There! it was over, and he was conscious that he had made a wretched mull of what he had meant to say, and felt certain that Cyril was grinning behind him, and maturing chaff on the subject of “House of Commons oratory,” but M. Drakovics was translating his words to the Thracians, and they were replying with shouts of applause which echoed back from the mountain-side.
“Long live the English prince! Long live King Carlino! Down with Scythia! Long live Thracia and King Carlino!”
“I say, you know, this won’t do,” Cyril was saying to M. Drakovics, as soon as the three on the balcony could hear each other speak. “What do they mean by talking like that? His name is Philip. He can’t go down to posterity as King Caerleon. It would be as bad as King York or King Lancaster. You must put them right.”
“That we can do in his Majesty’s proclamations,” said M. Drakovics. “The people have grown so much accustomed to the name Carlino that I fear they will always apply it to him. It sounds familiar to their ears, and it is a kind of affectionate diminutive. But with regard to our future plans——” he went on, addressing Caerleon. “Will your Majesty allow me to tell the people that you will start to-day on your journey to Bellaviste?”
“Is it really necessary?” asked Caerleon. “I hate doing things in such a hurry.”
“It is absolutely necessary,” returned M. Drakovics, “that your Majesty should be crowned as speedily as possible. The whole future of your reign may depend upon it.”
“Oh, very well,” said Caerleon. “In for a penny, in for a pound. I have to live for Thracia now, I suppose. I’ll tell my man to pack up.”
He went back into the room before M. Drakovics could forestall him, or even intimate to Cyril that it would look well for him to do his brother’s errands in future, and ran up-stairs to look for Wright, for bells there were none in this primitive hostelry. But Wright and the reason for seeking him were speedily forgotten when he reached the upper balcony, for he saw Nadia coming towards him from the direction of the rooms occupied by the O’Malachy family.
“I hope you are better this morning,” he said, eagerly, hastening to meet her. “I am so glad to see that you are able to be up.”
“But I am always up at six,” said Nadia. “Did you think I was ill?”
“I understood from your mother——” he began, but remembering that to finish would be to charge Madame O’Malachy with deceiving him, he changed the form of his sentence lamely enough, “I saw nothing of you when I got here yesterday, you know, and I was afraid you were not well.”
“Did you expect to find me at the gate waiting for you?” asked Nadia, sharply. “Oh, I did not intend to be so rude,” and she blushed crimson. “I only mean that my room is at the back of the house, and I did not even know you had arrived.”
“I was hoping,” said Caerleon, deliberately, “that we might meet again as friends, though I was so unfortunate as to offend you the last time we had a talk.”
“Now you are trying to make me ashamed of myself for being cross,” said Nadia, “and it is not kind of you. Lord Caerleon,” she broke off suddenly, and surveyed him with puzzled eyes, “has anything happened? What is the matter?”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you look different. Something has happened. What is it?”
“Well, I am once more king elect, or designate, or whatever you like to call it, of Thracia, if that will account for it. I didn’t know that the divinity that doth hedge a king was visible outwardly, but I suppose that’s what you mean.”
“You have accepted the crown?” she asked, anxiously.
“I have accepted it, bearing in mind my last conversation with you. I hope you are pleased with me now?”
“It was what I said that influenced you to consent? You would not have done it otherwise?”
“Scarcely, I think; but you showed me my duty so very clearly that I could hardly turn my back on it. You made it quite evident that you considered I was shirking responsibility when I refused the crown before.”
“But how can it signify what I thought of you? How can my conscience judge for yours? Oh, I have been thinking often since we have been here that I may have led you wrong. I ought to have advised you to see which was the harder to do—to accept or decline the crown—and to choose that.”
“But this is a new standard!” cried Caerleon. “Is it to take the place of the measuring of the responsibilities?”
“Not exactly; only to be used with it. Don’t you see? Perhaps you prefer a responsible position, and then it might be better for you to take a lower place.”
“I don’t quite see it,” said Caerleon; “but no doubt it’s all right, since it satisfies you.”
“Oh, don’t follow me!” she cried, passionately. “I may have led you wrong already. Is it too late to do anything?”
“Quite too late, I’m afraid,” said Caerleon. “I am as much King of Thracia as I can be before I’m crowned, I suppose. Won’t you congratulate me on my elevation, since I owe it to your influence?”
He held out his hand, and Nadia took it, but to his horror she stooped and touched it with her lips. “May God grant your Majesty a long and useful reign!” she said, and turned to fly, but Caerleon caught her wrist.
“Nadia, are you joking?” he said, angrily.
