“Exactly,” said M. Drakovics, with a ghastly smile, “and my news this morning is that there is a hitch in our negotiations with Roum. Our agent at Czarigrad has been refused an audience, while a special Scythian mission was received with peculiar warmth.”
“Ah!” said Cyril, “and if the recognition is refused, you are a rebel, and Caerleon and I are filibusters. Decidedly, in such a case as this, nothing succeeds but success. Allons, monsieur! we are all in the same boat, and we may as well stick to the ship. It is possible that the Grand Signior was only trying to put Scythia off the scent. If it is so, we shall see. If not——”
The sentence was left unfinished as M. Drakovics departed shaking his head, and Cyril returned to his work of writing answers to his brother’s correspondents. He had no further private conversation with the Premier until one morning several days later, when M. Drakovics entered the office in great excitement.
“Milord, we are lost! Our agent at Czarigrad telegraphs that the recognition is definitely refused. There is a rapprochement between Scythia and Pannonia—the Emperors have met. Secret negotiations are proceeding among the Powers, and the British Government is understood to have decided to remain neutral. There is only one thing that can save Thracia. His Majesty must marry the Princess Ottilie of Mœsia.”
“Indeed!” said Cyril. “What good will that do?”
“Everything. The King of Mœsia is the nephew of the Grand Duke of Schwarzwald-Molzau, and that house is connected with every reigning family in Europe. Moreover, the King, so I learn from my correspondent at Eusebia, would like the match. The Queen wishes her daughter to marry the Prince of Dardania, but he objects to him, and has more than hinted that he would prefer a son-in-law from Thracia. Again, we can offer an inducement. There is a strip of territory on our Mœsian frontier which has been ours since the last war. The people are really Mœsians by race, and give us more trouble than all our Thracians put together; but we have held fast to the territory, knowing that it would be useful as a quid pro quo in case we were ever desirous of obtaining a concession from Mœsia. The King would give anything to have it back, and in exchange for it we shall gain the strongest family alliance we could propose, and the help of Mœsia and the Mœsian army in case of war.”
“There seems to be a good deal of the quid pro quo in your philosophy,” said Cyril. “The difficulty will be to make Caerleon come into the scheme. How are you going to get him to propose?”
“There is no need for his Majesty to conduct the preliminary negotiations in person,” said M. Drakovics, drily. “I have already telegraphed to Eusebia instructing our agent to make formal proposals to the King for the hand of the Princess.”
“And this without telling Caerleon?” cried Cyril in astonishment. “Well, I don’t envy you when you try to break the news to him. If he kicks you down-stairs, don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”
“But it is you that will be kicked, milord, not I,” said M. Drakovics, calmly. “His Majesty is your charge, the kingdom is mine,—that is our agreement, as you know. I have done my part in this affair by setting on foot negotiations which will ensure the safety of the kingdom. It falls to you to bring his Majesty to acquiesce in them.”