Читать книгу A Crowned Queen - Sydney C. Grier - Страница 7

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The mob had been dispersed by the police, and Cyril found himself able to breathe freely once more. The Metropolitan, arrested by the order of M. Drakovics as soon as the news of the sermon and the consequent outbreak had reached him, was under police supervision in his own palace, and bodies of cavalry were patrolling the streets. The Queen had not shown herself outside her own apartments after the rude awakening she had experienced, but Cyril was kept informed by Stefanovics of all that passed behind the closed doors. It seemed that Madame Stefanovics, on her return from the service, had been required to relate to her royal mistress all that she could remember of the sermon, and that her powers of accuracy and memory were stimulated by a severe cross-examination. The Princess of Weldart was much moved, the lady-in-waiting told her husband, who passed on the fact promptly to Cyril, but the Queen was almost out of her mind. She walked up and down the room in feverish excitement and anger, and broke at last into a flood of passionate tears. Now that her feelings had found this relief, she was more calm, and had spent the afternoon closeted with her secretary, who was kept hard at work drafting and writing letters. This piece of information served in a measure to reassure Cyril.

“She will work it off in that way,” he said to himself. “Writing letters and drawing up proclamations will keep her busy without doing any harm. To-morrow she will be cooler, and we can think about business.”

He remained at the Palace during the whole of the afternoon and evening, expecting to be summoned to assist the Queen in her labours, or at any rate to receive some communication from her relating to the punishment of the rioters who had been arrested. He would not have objected to this. It would be unconstitutional, no doubt, but it might keep her from doing anything worse. As time passed on, and no summons reached him, he became a little uneasy as to what this continued silence might portend; but on hearing from Stefanovics that the Queen appeared much calmer and even happier after her long afternoon’s work, he felt it safe to retire to his own house, which stood just outside the Palace grounds. As he passed out of the gate, and the guards presented arms, he noticed a man slinking through in the shadow, and recognised the Queen’s secretary, a young German. It was late for any one employed at the Palace to be going out, and the uncharitable conclusion at which Cyril arrived instantly was that the secretary was on his way to join some disreputable associates in the town. There was a half-furtive, half-triumphant look about him which seemed to accord with this suspicion, and as the Minister of the Household walked home he indulged in a little moralising on the ease with which young men fall into mischief when away from the control of their parents and guardians. His mind was sufficiently at ease to allow of this, for although earlier in the day he had been conscious of some curiosity, and even a slight degree of apprehension, as to the effect the events of the morning were likely to have on his own position in the Court, he had no intention of allowing himself to be worried by unnecessary fears, and after wrestling with the intricacies of the Palace accounts for an hour or two, went to bed and slept peacefully. At an unwonted hour in the morning, however, he was awakened in a sufficiently startling way.

“Excellency, his Excellency the Premier!” panted Dietrich, throwing the bedroom door open, and as it were flinging the announcement into the room. Apparently he had only managed to keep ahead of the visitor by climbing the stairs at a record pace, for M. Drakovics was inside the door before the words were out of his mouth.

“You are early, my dear Drakovics,” remarked Cyril, sitting up in bed, and rejoicing, not for the first time, that he possessed the faculty of awaking instantaneously with all his wits at work.

“I am early,” shouted M. Drakovics, “and I may well be! Tell that idiot of yours to go to Jericho, and give me your attention.”

“Politeness is never wasted,” returned Cyril. “Dietrich, you may go. Now, monsieur, to what am I indebted for this honour?”

M. Drakovics was literally unable to speak, but he glared furiously at Cyril as he brandished a bundle of papers in his face. Supposing that he was intended to read them, Cyril laid hold of the bundle.

“No, not all!” gasped M. Drakovics. “I—I will break the news to you gently,” with a ghastly smile. “Read that first,” and he selected from the bundle and handed to Cyril a letter in the handwriting of the Queen’s secretary.

