“Rather not; but I am of opinion that Natarin is too old a bird to allow that letter to go out of his hands before hearing from you. We must replace it, of course, with a dignified message of protest. The fact that some such letter was written must have got about; but if we allow it to become known that the secretary, with a view to his own aggrandisement, despatched and published an early draft without authority, and that the real epistle contains nothing that could offend the Emperor, while it defines politely the Queen’s position, it seems to me that we shall not score so badly.”
M. Drakovics departed with a sigh of polite incredulity; but the resourcefulness of his host had cheered him to such an extent that he succeeded in partaking of a remarkably good breakfast while waiting for Cyril to accompany him to the Palace. By virtue of their office, both Ministers possessed the right of requesting an audience of the Queen at any time, and the chamberlain to whom they stated their desire to be received by her Majesty expressed no surprise, in spite of the early hour. He led them to the apartment in which the Queen was accustomed to spend her mornings, and requested the lady-in-waiting in the anteroom to inquire her Majesty’s pleasure. As the door was opened they had a glimpse into the room, and M. Drakovics turned to Cyril behind the chamberlain’s back with a glance that expressed unutterable things. The day was a cool one in early autumn, and a small fire was burning in the English grate, before which the Queen was sitting on the hearthrug, playing with the little King, while her mother looked on benignantly.
“At any rate,” observed Cyril in a low voice, for the comfort of his chief, “we serve a sovereign whom age can never wither, nor custom stale her infinite variety. We expected to find an outraged mother defying the world——”
“And we see a thoughtless child!” burst from M. Drakovics; but by this time the chamberlain had received his orders, and bowing as he held the door open, invited them to enter. A sudden transformation had been effected in the appearance of the room. King Michael had been relegated to his high chair and a picture-book; the Princess of Weldart had withdrawn into a corner, and was exclusively occupied with her embroidery; while the Queen, her face a little flushed, and her hair under the peaked edge of the black cap slightly awry, was sitting at the table.
“Your Excellency finds us en famille,” she remarked to M. Drakovics, somewhat too airily for the tone to be quite natural. “She means to brazen it out,” said Cyril to himself.
“It is possible that you might prefer to receive Count Mortimer and myself in private, madame,” said M. Drakovics pointedly.
“I have no secrets from my mother,” returned the Queen. “This is not a Council of State, I think?”
“Technically speaking, it is not,” M. Drakovics agreed, “but I think your Majesty can scarcely be ignorant that the object of our visit is to discuss a very grave matter of State.”
“It is not hard to guess,” said the Queen, “that you refer to the Metropolitan’s sermon yesterday, and the events that followed it.”
“And to a slight—pardon me—a slight indiscretion on your own part, madame, which followed the events,” said M. Drakovics, irritated by what seemed to him her prevarication.