“Let me go! let me go!” she panted. “Oh, please let me go!” The cry seemed to be wrung from her by some sudden sharp pain, and Caerleon saw that her lips were quivering and her eyes full of tears. He loosed his hold, and she made her escape, leaving him gazing stupidly at the hand she had kissed.
“Oh, this little fool!” groaned Madame O’Malachy, at the partially open door of her room, whence she had witnessed the whole scene. “She might have had him at her feet at this moment, and now he may not be able to declare himself for weeks. And for what? A trifle, a caprice, a nothing! I snap my fingers at it! Will nothing but a crowned king serve you, mademoiselle? Surely it is as well to receive a crown with your husband as after him? Ah, these niceties of lovers’ etiquette! Who cares whether the marquis thinks that his prospective kingdom has induced you to accept him, or not? You know, and I know, that you have been in love with him since the second time you saw him. Fool! I have no patience with you,” and hurling these words through her clenched teeth at the absent Nadia, her mother hurried through two or three intermediate rooms and came upon Caerleon through a door at the end of the balcony.
“What, my dear marquis, is it you?” she cried, with a start. “You are early this morning. But perhaps I ought to say ‘your Majesty’? One cannot pretend not to know the reason of M. Drakovics’s presence here.”
“I hope M. Drakovics is happy,” returned Caerleon, in a tone which showed pretty plainly that he himself was not. “I have accepted the offer of the Thracian crown.”
“Then I congratulate the Thracians,” said Madame O’Malachy, heartily. “My dear marquis (you really must excuse my employing the old title), I have seldom heard a more delightful piece of news. The Thracians could not do better, and for yourself it is a situation exactly adapted to your character and talents. You have your opportunity now.”
“I thought so myself until a minute ago,” said Caerleon, gloomily; “but now I begin to doubt it. Nadia will have nothing to say to me.”
“Nadia—my daughter?” with a slight elevation of the eyebrows.
“Yes,” said Caerleon, scarcely noticing the touch ofhauteurwhich the lady had infused into her tone. “She seemed so much disappointed about my having refused the crown before that I thought she would certainly be pleased now, and she—she spoke as if she had never met me before in her life.”
“But that may be quite as well,” returned Madame O’Malachy, gracefully determined not to be baulked of her point. “You must remember that the friendshipà l’anglaisewhich has subsisted hitherto between your Majesty and my daughter cannot continue under present circumstances. You will now occupy very different positions.”
“Is that what Miss O’Malachy is thinking?” asked Caerleon, quickly.
“I have not spoken to her on the subject, but I have no doubt that she has that in her mind.”
“Then might I beg that you will have the kindness to let me see her again at once, madame? I will do my best to disabuse her of the idea.”
“But what will you do, my dear marquis?”
“Ask her to share the throne with me.”
“But it is impossible!” cried Madame O’Malachy. “I cannot hear of such a thing. Your Majesty’s chivalrous sentiments have carried you away, and you are willing to atone for a slight mistake by a lifelong sacrifice. Your friendship was a mistake—I admit it freely, in view of the events which have since come to pass—but we will not make matters worse by overestimating it. I sympathise with you, but I assure you that you need fear no trouble from us. Suffer us simply to retire quietly—we will not force ourselves upon your notice, and my daughter is far too proud to exhibit any regret for what has happened.”
“But you don’t understand, madame,” cried Caerleon, impatiently. “There is nothing to regret in our friendship—on my side, at any rate. Of course I can’t answer for Miss O’Malachy’s feelings, but I am only anxious to replace the friendship by—by something stronger.”
“My dear marquis, I honour your chivalry, but your future is not in your own hands. M. Drakovics will have something to say about it.”
“M. Drakovics will have nothing to say on the subject of my marriage. That is a question I shall settle for myself.”
“But you must consider your kingdom. Much may depend on your marriage, and an alliance with a penniless girl not of royal blood—in modern times, at any rate,” she laughed, “might do you a great deal of harm.”
“I don’t think I am called upon to consider my kingdom to such an extent as that,” said Caerleon. “I am anxious to have the matter settled before I am crowned, so that if the Thracians think themselves entitled to complain, they may do it before I am irrevocably their king.”
“But there is no need to publish your determination,” said Madame O’Malachy, anxiously. “It would sound as though you wished to defy M. Drakovics and his party. And there is another reason why you must proceed very cautiously, and that is Nadia herself. You may trust me—I am an old woman, old and experienced, and Nadia is very young and foolish. As a woman of the world, I can appreciate your willingness to jeopardise your position for her sake; but you know what she is—an eccentric, a fanatic. I am convinced that she fears being thought to pursue you on account of your kingdom, and thinks also that you may have perceived her feelings towards you, and only desire to marry her out of pity.”
