First marched the Guards, their band playing the "Rothlied," which had now become the national anthem. Then came the Red Hussars with their bright uniforms, bay chargers, and gaily-pennoned lances. Then the Guides on skis—a popular contingent, judging from the cheers they drew. Then the Queen's Bodyguard, with Von Hügelweiler at their head. Then the gilt, lumbering State carriage, with its solitary occupant, a pale little figure, bowing to right and left, smiling, nervous, pathetically isolated,—a pearl in a huge gold setting. Next came distinguished personages on horseback, amongst them Trafford on a great chestnut charger, and Father Bernhardt in dead black, seated on a big mare of the same funereal hue. Then Dragoons, then Police with Doctor Matti in dark uniform and cocked hat. More carriages and powdered coachmen; more Dragoons, more Guards, Guides, and Grenadiers, with a strong contingent of Horse Artillery to wind up with.
Nothing was lacking either in the splendour of the procession or the enthusiasm of the onlookers.
Within the cathedral the solemn ceremony of coronation was conducted by the Archbishop of Weidenbruck, who maintained the traditional enmity to Karl exhibited by his predecessor. And the vast Gothic building was crowded with nobles and dignitaries, and a great many others who were very far from being noble or dignified, but who had been admitted lest the many absentees should leave conspicuous gaps on the marble pavement. For there were many of the older families of Grimland to whom the events of the last few days were abhorrent, and who regarded the haste of the coronation as something shameless and indecent. Neither, of course, were there any foreign representatives present. Grimland was not a great power, but its callous condonence of a crime had shocked the moral sense of Christendom. But Bernhardt had insisted on rapidity of action, and for the moment his word was law.
After the ceremony came the State luncheon in the Muschelsaal, an interminable affair of many viands and divers vintages. Trafford,—seated between a Grafinn of aristocratic lineaments and a deputy's wife with plebeian features and a shrill scheme of attire,—ate little and thought much. His eyes were constantly on the white-faced girl who sat on the big gilded chair at the head of the centre table. He wondered if he had ever seen anything so pale and sad in his life. The girl who had faced outlawry and risked arrest with a light heart and laughing lips seemed crushed and smothered by the pomp and circumstance of her present dignity. She talked and smiled and tasted food and drink, but the Princessin Gloria was dead, and a poor substitute sat in her gorgeous coronation robes as Grimland's Queen.
In time the long repast came to its end, the guests departed, and those who were bidden repaired to the Council in the Throne-room.
At this the Queen, Father Bernhardt, Dr. Matti, Von Hügelweiler, and George Trafford were present. The captain of the Guides ignored the American with studied scorn. The latter responded with an almost imperceptible but intensely irritating smile. So far he had triumphed, for he had occupied a post of great honour in the procession, and Von Hügelweiler felt his enemy's insolence like a galling wound.
The men in turn proffered formal congratulations to the freshly-crowned Sovereign. Gloria thanked them with a determined effort at graciousness.
"Most women, my good friends, have one day in their lives," she concluded with the ghost of a smile. "This is mine. I have had my experience. I know what it feels like to drive through a mile and a half of cheering men and women, to sit in a gilded carriage with a myriad eyes focussed on my poor, pale face. I know the solemn moment when the sacred oil is poured on my hair and the golden rim of sovereignty set on my brow. I have dreamed of these things, and the dream was at least as real as the reality. It is a wonderful thing to be a Queen—but—but——"
"But what, madam?" asked Dr. Matti.
The big doctor looked rather more ridiculous as Chief of Police than as a drenched revolutionary in the Cathedral Square. He was the only one present who seemed out of place in the sumptuous Throne-room. Von Hügelweiler was an aristocrat, and a handsome one at that. Bernhardt, despite his wild, black eyes, was a man of breeding and palpable distinction. Trafford, with his bold features, fierce moustache, and picturesque green uniform, might have been a Polish count of bluest blood and innumerable quarterings. But Matti, with his big hands, heavy features, and ungainly figure, was plebeian from the soles of his enormous feet to the tips of his spatulate fingers. The romance of the situation had no appeal for him. He served the Queen, not because she was young and beautiful, but because he honestly believed Karl to have been a cruel and corrupt monarch, and he hoped for a regenerate and better ordered State under his successor. He represented the prose of the revolution, the grim sense of duty which often makes revolutionaries absolutely callous of individual suffering, so long as their concept of human happiness be furthered.