“Take a seat,” said Cyril, nodding towards a chair; “you seem somewhat agitated,” and with another mirthless smile the Premier obeyed, choosing a place from which he could watch every change in the expression of his host’s face.

“A letter addressed by the Queen to the Emperor of Scythia!” said Cyril. “H’m, that’s bad. Has it been sent off?”

“Unfortunately it has. The secretary took it to the Scythian Legation last night, and placed it, I believe, in the hands of the Minister himself.”

“What a way of doing business!” groaned Cyril in disgust. “Well, that’s bad too—worse, in fact. Now to read this precious epistle.”

He applied himself to the task, while M. Drakovics ejaculated with a hollow laugh, “Wait a little. You have not heard the worst yet,” and watched him again.

“It’s pretty strong,” remarked Cyril, reassuringly, “but it’s not badly put together—would make a magnificent stage letter. Yes, this bit would certainly bring down the house: ‘It is less than a month since I was deprived of the protection of my husband, and left to battle with the world for my son’s rights. Your Majesty chooses this moment to attack a lonely woman in her tenderest point. This is the chivalry of Scythia!’ And the pit would shout itself hoarse over the conclusion: ‘But it is possible to pay too high a price even for the favour of an Emperor. To save my son’s kingdom, I would sacrifice much—wealth, comfort, happiness, life itself; but my child’s faith and honour—never! Your Majesty may regard it as an excellent piece of diplomacy to send your representative to stir up the fanaticism of a nation which, thanks to the intrigues of your agents in the past, has as yet scarcely emerged from barbarism; but rather than yield to such dictation, I will quit Thracia with my child, knowing that when he grows up he will thank me for thus depriving him of his inheritance. Europe shall judge—Heaven shall judge between us—you seeking to turn a little child from the faith of his parents for the sake of a paltry political advantage, I preferring to see my son reduced to the position of a mere cadet of his father’s house, but with a stainless name, rather than the pervert King of a nation sunk in subservience to you.’ Good gracious! this must be stopped at any cost,” cried Cyril. “We shall have the Scythian Legation withdrawn, and the choice given us of fighting or knuckling under—and how we are to fight, when Scythia makes public, as she is safe to do, the Queen’s unflattering opinion of the Thracians, as expressed in this letter, I don’t know.”

“And have you any measure to propose?”

“Has the letter, of which this is the draft, left the Legation yet?”

“No; I think we may be sure that it has not.”

“Then there is a hope. We must get at Baron Natarin, and have the letter back. What excuses precisely are to be offered we can consider later; but I think we can make him see that the choice lies between his surrendering the document and our justifying the charges contained in it, which we can do at the trial of the Metropolitan. Soudaroff is sure not to have gone beyond his instructions, though it’s pretty clear that he mistook his man, and we shall have some interesting revelations to make, which will prove that Scythia has been interfering most unwarrantably in our internal affairs. Yes; I think they will prefer to hush it up.”

“That is now scarcely possible, unfortunately,” said M. Drakovics, with a kind of sombre triumph in his tones, “for look here.”

He spread out on the bed copies of that morning’s issues of the three daily newspapers published in Bellaviste, in each of which Cyril, to his utter horror, saw the fateful letter facing him in all the boldness and clearness of the largest print.

“The woman must be mad!” he said, scarcely able to believe his eyes as he turned mechanically from one reproduction of the “Letter addressed by her Majesty the Queen-Regent to the Emperor of Scythia” to another. M. Drakovics sat regarding him in stony silence, and, after a moment’s stupefaction he pulled himself together.

“Have you discovered how the letter got to the newspaper-offices?”

“Yes; the secretary took them each a copy.”

“Ah! a copy signed by the Queen?”

“No; merely one in his own writing.”

“Good; then we may conclude that he was not authorised to do so.”

“Probably not, since he sold the letter to the editor for a considerable sum in each case.”

“Better and better! I was almost afraid to hope for such a thing. And what measures have you taken with regard to the papers?”

