“You are quite right in saying that no one would imagine it who looked at him now,” said Cyril, as M. Drakovics rose to escort him to the door. “By the bye, you have rather a good view of the river from this window. What steamer is that flying Pannonian colours?”
“A Scythian trader, I fancy,” returned the Premier. “A good many of them hoist the Pannonian flag while they are here. It prevents unpleasantness, and we don’t ask too many questions, knowing that we can gain nothing but benefit from their coming, even though it is under the rose. A thriving trade with Scythia would in itself be almost a guarantee of peace. This particular ship has just unloaded her cargo, and leaves to-morrow.”
“Brought wheat, I suppose?”
“No; machinery for use in the arsenal. Sertchaieff has had two clerks on the wharf for three days checking all the cases as they were unloaded. When everything is in working order we shall be far more independent of other nations than any of our neighbours. This is another piece of good news for your Highness to convey to his Majesty.”
“Yes, I think that on the whole Caerleon has about as pleasant a berth as he could wish,” responded Cyril as he went out.
It is generally recognised that our good fortune is always much more clearly visible to others than to ourselves, and the fact that Caerleon himself was totally unconvinced of the advantages of his position need not, therefore, excite any astonishment. If Cyril had thought fit to broach in his brother’s presence his theory of the expedience of making some sacrifice to fortune in order to avert the perils arising from unbroken prosperity, Caerleon would have reminded him bitterly that his separation from Nadia was quite effectual in preventing him, at any rate, from growing intoxicated with success. His face was gloomy enough at the present moment as he rode up to the palace with his royal guest after the review, General Sertchaieff and a group of officers following them at some little distance. It was a wretched wintry afternoon, and only a German prince would have appreciated the compliment paid him in holding a review in his honour on such a day; but the courteous gentleman who rode beside the taciturn King was overflowing with contentment and good humour. Prince Otto Georg of Schwarzwald-Molzau was a gay young man of forty-five or so, a younger son of the reigning Grand-Duke, and said by his detractors to live on the reputation he had gained in the Franco-Prussian war, and on anticipations of a guerre de revanche. This was unkind, although it is undeniable that of late years he had been much better known in Paris or at Monte Carlo than on the parade-ground or the manœuvre-field; but there was a certain amount of truth in the accusation, for he was one of the men who are content to vegetate indefinitely unless aroused by some great stimulus. He had come to Bellaviste to represent his father at the coronation of Caerleon, ostensibly as a kind of amende honorable for Princess Ottilie’s heartless conduct; but as he was the brother of the Empress of Pannonia, it was generally believed that political considerations were not wholly unconnected with his visit. It was not, however, of politics that he was speaking as he rode up the street at the side of his host.
“You have the material for a fine army here,” he said; “but you want drill, drill, organisation, organisation. Your men are too much inclined to be independent, to act individually or in small bodies, without waiting for orders. Here we are in Europe—we do not, as in semi-savage warfare, need scouts, men of initiative. The ideal European army is absolutely a machine, without any thought or volition of its own, merely what is communicated to it by its head. If the different items forming that army once begin to try and think for themselves, whether in seeking cover or in making an advance, all is lost. Their only concern is to obey orders, and their commander’s business is to obtain the victory. It is even more humane for the leader to be untrammelled, when he is once in action, by considerations as to the lives of his men, and so on, for he has planned his movements with the view of attaining a certain end with the minimum of loss, and they must be carried out exactly if he is to win. The better an army, the more completely is its will merged in that of its leader—that is to say, the more thoroughly is it drilled into a machine. Your men are more like Cossacks, or irregular levies, at any rate, than thoroughly trained soldiers. It is easy to see that your army has been drilled by Scythians, not by Germans.”
“You will hurt General Sertchaieff’s feelings severely if you tell him that,” said Caerleon, glancing back at the War Minister. “I believe we flatter ourselves that we are in a very high state of military efficiency.”
Prince Otto Georg laughed silently. “Your corps d’élite amuses me,” he said; “your city guard, I mean, and that portion of it especially which you call the palace guard. The uniforms of these gentlemen are so magnificent, and their drill is so lamentable—to a German eye, at least. They are beautiful to behold, but a much smaller number of good soldiers, or even of your Carlinos, would scatter them with the greatest ease. By the bye, is it true that you discovered a Scythian plot among the palace guard which led to the degradation of an officer?”
“Not exactly,” said Caerleon, “although we seem to have been victimised very ingeniously by the officer you mean. He presented himself here as having thrown up a post in the Scythian army for the purpose of joining us, and we gave him a commission. About a month ago we were warned of a plot, which contemplated murdering me, among other laudable objects, and to our surprise, for we had not heard anything to connect him with it, this man disappeared promptly. We have never succeeded in catching him, and all we could do was to outlaw him and strike his name off the roll with ignominy.”