CHAPTER III.
THE BATTLE OF THE CREEDS.
The whole of the next fortnight was occupied by the mournful and protracted ceremonies accompanying the funeral of King Otto Georg. Cyril and M. Drakovics lived in a perpetual whirl. The royal and noble personages who came from the different Courts of Europe to represent their respective sovereigns on the occasion must be received, lodged, and entertained, and the deputations of country people and citizens of provincial towns must find their duties mapped out and a programme arranged for them. There were jealousies, and disputes about precedence, and squabbles between grandees of different nationalities to be settled or concealed, just as though the illustrious throng had come together with the view of deciding the social status of its various members, and not to deplore the fact that the sceptre of Thracia had passed into the uncertain grasp of a child of three.
All was over at length. The crowds of peasants who thronged into Bellaviste had taken their last look at the face of Otto Georg as he lay in state in the cathedral, and the splendid coffin had been conveyed to the vaults in which the bodies of the first two Kings of Thracia, Alexander Franza the Patriot, and his son Peter I., were already resting. The royal and noble personages were taking their leave, escorted to the station or to the frontier by military officers or Court officials according to their degree, and the country-people were returning to their villages, full of vague memories of vast crowds surging along the steep streets and into the cathedral, of black draperies everywhere, of great wax candles and much holy water, and of the dead King lying cold and still on the tall catafalque with its velvet hangings.
The two Ministers on whom had rested the chief anxiety and responsibility for the whole ceremonial were now able to take time to breathe once more, and to turn their thoughts to political matters, which had not stood still in other countries, in spite of the Truce of God in Thracia itself. Since the day of the King’s death, they had been compelled to act entirely on their own judgment, for no opportunity of seeing the Queen had been vouchsafed to them. It was true that she and her mother, shrouded from head to foot in long veils of crape, had taken part in some of the ceremonies connected with the funeral; but if the Ministers ventured to approach the royal apartments with the view of obtaining an audience, they were always received either by the Princess of Weldart or by Baroness von Hilfenstein, who procured the Queen’s signature to documents which were absolutely indispensable, and consulted her as to alterations in the programme drawn up and submitted by Cyril. It was not to be expected that this seclusion could be maintained now that the funeral ceremonies were over, and Cyril and M. Drakovics accepted with satisfaction an intimation that the Queen would receive them on the following morning.
“This is a critical moment,” said the Premier to his colleague, as they stood waiting in the room which had served as the late King’s study. “The whole future history of Thracia may be said to depend upon the course of this interview.”
“That sounds terrifically solemn,” returned Cyril, with the levity which M. Drakovics always found very trying in him. “What has precipitated matters to such an extent this morning?”
“It will be necessary,” said M. Drakovics slowly, “to make the Queen understand that in spite of her position as regent, the country is to be governed by the advice of her Ministers.”
“Which means you,” said Cyril. “But doesn’t it strike you that you are showing your hand a little too plainly? Surely an announcement of that kind is likely to make the Queen look out for a more complaisant set of Ministers?”
“I think not,” said M. Drakovics. “The Queen will not—I might say cannot—dismiss me. I am indispensable.”
“It must be very gratifying for you to feel assured of that; but suppose the Queen decides to try the experiment?”