“What, in these progressive days?” he asked. “You are behind the age, old man. You will contrive to exist very happily together by making sure of never finding yourselves in the same place at the same time.” And he went away to draw up an official announcement to be sent to M. Drakovics for insertion in a special Gazette, stigmatising the circumstantial reports which had appeared of late on the subject of the King’s approaching marriage as absurdly premature, since the date even of the betrothal was not yet fixed. As for Caerleon, he prepared with a failing heart for his interview with the Queen, who had expressed a desire to see her daughter’s fiancé. The King himself led him into the boudoir where the Queen sat knitting, and was much relieved to see her kiss him on the forehead when he stooped to kiss her hand. He had feared that although Princess Ottilie had proved unexpectedly pliable, her mother would be more difficult to persuade; and he ascribed the gratifying reality partly to the Queen’s sense of his own masterful personality, and partly to the liking she had already expressed for her future son-in-law. Pitying the young man’s evident shyness and misery, King Johann volunteered to leave him alone with the Queen for a time lest his presence should prove a restraint on their mutual confidences, and the moment that he had left the room the Queen dropped her knitting and sat upright.
“I can never thank you sufficiently for what you have done to-day,” she said, in a quick sharp whisper. “You have helped me to save my child.”
“I am very glad if I have been so fortunate as to please you,” said Caerleon, lamely.
“My daughter has told me your story,” the Queen went on. “Your confidence in her has touched us both extremely. If ever I can in any way serve or befriend the young lady whom you love, I rely upon you to turn to me without hesitation.”
“Your Majesty is too good,” stammered Caerleon.
“There is one thing I wish to say while we are alone,” continued the Queen, rapidly. “It is uncertain when Prince Alexis will be able to complete the arrangements for the wedding, and even when I know the day I will not tell you. You are to be completely ignorant. The news must surprise you as much as any one. I am afraid that your engagement must last at least eight days; but you know that it is not now proposed to celebrate the betrothal until ten days hence. I hope you will not find the time very irksome, but my child is a little wayward occasionally. Here comes the King.”
When Caerleon went out from the Queen’s boudoir, with the King’s arm in his, it was to begin the most horrible fortnight of his life. If he had done wrong in yielding to Princess Ottilie’s entreaties, he was amply punished for it as the days went on. He loathed the idea of deceiving the King, tyrannical and weak-minded though he was; he loathed the delighted congratulations which came pouring in through M. Drakovics from all Thracia as soon as it became known that the date of the betrothal was actually fixed. He was deceiving the man whose bread he was eating, for on the return from the hunt the King had insisted that the brothers should take up their quarters at Schloss Herzensruh; he was deceiving Cyril, who had never, so he fondly believed, concealed a thought from him; he was deceiving his simple-minded subjects, and he was laying up a store of self-loathing which became in course of time almost unbearable. And, worst of all, he was turning his back on Nadia, forsaking her, and, so far as the world could see, preparing to marry another girl, exactly as she had begged him to do, and prophesied that he would do. This last aspect of the case would have made the situation intolerable to a woman, but Caerleon was possessed of a dogged patience which forced him to go on to the bitter end, having once given his promise to Princess Ottilie. But he discovered very soon that, although it had been easy enough to offer her his help in the forest, with her tearful eyes fixed upon him and her indignant voice ringing in his ears, it was much more difficult to carry out his promise gracefully.
He did his best, although it must be confessed that that best was but poor. When Cyril suggested mildly that it was usual to send presents to the lady in the course of an engagement, he followed his advice, and telegraphed to Paris and Vienna orders for jewellery and objects of art; but he did so with the bitter recollection that he had never given Nadia so much as a keepsake, while here he was showering costly gifts upon a girl for whom he did not care a straw. It was the same with the rides, on which it was the Princess’s will and pleasure that he should accompany her at least once a-day. He had never had the chance of riding with Nadia; but he had little opportunity of forgetting that Princess Ottilie had a splendid seat, and rode like an Englishwoman, as Cyril told her once, assuring her at the same time that it was the highest compliment he could pay her. At first, indeed, Caerleon welcomed the prospect of the rides, as likely to restrict his intercourse with his fiancée to the polite and friendly terms on which he felt it was both right and reasonable they should meet. But he had reckoned without Princess Ottilie, even as he had left out of his calculations the enterprising photographers who travelled from Bellaviste and Eusebia, and arranged cameras in ambush by the side of the road along which the riders were to pass, and the enthusiastic amateurs who took snap-shots at them with kodaks. The Princess had eyes like a hawk, and could detect the most artfully concealed camera some minutes before she came abreast of it, and distinguish a photographic maniac at any distance, and at the crucial moment she would begin a confidential low-toned conversation, which obliged Caerleon to lean politely towards her in order to hear what she said; or she would drop her riding-whip. It was against his principles, she had discovered, to allow the groom to pick it up, and thus she had the pleasure of seeing him dismount and rescue it himself, while the lurking enemy gloated over the negative he had secured, which was destined to appear after the lapse of a week or two, in a more or less appalling guise, in one of the Continental illustrated journals.
“It isn’t the riding I mind, but I do bar her tricks,” Caerleon bemoaned himself one day to Cyril, who had witnessed an incident of this kind.
“Never mind,” said Cyril. “She only wants to show you off.”