“I do not know what his business with the letter was, madame, nor will I offer an opinion as to the means by which he obtained possession of it. All I can say is, that late last night Herr Christophle not only delivered your Majesty’s signed letter to Baron Natarin at the Scythian Legation, but also sold copies on his own account to all the papers of the capital.”
“Impossible!” cried the Queen. “How could he sell copies of my letter to the papers? And how did he obtain possession of the letter itself?”
“I see nothing to make all this commotion about,” put in the Princess of Weldart briskly. “When a letter is written, why should it not be delivered?”
The Queen glanced sharply at her, then turned to the Ministers with a stunned look on her face. “I fear that Christophle must have made use of that argument,” she said falteringly. “In any case, I shall rebuke him sharply for his officiousness.”
“Pardon me, madame, but that is not enough,” said M. Drakovics.
“Not enough? You tell me to my face that I am not competent to control my own servants? I say that it is enough, M. le Ministre!”
“My regret at being compelled to differ from your Majesty is only enhanced by the consequent necessity of placing my resignation in your hands, madame.”
“What! your Excellency does not dream of retiring from office for the sake of such a trifle?” Her tone was one of genuine alarm.
“When your advisers have the misfortune to lose your confidence, madame, it is undoubtedly their duty, as well as your pleasure, that they should yield their places to more favoured individuals.”
“Is this the way in which you fulfil your friend’s dying charge, Count?” she asked bitterly of Cyril, while the Princess of Weldart, who had dropped her work, looked up with gleaming eyes.