A Crowned Queen: The Romance of a Minister of State

by Sydney C. Grier

“It would simply be putting my neck in a noose,” muttered Paschics, gazing apprehensively at the placid face and comfortable girth of the worthy chamberlain.

“I have no objection whatever,” returned Cyril. “You must see for yourself that I risk my life in coming back at all, and the slightest misfortune or accident might lead to our being hunted down like wolves. By all means carry the thing through, Stefanovics. No doubt you have more influence than I have over the Queen, who is not exactly the easiest of ladies to manage.”

“True,” remarked M. Stefanovics sadly. “Count, I have done you an injustice. You alone can carry out this scheme, if any one can do it. I will not venture, for I should only fail, and do harm to others.”

Cyril laughed silently to himself as the two men left the room, and then turned his attention to arranging several matters of importance connected with the great scheme. It was necessary first to write to M. Drakovics; but when the letter was finished he put it into his pocket, and did not post it. Next he busied himself in drawing up a passport for the party of English travellers of whom he had spoken to Paschics, and who comprised a Mrs Weston, her brother, her little son, her nurse, and an Italian courier. The document did not leave Cyril’s hands; but when he had finished with it, it bore other signatures than his, carefully copied from a genuine passport which lay before him on the table. There was one thing which he did not attempt to imitate—the stamp of the frontier official whose duty it was to see that all passports were in order. Cyril had not a stamp at hand, and it would risk suspicion, and certainly cause delay, to send for one, while a bad imitation might arouse doubts as to the genuineness of the whole thing. It went to his heart to set out with the document incomplete; but he knew that it is sometimes necessary to sacrifice technical perfection to practical utility, and after drying his handiwork carefully in the sun, he put it by safely. He had intended after this to take advantage of Dietrich’s absence at dinner to go to his own quarters and pack a small bag with necessaries, hiding it in his office, where the valet would not be likely to find it; but he decided that it was improbable he would be able to carry it, and contented himself with putting two or three indispensable articles in his pockets. There were still various things to be arranged in view of his impending departure, and he spent the afternoon in attending to these. He had his farewell audience of the Queen, dined with the household, and drove to the station with Stefanovics, who was deputed to see him off. There were several dignitaries on the platform, who had come for the same purpose—the mayor of the town, the commandant of the garrison, an archdeacon to represent the Bishop, and one or two others. It was only right that they should be there; but Cyril felt sure that some of them would have found excuses and stayed away if it had not been that they were eager to assure themselves of his departure by the evidence of their own eyes. He stayed on the platform talking to them for some minutes, and then entered his carriage, which was one of those belonging to the royal train, but had been detailed for the service of the Minister of the Household.

“It’s a blessing all that fuss is over!” he said aloud, as the door was shut after he had shaken hands with the officials outside. “Now that we are left to ourselves, Dietrich, I think I will change my things. What is the good of a holiday if one doesn’t wear holiday clothes?”

To Dietrich, who knew that his master shared the incomprehensible dislike of most Englishmen for livery of any kind, it was quite natural that he should be anxious to change his official uniform at once for a suit of ordinary clothes, and the transformation was quickly effected and concealed by the regulation overcoat which had been worn in driving to the station. It was well that this precaution had been taken, for before long a sudden hubbub arose on the platform, followed by a visit of the mayor to the carriage. Sergeivics, with his escort of police, had just been conducted to a third-class compartment, and the gentlemen on the platform were anxious to know of what crime he was accused. Happily Cyril was able to gratify their curiosity by a vivid description of the theft of the cigarette-case, aggravated, as it was, by the possession of the revolver, which had, no doubt, also been purloined, and his account interested them so much that they all crowded into the carriage to hear it. Cyril began to fear that they would insist on travelling with him as far as the next station, which would have complicated matters seriously; but it was as important for them to be in Tatarjé that night as to see him out of it, and they returned to the platform precipitately when the bell rang. The moment for Cyril’s great coup was close at hand; but there was not the slightest trace of excitement visible in his manner as he stretched himself in an arm-chair, and raised his arms behind his head in a long yawn.

“I shan’t want you any more to-night, Dietrich; and don’t come bothering me at every station. Get a good night’s rest; I shall ring fast enough if I want you. And, by the bye, if I don’t call out to you when we get to Bellaviste in the morning, don’t come in and wake me. See that the car is shunted into the siding, and take this letter straight to his Excellency the Premier. You understand? You are not to lose a minute. Then go home: if I have got there before you, it will be all right; if not, wait for orders. You can go now.”

But Dietrich had failed fully to comprehend the order, and it was necessary to repeat and emphasise it, so that the train was already in motion when he betook himself to his own compartment. Cyril, who had drawn up one of the blinds, and was bowing his farewells to the group on the platform, turned with a sudden quickening of the heart as he heard the door shut behind the valet. The speed was increasing; in another moment his time for action would come. He threw off his overcoat, and felt mechanically in his pockets to see whether he had transferred to them everything he wanted. The train moved slowly out of the lighted station into the dark night, and Cyril opened the door of communication, and stepped out on the gangway between the two carriages. Climbing over the railing, he remained for a moment holding to its outer edge, then let himself drop. He fell clear of the line, and rolled out of the way of the train, remaining prostrate at the side of the road until the last carriage had passed, then climbed the bank (the station stood outside the town), and plunged into the wood which fringed it. He had studied his route carefully on the map, and carried a compass on his watch-chain, which he consulted every now and then with the help of a match, so that he succeeded in making his way safely round the outskirts of the town without approaching any house. He was tired, wet, and muddy when he reached at length the wall which surrounded the grounds of the Villa, and he felt it to be an additional grievance that he failed to strike the gate exactly, and had to make a considerable circuit before he came to it. The gate was reached at last, however, and it responded easily and noiselessly to the well-oiled key which he took from his pocket. Crossing the grounds, he came to the shrubbery opposite the terrace, and for some few minutes watched the sentry pacing up and down. Then there came the sound of the opening of a door, and the little red ball of light from a cigar became visible. This was the signal which Cyril had agreed upon with Stefanovics, and the next time that the sentry’s back was turned he crept across the terrace, and arrived in the doorway so suddenly as to startle the chamberlain almost into a cry. Leaving the door ajar, they crept up the narrow winding staircase on which it opened, and which was a relic of the days of the last king of the house of Franza. It communicated with a room which had been used by King Peter for receiving his Ministers—and other persons—and which now served the Queen for holding private audiences. She disliked the secret stair on account of its associations, and had wished to have it bricked up; but Cyril had succeeded in persuading her that it was an interesting historic survival, and might possibly prove useful again, little thinking how soon he was to discover the truth of his own words. One of the only two keys which fitted this door was in his possession by virtue of his office, and the lock moved easily.

“Ask to speak to Baroness von Hilfenstein,” he whispered to Stefanovics, as the latter preceded him into the room; “but on no account let out that I am here until you are sure that no one else can hear what you have to say.”

He waited in darkness behind the partially closed door until the sound of voices showed him that Stefanovics had succeeded in finding some one; but still he was not summoned, and time was flying. Pushing open the door, he appeared in the room, to the accompaniment of a little scream from the Baroness, and an outpouring of self-justification from Stefanovics.