The mob had been dispersed by the police, and Cyril found himself able to breathe freely once more. The Metropolitan, arrested by the order of M. Drakovics as soon as the news of the sermon and the consequent outbreak had reached him, was under police supervision in his own palace, and bodies of cavalry were patrolling the streets. The Queen had not shown herself outside her own apartments after the rude awakening she had experienced, but Cyril was kept informed by Stefanovics of all that passed behind the closed doors. It seemed that Madame Stefanovics, on her return from the service, had been required to relate to her royal mistress all that she could remember of the sermon, and that her powers of accuracy and memory were stimulated by a severe cross-examination. The Princess of Weldart was much moved, the lady-in-waiting told her husband, who passed on the fact promptly to Cyril, but the Queen was almost out of her mind. She walked up and down the room in feverish excitement and anger, and broke at last into a flood of passionate tears. Now that her feelings had found this relief, she was more calm, and had spent the afternoon closeted with her secretary, who was kept hard at work drafting and writing letters. This piece of information served in a measure to reassure Cyril.
“She will work it off in that way,” he said to himself. “Writing letters and drawing up proclamations will keep her busy without doing any harm. To-morrow she will be cooler, and we can think about business.”
He remained at the Palace during the whole of the afternoon and evening, expecting to be summoned to assist the Queen in her labours, or at any rate to receive some communication from her relating to the punishment of the rioters who had been arrested. He would not have objected to this. It would be unconstitutional, no doubt, but it might keep her from doing anything worse. As time passed on, and no summons reached him, he became a little uneasy as to what this continued silence might portend; but on hearing from Stefanovics that the Queen appeared much calmer and even happier after her long afternoon’s work, he felt it safe to retire to his own house, which stood just outside the Palace grounds. As he passed out of the gate, and the guards presented arms, he noticed a man slinking through in the shadow, and recognised the Queen’s secretary, a young German. It was late for any one employed at the Palace to be going out, and the uncharitable conclusion at which Cyril arrived instantly was that the secretary was on his way to join some disreputable associates in the town. There was a half-furtive, half-triumphant look about him which seemed to accord with this suspicion, and as the Minister of the Household walked home he indulged in a little moralising on the ease with which young men fall into mischief when away from the control of their parents and guardians. His mind was sufficiently at ease to allow of this, for although earlier in the day he had been conscious of some curiosity, and even a slight degree of apprehension, as to the effect the events of the morning were likely to have on his own position in the Court, he had no intention of allowing himself to be worried by unnecessary fears, and after wrestling with the intricacies of the Palace accounts for an hour or two, went to bed and slept peacefully. At an unwonted hour in the morning, however, he was awakened in a sufficiently startling way.
“Excellency, his Excellency the Premier!” panted Dietrich, throwing the bedroom door open, and as it were flinging the announcement into the room. Apparently he had only managed to keep ahead of the visitor by climbing the stairs at a record pace, for M. Drakovics was inside the door before the words were out of his mouth.
“You are early, my dear Drakovics,” remarked Cyril, sitting up in bed, and rejoicing, not for the first time, that he possessed the faculty of awaking instantaneously with all his wits at work.
“I am early,” shouted M. Drakovics, “and I may well be! Tell that idiot of yours to go to Jericho, and give me your attention.”
“Politeness is never wasted,” returned Cyril. “Dietrich, you may go. Now, monsieur, to what am I indebted for this honour?”
M. Drakovics was literally unable to speak, but he glared furiously at Cyril as he brandished a bundle of papers in his face. Supposing that he was intended to read them, Cyril laid hold of the bundle.
“No, not all!” gasped M. Drakovics. “I—I will break the news to you gently,” with a ghastly smile. “Read that first,” and he selected from the bundle and handed to Cyril a letter in the handwriting of the Queen’s secretary.
“Take a seat,” said Cyril, nodding towards a chair; “you seem somewhat agitated,” and with another mirthless smile the Premier obeyed, choosing a place from which he could watch every change in the expression of his host’s face.