunity of witnessing informally the solemn pageantry of the Greek saint’s-day celebration, he was able to obtain a place behind one of the pillars without attracting attention. The earlier portion of the service passed off quietly; but when the Metropolitan began his sermon Cyril perceived at once that his fears had been only too well founded. Without the slightest attempt at disguise the preacher went straight to the point, denouncing the royal house as heretics, and M. Drakovics as their supporter, with great vigour. Through the Premier it had come about that Thracia had accepted a monarch and a code of laws from the ungodly and schismatical nations of the West, instead of finding a peaceful shelter under the protecting wings of the great Orthodox Empire, at whose head stood the heir of the Eastern Cæsars. It was a just retribution that the late King had been removed in his prime, and the kingdom left as the battle-ground of the western heretics. Another opportunity was providentially granted to the Thracians by reason of the youth of their present sovereign, and it was not too late to accept with gratitude the overtures of peace newly made to them by the long-suffering head of their faith. What did the Queen’s inevitable objections signify? Her son did not belong to her, but to Thracia. She was a German—a Jewess—who had filled the Court and the city with her creatures, and had set herself deliberately to frustrate the hopes of the nation from the day of her first entrance into Thracia. Was she to be allowed to come between the kingdom and its manifest destiny, the fulfilment of its burning desire for reunion with the race to which it really belonged, and to which it owed its freedom? Let her be given the choice between preserving her heresy and her son’s throne. If she was obdurate, she must be set aside and another regent appointed, with the concurrence of the Orthodox Emperor, who would see that the King was brought up in the true faith.

Cyril dared not delay longer. The conclusion of the sermon would no doubt be interesting, but to wait for it would mean that there would be no hope of anticipating its effect on the crowded congregation, belonging chiefly to the peasant and artisan classes, which filled the cathedral. Holding his handkerchief to his face, both as a disguise and as an excuse for departing, he slipped from his place and made his way to the door. Once outside the cathedral, he thought for a moment of the possibility of bringing up a sufficient force of police to overawe the congregation as they came out, and ensure their dispersing quietly. But the idea was negatived as soon as it arose, for the police-barracks were on the other side of the town, and it might cause a fatal loss of time to go thither, or even to turn aside and telephone to the chief of police. The Palace was Cyril’s charge, and until the Palace was safe, he could not think of anything else. Even before he had brought his train of reasoning to this conclusion, he was climbing the steep street which led to the Palace, and only just in time, for, turning as he entered the gate, he saw the congregation beginning to pour out of the cathedral. It was the work of a moment to call out the guard and close the gates, and then Cyril hurried to his office in order to telephone to the barracks a request for a strong force of police, and to M. Drakovics the news of the situation. He had little fear that any mob would be able to break into the Palace before the arrival of the police, for the guards were all drawn from the famous Carlino regiment, the best in the Thracian army, to which this honour had been committed since the disbandment of the untrustworthy Palace Guard of earlier years. It could not be doubted that with the advantages of position and discipline they would be able to keep the mob at bay at the gates; but the extent of wall to be defended was so large, and so easily to be scaled by one man climbing on the shoulders of another, that to avoid any risk from isolated intruders he sent a message to the Queen by M. Stefanovics, entreating her to remain with the King in her own apartments for the present.

No sooner had the message been sent than Cyril, from his commanding position at the head of the great flight of steps leading to the door of the Palace, caught sight of the advance-guard of an excited crowd debouching from the street he had just traversed. He could see the mob pressing up to the iron gates and shaking them in vain efforts to enter, then brandishing sticks and fists at the guards, and demanding with imprecations that the gates should be opened. Loud shouts were raised for the Queen and the little King, but not by any means as demonstrations of loyalty. Rather they were frantic demands that the Queen should at once yield to the wishes of her subjects, and agree to the King’s conversion, on pain either of being separated from him, or driven from Thracia with him. Cyril congratulated himself on his foresight in keeping the inmates of the Palace from coming in contact with the rioters, but it was not long before he became aware that he had rejoiced too soon. Hearing Stefanovics coming back, he turned to speak to him, and perceived to his dismay that the chamberlain was escorting Queen Ernestine, who held the little King by the hand, while a lady-in-waiting followed.

“I do not understand your message, Count,” said the Queen, pausing as Cyril confronted her. “My son’s subjects are anxious to see him on their festival-day, and you take it upon yourself to exclude them from the Palace. Have the goodness to throw open the gates and admit the people, so that the King may receive their loyal congratulations from the steps.”

“Allow me to entreat you, madame, to return to your apartments with his Majesty,” said Cyril. “This gathering is not what you think.”

She looked at him with disdainful displeasure. “Do you think I am deaf?” she asked scornfully. “They are crying, ‘The King! the Queen! let us see the Queen!’ You are afraid that this demonstration may embarrass M. Drakovics and his Government, and therefore you try to prevent the people from seeing their King.”

“If your Majesty is not deaf, and will listen for a moment,” said Cyril, exasperated, “you will find that the shouts are by no means of a gratifying nature. Does that, for instance, commend itself to you, madame?” as a long-drawn howl of execration forced itself on the Queen’s reluctant ears, making her start and turn pale.

“It is a riot? they are in revolt?” she asked, with trembling lips. “What is the reason?”

“They have just been excited by an inflammatory sermon from the Metropolitan on the subject of their religion, madame. It is possible that your Majesty can guess the direction their thoughts have taken.”

“They threaten my son’s faith? Never! Admit the insolents immediately, Count. They shall hear my answer from my own lips. With my child in my arms I will defy them.”

“Pardon me, madame; the mob of Bellaviste has not even the chivalry of that of Paris, and—you are not a Marie Antoinette. At the risk of incurring your displeasure, I must decline to obey you in this.”

He uttered the last sentence in a lowered voice, to avoid the appearance of wishing to humiliate her in the hearing of Stefanovics. For a moment her angry eyes looked defiantly into his, then they fell.

“I am a prisoner in my own Palace, it seems!” she said wrathfully. “When your wife returns from the cathedral, M. Stefanovics, be so good as to send her to me immediately. I must know all about this affair.”

And she turned her back on Cyril, and retired.

“There come the police at last!” said Stefanovics.