For some time after these exciting events, there was peace in the Palace at Bellaviste, until the near approach of the date fixed for the Princess of Weldart’s departure for the South of France brought about another difference of opinion between the Regent and her Ministers. The breach caused by the Queen’s discovery of the part her mother had played with reference to the letter to the Emperor had soon been bridged over, for the young widow in her loneliness could not keep up a quarrel with the only person in whom her position and circumstances permitted her to confide. Indeed, it was the friendly relations existing between the mother and daughter which led to the fresh difficulty already mentioned, for Queen Ernestine, dreading the solitude of the long winter, and finding her life very monotonous and the cares of State uncomfortably heavy, conceived a desire that she and the little King should accompany the Princess to the Riviera. Full of enthusiasm for her new idea, she broached the subject to M. Drakovics and Cyril one morning, when the business on which they had come to consult her was ended. To her surprise and annoyance, the Premier showed no disposition to further her wishes.
“It is impossible, madame,” he said bluntly.
“Impossible? But I wish it!” she exclaimed, with the childishness which occasionally made Cyril long to put her in the corner.
“Impossible, madame,” repeated M. Drakovics, “if only from the point of view of propriety. To leave your kingdom, so lately bereaved of its head, for the gaieties of the Riviera, would be an unheard-of slight to the memory of your husband, and produce a most deplorable impression in the country.”
“That may be perfectly true,” thought Cyril, “but it was not your business to say it, at any rate in that way.” The Queen turned crimson, and cast a fiery glance at the Premier.
“I can assure your Excellency that the memory of my husband is quite safe in my hands. You are evidently unaware that my mother’s villa is situated in a most secluded spot, and that she sees no society, with the exception of members of her own family. Your Excellency’s insinuation is unpardonable.”
“I think, madame,” Cyril ventured to say, “that the Premier has not stated the chief objection to the journey your Majesty was proposing, but I am sure it is in his mind. In the present state of public affairs, it would be highly inexpedient, if not positively dangerous, for your Majesty and the King to be both absent from Thracia at the same time. His Excellency was unwilling to suggest the possibility of your accompanying her Royal Highness and leaving his Majesty behind, but that is the only alternative.”
“Ah yes, it is likely that I shall leave my child, is it not?” she asked with superb scorn, while her fingers beat a tattoo on the table with the inlaid paperknife. “One would have thought it would be perfectly clear to you, gentlemen, that it is on account of the King’s health I am anxious not to spend the winter at Bellaviste.”
“I trust, madame, that you have no reason for anxiety on his Majesty’s behalf? The Court physician’s reports are most reassuring.”
“Oh, naturally—there is nothing absolutely the matter with him, but he is growing too fast and becoming thin and pale. It is the fault of this town air, and the confined life here at the Palace. I want him to be in the country, where he can live simply and play with other children, and be merely a boy among boys.”