“When you are once esteblished in power his prospects will not be goot enough to raise money upon,” was the dry answer. “And so you are to be Premier, Count? You are not afraid off what de worlt will say?”
“Scarcely, I think. What will be said?”
“Dey will say you are de Queen’s lofer.”
“I have no doubt that they would say I was secretly married to her if they thought that would damage either of us more; but it would not be true.”
“Ah, you will not let yourself be drawn efen by your frient! You are de right men, Count. When we go beck to Pelestine—you know det I am to be de paymaster off de migration, because I do not mind throwink my money away—you shell come wid me and be my vakil, ess dey call it dere. You and I, we will bemboozle de worlt. We will buy de Land”—the Chevalier pronounced it “Lent”—“from de Roumis, and cheat dem out off de purchase-money!”
“If I am not otherwise employed at the time, I shall be happy to take a hand in your nefarious schemes, Chevalier,” said Cyril, laughing, as he rose to depart.
“Now see,” said his host, “to-night you take a goot night’s sleep, and in de mornink—no, det iss too early; in de afternoon—I come for you. In de kerrich you chanche yourself from Mr White into de doctor’s assistant, and I drop you at de railway station, where you find Stockbaum. Den you go beck to Thracia.”
In pursuance of this plan, two men of medicine left Vienna by the Bellaviste train on the following day. The elder belonged indubitably to the Hebrew persuasion; the younger wore his hair somewhat long, and displayed spectacles and a short brown beard. They reached Bellaviste when the dusk had fallen, exactly three days after Sir Egerton and Lady Stratford had driven out to Mikhailoslav, were welcomed at the station by Paschics, and accommodated for the night at Cyril’s house. The next morning it was announced that the Vienna doctor gave such a cheering account of the invalid’s condition that he might be allowed to see his friends, and within an hour of the publication of the bulletin, the other dissentient Ministers had assembled at the house, and an informal council was held. Cyril, propped up with cushions in an arm-chair, with the injured arm in a sling, looked quite sufficiently ill to justify the alarmist rumours of the last few days, although it was the fatigue of his journeys, rather than the pain of his wound, which he had scarcely felt after the first moment of its infliction owing to his mental excitement, that ailed him at present. Paschics was placed on guard outside the door, and after the room had been carefully searched for concealed spies, Prince Mirkovics opened the proceedings by informing Cyril that the Queen’s attempts at mediation had failed. Nothing less than the abject submission of his recalcitrant colleagues would satisfy M. Drakovics, and negotiations had therefore been broken off.
“Very well,” said Cyril, “then I suppose we shall go to the Palace to present our resignations to-morrow. My doctor will not allow me out to-day. Have you any idea, Prince, what is to happen next?”
“I presume that Drakovics will reconstruct the Cabinet, and request her Majesty’s assent to Philaret’s nomination. She will refuse, and he will resign.”