But although Cyril dismissed the subject of Thracian politics so lightly, he had much to tell that was interesting in answer to the eager questions of both the young men, to whom it was a novel experience to be able to discuss European problems with one who was still actively engaged in their solution. The journey to Vienna appeared astonishingly short in his company, and such was the effect of his reminiscences, that when Usk and Mansfield had bidden him farewell and taken their homeward train, the former declared suddenly that, but for the dislike his parents would feel for such a course, he would seek a post under his uncle instead of going to Cambridge, only to discover that his friend was possessed by a like aspiration. As for Cyril, the thought of “the boys,” as he called them, disappeared quickly from his mind, for he had much to think of as he continued his journey to Molzau. The Emperors of Hercynia and Pannonia were both to be present at the royal wedding, and it had not needed a hint from Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal, the Hercynian Chancellor, who was an old ally of Cyril’s, to warn him that an opportunity was likely to be found for discussing matters more serious than the marriage, and that a crisis might well be approaching in his life and Ernestine’s.
European politics were not at the moment in a very settled state, and this condition of disturbance had left its mark even on the wedding festivities. The Princess of Dardania, whose father, the late King of Mœsia, had been a Prince of Schwarzwald-Molzau, was duly invited to the marriage with her husband; but with the invitation came a strong hint that it was not advisable it should be accepted, and the Princess, who was a wise woman, stayed away. The reason for this in hospitable behaviour was twofold. In the first place, the Princess had just accomplished the betrothal of her elder daughter, Princess Bettine, to the young King of Mœsia, a cousin of her own, and son of a younger branch of the house of Schwarzwald-Molzau, whom her father had chosen to follow him on the throne. None of her successes ever came about by accident, and she had been preparing this step for years; but it was unfortunate that the Roumi province of Rhodope, which abutted on her husband’s principality, and which had been guaranteed by Europe in the enjoyment of administrative autonomy, should have chosen this particular moment for carrying through a small revolution on its own account, and declaring, without asking the leave or advice of the Powers, its intention of uniting itself to Dardania. This occurrence, also, was by no means wholly unforeseen by the Princess; but she objected to the conjunction of the two events because it directed the attention of Europe to her doings, and with this attention she could very well have dispensed. Ever since her runaway marriage with the Prince of Dardania, Princess Ottilie had devoted herself with great singleness of purpose to avenging herself upon her father’s family for their attempt to force her into a marriage with Caerleon, then King of Thracia, and she had combined with this object that of the aggrandisement of her husband’s dynasty. The means of gratifying both ambitions she had obtained by ranging herself resolutely on the side of Scythia in all European questions—which meant, of course, that her husband and Dardania followed her lead.
Not long after her marriage, the Princess became a convert to the Orthodox faith, and all her children were brought up in it—a fact which caused much wrath among her own relations and considerable embarrassment to her husband, who, although a devoted adherent of the Eastern Church and a cousin of the Emperor of Scythia, was in no sense a bigot, and feared, somewhat unnecessarily, that it might be thought he had brought pressure on his wife to induce her to embrace his own creed. Having thus taken her stand in such a way as to cause the maximum of annoyance to the Germanic Powers, and win the largest amount of sympathy from the Scythian Imperial family, the Princess had proceeded to lay the plans which she was now working out. Her elder son would succeed his father in the principality, and a Scythian alliance was already arranged for him; it only remained, therefore, to enlarge his dominions in every possible way. But far more important were the marriage projects devised for the benefit of the Princesses Bettine and Lida. With her daughters seated on the thrones of the two Balkan kingdoms, Princess Ottilie looked forward to finding the whole peninsula in a measure under her control, thus enabling her to form a confederation which could defy the Western Powers, and would need to be reckoned with by Scythia. The changing of her husband’s coronet into a kingly crown, and the putting forward of a claim to the heirship of the European portion of the Roumi Empire, were among the visions which floated before her eyes—not yet planned out in detail, but affording endless possibilities of activity.
And now, as she recognised without difficulty, her schemes were threatened with failure. The Germanic Powers had taken alarm at the two latest evidences of her ambition and its success, and the gathering at Molzau would be occupied in laying plans for her overthrow. The Schwarzwald-Molzaus would muster strongly, regarding her as a renegade, and eager to avenge the sedulous slights of years; the Emperors of Hercynia and Pannonia, whose one anxiety was the maintenance of the balance of power in the Balkans as the security for European peace, would spare no effort of diplomacy to thwart her; and Cyril, her old enemy, would have the game in his own hands. Unless she could forestall him, that is—for the Princess of Dardania was not in the habit of leaving the game in the hands of any opponent.
