His conjecture appeared to be well founded, for Ernestine’s face grew calmer as the Metropolitan and his assistant archdeacon droned through a kind of litany in an unknown tongue. When it was over, M. Drakovics, as the senior member of the Order, took Cyril’s hand and led him up to the Queen, who rose from her seat, and, as the ritual prescribed, holding the new knight’s hand in hers, turned to the rest of the brotherhood—
“Comrades of the Holy Icon, I your lady present to you Cyril Mortimer, Count of the Pannonian Empire, to be admitted one of your number. It is for you to say whether he is worthy of this honour. As for me, I can testify that he has risked his life in my service, and that Thracia owes to him the safety of her King, that he is a gallant gentleman, and a most faithful friend”—“Servant,” ejaculated M. Drakovics, but she disregarded the correction—“to me and to my house.”
The Queen’s voice faltered perilously, but she crushed down the rising tears and looked round defiantly upon the knights. It was Prince Mirkovics to whom it fell to answer her.
“Lady, we receive this our brother at thy hand with all joy and honour, for who serves thee has served us, and he that is a friend to thee and to thy house is our friend also.”
The last clause was interpolated, and not found in the ritual; but Prince Mirkovics had saved the situation by his graceful acceptance of the Queen’s amendment, and Cyril breathed more freely as he knelt before her that she might invest him with the badge of the Order. The Metropolitan was reading from the service-book with its massive jewelled cover the solemn charge which was laid upon all the comrades of the Holy Icon, and Cyril was waiting with downcast eyes to make the prescribed response at the end, when he became aware that Ernestine was looking intently at him. Her eyes seemed to burn themselves into his brain, and the effort not to look up was positively painful. Nay, more, it was useless, for her will overcame his for the moment, and he glanced into her face. Their eyes met, and the knights and their stately surroundings faded away. For an instant they were standing again among the smoke-clouds in the burning house, with the roar of the cataract in their ears—they two alone. Then Ernestine’s eyes fell, the Metropolitan’s elaborate admonition came to an end, and Cyril replied mechanically in the proper form, feeling as he did so, for he could not see, that M. Drakovics, standing behind him, had caught Ernestine’s glance, and had interpreted it correctly. She was suspending the miniature copy of the Holy Icon from his neck now, by means of its golden collar, and repeating the words of investiture after the Metropolitan. The pause gave Cyril the chance he needed for recovering his calmness; and when he rose from his knees, invested with the mantle of the Order, and, standing at the Queen’s side, bowed to his brother knights, there was not the slightest trace of emotion in his face. The Premier gnashed his teeth; for one moment magnificent possibilities had presented themselves to his mind.
After the investiture came the Thanksgiving service in the cathedral, with the Te Deum chanted as only an Orthodox choir can chant it, and a sermon from the Metropolitan, brimming over with patriotism and loyalty. Either the little King’s intercession for him had touched the old man’s heart, or the plot had horrified him, as showing to what his political schemes might lead; and Cyril smiled as he thought of that other sermon of his not so many months ago. The service was comparatively short, for there could be no visiting of shrines or veneration of icons, such as would have been de rigueur in the case of Orthodox monarchs, and the royal procession made its way across the square to the Hôtel de Ville. Ernestine had laid aside her widow’s weeds for the occasion, and donned a black velvet dress and a veil of priceless lace flowing from a diamond tiara, while her hair fell in heavy curls on either side of her face. The little King was garbed in a Parisian adaptation of the national costume, a fact that appeared to awaken interest and curiosity among the spectators; but Cyril was struck by the lack of genuine feeling displayed. It was evident that the Queen was as unpopular as ever, and that the people regarded her with no more exclusive affection than they would a neighbouring monarch on a visit. M. Drakovics was the real sovereign, at least in Bellaviste, and it appeared to Cyril that in case of a conflict of wills, the Premier would receive public support far more readily than the Queen.
It was not a cheering prospect, and Cyril threw aside the thought and plunged into the business of the moment. The luncheon was a long affair, with its speeches and toasts and many courses, and it was not until late in the afternoon that the Royal party returned to the Palace. It was Cyril’s duty to present for the Queen’s approval his report of the day’s proceedings, for publication in the “Court Circular” of the Government papers the following day; and although he might have sent it through Baroness von Hilfenstein, his memory of the morning was sufficiently vivid to determine him to seek a personal interview with Ernestine. Her Majesty was expecting him, he was told; and he passed on into the anteroom, where he found only Fräulein von Staubach and Anna Mirkovics. While the latter went into the inner room to announce his arrival, Fräulein von Staubach astonished him by saying in a fierce whisper—
“If you are a man, say something kind to the poor Queen. She has been breaking her heart over your coldness ever since we returned to Bellaviste.”
Before Cyril could do more than look his surprise at advice so contrary to that which he had last received from Fräulein von Staubach, Princess Anna returned to say that the Queen was ready to receive him, and he went on into the inner room, where Ernestine was sitting listlessly in a great carved chair. She sprang up as he entered, and made a step towards him; but as he paused at the door and bowed, her face clouded again, and she approached him shyly, holding out both hands.
“Have you nothing to say to me, Count?”