“No, never.”
“That shows that they were convinced you were not the Queen. I thought so.”
“Oh, but wait and hear the rest. We never found out that we were watched again, and we never saw any one in authority. Sometimes they used to send messages to me, but always through one of the other ladies, and the servants were always most respectful. They never came into the room where I was. On the second day we heard a great noise in the street, and the servants told some one who asked about it that the Jews were being driven out, and then we heard nothing more until the day before yesterday. We were terribly dull; but we knew that so long as they continued to take me for the Queen, it meant that they had not captured her Majesty, so we were happy. Then, that day, we heard fighting—real fighting, with cannon, not like the driving out of the Jews. We were all very much excited, and trying all the windows in turn in the hope of being able to see what was going on, when the door opened suddenly, and the Bishop came in, unannounced. Even at that moment the rest remembered their parts, and I said in German, ‘Will your Beatitude be pleased to inform me what is happening?’ But instead of answering, he came close to me, and glared into my face, and then said, ‘The Government forces are besieging us, madame. One of their spies whom we have captured informs us of an extraordinary rumour, that the Queen is at Bellaviste, and not here. Is this true? If it is, cut short the farce, and put an end to this bloodshed.’ I had just time to think that if the Queen was safe at Bellaviste there was no need to play my part any longer; but before I could answer he pulled aside my veil, and cried out, ‘You are not the Queen! Come with me instantly.’ He gripped me by the wrist and dragged me away, out of the room, down the stairs, and into the outer courtyard, which was full of the rebels—soldiers and civilians mixed. Some were defending the walls, and I caught sight of the commandant among them; but the greater number were standing about in groups and quarrelling, while every now and then a shell exploded at or near the gate. I realised then that the Government troops must be in the town, and attacking the palace itself; but I had no more time to think, for as soon as the rebels saw the Bishop holding me by the wrist they gave a howl and rushed towards me. I was terrified; but the Bishop called out, ‘Wait! This is not the Queen. We have been deceived. The Queen has never been in our hands at all, and there is nothing to fight for. Let us surrender and save our lives!’ Then suddenly he tore off the widow’s cap from my head, and the veil with it, so roughly that all my hair came down” (Baroness Paula’s flaxen plaits were celebrated in Thracian Court circles), “and they saw at once that I was not the Queen. He let go my wrist for the moment, and my mother seized it—she had followed us out—and dragged me back into the house and up-stairs again, and the rebels were too busy with their own affairs to follow us. It was not long before M. Vassili Drakovics came to us, and told us that the Government forces were masters of the place, for the rebels had seized the commandant and the Scythian officer who was helping him, and insisted on a surrender. And that ends our adventures, Count.”
“I scarcely know whether to admire more the spirit with which you went through the adventures, or the grace with which you relate them, Baroness,” said Cyril, and followed up this compliment with others addressed to the rest of the ladies, until they were all on the best of terms with themselves; and even Baroness von Hilfenstein relaxed into a smile, while averring that Count Mortimer was such a frivolous person that she could never see how any one thought it safe to intrust him with the management of affairs of state.
It would have astonished the good lady if she could have known of the relief with which Cyril parted from his charges at the Palace, after conducting them to the Queen’s presence, and went home to ponder his earlier theories in the new light he had just obtained. Sitting at his ease in his private sanctum, which no one but Dietrich was allowed even to approach, he set to work to construct a hypothesis that should fit the facts.
“Let us see how it works out,” he said to himself. “I don’t think Drakovics originated the plot, for he would know that Hercynia and Pannonia would have to be reckoned with if it ever came out. No; the O’Malachy was the moving spirit once more. His big plot failed before; but he foresaw that if he was content with a little one he might lug Drakovics into it. It was very simple: Drakovics wanted the King converted, but durst not take it in hand for himself; the O’Malachy and the Tatarjé people were willing to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for him—on conditions, no doubt. The final terms were contained either in that letter he showed me, or, as I believe, in a much more explicit one for which that was substituted by Vassili. The opportunities of communication would be furnished at first by the correspondence about the post for the commandant’s brother, and the last touches were put by Peter Sergeivics. He had ample opportunity for seeing any of the conspirators when he came to Tatarjé before appearing at the Villa at all. Then Drakovics bethinks himself that it is just possible something may turn up later to connect him with the plot, and he sends me a vague and non-committal telegram as a guarantee of good faith, arranging that it is not to arrive until after I have left Tatarjé. It reaches me a little too early; but I am already in possession of the facts—some of them, that is. Naturally Drakovics is thunderstruck in the morning when he learns from Dietrich that I have stayed behind. His only chance of success now is to let the conspirators catch us before we reach Prince Mirkovics’s. Most fortunately I gave him no details of our plans; but I am convinced that he let the Tatarjé people know in what direction we were to be looked for, so that we were waited for at Ortojuk even before our meeting with the sub-prefect. Upon my word, instead of complaining of bad luck, I am astonished at my own luck in getting them through at all. If it had not been for that change of clothes at the farm, we must have been caught.”
Rising from his chair, Cyril began to stroll up and down the room, still thinking busily, and biting the end of his moustache.
“And the net result of this is,” he went on, “that to save his schemes, Drakovics plotted deliberately against both Ernestine’s life and mine, for he must have known what would happen if we were caught. And now he will be in constant terror lest anything of this should come out. He has bribed the O’Malachy with his freedom, and the Bishop with—well, it does not all appear yet; I shall be interested to observe what it is. The spy was sent in to warn the Bishop to throw up the sponge, which he did very neatly. The mayor was probably a dupe, I think; but the other three knew after the first morning that the Queen had never been in their hands.
“And now, what is the upshot to be?” Cyril sat down again to consider. “My dear Drakovics, I have never exactly loved you; but I had a foolish fancy that you played fair towards your own side. That sweet dream is now gone; but I don’t deny that this particular trick is yours. You hold all the cards—you are a Thracian, popular, and in power—and I am in a fix, in a hole, in a very, very tight place. You will stick at nothing now to get rid of me; but I am not going to make you a present of the rope with which to hang me. Nothing would suit you better at this moment than to get wind of my little affair with Ernestine, but I don’t intend that you shall. Until I have something up my sleeve to play against you, you shall hear nothing about any desire for the alteration of the Constitution. Bluff is no good here, or I could play a glorious game; but there is too much at stake. You would have me torn to pieces by a dirty ruffianly mob, would you? Wait a little, my dear friend, only wait! But I should like to know,” this was an after-thought, “what you bribed Bishop Philaret with, and how far you committed yourself in your genuine letter.”
Strangely enough, both these pieces of information were in Cyril’s hands some five days later, although unfortunately not in a shape in which he could turn them to advantage As he sat in his office, Dietrich brought him a note, which he said had been given him in the street by a peasant, a stranger, for his master. There was no address on the envelope, which was dirty and common, but the contents were full of interest:—