To the surprise and delight of Mr Hicks, the attack of brain fever which he had feared for his patient did not ensue. Cyril remained for several days in a state of exhaustion amounting to stupor, in which he displayed no interest in outside affairs, and showed a curious irritability when the faithful Paschics tried to induce him to take in hand the routine work which had fallen into arrears during his absence. Of important business there was happily none to settle, for Europe was conscious that the master-hand was once more on the reins, and the anti-Semitic agitation died down as quickly as it had arisen, without making necessary any very drastic measures. Thus relieved from anxiety, Cyril turned impatiently from the records of work done, and copies of answered letters, to which Paschics tried to direct his attention.
“Let me rest, Paschics. Don’t you see I am utterly worn out? Your letter-books convey no meaning whatever to my mind. If another crisis arises, you can let me know; but now I must rest.”
“Nature is taking her revenge,” said the doctor whom Mr Hicks had felt it his duty to call in. “His Excellency’s brain has been overworked, and the cause of the strain is now regarded with loathing. The Count must take a holiday, and afterwards he will return to business with fresh zest. When this drowsiness passes off, get him up to Brutli or one of the other villages on Anti-Lebanon, and let him live in the open air.”
“That doctor is what I call a sensible man,” muttered Cyril drowsily when the prescription was repeated to him. “Let some one take rooms at Brutli, and find out whether the Queen has arrived.”
In pursuance of these instructions, Mansfield rode up to the village two or three days later. The hardships of the desert journey had made no permanent impression upon him, and after a nap which lasted the better part of two days the brownness of his skin and a hollow look about his cheeks were the only signs remaining of three weeks’ plain living and hard riding. He was in the best of spirits when he dismounted at the door of the inn and inquired of the landlord whether the Queen’s attendants still had their quarters there. M. Stefanovics, he found, had been spending the morning at the Institution in attendance upon her Majesty, but was expected to return shortly, and General Banics was in his rooms, whither Mansfield betook himself. The General answered his inquiry for M. Stefanovics with perceptible stiffness.
“I expect my colleague to return to lunch, certainly, but I cannot answer for his movements. His attendance upon the Queen has occupied a large proportion of his time of late. Her Majesty is pleased no longer to seclude herself so completely from the world. I had the honour of attending her upon a mountain ride yesterday.” At the close of this long series of brief sentences, General Banics confronted Mansfield with an expression of great severity, as though to say, “Allude to the indiscreet revelations made to you on your last visit if you dare!”
“I am glad her Majesty is so much better—in spirits, I mean,” Mansfield added hastily. “Do you think there is any chance of my being permitted to see her?”
“To see the Queen? you must be mad! And why is her Majesty to receive you, pray?”
“I am the bearer of a message from Count Mortimer.”
“From Count Mortimer? You did not say that when you were here last.”