“Naturally I have seized all the copies printed, broken up the plates, and placed every one employed in the offices under arrest.”

“And you think that will be effectual?”

“It is the best we can do. The editors and printers know of the letter, of course, and we cannot silence them all.”

“No; but we can square them. Set them at liberty on condition of their printing the account of the matter with which you will furnish them, and let them bring out their papers as soon as they can, so as to attract as little notice as possible by the delay. I am sorry you broke up the type, for it would have come in useful, with merely this precious letter and the comments on it struck out. However, you must do the best you can.”

“And if the editors refuse, or persist in giving their own version?”

“Surely you have your editors in better order than that? But send a censor to examine the papers before they are allowed to be distributed, and if there is any difficulty, suppress the paper at once, and proceed against all concerned for conspiracy. They would stand convicted of being partakers in a plot to embroil us with Scythia.”

“Excellent! That is to be our idea, then?”

“Of course. Put it all on the secretary, and sack him promptly. We may thank our stars that the notion of feathering his own nest out of the affair occurred to him. Otherwise we should have found it extremely difficult to make him the scapegoat, but now he has put himself beyond the pale of mercy.”

“I have already ordered his arrest; but I am expecting every moment to receive an angry message from the Queen, demanding that he should be released. Are we to keep up the conspiracy idea with her, or not?”

“By no means. It wouldn’t be any use. We must have it out with her, and come to an understanding. This sort of thing must not occur again. If you will be good enough to go down-stairs, Drakovics, and tell my people to get you some breakfast, I will come with you to the Palace as soon as I am dressed. Then after that I will go and interview Natarin, and get the original letter back by hook or by crook. I suppose you have the Legation under surveillance?”

“Yes; and any one who leaves it is to be followed. Of course, we can take no steps openly.”

“Rather not; but I am of opinion that Natarin is too old a bird to allow that letter to go out of his hands before hearing from you. We must replace it, of course, with a dignified message of protest. The fact that some such letter was written must have got about; but if we allow it to become known that the secretary, with a view to his own aggrandisement, despatched and published an early draft without authority, and that the real epistle contains nothing that could offend the Emperor, while it defines politely the Queen’s position, it seems to me that we shall not score so badly.”

M. Drakovics departed with a sigh of polite incredulity; but the resourcefulness of his host had cheered him to such an extent that he succeeded in partaking of a remarkably good breakfast while waiting for Cyril to accompany him to the Palace. By virtue of their office, both Ministers possessed the right of requesting an audience of the Queen at any time, and the chamberlain to whom they stated their desire to be received by her Majesty expressed no surprise, in spite of the early hour. He led them to the apartment in which the Queen was accustomed to spend her mornings, and requested the lady-in-waiting in the anteroom to inquire her Majesty’s pleasure. As the door was opened they had a glimpse into the room, and M. Drakovics turned to Cyril behind the chamberlain’s back with a glance that expressed unutterable things. The day was a cool one in early autumn, and a small fire was burning in the English grate, before which the Queen was sitting on the hearthrug, playing with the little King, while her mother looked on benignantly.

“At any rate,” observed Cyril in a low voice, for the comfort of his chief, “we serve a sovereign whom age can never wither, nor custom stale her infinite variety. We expected to find an outraged mother defying the world——”

“And we see a thoughtless child!” burst from M. Drakovics; but by this time the chamberlain had received his orders, and bowing as he held the door open, invited them to enter. A sudden transformation had been effected in the appearance of the room. King Michael had been relegated to his high chair and a picture-book; the Princess of Weldart had withdrawn into a corner, and was exclusively occupied with her embroidery; while the Queen, her face a little flushed, and her hair under the peaked edge of the black cap slightly awry, was sitting at the table.

“Your Excellency finds us en famille,” she remarked to M. Drakovics, somewhat too airily for the tone to be quite natural. “She means to brazen it out,” said Cyril to himself.

“It is possible that you might prefer to receive Count Mortimer and myself in private, madame,” said M. Drakovics pointedly.

