IX
THE DEATH OF QUEEN DRAGA
It is with painful feelings, and only after long consideration, that I have resolved to lift the veil from the tragic mystery which surrounds the fate of the Queen who perished under the knives of assassins in Belgrade in the month of June 1903.
The hesitation I have felt in approaching this melancholy story is due to reasons of a personal character. Many years before, when the late Queen of Servia occupied a private station, it was my lot to meet her, and to fall under the spell of that fascination which this extraordinary woman possessed over men, and which will cause her to be remembered in history with Helen and Cleopatra, and all those enchantresses who have involved kingdoms in ruin by their charms.
I had no right to suppose that the Countess, as she then was, distinguished me from the crowd of those who paid homage to her; but yet it seems as though I had in some manner inspired her with a feeling of confidence and regard warmer than that usually felt by any woman for a man who is neither her lover nor her kinsman.
I believe myself to be the only survivor of the tragedy who possesses the key to that strange and terrible career, and that in imparting my knowledge to the world I am discharging what has become a sacred duty to the dead.
With this apology I will come straight to the history.
It was some years since I had seen or heard anything of the Countess Draga, though, of course, I was aware, in common with all well-informed students of contemporary politics, of the passion which she had inspired in the young King of Servia, when I was astonished by receiving one day a private letter from her, imploring me to come to Belgrade at once to advise her on a matter of the highest importance.
I lost no time in obeying the summons, by which I was singularly moved, since there is only one thing which can ever be of the highest importance to a woman.
It was in the courtyard garden of an old stonewalled Servian house—more like a fortified farmhouse than a private mansion—that the revelation burst on my ears which was so soon to startle the capitals of Europe.
A fountain plashed into a marble basin strewn with rose leaves, and the faint scent of myrtle and lemon blossom came from the curtain of shrubs which screened the gateway in the thick grey wall. The beautiful woman whose name was the object of maledictions throughout a continent, reclined on a low couch heaped with Oriental cushions, and fixed her dark eyes on me with a tragic intensity of appeal, as she confessed her secret.