Caerleon stood pondering. He knew that the woman before him was false to the core—that very morning had given him another proof of the fact—but her words sounded so likely to be true, and the state of feeling they described so characteristic of Nadia, that he was bound to believe them. After all, she was Nadia’s mother, and ought to understand her, and what interest could she have in misrepresenting things in this case? It was only natural to suppose that she would be more likely to strain every nerve to forward his wishes than to put obstacles in his way. Moreover, he had now confided in her to such an extent that he might as well throw himself on her compassion altogether.
“But what can I do?” he asked. “You will let me see her and plead my cause?”
“Not at present, if you are a wise man,” said Madame O’Malachy. “Leave her to herself for a little. Let her please her pride with the belief that she has repulsed you effectually—her heart will suffer all the more. Then, when you are in your rightful place at Bellaviste, with all your splendour about you, speak to her again. She must see then that you seek her only because you love her, and she will be thankful to perceive it.”
“But how shall I see her at Bellaviste?” asked Caerleon. “Are you going on there?”
“Have you forgotten,” asked Madame O’Malachy, rather reproachfully, “that it has always been our intention to accompany Louis when he goes to try and obtain a post in the Thracian army? Shall we be less likely to visit Thracia now that we have a friend upon the throne?”
“But why not come on with us now?” asked Caerleon. “May I not have the pleasure of receiving you as my guests? I don’t know the capacity of the palace at Bellaviste; but it must certainly be large enough to accommodate your party, if you don’t mind roughing it for a time in a bachelor’s household.”
“A thousand thanks,” said Madame O’Malachy, with her sweetest smile, “but I am afraid we must decline your hospitable proposition. However, we will certainly continue our journey into your kingdom, and no doubt there will be a hotel at Bellaviste which can take us in. Rely upon me as your friend. I am not an enthusiast, I do not pretend to have no regard for the splendours of a throne, but I wish you well, and what help I can give you with this daughter of mine I will.”
And with this assurance of support Caerleon was obliged to be content.
“Whereis the King?” asked M. Drakovics, coming into the coffee-room hastily about an hour later, and finding only Cyril, who was engaged in performing some complicated operation with a bradawl and the strap of a knapsack.
“His Majesty,” returned Cyril, in the choicest ‘Court Circular’ style, “is walking out this morning, and at this moment is probably conversing in a friendly spirit with some of his faithful subjects, through the medium of Mr Louis O’Malachy.”
“These O’Malachys again!” cried M. Drakovics. “This must be stopped!”
He turned angrily to leave the room, but Cyril was at the door before him.
“One moment, monsieur. I wish to know on what terms we are to stand?”
“I do not understand you, milord”—M. Drakovics was astonished—“but I hope to satisfy you later. Meanwhile, are you aware that Colonel O’Malachy and his family leave this place to-day, before his Majesty, for Bellaviste, and intend to reside there for the present? That cannot be allowed.”
“Now we have come to the point,” said Cyril. “I want a plain answer to a plain question, M. Drakovics. Are you and I to work together or not? If we are to be friends, I will tell you at once that you are meditating a very great mistake, and that I should be glad to help you to avoid it.”
“Milord!” The Kossuth of the Balkans looked Cyril up and down in amazement visibly mingled with scorn. “I am highly honoured by your offer of co-operation, but my dull mind fails to perceive its advantages.”
“No?” said Cyril, with unruffled good-humour, “and yet there are two very obvious ones. In the first place, you have to reckon with my influence over my brother. You cannot persuade yourself that you know him as well as I do, and if you consider the matter a little, I think you will see that my advice is quite as likely to be followed as yours, and that the consequences of this might be unpleasant if you and I had the misfortune to disagree. In the second place, although you are very clever and very powerful, you are neither omnipotent nor omniscient, and there are circumstances in which the help of a man who has a certain amount of knowledge of the world, and some slight experience in diplomacy, might possibly stand you in good stead, even though he were the humble individual before you.”
M. Drakovics gasped. The colossal impudence of his sovereign’s brother appeared literally to take away his breath. “If you were not an Englishman,” he said, slowly, “I should think that you wanted to be bought off.”
“But since I am an Englishman,” said Cyril, “you can’t quite see what Thracia could offer me that I should care for; and you are about right there. I am going in for this business just for the fun of the thing, and for the sake of backing up Caerleon. I don’t know, of course, what Mrs Sadleir told you about me in the letter I forwarded; but from what she said when she wrote it, I think she must have let you know what my views were.”
“She did,” said M. Drakovics, with some hesitation, “but still——” He looked thoughtfully at Cyril for a moment, and then spoke quickly, “You have no doubt studied carefully the present position of affairs in the Balkans, milord. What should be my course at the moment with regard to Roum, which holds suzerain rights over Thracia?”
