“It iss hopeless, Count. I gif it up. My aim now iss to see you safely merried to her Machesty, and I can think of nothink else.”
The three conspirators took their leave of the Queen, and departed to put things in train for the next day’s ceremony. Lord Caerleon paid a visit to Colonel Monckton, the British Consul, and bespoke his consent to the change of date and his assistance in the necessary arrangements. Cyril sent Paschics to look for Yeshua (the blind man had returned to Damascus with the Queen and her escort), who was to find his way to the sheikh of the Beni Ismail, and tell him that he and his tribe would be needed to guard their sovereign and her husband to Sitt Zeynab two days earlier than the time agreed upon. The Chevalier, on his side, devised a little plan of his own for hoodwinking the enemy, and having laid his train, devoted his attention to procuring the tents and supplies for the journey.
The next morning there was a kind of informal reception at the British Consulate. The Chevalier took Mr Judson there to make final arrangements with the Consul, and Lady Caerleon looked in to have a talk with Mrs Monckton. Paschics appeared with a document which needed signing, and an unfortunate accident led to the invasion of the house by several other and more important guests. The Queen and her son, with General Banics and M. Stefanovics in attendance, were going out for a ride with Lord Caerleon, Philippa, and Usk, but just outside the Consulate the Queen’s horse cast a shoe. It was only natural that her Majesty and her companions should be invited into the house for a few minutes; but it was certainly strange that Baroness von Hilfenstein, Madame Stefanovics, and Fräulein von Staubach should have chosen that particular time for calling upon Mrs Monckton in a body. Possibly, however, they felt the need of some distraction after the shock they had received when their mistress informed them that the exquisite creation in grey and silver, fresh from a Parisian atelier, which had arrived that morning, would not be worn on New Year’s day. Curiously enough (Philippa said afterwards that the array of coincidences in connection with this wedding surpassed those associated with the name of Mr Wemmick), Cyril invited Mansfield to take a stroll with him as far as the Consulate just at this time.
“What’s this I hear about you from my brother, Mansfield?” he asked, as they started; “that you have refused Forfar’s post?”
“I prefer to stay with you, Count. I don’t want to change.”
“But you can’t stay with me. Do you know where you are going at this moment? You are going to see me married, which means that we must part.”
“But, Count——” gasped Mansfield, in dire dismay.
“I don’t wish to be unkind, but doesn’t it strike you that you would be just a little de trop on the honeymoon trip? And really, you know, it would be a perfect farce for me to drag two secretaries about with me now.”
“And you mean to keep Paschics, and kick me out?”
“My dear Mansfield, don’t look at me as if I had pierced your young heart to its depths. Paschics must stay with me. He has worked under me more than twenty years, and asks nothing better than to go on as he has done. It would be sheer cruelty to send him adrift at his age. But you have your life before you, and I am not going to see you stranded in the desert with me or any one else.”