“Well, sir, and wherever have you been and got to, may I ask? There was your cousins all playin’ so quiet and pretty, and me just turnin’ my back like for a moment, when you up and slip out of the nursery. You come along back this minute, if you please, or I’ll tell Count Mortimer of you when he asks me next how you’ve been behavin’ yourself of late. You’re gettin’ beyond me, and that I’ve said before. Beggin’ your Highness’s pardon, ma’am, but anything like his Majesty’s contrary ways no one ever did see.”
The Princess of Dardania smiled graciously as Mrs Jones disappeared, dragging her refractory charge by the hand, but the moment the door was shut she moved her chair across to the corner of the rug with which King Michael had been busied. What the paper he had purloined might contain she had no idea, but it was evidently precious to Ernestine, and her cousin was too clever a woman to let slip any chance of gaining information that might prove valuable. Stooping slightly as she sat, she lifted the corner of the rug, holding it ready to drop into its place again on the slightest alarm, and took up the paper. It was in Ernestine’s writing, and at first sight resembled nothing so much as the calendars which schoolboys make to show how many days remain before the holidays, but the Princess’s eyes gleamed as she realised its purport. At the top was written, “April 12th, 18—” (the date was that of the preceding year), and below came “June 18th,” King Michael’s birthday, repeated twelve times. Two of these were crossed off, bringing the record to the time at which the Princess held it in her hand.
“April 12th of last year!” she said to herself. “That was when she was wandering about the country with him. Michael was three then, he is just five now. By the time the end of this list is reached he will be sixteen, he will have come of age. And after that, what? Nothing! But no doubt it would be unnecessary, as well as dangerous, to add anything further. They have an understanding, then. But what if she married him secretly on that 12th of April? Oh, if only she did, I could ruin him with a word! Is it possible? Married, actually married, and concealing the fact lest she should lose the regency, and he his chance of the Premiership? Could it be? Let me think; I must not be rash. It would not do to put myself in his power by accusing him of having married her, and finding that he had not. He would make me the laughingstock of Europe. Besides, is it probable? No; he is not the man to risk his political future for the sake of a woman. Take it, then, that they are merely engaged. They will be married when Michael is of age—if I allow it. I do not think I shall, but it might be necessary to buy his acquiescence in something—perhaps in Michael’s marriage with Lida, and then I should have an equivalent to offer. Silence for the present, then. I hold the card, but do not show it. And above all things, I must keep Ernestine from telling me the whole affair. I could get her to confide in me now, if I liked to try, but it would hamper my action. No; she has chosen to link her fortunes with his, and she must not be surprised if I fight for my own hand.”
The sound of the opening of the anteroom door reached her. Ernestine was returning. She replaced the paper, dropped the rug over it, and moved her chair back to its former position. When the Queen entered the room, her cousin looked up lazily.
“I don’t know whether you have lost any of your State documents, Ernestine, but Michael was very busy hiding a paper of some kind under the rug just now.”
The Queen stooped to pick up the paper. Her face flushed as she saw what it was, and she thrust it hastily into her pocket, with a glance at the Princess, whose eyes were fixed on her novel.
“What was Michael doing here?” she asked.
“Oh, he escaped from his nurse and ran in, that was all. What a splendid little fellow he is, Ernestine—so high-spirited and impatient of control! And I think it is so wise of you to keep him with you so long. I had practically lost my boys when they were his age—they were always about with their father. Of course that is all right, for Alexis is no disciplinarian; but when I think of Sigismund’s poor little sons, how they are made into soldiers before they are out of the cradle, so to speak, and tormented with drill all day long, it makes me feel that Michael is far better off with his mother alone.”
“Some one was saying the other day that he was getting too old to be left entirely with women,” said the Queen.
“Ah, I know who that was—Count Mortimer, of course. He actually made the same remark to Fräulein von Staubach. The poor thing told me about it, and owned that it came as a painful shock to her.” The Princess forgot to mention that when the first surprise had passed, Fräulein von Staubach had admitted the truth of Cyril’s words. “Really, Ernestine, you will be obliged to take measures to keep that man in his place. He interferes in everything.”