“Despatch a special messenger, well provided with money, to Czarigrad immediately,” said Cyril, without an instant’s pause. “Make the Government there see that the election of an Englishman as king is a fresh bulwark against Scythian aggression. Secure their moral support at any cost, and get an assurance, no matter what you have to pay for it, that even if Scythia brings pressure on them to censure or disavow your action, they will at least take no active steps against you.”
“Excellent!” cried M. Drakovics. “My dear friend, the messenger has already started. How your ideas jump with mine! But tell me, what next?”
“Send off immediately notes to the various Powers, informing them of my brother’s election, and inviting their sovereigns to be present at the coronation. Once the despatches are gone, don’t lose a minute. Instead of heading straight for Bellaviste, let us go at once to the nearest city or monastery where an archbishop is to be found. Beg, borrow, or buy a crown—you could make one with two or three of those gold plates from theicons, fastened together—and get Caerleon crowned without the smallest delay. Remonstrances from the Powers will be beginning to pour in by that time, of course; but they will have to follow you about the country, and you won’t open them until after the ceremony. Then you will regret that they arrived so late that, in the bustle and rush attendant upon the coronation, they remained unnoticed.”
“Oh, my friend, why were you not born a Thracian?” cried M. Drakovics, seizing Cyril in his arms, and imprinting a fervent kiss on each of his cheeks. “Your plan is almost perfect: it has only one drawback—that it is impossible. Every King of Thracia must be crowned in the chapel of St Peter at Bellaviste. It is a small, rude building, standing in the quadrangle of the palace, and in it Alexander Franza, first of the name—the patriot king—saw a vision of St Peter, the night before the great battle in which he burst the Roumi yoke. No other coronation would be valid in the opinion of the people, nor can the crown be legally removed from the chapel. It is kept in a great chest built into the wall, of which I hold one key, the Metropolitan another, and the king the third. I have it now to deliver to his Majesty, but none of the keys will open the box without the other two. Your brother cannot be crowned until we reach Bellaviste, for no make-shift crown would be tolerated by the Thracians.”
“It is an enormous pity,” said Cyril. “Time is everything to us just now. Why not disregard the superstition of the people, and spring on them a king ready crowned, and safe on his throne?”
“Ah, you do not know my countrymen,” said M. Drakovics, sorrowfully. “Such a thing would be an outrage, a defiance of their religious feelings. No, we must wait until we reach Bellaviste; but I will take your advice as to the protests from the Powers. What is your feeling about Scythia?”
“Send the same note to her as to the other Powers; but let it be well understood privately that if she makes one hostile movement, you are prepared to contest every inch of ground, and will at the same moment throw yourself upon the protection of Pannonia, who will be only too ready to interfere if there is any likelihood of war in the Balkans, and will be supported by her allies. Meanwhile, see that your army is ready to mobilise at the shortest notice, and look out for Scythian spies.”
“But that is my very point!” cried M. Drakovics. “These O’Malachys are Scythian spies, all of them. That is one imperative reason for their not being allowed to approach Bellaviste, and the other is that Madame O’Malachy is anxious to entrap the King into marrying her daughter.”
“Let us take the charges one at a time,” said Cyril, calmly. “The O’Malachy and his wife are spies—there is no doubt of that—but for that very reason I would not only welcome them to Bellaviste, but I would find room for them in the palace itself, if I could.”
“You are joking!” said M. Drakovics, in astonishment.
“Not at all, I assure you. Think a moment. The more completely we can treat the O’Malachy family as my brother’s guests, the better we can have them under observation. There is such a thing as a censorship even of private letters and telegrams in disturbed times, I believe; and it would be easier to work it with people we knew, and on whom we kept a constant watch, than with obscure persons whose doings might escape our attention. Again, expelled from Thracia, which is what I suppose you would suggest, the O’Malachys would linger just across the frontier, setting in motion a whole horde of spies, all of whom we could not hope to discover, while we could never be sure that they themselves had not re-entered the kingdom in some disguise. It certainly seems a bold thing to admit them into the very heart of our defences, but they would be clever if they managed to see more than they were meant to see.”
“But about Mademoiselle?” asked M. Drakovics, anxiously. “The King cannot marry her. He must form an alliance which will strengthen his throne.”
“You are right,—he must. But did you intend to tell him so? I know Caerleon a good deal better than you do, and you may take my word for it that as soon as you had finished your remarks he would go straight to Miss O’Malachy and lay the crown at her feet. So far as he is concerned, you must let the matter take its course. Nothing can be said to him.”
“But how, then, would you prevent it?” cried M. Drakovics. “Is the girl to be kidnapped and carried off?”