“I have no secrets from my mother,” returned the Queen. “This is not a Council of State, I think?”

“Technically speaking, it is not,” M. Drakovics agreed, “but I think your Majesty can scarcely be ignorant that the object of our visit is to discuss a very grave matter of State.”

“It is not hard to guess,” said the Queen, “that you refer to the Metropolitan’s sermon yesterday, and the events that followed it.”

“And to a slight—pardon me—a slight indiscretion on your own part, madame, which followed the events,” said M. Drakovics, irritated by what seemed to him her prevarication.

“I am at a loss to understand your Excellency,” said the Queen angrily, darting a lightning glance of wrath at Cyril.

“I allude to the letter which your Majesty has thought fit to address to the Emperor of Scythia without consulting your advisers.”

“And may I ask how long my advisers have considered it a part of their duty to supervise my private correspondence?”

“A correspondence which appears in the public prints is scarcely to be called private, madame.”

“In the papers? I fear that your Excellency has been imposed upon by some forgery. The letter which I drew up yesterday and dictated to Herr Christophle has never left my possession.”

“I am inexpressibly relieved to hear it, madame.”

“But you do not believe me? Must I show you the letter itself?” And with one of her impulsive movements, she sprang up and crossed the room to an escritoire. Unlocking a drawer, she pressed a spring and drew out a smaller drawer, in which, with a sudden change of countenance, she began to search anxiously.

“It is gone!” she said, looking round with a frightened face. “Christophle and my mother thought it would be well to send it last night, but I said I would sleep over it before despatching it.”

“Had the secretary Christophle access to your Majesty’s escritoire?” inquired M. Drakovics drily; for it had not escaped either Cyril or himself that the Princess of Weldart had sat up suddenly, as though about to speak, when the Queen had first risen from her chair, but had relapsed again immediately into an ostentatious indifference to all that was going on.

“No, certainly not. What should he want with the letter? Besides, the key is on my watch-chain.”

“I do not know what his business with the letter was, madame, nor will I offer an opinion as to the means by which he obtained possession of it. All I can say is, that late last night Herr Christophle not only delivered your Majesty’s signed letter to Baron Natarin at the Scythian Legation, but also sold copies on his own account to all the papers of the capital.”

“Impossible!” cried the Queen. “How could he sell copies of my letter to the papers? And how did he obtain possession of the letter itself?”

“I see nothing to make all this commotion about,” put in the Princess of Weldart briskly. “When a letter is written, why should it not be delivered?”

The Queen glanced sharply at her, then turned to the Ministers with a stunned look on her face. “I fear that Christophle must have made use of that argument,” she said falteringly. “In any case, I shall rebuke him sharply for his officiousness.”

“Pardon me, madame, but that is not enough,” said M. Drakovics.

“Not enough? You tell me to my face that I am not competent to control my own servants? I say that it is enough, M. le Ministre!”

“My regret at being compelled to differ from your Majesty is only enhanced by the consequent necessity of placing my resignation in your hands, madame.”

“What! your Excellency does not dream of retiring from office for the sake of such a trifle?” Her tone was one of genuine alarm.

“When your advisers have the misfortune to lose your confidence, madame, it is undoubtedly their duty, as well as your pleasure, that they should yield their places to more favoured individuals.”

“Is this the way in which you fulfil your friend’s dying charge, Count?” she asked bitterly of Cyril, while the Princess of Weldart, who had dropped her work, looked up with gleaming eyes.

“Madame, no one can accuse me of neglecting his Majesty’s dying command so long as I could carry it out with honour; but I cannot stand by and see you plunge Thracia into a ruinous war in which your son’s kingdom will be irretrievably swallowed up.” He had given M. Drakovics no authority to include his resignation with his own, but this was a case in which unity was all-important.

“Oh, you are a true friend!” said the Queen ironically; but her mother rose and stood in front of her, waving the Ministers away.

