As soon as he had changed his clothes, he went at once to the Premier’s office, where M. Drakovics received him with an effusion which seemed to his suspicious eye to be somewhat forced.
“Ah, my dear Count!” he said, holding out his hand, “I feared I had taken my last leave of you. Since I see you in safety, I need not ask after their Majesties. They are well, I trust?”
“Well, and safe under the protection of Prince Mirkovics. It’s all up with the plot now, although your telegram arrived too late for me to nip it in the bud as I should have liked. By the bye, I think it was truly noble of you to send me a warning, when the success of the plot would have suited your plans so well.”
“My plans?” M. Drakovics looked up quickly.
“Yes; of course it would have taken a load off your shoulders if the King had been converted, and you had only to deal with him in an Orthodox condition. But it’s no use crying over failed plots.”
“You will always have your jests, Count,” M. Drakovics was shuffling his papers busily; “but I fear we have no time for more to-day. Since the King and Queen are in safety, we may proceed, I suppose, to stamp out the rebellion?”
“Quite so. What are your plans? Is this the general idea?” as the Premier placed a document before him. “I see,—a simultaneous advance by river and by rail. Who is going to command? Constantinovics? why, he is a regular old-school Pannonian field-marshal. He will secure his communications, and fool about with supplies, as if he were in a hostile country.”
“We cannot afford to strike and fail, my dear Count.”
“Of course not; but do you anticipate a strenuous resistance?”
“To tell you the truth, I do not. You are aware that the rebels pretend to have her Majesty in their hands? I believe that when their story is proved false, the rebellion will melt away. But in any case it must be crushed.”