“My good sir—no! Do you want all Europe in a ferment, and Caerleon throwing up the kingdom to go and look for her? The O’Malachy and his wife would make the finest political capital possible out of such a tale. No; we must act merely by means of moral suasion, you and I and Miss O’Malachy.”
“Miss O’Malachy? The girl?” gasped M. Drakovics.
“Exactly—the young lady. You are a very clever man, M. Drakovics, but you have not had the advantage of spending a year in the British Embassy at Pavelsburg, and making an exhaustive study of Scythian society ladies. I know well enough the Cercle Evangélique in which Miss O’Malachy was brought up—not that it is in favour in high quarters, quite the contrary; but I was interested in it out of curiosity. Its members may be called fanatics—they certainly are not worldly-wise—and I am pretty sure that Princess Soudaroff has made her god-daughter as great an enthusiast as she is herself. Now you will see why I am ready to lay aside in her case the usual rule of considering every one a knave until he or she is proved otherwise, and why I expect her to do our business for us.”
“But how?”
“I will lay the case before her, and point out that Caerleon will ruin his cause and jeopardise his crown if he marries her. Then she will refuse him for his own sake.”
“Impossible, milord! Refuse a crown?”
“For his sake, I tell you. That’s what the girl is like. Well, will you leave it to me? If I fail, after fair trial, I give you full leave to break off the match in your own way.”
“I agree, milord, though I cannot believe you will succeed. No woman on earth would decline a crown, to be shared with the man whom, according to you, she loves passionately. But you shall try. By all means, milord, we work together, if you please.”
“I thought so,” laughed Cyril to himself, as M. Drakovics went out.
A little later, he saw from the balcony the O’Malachys’ travelling-carriage coming round to the door, and watched while the family took their places in it. Madame O’Malachy, gracious and graceful as ever, was nodding pleasantly to the landlady as the luggage was put up, and her husband was cracking a joke with the travelled waiter, through whom all communications with the authorities of the inn were obliged to be conducted. Louis, surly and unapproachable as usual, took his seat in the carriage without a word, and Nadia was equally silent as she sat upright by her mother’s side, her face covered with a thick veil, which aroused Cyril’s suspicions instantly.
“She has been crying,” he said. “What a pity her complexion isn’t like her mother’s, for a little powder and paint would put it all right in that case. What Caerleon can see in her I cannot imagine.”
In spite of his antipathy to the O’Malachys, he kept his place on the balcony and waved a farewell to the travellers, watching the carriage as it wound round the curves of the rough mountain road until it was finally out of sight, when he went back into the coffee-room to join Caerleon and M. Drakovics, who were discussing the question of the costume in which the new King was to make the journey to his capital. Evening dress and a tall hat formed M. Drakovics’s idea of the clothes suitable to the occasion; but Wright, who was assisting uninvited at the discussion, and who bore a grudge already against the Premier for inducing Caerleon to remain in Thracia, flatly declined to “make a tomfool” of his master by helping him to don a swallow-tail coat in the daytime. Caerleon himself thought it would be the proper thing to adopt the Thracian national dress, as a delicate compliment to the people; but M. Drakovics objected to this on the ground that the Thracians were expecting an Englishman, and would be disappointed if they found him dressed like themselves.
“Will your Majesty not wear your uniform?” he asked, offering another suggestion in his turn. “That of your Volunteer cavalry, I mean?”
“My Yeomanry uniform?” said Caerleon. “I haven’t got it here. In fact, I should have no right to wear it any longer if I had, for I resigned my commission before I left home, because the expenses connected with the troop were too much for me to meet in my present circumstances.”
“But your uniform’s ’ere, all the same, my lord,” said Wright. “If your lordship remembers, it was sent on with the ’eavy luggage before the troop was decided to be given up, in case there was any grand doin’s while your lordship were at the castle,” and he nodded vaguely in the direction which he imagined to be that of Château Temeszy.
“Oh, well, if you’ve got it, you may as well wear it, Caerleon,” said Cyril. “It’s only a cast-off now, after all, and if Ceylon coolies and African chiefs are allowed to sport discarded British uniforms, I don’t see why the King of Thracia shouldn’t.”
“Your comparisons are not exactly flattering to Thracia,” said Caerleon, “and I don’t think it’s quite the thing to sport the old uniform under the circumstances. Ordinary riding-togs are the best thing for a long ride like this, and if it’s absolutely necessary, one can add a top hat and a black coat before entering Bellaviste;” and to this decision he adhered, in spite of the Premier’s remonstrances and of Cyril’s jeers.
