“He cannot know!” murmured M. Drakovics, looking sourly after his colleague’s retreating figure, but he was not satisfied. The discovery which he had made that morning had struck him at first as most opportune and important; but when he had had time to consider it coolly he saw that it was by no means complete. One thing he knew—that Queen Ernestine loved Count Mortimer—but he could not say whether the Queen had perceived the nature of her own sentiments, much less whether Cyril returned them, and this stood in the way of his making any use of his knowledge. If Cyril had not fallen in love with the Queen, M. Drakovics could do nothing, since to give utterance to his suspicions would be only to make Cyril important and the Queen ridiculous—and although the Premier would have cared little for Ernestine’s feelings as a woman, he had a high sense of her dignity as Regent of Thracia. His sole hope lay in surprising some admission from one of the persons concerned, and he recognised that he was not likely to succeed in this attempt with Cyril. To Ernestine, therefore, he turned his attention, and his errand this evening, although veiled under the pretext of inquiring her pleasure on one or two points of procedure likely to arise in the course of the trial of the conspirators, was in reality to seek to obtain some insight into the state of her feelings. If he had been able to accompany Anna Mirkovics into her presence, he would have needed little further confirmation of his suspicions, but this boon was denied him.
“Madame, his Excellency the Premier entreats——”
“I will not see him,” said Ernestine shortly, turning from the window with a face of such misery that the girl recoiled a step or two.
“But pardon me, madame, you have just granted an interview to Count Mortimer, and M. Drakovics might think it strange——”
“You are right, Anna.” The Queen passed her hand wearily over her brow. “Let him come in.”
“But you look so ill, madame, and your hair—forgive me——” She glanced from the Queen to the jewels on the table, and hesitated, then drew a chair into the shadow of the screen. “If you would sit there, madame, his Excellency would not notice your paleness; and if you would permit me to throw this lace scarf over your head—— No one could be surprised that the weight of the crown had tired you.”
“Anna, wait!” Ernestine caught the girl’s hand as she arranged the lace deftly to hide the disordered curls. “You know—you have guessed—that—that Count Mortimer and I love one another. I am sure that I can trust you; but no one else must know. Remain in the room when M. Drakovics comes in. I am too tired—too miserable—to see him alone to-night. Pretend to be putting the jewels away—I know that it is not your business, but he will not think of that; only stay with me.”
“Dearest madame, I would do anything in the world to help you!” said the girl fervently, pressing her lips to the Queen’s hand, and pulling the screen a little more forward as she spoke; and when M. Drakovics came in, Anna Mirkovics stood at the table, taking out the pins from the lace veil, and smoothing the folds of the costly fabric. The Premier looked significantly towards her, but Ernestine forestalled the protest he was about to make.
“Let me entreat you to be merciful, M. le Ministre. I have had more than enough to-day of politics and state pageants, and my head is in a whirl. Pray spare me further fatigue if you can.”
“And yet I understand that your Majesty granted Count Mortimer the honour of an interview.” He fixed his eyes upon her as he spoke; but she could have laughed at his attempting to entrap her in this clumsy way.