A Crowned Queen: The Romance of a Minister of State

by Sydney C. Grier

The next morning’s bulletins appeared to promise the fulfilment of Sir Egerton’s slightly uncharitable wish. It was made known that Count Mortimer was in a high fever, and that his state caused his physicians the greatest anxiety. Dr Danilovics shook his head with awful solemnity when questioned, and hinted gravely at the overworked and nervous condition of the patient, and the possibility that the knife used by the assassin had been poisoned, until Cyril’s death was hourly expected in the city, and Paschics was almost driven out of his mind by the necessity of reassuring the Queen and Prince Mirkovics, in answer to their anxious inquiries, without telling too much.

“It scarcely seems worth while to go, Vera,” said Sir Egerton to his wife, as they descended the steps of the Legation and entered the carriage; “but I promised the poor fellow, and I shouldn’t like him to think I had played him false. Besides, it’s just possible that this is only a blind.”

Arrived at Cyril’s house, Sir Egerton went indoors to write his name in the visitors’ book and interview Paschics, while Lady Stratford waited in the carriage. As the minutes passed, and her husband did not return, she became noticeably impatient, and called the footman to her.

“Your master seems likely to be some time, Wallis, so take this note for me now to the Maison Parisienne, and wait for a parcel, that we may not lose time when Sir Egerton comes out.”

The footman, who had received his instructions beforehand, and knew that he was to leave the shop by a different entrance, and return immediately to the Legation, departed with the note, an object of interest to the people who were gathered before the house. It was a saint’s day, and the truly orthodox had closed their shops or left their work and betaken themselves to pleasure, which at the present moment meant politics. A considerable number had found entertainment all day in standing and watching the different foreign and official personages who came to inquire after Cyril’s health, and they had remained to converse with the police who were guarding the house, so that there was a considerable crowd to criticise the British Minister’s carriage, and the pale little lady inside it. Happily for her peace of mind, Lady Stratford knew too little Thracian to understand their comments on her personal appearance; but presently a boy in the crowd, finding the entertainment a little monotonous, created a diversion by throwing a cracker—a species of ammunition with which he and his fellows were well provided in honour of the saint of the day—under the horses’ feet. The stately coachman had much ado to keep his seat as the animals began to kick and plunge, while the police displayed remarkable assiduity in chasing the boy, instead of trying to restrain them. But the noise had been heard indoors, and Sir Egerton ran hastily down the steps, followed by his footman, who sprang at once to the horses’ heads, and succeeded in calming them, although he was only able to use one hand. The police, having given up the pursuit of the boy in despair, returned panting to greet Sir Egerton, with profuse apologies for their failure and assurances of future zeal in tracking and punishing the culprit, but he cut them short somewhat curtly.

“That will do,” he said to the commissary. “Vera, were you frightened? Shall we give up the drive?”

“Oh no,” said Lady Stratford bravely, although her pale face was a shade paler than usual. “I shall not be frightened when you are here—and besides, I don’t want to disappoint mamma.”

“Mikhailoslav,” said Sir Egerton to the footman, who touched his hat and climbed to his place, and the carriage drove off. The streets were full of people, gathered in groups in front of the newspaper offices, the Legislative Chamber, and the houses of the Ministers, all discussing the political situation. An interesting episode was the apparition of M. Stefanovics in one of the Court carriages, proceeding, with a face of solemnity that would have befitted a European crisis, to the house of one of the seceding Ministers on an errand from the Queen. Every one turned to stare at him, and the British representative passed without much notice, although he himself did not fail to observe that public opinion, judging from the scraps of conversation he overheard, was extremely hostile to Cyril and his colleagues, and that there were crowds in the churches, in which special services were being held to pray for the triumph of M. Drakovics and Bishop Philaret, and the humiliation of the foreigners who sought to trample on the Orthodox Church.

The gate was passed without difficulty, and after a long country drive the carriage reached the village of Mikhailoslav. Here Sir Egerton and his wife descended to visit the pottery works, sending the footman back along the way they had come with some message. It had been noticed by the crowd outside Cyril’s house that shortly after the departure of the British Minister a horse was brought round to the door, and M. Paschics came out and rode away for a constitutional, while during the next two hours anxious inquirers were received by the doctor, who explained that he had insisted on the secretary’s obtaining some fresh air and exercise, lest his health should break down under the strain of his devoted attendance upon his Excellency.

About an hour later, the train which left Bellaviste every day for Vienna was boarded at a country station by a handsome Polish gentleman, with blue eyes and black hair and a beautifully waxed dark moustache. It was evident that he had lately been engaged in a duel, for his left arm was in a sling, and he was escorted to the train by an elderly man, apparently his second, who did not leave him until he had adjured him to see a good surgeon as soon as he reached his destination, and also entreated the rest of the passengers not to allow him to do anything imprudent. During the long journey the Pole made himself a universal favourite. He seemed able to speak all the languages represented on the train, with the single exception of Magyar, and he was full of good stories. The slight reticence which he showed respecting his late adventure was only natural under the circumstances, and was resented by no one, and when he was left with his bag on the platform of a small station not far from Vienna, on his way to visit an Austrian friend, it was with lively regret that his fellow-passengers looked back at him as the train moved on, and saw him standing bare-headed and bowing to them with inimitable grace.