It had been arranged that the King and his companions were to ride the greater part of the way to Bellaviste, escorted by the Thracians who had accompanied M. Drakovics, and most of whom had brought horses with them; for although a railway from the frontier to the capital was nearly completed, it had not yet been opened for passenger traffic. It was a picturesque procession which wound down the mountain-side, headed by Caerleon and M. Drakovics; but when the level ground was reached the symmetry of the march was much disturbed, for the younger men among the Thracians broke the line out of pure gladness, racing their horses against one another, and riding hither and thither on either side of the main body. Whenever a village was reached, the inhabitants were summoned to the church by the ringing of the bell, and Caerleon, standing on the steps, was proclaimed king by M. Drakovics. Everywhere the people poured forth in delight to meet the party, bringing offerings of bread and salt, which were to be touched by the King and afterwards consumed by the givers.
On these occasions Cyril generally remained in the background, afraid of being caught laughing, as he told M. Drakovics, to the no small indignation of the Premier. Wright shared his objection to publicity, but for a different reason, feeling very uneasy in his mind as to the whole proceeding, now that he understood its import, and not at all sure that it was consistent with his duty to Queen Victoria to become a subject of Caerleon. There was an unhappy consciousness that something was wrong about his whole aspect, which would have afforded Cyril infinite amusement at any other time; but now, as from his commanding position on horseback he watched his brother’s close-cropped fair head towering above the unkempt locks of his new subjects, he was busy trying to enter into the feelings of the Thracians. Mothers brought their children to look at Caerleon, for good luck, as they said, “that their eyes might see the King’s face”; old men came tottering up to touch his coat or his riding-whip, and to call down blessings on his head. It was all too absurdly medieval, thought Cyril, as the office-bearers of the little towns came hurrying to take the oath of allegiance to their new King, and the peasants crowded round to entreat him to raise an army to conquer Scythia, in which every man of them would enlist. Why should they make all this fuss about an unimaginative Englishman, who merely looked uncomfortable when a more than usually fervent assurance of devotion was translated to him, and who could say nothing in return but that he would try to do his best for the people and the country? There could be no idea of Divine Right in this case, for how could such a sentiment consist with the popular election of the monarch? and as for loyalty, how could they feel loyalty to a man of whom they knew nothing but that he was an English prince, for whom M. Drakovics vouched as a suitable candidate for the throne? Cyril decided at last that they regarded Caerleon as the incarnation of the spirit of the late revolution, and as a bulwark against Scythia and the return of the House of Franza; but the Thracians themselves would probably have explained their delight much more simply by saying that they had a king at last, that he was young, good-looking, and fair-haired, and that he spoke courteously and looked like a soldier.
After three days spent in this kind of travelling the party came in sight of Bellaviste, and here they were met by what M. Drakovics called the “Sacred Band,” but which was known to military critics as the crack regiment of the Thracian army. It had been recruited on the classical principle, the men being divided into little groups of five or ten, all hailing from the same village, while in the same way each company represented a district, and each battalion a province.
“This regiment, your Majesty,” said M. Drakovics, as he presented the officers to Caerleon, “is the backbone of your army. Representative, from its composition, of the whole nation, it was the first to declare for freedom, and when it had done so, the doom of the House of Franza was sealed. I can assure you that the Sacred Band, to which, with your gracious permission, I will from to-day grant the honour of calling itself the Carlino Regiment, will prove to be the bulwark of your throne.”
The grant of its new name was received with great enthusiasm by the regiment, which was formed up for inspection, and when this ceremony was over, proceeded to escort the King into his capital. M. Drakovics, riding as usual beside his sovereign, pointed out the chief features of interest on the road. The city of Bellaviste itself was situated on a hill, which rose steeply from the river, but fell away gradually on the other sides. The highest portion of the hill was occupied by the palace, which with its gardens was surrounded by a strong wall capable of defence against a foe unprovided with artillery. Below this, on three sides, the houses of the town covered the slopes as far as the lowlands, while a broad rampart ran round the whole, set with towers at intervals.
“That is all our work since the revolution,” said M. Drakovics, pointing to this rampart with pride. “Under the Franzas, the money voted for fortifications was all spent on excavating and arming useless batteries along the river-front, which no foe would think of attacking, while the town was left defenceless.”
“I don’t think you are giving King Peter the credit he deserves,” said Cyril. “If his batteries on the river-face are well placed, he ought to be able to command the whole channel, and his position would be most important in view of a European war. Matters would be very much in his hands, for unless he chose, the Pannonian gunboats could not get out to sea, nor could the Scythian war-ships get up the river. The great danger would be that he might find himself taken in the rear. I suppose he meant to see to that when he had finished his batteries.”