“Let me see,” she mused; “is it possible to bind Ernestine and Michael before they can be approached by the enemy? No. Ernestine is as deeply committed to her son’s marriage with Lida as is possible, short of an actual engagement, and to broach the project to Michael would have a very ugly appearance while he is actually under age. Only a fortnight, and everything would be right! Well, I must try delay. If we can tide over the fortnight, Michael’s betrothal shall be announced simultaneously with his assuming the reins of government. It is evident that I must distract the attention of the assembled diplomats from my delinquencies to the indiscretions of some one else—draw a red herring across the trail, in fact. I regret to be obliged to sacrifice you, my dear Ernestine, but I see that the moment has come for making use of that interesting piece of information which I have been keeping so long. You and your lover must be denounced. It will not be the first time that the apple of discord has been thrown into the midst of a wedding-feast, and I am very much mistaken if your friend Count Mortimer is consulted on the affairs of Europe when it has once made its appearance. Even if his presumption is ever pardoned, it will not be for a long while hence.”
The next point to be considered was the manner of the disclosure. To write to either of the Emperors or to her Schwarzwald-Molzau kindred would be to ensure failure, for her letter would be regarded as a palpable attempt to break up the concert of the Powers. The secret must be revealed by an apparent accident, and if possible by means of some other person. The person on whom her choice fell finally was the Princess Amalie of Weldart, the canoness, her own aunt and Ernestine’s, who was known as “Tant’ Amalie” to half the royal personages of Europe. In spite, or perhaps in consequence of, her semi-conventual status, the Princess Amalie took great delight in the weddings of her many relations, and was scarcely ever known to miss attending one. She was also an authority on the subject of the etiquette proper for such occasions, and her kindred invariably consulted her as to the descent and consequent precedence of the innumerable ramifications of their family trees, and the complicated Court ceremonies which were necessary in German eyes almost to the validity of the marriage itself. To her the Princess wrote—a pleasant chatty letter, describing the doings of her children, who kept her so busy that she could not find time even to come to Molzau for dearest Theudelinde’s wedding, and commenting on such details of the dresses and the company as had reached her.
“I wonder what you will think of your new nephew,” she remarked towards the close. “I call him new, because when you saw him before, I am sure you never thought of him in this light. I shall be interested to hear whether Ernestine takes advantage of the family gathering to introduce Count Mortimer as her future husband. It is a task that will need a good deal of courage, but no doubt the bridegroom’s self-possession and urbanity of manner will smooth over any awkwardness. I have it on unimpeachable authority that if they are not married already, they will be so as soon as Michael has been declared of age. If Ernestine has not announced her intention by the time this reaches you, pray say nothing to any one. The Emperor Sigismund would be very likely to take the matter up in an unsympathetic spirit, and it would be sure to reach him if you told any one about it. In any case, do not mention my name. I suppose it is incautious in me to have said anything before hearing that Ernestine has broken the ice, but I know that it is quite safe to make an exception in your favour, for there is no one who keeps a secret so wonderfully. You will not get me into trouble with Ernestine, I am sure.”
To say that the Princess Amalie was surprised by the little item of news thus tacked on at the end of her niece’s letter would be wilfully to understate the case. She was thunderstruck for fully two minutes, and only recovered owing to the necessity she felt of communicating the tidings to some one else. As the Princess of Dardania had remarked, her method of keeping a secret was truly wonderful, but she was mindful of the injunction not to give her informant’s name, and tore off the signature carefully from the letter before proceeding in search of some of her relations, preserving the letter itself in order to exhibit it as a guarantee of her good faith. As it happened, the first person she met was the Emperor of Pannonia, and knowing that, like his brother monarch of Hercynia, he prided himself on the rigidity with which he maintained the barriers separating the caste to which he belonged from the lower world, she congratulated herself on being able to astonish him with her appalling news before it had been so much as breathed to any one else.
“Why, what is the matter, Tant’ Amalie?” asked the Emperor, as he saw the old lady approaching him in eager haste, with her cap on one side and the letter clasped tightly to her bosom. “Has anything happened to spoil the programme?”
“Oh, my dear cousin, I have received such a shock!” panted Princess Amalie. “Had you any idea that my niece Ernestine was intending to marry her Prime Minister—that Englishman, the Mortimer?”