“Is it possible that the honourable gentleman does not know? That is the great patriot, Milos Drakovics.”
“Drakovics!” said Usk and Mansfield together, rising to look after the bath-chair, and the elder man added meditatively, “It’s a case of ‘Under his hoary eyebrows still flashed forth quenchless rage,’ isn’t it? One wouldn’t care to stand in that old man’s path even now.”
“The honourable gentlemen are fortunate in being able to get such a good view of the Liberator of Thracia, since they have never seen him before,” observed the landlord. “Of late years he has been in bad health, and has lived on his estates at Praka, in the provinces, but no doubt he has come to Bellaviste to be present at the King’s coming of age. The festivities will take place in a fortnight, and it would be impossible to hold them with Drakovics absent. The honourable gentlemen are come to Bellaviste to view the ceremony?”
“No, we are merely passengers by the express,” said Mansfield. “Surely M. Drakovics has come up from the country a little early?”
“Ah, no doubt he needs time to recover from the fatigue of the journey. But I must say it surprises me that he should be here to witness the departure of his Excellency the Premier to attend the royal marriage at Molzau. From all that is said, there is no love lost between them.”
“Ah, the Premier—that is Count Mortimer, surely?” asked Usk, adding in English to Mansfield, “Now we shall have a chance of seeing my uncle as others see him. He is an Englishman, is he not?” he asked in German.
“That is so. A countryman of the honourable gentleman’s, I make no doubt?”
“Yes, we are English. Is Count Mortimer popular?”
“Ah, there you puzzle me, honourable sir. His Excellency is universally recognised as the greatest statesman in the Balkans—some say in Eastern Europe—and any measure advised by him is as good as carried already. But popular—no, I think not. His Excellency is a man without friends. At one time, so they say, he was often at the British Legation, and enjoyed himself occasionally among his own countrymen there; but years ago—when he became Premier, indeed—he broke off this habit. No doubt he felt that he must now become altogether a Thracian, and not risk the discovery of his plans by any foreigner, even one of his own people, in the hours of social intercourse. It is the same with his subordinates, who respect him while they fear him, but do not love him. Those who do their duty are well paid and liberally rewarded, but they say that Count Mortimer never hesitates to sacrifice a man for the sake of a scheme. That gives a feeling of insecurity, as the honourable gentleman no doubt sees? It is a very fine thing to have a share in setting the current of European policy, but not so fine for one’s dead body to be used as a stone in the embankment that determines its course—even at the will of his Excellency. And the common people do not like him because he does not care either for their applause or their disapproval, and also because—the honourable gentleman will not misunderstand me?—he has no vices. Drakovics every one knew. He would come down to the Hôtel de Ville and explain his policy and carry the people with him. He was violent often, and they said unscrupulous—he did not object to make money occasionally, he took his glass of brandy when he wanted it—but he was a man whom other men could understand. Count Mortimer is mysterious—not like a man at all. He lives on politics, he never unbends. Everything he says or does is directed to some end, like the movements of a machine, and produces, as surely as the machine does, the intended effect, but he never explains anything. He cares as little for hooting as for cheering, and as little for his supporters as for his opponents. Now you shall see. Here he comes.”
A carriage and pair was approaching. Facing the horses sat a small thin man whose hair and moustache were of that ashy shade peculiar to fair hair when it is turning grey. His eyes were keen, but devoid of expression, his face perfectly impassive. As he passed the café, the proprietor stepped forward, and bowed almost to the ground. The very slightest acknowledgment was given in return, barely more than the raising of a finger, and the Premier went on his way, pursued by many glances, some careless, some unfriendly, not one enthusiastic or cordial.