“Our views were not so exalted, milord,” said M. Drakovics. “Safety was our great consideration, and when we were free our first thought was to erect a wall, which, if it could not stand against modern artillery, would at any rate serve to resist any insurrectionary force.”
“And to whom is the defence of the wall intrusted?” asked Caerleon. “To the Sacred Band?”
“No, indeed,” answered the Premier. “Their barracks are two miles away from the city, on that farther hill. The people were afraid that if their king had a regiment at his command in Bellaviste, he might use it to overthrow the constitution. The city is garrisoned by the city guard, which is entirely composed of young men belonging to Bellaviste families. One company of this forms the palace guard, with a very elaborate uniform and special rights. It was the favourite corps of King Peter Franza, and we scarcely expected that its members would be willing to fall in with the new state of things, particularly when we were forced to deprive them of some of their privileges. But the officers are all staunch—we took care of that.”
“Did your care extend to giving the palace guard as many occasions of discontent as possible?” asked Cyril. “You owed the success of your revolution to the co-operation of the army, and the army must be very dense if it has not learnt the lesson. What you will have to guard against in the future is a military revolt, and it sounds to the uninitiated as though you were carefully working one up.”
“We were obliged to deprive the guard as far as possible of its power of mischief, milord. In its former state it was a standing menace, but under its present officers it is excellently affected to the Government.”
At the gate of the city the Sacred Band handed over its escort duties to the guard, which was paraded for the King’s inspection, after which all the troops fell in for the march through the streets. The houses were gaily decorated, and the windows and roofs crowded with people, who welcomed Caerleon with shouts of joy. It was still early in the day, and M. Drakovics had arranged a programme of events. Orders had been sent forward to prepare for the coronation; but it was found impossible to complete the arrangements before the morrow, and all that could be done on this occasion was to visit the hall of the Assembly, in order to receive the loyal addresses of the Legislative body, and their oath of allegiance. Then followed the reception of addresses from the municipality of Bellaviste, and as many other local authorities as had been able to get them ready in time; after which came lunch at the Hôtel de Ville, and a state progress through the town. Further receptions followed this, and the events of the day concluded with a parade of the palace guard in the courtyard of the palace. It needed all M. Drakovics’s powers of persuasion to induce his sovereign to conduct a third inspection after his round of duties; but he represented so forcibly the disappointment which would be felt in the city if any slight were offered to the guard, that Caerleon yielded. They were a fine body of men, wearing a very handsome, if somewhat foppish, uniform, and their officers were seasoned old soldiers, whose aspect presented a curious contrast to that of the rank and file. One more speech, translated by M. Drakovics, was necessary here, and this duty performed, Caerleon entered his palace with a sigh of relief. Owing to the delay in the coronation arrangements, which included a state banquet, no special function had been fixed for that evening, except that the town was to be illuminated later on; and although M. Drakovics would have liked to linger at the palace and talk international politics, Caerleon’s disinclination for further conversation on the subject was so extremely pronounced that he found it impossible to remain, and the brothers were left alone together.
“Call this being king?” said Caerleon, when he and Cyril met at dinner in the comparatively small room which they had chosen out of the wilderness of state apartments as their dining-room when by themselves, for there were few regular court officials at present. The chief functionaries had all gone into exile with the late king, and it had not been possible to appoint their successors as yet, so that matters were in the hands of such of the less important officials as had adopted the cause of the revolution. These had not yet acquired the reverential obtuseness which would have enabled those whose places they had taken to maintain their position about the king as long as etiquette required, in spite of his disinclination for their society. Accordingly they effaced themselves obediently when their sovereign intimated that their attendance was not further desired that night, and it did not strike Caerleon that even the freedom he now enjoyed would have been impossible in a properly constituted court. “I call it being a slave, no less,” he went on. “What a luxurious beast old Franza must have been! I never saw anything like the rooms up-stairs. Well, if luxury could compensate him for all the bother and fuss, he deserved it.”
“‘Uneasy lies the head——’” began Cyril.
“Oh, shut up, and don’t quote moral platitudes,” said Caerleon, wearily. “I tell you what, Cyril, there are two things we’ll do. We’ll look out some attic place where we can smoke in peace, with two chairs in it and a rug on the floor, and we will break through that absurd rule of never going out without an escort. I mean to do the Haroun-al-Raschid business, and poke about a littleincog.”
“All right,” said Cyril; “I’ll be Grand Vizier. We will get hold of a couple of fur caps and these Thracian cloaks with high fur collars, and have some fun. Shall we begin to-night with the illuminations, or are you fagged out?”
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Caerleon. “Root out some cloaks, will you? There are servants enough, and it’s a charity to give them something to do. It’ll be all right if we are in by eleven o’clock, when some of those chaps from the town are coming to serenade us.”
