Balls and banquets, church services and gala performances at the theatre, the reception of congratulatory addresses and the taking and receiving of various oaths of allegiance, filled up day after day, and the guests, with an endurance and a politeness only to be found in royal personages, contrived to appear not only tolerant of the rush of uninteresting events, but even pleased with it. No contretemps marred the festivities, and the concluding function was reached without even the symptoms of a difference of opinion among those assembled to do honour to King Michael. The Pannonian Arch-Duke showed no signs of remembering the barrier which had arisen of late years between the Three Powers and the princely family of Dardania, the Princess and the Queen were on almost oppressively good terms, and M. Drakovics comported himself in a sufficiently friendly manner even towards Cyril. Thus the last of the series of entertainments, the luncheon-party on the Saturday, to which the foreign royal personages were invited previous to their departure from Bellaviste in the course of the afternoon, marked the conclusion of a week of perfect harmony.
When lunch was over, King Michael rose to propose the health of his guests, and to express due gratitude for their presence and support during the ceremonies of the week. His speech had been written out for him by Cyril in order that he might commit it to memory; but it seemed that among the many distractions of the past few days he had failed to study it as carefully as he should have done, for he was noticeably nervous—a quality which no one had remarked in him before. He succeeded, however, in getting through his list with a little prompting and some reference to his notes, and his audience, who were prepared to be more than merciful, applauded in the right places and helped to cover his confusion. But when the end of the speech was almost reached, and the requisite compliments had been paid to the delegates of the Emperors, to the Kings present or represented by members of their families, to the houses of Weldart and Schwarzwald-Molzau, from which the speaker traced his descent, he hesitated for a moment. There was only one family that still remained to be complimented, and the King’s slight pause merely rendered more effective the raised tones in which he uttered words which had never appeared in Cyril’s written oration:—
“And lastly—although my own wishes would have led me to propose this toast first of all—I ask you to drink to the health of my dear cousins the Prince and Princess of Dardania, with whose family it is my hope and purpose to be even more intimately connected in the future than at present. Hoch, hoch, hoch!” and he bowed to the Prince and Princess over his raised glass.
A bombshell exploding in their midst could scarcely have proved more startling to the company assembled than this sentence. All had guessed at the plans of the Emperors, and most were more or less definitely acquainted with them; but now it was plain that the diplomacy of Hercynia and Pannonia had suffered a defeat, and that the victory lay with the dark-haired lady in yellow brocade and sable, whose eyes were brighter than her diamonds as she replied smilingly behind her fan to the whispered congratulations of the young King of Mœsia. Cyril’s glance had met that of Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal, as the fateful words were uttered, and the monosyllable “Done!” had escaped his lips, while the Baron replied by a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders to the look of blank helplessness which the Crown Prince of Hercynia turned upon him. The Pannonian Arch-Duke was the only person who had sufficient presence of mind to drink the toast without betraying the conflicting emotions which were agitating him at the moment; but before there had been time to respond to it the Prince of Dardania created a sudden diversion.
“The Queen!” he cried,—“the Queen is ill!”
Ernestine had fallen back in her chair, her face as white as the ermine on her gown, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Her jewelled fingers were clenched before her on the table—clenched, as the Court physician remarked afterwards to a confrère, like the contorted hands of a person in fierce bodily agony. She did not seem to notice the alarm and anxiety around her; but when the Princess of Dardania waved away the rest of the guests with, “Leave her to me: the agitation of this joyful week has been too much for her,” she drew herself away from her with a shudder of repulsion which did not escape the notice of others. The Princess laughed lightly, but not without some embarrassment, as she resigned her place to Baroness von Hilfenstein, who ignored her with a wrathful contempt which was patent to every one as she helped to convey the Queen to another room. Pausing on the threshold, Ernestine made a painful effort to speak; but her blanched lips refused their office, and her eyes, full of dumb anguish, wandered helplessly over the sympathising faces around. The Baroness understood her, however.
“You wish his Excellency the Premier to wait on you, madame? Count, will you be good enough to hold yourself in readiness until her Majesty is sufficiently recovered to receive you?”
The rest of the company passed on into the other rooms, but Cyril waited in the deserted dining-room. It was not long before he was summoned by one of the ladies, and under her guidance entered the room in which interviews with Ernestine had so often been granted to him. She was seated now beside her writing-table, with her hair and her rich dress in disorder, and as she turned towards him at the sound of his step a fit of strong trembling seized her.
“I knew nothing of it,” she gasped. “Oh, Cyril, you believe me?”
“I accept your assurance, madame.”