Caught in his own trap in this way, Cyril passed a very bad quarter of an hour with M. Drakovics. The elder man was resolute, the younger furious—the ground of his fury being not so much the nature of the Premier’s action as the fact that he had taken it without consulting him. That M. Drakovics had exceeded his powers and got into a scrape, and was now looking to him to save him from the consequences, was Cyril’s view of the case; but as often as he urged it M. Drakovics replied with perfect calmness that it had been necessary to act immediately, and that if he had consulted Cyril the latter would have hesitated to agree without first sounding his brother, a course which would have destroyed all hope of success. Finally, M. Drakovics, with a cool obstinacy which showed Cyril another reason for his being called the Bismarck instead of the Kossuth of the Balkans, reiterated his demand that Cyril should undertake to acquaint Caerleon with the part it was desired that he should play.
“You see, milord,” he observed, frankly, “if the King was angry with me, and lost his temper so far as to address me rudely, or even, perhaps, to attempt to strike me, I am bound to resent it, for I represent Thracia. I should feel compelled to resign, and then Thracia is lost. But you are different, and, moreover, you are better acquainted than I am with his Majesty’s character, and the best way of approaching him on such a delicate matter.”
“It strikes me that my valour is the better part of your discretion,” said Cyril; “but there is something in what you say. Don’t imagine that I shall spare you, though. I quite see that Caerleon ought to marry this Mœsia girl—in fact, that it will probably make all the difference between success and a big smash if he does—but I don’t think you have acted on the square. You needn’t blame me if you are out of office this evening. Well, now to beard the lion in his den. It may as well be done at once, before an ecstatic telegram arrives from King Johann Casimir, welcoming his proposed son-in-law to his kingdom and his heart.”
M. Drakovics smiled to see Cyril pause in front of one of the mirrors in the corridor as he spoke, and rearrange his tie, which had become twisted in the heat of the argument; but when he saw him put his hands in his pockets and lounge idly into Caerleon’s study he understood him better. Cyril’s rôle was to be that of absolute innocence.
Caerleon was sitting at his writing-table, busied with the reports and telegrams from Thracian agents at the various European Courts which M. Drakovics had brought for his consideration, taking care to abstract the one from Eusebia. He looked up as Cyril came in.
“Have you heard of the different blows which are about to fall on us?” he said. “Things look pretty black.”
“Oh yes, Drakovics has been telling me about them,” returned Cyril. “I hear that you are to act Curtius, and throw yourself into the gulf.”
“By abdicating? Has Drakovics come to that already? I haven’t. I don’t mean to give up Thracia without a little fighting, unless they can find a better man whom the people will accept.”
“Something much more heroic than abdicating. There is a lady in the case. Marriage is the gulf.”
“Then I fear the gulf will remain unfilled,” said Caerleon, turning back to his papers.