Through the medium of Wright, who was preparing very reluctantly to resign the care of his master’s personal belongings into the hands of the new servants and return to his natural sphere, the charge of the stables, Cyril procured the required disguises, and he and his brother wrapped themselves up and slipped out. The palace was built round a square courtyard, in the midst of which stood the rude little chapel of St Peter, where the workmen had been busied all day in making preparations for the coronation. As the servants were all at supper, and the guards in their own hall, only the sentries were to be seen, and Caerleon and Cyril stole along in the shadow, giving the password when it was demanded, and reaching the gardens in safety. A private gate, to which they alone possessed a key, supplied them with the means of exit, and they descended the steep street and mingled with the crowd which was admiring the illuminations. These were more ambitious than successful, and although the Thracians were full of delight, Cyril turned up his nose at the display, and commented on it in disparaging whispers.
“Itisrather slow here,” said Caerleon, stopping short suddenly. “Let us go and look up the O’Malachys.”
It was in Cyril’s mind to say, “I wondered how soon you would get to that,” but he held his tongue, and followed Caerleon to the Hôtel Occidental, the whereabouts of which the King had discovered in the course of his progress through the town. Keeping their cloaks well up to their faces, they passed through the hall without being recognised, and were conducted up-stairs to the O’Malachys’ sitting-room, where they found the Herr Oberst himself, Louis, and Nadia. Madame O’Malachy was suffering from a bad headache, and had gone early to her room.
“Indeed and ’tis very condescending in your Majesty to come and see us like this,” said the O’Malachy, when he had apologised for his wife’s absence. “Sure ’twas only an hour ago I was saying to Louie here, ‘What will we do about paying our respects to the King? Will we call upon um, or wait until he sends for us?’ And we couldn’t make up our minds about ut at all.”
“That’s not true,” said Cyril to himself. “I’m pretty sure you decided to wait until Caerleon came and looked you up, which you guessed he would do before long.”
“For pity’s sake,” said Caerleon, sinking into the chair which Louis pushed towards him, “leave the kingdom alone for a little while, O’Malachy. I am sick to death of it. Here, at any rate, let me have a little respite.”
“As you please,” said the O’Malachy, with a gracious wave of the hand. “I suppose a king may take a holiday like other people if he wants ut. You will find Liberty Hall here, whenever you like to look in.”
Caerleon sighed contentedly, and leaned back in his chair. The room looked comfortable and home-like, very different from the gorgeous solitudes at the palace. The O’Malachy, white-haired and soldierly, with a sly twinkle in his eye, was the picture of a courteous host. Nadia sat close by, under the light, with her work; and Louis, buried in a Bellaviste weekly journal, seemed less out of harmony with his surroundings than usual. The place was a haven of rest. But rest in itself was not sufficient for complete happiness, and Caerleon’s state of contentment did not last long. Cyril, watching from the background, was no better pleased. Before the evening was over, he had lost patience altogether with Nadia. Why did she sit there stiffly, in the full blaze of the electric light, working with unremitting assiduity at some coarse and unlovely garment for the poor, and refusing to answer any remark except in monosyllables? She would not take Caerleon into the conservatory to show him the flowers, as he asked her, nor did she respond to her father’s suggestion that she should point out to him the view from the balcony. There she sat, never looking up, sewing away as if for dear life, and acting as an effectual damper on the conversation of the rest, while Cyril was longing for a smoke with Louis and his father, and one or two of the latter’s stories, which were not altogether suited for ladies’ ears. All that Caerleon wanted was to be left alone with her, but she succeeded in baffling all his efforts, and Cyril waxed furious over her foolishness. Did she really imagine that by dint of coyness and coldness she could keep her lover from making her an open avowal of his feelings? Surely she must know that he would insist upon a plain answer, and that it would be impossible to put him off for ever? Caerleon would hear her decision from her own lips at one time or another, and the sooner she dismissed him and bade him turn his mind to other subjects the better.
These thoughts were seething in Cyril’s brain all the evening; but Nadia remained unconscious of their import and as immovable as before. The only time she exhibited any animation was when the brothers rose to go.
“You have not seen much of this place yet,” she said to Caerleon as he bade her good-night, “but I have gone about a good deal yesterday and to-day. There is plenty for you to do. The drunkenness is awful. You have before you as much work as you can wish.”
A chuckle from Louis followed her eager speech, and Caerleon had no opportunity to say more than that he would give his best attention to the matter, before Cyril hurried him away. They passed through the streets almost in silence, reached the palace without attracting notice, and after enduring patiently a long performance from the town band, went to bed.
“I feelI’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 thedébris.
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 againincognito. 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 theirsalon.”
“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?”