“This is enough, my daughter. I will not see you lowered by appealing any longer to the patriotism or natural piety of these gentlemen. They have insulted you grossly in your own palace, in their anxiety to serve the interests of Scythia—an anxiety for which they will doubtless receive a suitable reward. I believe that the Emperor is extremely generous towards his foreign pensioners. M. Drakovics, Count Mortimer, you may retire. Her Majesty the Queen-Regent dispenses with your services.”

But the Princess, in her eagerness to clinch matters, had gone too far. Queen Ernestine was not to be superseded in the exercise of her prerogative, even by her mother. She rose from her chair a second time, with her lips tightened ominously.

“I am afraid that our discussions have disturbed you, mamma. His Excellency the Premier,” she laid a stress on the word, “was right when he suggested that this was scarcely the place for them. Messieurs,” she turned to the two Ministers with her most winning manner, “will you be so good as to accompany me into the next room? There we can discuss things without fear of interrupting any one.”

“Am I to understand that your Majesty endorses the remarks of her Royal Highness?” inquired M. Drakovics, without offering to move.

The Queen shot a glance of reproach at her mother. “See in what a position you have placed me!” it seemed to say. “Your Excellency,” she said, “I must apologise unreservedly for my mother’s words, which can only be excused by her ignorance of Thracia and its statesmen. If she knew you and Count Mortimer as I do, she would recognise the absurdity of her accusation.”

To Cyril’s intense amusement, M. Drakovics fell on his knees, and kissed the Queen’s hand.

“Madame,” he said, “I am overwhelmed. The pain I experienced on hearing the words of her Royal Highness is only equalled by the shame I feel for having appeared to demand an apology from yourself. I am your Majesty’s servant to command.”

“The little witch has won a triumph indeed!” reflected Cyril, as he and M. Drakovics, bowing to the Princess, followed the Queen into the next room. “It is quite worth while her stooping to conquer Drakovics. And he has taken a leaf out of her book, which shows that the lesson has not been lost upon him.”

“It will please me, messieurs,” said the Queen, when Cyril had shut the door, “if you will have the goodness to regard the incident which has just occurred as though it had not taken place. Will your Excellency,” she turned to M. Drakovics, “be kind enough to explain to me the words which fell from Count Mortimer a few minutes ago as to plunging Thracia into a hopeless war?”

“It is my duty to inform your Majesty,” returned the Premier, with great solemnity, “that the letter so mysteriously abstracted and so iniquitously published would infallibly plunge us into a war with Scythia, into which other nations would certainly be drawn. Whatever the result of the whole contest, it can scarcely be doubted that Thracia would be swallowed up by one of the victorious Powers.”

The Queen grew paler and paler. “And is there any measure you can propose to avert this disaster?” she asked, in a voice that was almost a whisper.

“In the confidence that I was honoured with your Majesty’s favour, I have already, with Count Mortimer’s assistance, taken steps which we hope may ensure that object, madame.”

“You rejoice me, monsieur. Pray unfold them to me. But,” her voice took a firmer tone, “I must desire that no inquiry be made into the abstraction of the letter from my escritoire. I propose to deal with that myself.”

“Your Majesty shall be obeyed. The measures I would venture to suggest are briefly these: that your Majesty should write another letter to replace that now in the hands of Baron Natarin, if we can by any means obtain its restoration; that the secretary Christophle be instantly dismissed in disgrace——”

“Oh no, not dismissed!” cried the Queen. “He was wrong, but he erred from excess of zeal. I dictated and signed the letter; the writing alone was his. He must not be punished for—for my fault.”

“Am I to understand that your Majesty commissioned Herr Christophle to sell your letter to the daily newspapers?”

“Certainly not. Why should I wish it to appear in them?”

“I cannot tell, madame; but it did appear there. The issues of the papers in which it appeared are now suppressed, but that cannot excuse the secretary. He has rendered himself liable to very heavy punishment for betraying State secrets, and we shall be able to deal with him effectively in that way.”

