The lady whom Wylie had designated as the Stormy Petrel was sitting in her private room in the house she had taken at Skandalo, busied, as was usually the case in her hours of retirement, with the arrears of an enormous correspondence. The mental activity of Ottilie, Princess of Dardania, had increased, rather than diminished, with the passage of years, and she had a finger in many obscure and incongruous pies, besides taking a prominent part in all the more obvious developments of standing political intrigue. The power, or the semblance of it, which she thus gained was the sole joy of her life, and its one drawback was the European reputation she enjoyed, which had a tendency to scatter all the elements of a promising conspiracy as soon as she began to show an interest in it. In Balkan affairs, however, she had, as it were, a prescriptive right to take part, and many exalted personages looked to her for their views on the subject. It was her boast that she never employed a secretary. Every letter addressed to her was opened by herself, and only unimportant epistles were handed over to be dealt with by her lady-in-waiting. The post of this attendant was no sinecure, and Donna Olimpia Pazzi, who was at present filling it, looked pale and tired when she entered her mistress’s presence.
“Madame Theophanis desires to know whether you will receive her, madame,” she said.
“Princess Theophanis, my child. Who are we that we should remind the unfortunate of their fallen condition?” The Princess spoke in a clear raised tone, not without a suspicion of mockery, calculated to penetrate into the anteroom beyond. “Beg her to give herself the trouble of entering.”
Donna Olimpia hesitated, then came close up to the writing-table. “When will you allow me to return to Bashi Konak, madame?” she asked hurriedly, almost inaudibly.
The Princess frowned. “You must not be unreasonable. I thought you agreed with me that it was safer you should not return while Prince Christodoridi remained at the Palace?”
“Yes, madame, but—— Oh, you cannot tell what I suffer! You know him, yet not as I do. What fresh object may have captivated his fancy—at whose shrine——”
“Olimpia, this is childish.” The Princess spoke with severity. “I have promised that all shall be well if you take my advice. Would you wreck your whole future by this untimely jealousy? Be content: Prince Romanos will love you much better when he meets you again after a few weeks’ separation than if he had enjoyed your society the whole time.”
The girl shook like an aspen as the Princess, leaning back in her chair, watched with artistic pleasure the effect of the taunt. “We are keeping Princess Theophanis waiting most cruelly. Will you be good enough to bring her in, or must I go myself?” The tone cut like a knife.
“Pardon, madame!” murmured Donna Olimpia, retreating helplessly. In another moment she ushered in Eirene, looking haggard and wasted in her deep mourning. The Dowager Princess met her and kissed her affectionately, uttering little cooing sentences of condolence until the lady-in-waiting had retired, closing the door behind her. Then her manner changed.
“We will not waste time,” she said.