“Then consider that she has refused it, for it will not be granted. I am bold enough to risk her Majesty’s displeasure when it falls to me to guard her happiness. You need not hope to move me by an air of meekness, of suffering. Pray remain there in the sun the whole day. I rejoice to see you shut out—unable to reach her. Nothing could please me better.”
“Pardon me, mademoiselle, there is one thing wanting to complete your enjoyment. If her Majesty rejoiced to see me shut out, then you could be happy indeed. But you are afraid to lay my request before her, because you know that she would grant it.”
“I cannot stand talking all day,” said the lady angrily. “You, Count, have doubtless plenty of time to spare. I hope you may enjoy yourself!”
She disappeared from the grating, and all through the long, hot, noonday hours Cyril held his ground, with Mansfield, as determined as himself, at his side. Recommended to find his way back to the cave and take counsel with Mr Hicks, Mansfield refused to leave his post in the portico. With the nature of the grudge that Princess Anna Mirkovics cherished against Count Mortimer he was unacquainted; but she seemed to have little regard for consequences provided she could obtain her revenge. In the course of the afternoon she appeared again at the window, fresh from a cool siesta—so, with a refinement of cruelty, she informed them—and jeered at Cyril’s persistence in remaining where he was not wanted, and where he could do no good. Even Mansfield grew fainthearted after this. Cyril’s paleness and evident exhaustion alarmed him, and he suggested a retreat to the cave and the employment of Mr Hicks as ambassador. But Cyril was resolute.
“I’ll stay here till I get in, or die on her doorstep!” he said fiercely, and Mansfield offered no further suggestions. Their patience met with its reward at last, although this would scarcely have happened had Princess Anna been able to resist informing Cyril that the Queen was about to spend the evening in the garden, and he might therefore give up the hope of attracting her attention. Scarcely had she departed when another face appeared at the grating, that of Baroness von Hilfenstein, coming to see who it was that had been conversing in French with her colleague.
“You here, Count!” she said, with reproachful incredulity. “This is a—a—an unpleasant surprise.”
“Baroness, you are very cruel, when I have spent the whole day here in the hope of catching a glimpse of you.”
“You can hardly expect me to believe that, Count.”
“Even though you know you are going to get me an interview with the Queen?”
The Baroness threw up her hands. “Not that, Count, not that!” she pleaded piteously. “You would not make such an inexpedient, ill-timed request?”