“It is usual,” said the Premier, with marked emphasis, “for the recipient of such an honour to express his unworthiness—even his reluctance to accept it.”
“Oh, come now; I did not expect that from you, Drakovics! You and I are behind the scenes; we need not wear the mask for each other’s benefit. But am I mistaken, or is it the case that you see the unworthiness and feel the reluctance for me?”
“I felt it my duty, certainly, to remind the Queen that the Order was intended for soldiers——”
“And her Majesty reminded you that you were yourself one of its most distinguished ornaments?”
“And,” frowning, “that its members ought to belong to the Orthodox faith.”
“It is unfortunate that neither her Majesty nor her predecessor in the sovereignty of the Order have been Greeks. But in spite of flaws in his argument, shall I desert my friend Drakovics at this crisis? Come, Drakovics—my more than friend, my patron (shall I say?)—give me your true reasons, and I will decline the honour. Have you not been my political guide, philosopher, and friend since first as a raw youth I entered Thracia? Do I not occupy in your affections a position second only to that of the ingenuous Vassili? Can you doubt my gratitude to my benefactor?”
“If I thought you were in earnest, I should suspect that you meant mischief; but I know you are only joking,” said M. Drakovics sourly. His ordinary feeling towards Cyril was a mixture of fear and dislike, but when the younger man gave reins to his levity he positively hated him. “Her Majesty insists on your admission to the Order, and the chapter is to be held on Wednesday morning, so that you may attend the Thanksgiving service among the other knights.”
“Then you withdraw your opposition?” Cyril shook the Premier warmly by the hand. “Ah, how my mind is relieved! Believe me, my dear Drakovics, I shall never forget this.”
Heartily disgusted, M. Drakovics withdrew, to confide to his nephew that the Mortimer was more absurd than ever, and so much elated by the honour about to be conferred upon him that it might be hoped he would show his delight in some preposterous way, and ruin himself; to which Vassili replied that he only trusted this might prove true, for that in the Mortimer’s most foolish moments hitherto he had shown himself a match for the wisest heads in Thracia. This was a consolation which Cyril, smarting under the discovery of the way in which he had been duped in the matter of the plot, would have hesitated to appropriate to himself; but he was able to rejoice over the present mystification of M. Drakovics as he turned again to his work. There was much to arrange during the three days which remained before his admission into the Order. All the arrangements for the great Thanksgiving service, and the royal visit to the Hôtel de Ville which was to follow it, were in his hands. The service had been suggested by the Metropolitan himself, for it was beginning to leak out by this time that the Queen and her son had incurred considerable danger in their return to the capital, although the exact nature of the perils they had escaped was not known; and Cyril had succeeded in overcoming Ernestine’s objection to being present at an act of Orthodox worship, in view of the effect to be produced on the people. Then Paschics, who had been discovered in prison at Tatarjé, had to be received, rewarded, and promoted, and the special gifts which the Queen intended to send to all the humble friends of her adversity must be despatched to their intended recipients by his hand. All this time, since the interview in the gamekeeper’s house, Cyril had never seen Ernestine alone,—to tell the truth, he shrank from doing so. He knew that what he had to say to her would wound her deeply, and, as a diplomatic artist, he disliked inflicting suffering before it was absolutely necessary. But on the morning of the Thanksgiving service, when he was conducted into her presence to be invested with the insignia of the Order of the Holy Icon, he regretted his delay. The Queen’s face was flushed and her eyes gleaming, and it struck him at once that she was meditating some desperate step.
“I had better have had it out with her,” he said to himself, “for if she is going to make a scene it will ruin us both. I will get things settled this afternoon, if she will leave me so long. Perhaps after all she is only excited by her victory over Drakovics.”