‘I need the advice of a disinterested friend, one who stands apart from the intrigues which centre round the Servian throne.’
I sat upright on the French chair provided for me, and gazed down at her, outwardly calm and stern as ever, but gripping the throttle of emotions whose strength none can know but myself.
‘My advice will be disinterested in one sense,’ I answered slowly. ‘I care nothing for the plots and conspiracies which, under the name of politics, serve as a substitute for the old brigandage of the Balkans. But I am interested in your happiness.’
The Countess Draga let her eyelids fall for a moment as a quick spasm of pain crossed her face.
‘Do not let us speak of my happiness,’ she said in low tones. ‘It is of Alexander I must think.’
I folded my arms across my chest, and said nothing.
‘He has asked me to be his Consort.’
I did not succeed in quite concealing the astonishment with which I heard this piece of news, as yet unsuspected by Europe, and for which my friend Baron Rothschild would gladly have paid 1,000,000 francs.
‘I refused him,’ the Countess added; ‘I have refused him not once but twice, but he persists.’
‘Kings ought to marry kings’ children,’ I observed, as she seemed to wait for some expression of opinion from me.