It was a mild day in winter, and Cyril was leaving the Villa after his morning’s work. As he passed along the terrace, the little King ran out from the open French window of one of the Queen’s rooms, and demanded a game. Cyril had scarcely seen the child for some days, and turning at the clamorous summons, held out his hands and helped King Michael to climb up him and seat himself triumphantly on his shoulder. Before he had taken a single step, however, the Queen dashed out of the house and snatched the child from his arms, her eyes blazing with anger.
“You stole my husband from me,” she cried. “At least leave me my son!”
Answer was impossible, and Cyril was about to retire; but the little King did not see the matter in the same light.
“Let me go, mamma!” he cried, wriggling violently. “I want to play with the Herr Graf. I am tired of Lida and nothing but girls. Put me down! put me down!” and he began to kick and struggle, finally striking his mother in the face with his little fist.
“Majestät!” said Cyril reprovingly; but the Queen turned upon him again, with the red mark on her face showing plainly where the blow had been delivered.
“I may be forced to allow you to govern my kingdom, Count, but I do not need your assistance in controlling my own child.”
Cyril bowed and turned away, and the Queen carried the struggling boy back into the house. The incident had not been witnessed by any of the Court, and Cyril found some consolation in this fact, but he was none the less seriously disquieted. He had been much worried of late by what seemed to be signs that the accord between himself and M. Drakovics was less complete than it had been. When the conspirators whom he had baffled by arresting them so unceremoniously were set at liberty, and assured that they were the victims of a mistake in identity, he had been anxious to reduce the O’Malachy’s power of doing harm for the future by having him conducted to the frontier, and warned not to re-enter Thracia. This he had suggested to the Premier, only to receive in reply a telegram, couched in needlessly emphatic terms, refusing him permission to do anything of the kind for fear of offending Scythia. Moreover, there had been unnecessary delay several times in answering his telegrams, while one or two small requests which he had made were disregarded, and these various indications, taken together, led him to surmise that something was wrong. He did not actually suspect M. Drakovics of intriguing either with Scythia or with the Queen against him; but it was quite possible that some one in the Premier’s entourage might be thus engaged, and a personal interview was extremely desirable. He would have asked permission of the Queen to visit Bellaviste weeks ago if it had not been that he foresaw the delight with which she would grant him leave of absence, for who could say to what use she might put her unaccustomed freedom from his guidance? But now he began to think that it might be as well to disregard this risk, since a short absence would lessen the tension which prevailed between them, and perhaps allow the Queen to realise how ill she could do without him. His half-formed resolution was dissipated for the present, however, by an intimation that the Queen could not safely be left to manage her own affairs. He was sitting in his office on the afternoon of the day which had witnessed the scene on the terrace, when a knock at the door announced the advent of Mrs Jones, the little King’s nurse, who came to ask his advice as to the best way of returning to England.
“Which I’ve give the Queen notice, my lord, and good reason, too, and I looks to your lordship to get me my rights, and not see me cheated out of them by no foreigners.”
“I am very sorry to hear this, Mrs Jones; and Lady Caerleon will be very much disappointed to know that you are leaving, I am sure. If it is any little unpleasantness with the other servants, which I could arrange——”
“No, my lord. Not that I haven’t put up with a deal from them, knowing they were foreigners—which they couldn’t not to say be held responsible for—and so didn’t know no better. But when it comes to her Majesty herself callin’ me names, and usin’ language which no lady should use, then, I ask you, my lord, would you have me lay down at her feet to be trampled upon?”