“Ah, you are young yet,” replied Cyril pleasantly. “Permit me to attend your Majesty to the door.”
In the anteroom Captain Roburoff, who had been amusing himself with trying to torment Mansfield by means of hints as to the King’s matrimonial intentions, jumped up in a hurry when his sovereign appeared. He expected a return to the elaborate ceremonial which had marked their entrance into the hotel, but King Michael strode out of the room without a word, neglecting all the precautions he had seen fit to adopt, and Mansfield breathed freely. It was evident that here was no accepted lover, and the refusal appeared to have been accompanied by a little wholesome plain speaking. On Cyril the impression left by the interview was one of unmitigated disgust.
“That Ernestine’s boy!” he muttered, as Prince Mirkovics had done before him. “Well, it’s a good thing that the young blackguard forgot himself so far as to threaten poor little Phil. It forces me to make things safe by cutting the ground from under his feet. So now to business!”
CHAPTER VI.
DANAOS DONA FERENTES.
Telling Mansfield that he was going for a stroll, and should probably lunch at Princess Soudaroff’s—a piece of information that filled the secretary with unavailing envy—Cyril took the road which led to the villa occupied by the Princess of Dardania. Reaching the door, he was greeted with stares of surprise by the servants on the steps and in the hall, and his request to be permitted to wait upon the Princess was regarded with amazement, not unmixed with suspicion.
“Her Royal Highness does not receive visitors,” he was told, while his card was handed round and scrutinised with something of awe.
“I think her Royal Highness will receive me,” he answered calmly, wishing he was as sure of the fact as he pretended to be. No one knew better than he did that he was making a hazardous stroke. If it failed, his old enemy would have scored a point. But his confident air impressed the servants sufficiently to induce them to carry his name to the Princess, and her reception of it established him in their respect. Princess Ottilie was beginning to be anxious about the fulfilment of her compact with Prince Soudaroff. Two days had passed since his visit, and she had made no progress towards securing the coveted governorship for her son. Worse than this, there seemed to be no means even of sounding Cyril upon the subject, unless she went so far as to make direct advances, such as he would probably take delight in repulsing. Not knowing that she had become necessary to his schemes, she had never dared to hope that the first overtures would come from him, and the announcement that he asked to see her was music in her ears. She gave orders that he should be admitted at once, and when he was ushered into her boudoir he found her standing beside the table to receive him, a majestic figure in her sweeping black robes. Why was it that Cyril’s heart flew straightway to another woman who had worn similar weeds, which, so far from enhancing such beauty as she possessed, had only served to accentuate the slenderness of her form and deprive her of every vestige of colour? The Princess of Dardania looked more magnificent even than of old, the severity of the garb exhibiting her stately stature to the fullest advantage.
“A year ago,” she said, “I should have hesitated to receive Count Mortimer, fearing that he came as an enemy; but now”—her eyes strayed to the large portrait of her late husband which stood upon the table—“I cannot believe that he would seek my presence with the desire of adding to my misfortunes.”
“Indeed, madame, my sole reason for entreating an audience is the double hope of doing you a service and of obtaining a favour from you.”
“Tell me the last first, Count, that I may at any rate have the pleasure of granting it.”