“Madame, no one can accuse me of neglecting his Majesty’s dying command so long as I could carry it out with honour; but I cannot stand by and see you plunge Thracia into a ruinous war in which your son’s kingdom will be irretrievably swallowed up.” He had given M. Drakovics no authority to include his resignation with his own, but this was a case in which unity was all-important.
“Oh, you are a true friend!” said the Queen ironically; but her mother rose and stood in front of her, waving the Ministers away.
“This is enough, my daughter. I will not see you lowered by appealing any longer to the patriotism or natural piety of these gentlemen. They have insulted you grossly in your own palace, in their anxiety to serve the interests of Scythia—an anxiety for which they will doubtless receive a suitable reward. I believe that the Emperor is extremely generous towards his foreign pensioners. M. Drakovics, Count Mortimer, you may retire. Her Majesty the Queen-Regent dispenses with your services.”
But the Princess, in her eagerness to clinch matters, had gone too far. Queen Ernestine was not to be superseded in the exercise of her prerogative, even by her mother. She rose from her chair a second time, with her lips tightened ominously.
“I am afraid that our discussions have disturbed you, mamma. His Excellency the Premier,” she laid a stress on the word, “was right when he suggested that this was scarcely the place for them. Messieurs,” she turned to the two Ministers with her most winning manner, “will you be so good as to accompany me into the next room? There we can discuss things without fear of interrupting any one.”
“Am I to understand that your Majesty endorses the remarks of her Royal Highness?” inquired M. Drakovics, without offering to move.
The Queen shot a glance of reproach at her mother. “See in what a position you have placed me!” it seemed to say. “Your Excellency,” she said, “I must apologise unreservedly for my mother’s words, which can only be excused by her ignorance of Thracia and its statesmen. If she knew you and Count Mortimer as I do, she would recognise the absurdity of her accusation.”
To Cyril’s intense amusement, M. Drakovics fell on his knees, and kissed the Queen’s hand.
“Madame,” he said, “I am overwhelmed. The pain I experienced on hearing the words of her Royal Highness is only equalled by the shame I feel for having appeared to demand an apology from yourself. I am your Majesty’s servant to command.”
“The little witch has won a triumph indeed!” reflected Cyril, as he and M. Drakovics, bowing to the Princess, followed the Queen into the next room. “It is quite worth while her stooping to conquer Drakovics. And he has taken a leaf out of her book, which shows that the lesson has not been lost upon him.”