“After a trial?” asked the Queen, alarmed. “That must not be. Your Excellency will see that after his long employment here he must be in a position to reveal—to reveal many things of importance if he is hard pressed.”

“Your Majesty would prefer that he should be sent back to Hercynia with the warning that the law will be set in motion against him if he tells anything he knows? Dismissed and disgraced he must be, for the sake of the moral effect on Europe.”

“Of course—I suppose so. And about this letter—do you wish me to write it now?”

“If your Majesty pleases. It might be well if Count Mortimer would be good enough to act as secretary, in order to avoid any further treachery.”

“Your advice is excellent, monsieur. You will lend us the assistance of your pen on this occasion, Count?”

“My pen, like myself, is always at your Majesty’s service,” Cyril answered, grimly enough, all unmoved by the dazzling smile with which she turned to him. He noted her heaving breast and trembling hands, and knew that her unaccustomed graciousness was merely the outcome of her desperate eagerness to shield her mother from being identified as a sharer in the secretary’s treachery. She read his thoughts, and cast a piteous glance at him as he sat down and dipped a pen in the ink. “I have conquered even Drakovics, but you will not allow yourself to be won over!” it seemed to say; but Cyril was not to be touched. His eyes met hers unmoved when he looked towards her, and she gave a frightened little sigh as she turned to M. Drakovics to consult him as to the opening words of the letter. Nothing could well have been more unlike the fateful missive which might have plunged Europe into war than the epistle which left Cyril’s hands at last. There was no reproach, no defiance in it from beginning to end. The Queen was made merely to insist on the sorrow and astonishment with which she had heard that the Metropolitan claimed the support of the Emperor for his extraordinary conduct. It was altogether beyond the bounds of possibility to suppose that anything said by Prince Soudaroff could bear the meaning placed upon it by the Archbishop’s distorted brain, for no one knew better than the Queen that the Emperor would be the last person to wish to disturb a settlement approved by Europe, and confirmed by the most solemn engagements. (Cyril and M. Drakovics could not resist stealing a glance at one another at this point, and the Queen laughed drearily.) The letter concluded by remarking that the Metropolitan’s mind was without doubt temporarily unhinged, and assuring the Emperor that a sufficient period of rest and seclusion would be granted him to ensure that he should no longer entertain, or at any rate promulgate, such delusions as those under the influence of which he was now labouring.

“We have come off better than I expected,” said M. Drakovics to Cyril, as they retired in triumph with the letter; “but I foresee that we shall be obliged to get rid of the old lady, or she will get rid of us.”

“You may well say so,” returned Cyril. “In fact, if she had had a little more tact, she would have succeeded in doing it already.”

In the morning-room, at the moment, the Queen was locking her escritoire and fastening the key to her watch-chain without saying a word. When she had finished, she turned to her mother.

“One must be careful after what one has heard to-day,” she said. “It is evident that there is some one in the household who cannot be trusted. I never thought it necessary to put my keys under my pillow before; but this one, at any rate, shall never be left in my jewel-case at night again.”

Under her hostile, accusing eyes the Princess of Weldart blenched. She knew perfectly well the hidden meaning of the words, and felt grateful that the charge which she would have found it difficult to rebut was not framed more definitely. The best policy was to say nothing, and she adopted it.

In the meantime Cyril, armed with the newly written letter as a guarantee of good faith, had paid the all-important visit to the Scythian Minister. As he had expected, he found Baron Natarin by no means averse from accepting his view of the case. In any circumstances, it would have been difficult to decline to surrender a missive which had been surreptitiously obtained and presented without the knowledge of the Queen, probably in order to gratify the spite or vanity of the man who had stolen it; but there was a failure in Scythian diplomacy to be covered as well. Prince Soudaroff had not gone beyond his instructions, but, as Cyril had divined, he had mistaken his man. The words which had been intended to initiate a long and persistent agitation, extending throughout the country, had kindled in the Archbishop’s breast an enthusiasm which had wasted itself in stirring up the short and abortive riot at the capital, and fanaticism had undone what policy had hoped to effect. The Scythian Minister returned the letter, expressing a hope that it would be found possible to allow the Metropolitan to escape lightly, and Cyril retired, retaining the second letter, which was to be forwarded to the Thracian Minister at Pavelsburg, and presented by him to the Emperor in due course.

