“That’s it. The Prince of Dardania is a sensible man at bottom, and I think he will interfere and restrain his wife and young Michael when he sees how their proceedings are regarded; but to make matters sure you might let your Government journals insert a vague note touching the means by which a recent successful conspiracy in the Balkans was promoted—extensive use of forged documents, and so on. I can put you on the track of one or two little things connected with the Rhodope business if you find it necessary to go further, but I think you will scarcely need them.”
“I see. We will act with all discretion.”
“Just so; and now here we are at my hospitable door. You won’t come in, I fear? Well, thanks for your company, and the trouble you are going to take. I’ll do the same for you when young Hopeful kicks you out because you are too much identified with the bold bad diplomacy of his father’s days.”
“Many thanks. If I were in your place at the present moment, I am not sure that I would remain to run the risk of a trial. Public opinion does not seem particularly well affected towards you, and you have escaped assassination once already.”
“Really, Baron, I fear you under-estimate either my age or my intelligence,” was Cyril’s reply to this little stab, which the Baron emphasised by a nod towards the crowd gathered in the street,—a hostile, murmuring, uncertain crowd, that had heard rumours of the great Minister’s downfall, but felt it hardly safe to believe them on seeing him walking quietly home in the company of the Hercynian Chancellor. There was one, however, who felt no misgivings. The crowd parted to allow of the passage of a bath-chair, and its occupant, an old white-haired man, threw a glance of triumph and hatred at Cyril as he stood on the steps.
“My turn once, yours now!” he cried, in a shrill voice which in its cracked tones bore only a faint resemblance to that which had formerly been able to sway a multitude. “Bonjour, feu M. le Ministre!”
They were the words with which Ernestine had dismissed M. Drakovics eleven years before, and Cyril laughed bitterly as he bowed with peculiar politeness to his old enemy, and retreated into the house, pursued by the loud hisses and hootings of the mob, which had divined the truth from the old man’s speech. Turning into the secretary’s office, Cyril met the concerned gaze of Paschics.
“Do you want to earn a good round sum of money, Paschics?”
“That depends upon the way in which it is to be earned, Excellency.”
“Oh, you need only swear that I have intrigued with the Scythian Court, and bring forward a forged document or two to support your statement, and the Emperor Sigismund will pay you almost any sum you like to name.”