“If your Majesty is not deaf, and will listen for a moment,” said Cyril, exasperated, “you will find that the shouts are by no means of a gratifying nature. Does that, for instance, commend itself to you, madame?” as a long-drawn howl of execration forced itself on the Queen’s reluctant ears, making her start and turn pale.
“It is a riot? they are in revolt?” she asked, with trembling lips. “What is the reason?”
“They have just been excited by an inflammatory sermon from the Metropolitan on the subject of their religion, madame. It is possible that your Majesty can guess the direction their thoughts have taken.”
“They threaten my son’s faith? Never! Admit the insolents immediately, Count. They shall hear my answer from my own lips. With my child in my arms I will defy them.”
“Pardon me, madame; the mob of Bellaviste has not even the chivalry of that of Paris, and—you are not a Marie Antoinette. At the risk of incurring your displeasure, I must decline to obey you in this.”
He uttered the last sentence in a lowered voice, to avoid the appearance of wishing to humiliate her in the hearing of Stefanovics. For a moment her angry eyes looked defiantly into his, then they fell.
“I am a prisoner in my own Palace, it seems!” she said wrathfully. “When your wife returns from the cathedral, M. Stefanovics, be so good as to send her to me immediately. I must know all about this affair.”
And she turned her back on Cyril, and retired.
“There come the police at last!” said Stefanovics.