Baron Natarin’s pious aspiration, which was in reality a request, almost a warning, as to the fate of the Metropolitan, was not allowed to remain unfulfilled, although it required a good deal of ingenuity to bring it to pass. The Archbishop was tried privately, and sentenced to a year’s residence in a monastery remote from the capital, and now the difficulty presented itself—how was he to be released? It had been absolutely necessary that he should be brought to trial, in order to vindicate the prestige both of the law and of the reigning house, and also to prevent similar outbreaks in future; but to enforce the sentence would raise awkward questions as to the necessity of depriving the prisoner of his important post, whether permanently or merely for the year. The Queen could not pardon him, since her doing so would seem an insult to the Emperor of Scythia, of whose name, according to the now accepted view, the Metropolitan had made such an unwarrantable use. At the same time, the Emperor could not ask for his pardon without appearing to identify himself with the disloyal views to which he had given utterance. In this dilemma, it was necessary to arrange a little plot in order to effect the desired end, and the details were left in Cyril’s hands.

It so happened that the police barracks at Bellaviste had lately been enlarged, and that, as had been previously settled, the Queen paid an informal visit to the new buildings one morning, accompanied by the little King, who was deeply interested in all that he saw. The cells struck him most, and he catechised his guides about them during his visit, and talked about them all day after it, the horrors of prison-life appearing to be deeply impressed upon his youthful mind. The next afternoon, when his mother and he were driving along the New Road, which is the Bois de Boulogne of Bellaviste, they met a closed carriage surrounded by an armed escort. Inside the carriage sat the Metropolitan, with his chaplain and a secretary, on the way to the distant monastery appointed for his residence.

“Mamma, a prisoner!” cried the little King, jumping up in the carriage. “Oh, poor man, are they taking him to jail?”

“I am afraid so, my little son.”

The tears gathered in the child’s eyes. “Poor, poor man!—Oh, mamma, it is the nice old gentleman who gave me the funny picture!” The picture in question was not intentionally comic. It was a jewelled icon representing St Gabriel of Tatarjé, which the Metropolitan had presented to Prince Michael upon his last birthday.

“Yes, dear, it is.”

“But has he done anything wicked? Will they put him in one of those dreadful places? Oh, mamma, must he go?”

“Ask Count Mortimer, little son. He will be able to tell you.”

“Oh, Herr Graf,” cried the child, as Cyril rode up to the side of the carriage, “is he very bad? Must he go to prison?”

“He has been very bad, but I think he is sorry, Majestät,” responded Cyril, with perfect gravity; “and he need not go to prison if you can get the Queen to forgive him.”

“Mamma, you aren’t sending him to prison?” cried King Michael; “you won’t make him go? Oh, do let him off, please do. It is your own little son who asks you,” and he buried his tear-stained face in his mother’s dress.

“Darling, I should be delighted to let him go,” said the Queen, blushing, and somewhat confused by the presence of the deeply interested crowd which had gathered round the two vehicles, and was listening with the utmost attention to all that passed; “but I am afraid——”

“Will you promise that he shall be good in future, Majestät?” interposed Cyril. “A King’s word must be kept, you know.”

“Oh yes!” cried the child joyfully. “Prisoner, please come out.” The Metropolitan descended from his own carriage, and approaching that of the Queen, kissed the hand which King Michael, talking all the time, held out to him. “I know I ought to call you something else, but I can’t remember it; and you are a prisoner now, aren’t you? Mamma is going to let you off, and not send you to prison, but you must be good now, because I have said you will be, and a King’s word must be kept.”