“As the temptress, of course,” replied the Princess, without a moment’s hesitation. “I can’t resign my European reputation, even for the sake of sparing Count Mortimer’s feelings.”
Prince Soudaroff found himself foiled. He had felt certain that the Princess would justify his suspicions at this point, but she had stood the test, and he had no option but to believe her. “May I ask whether your Royal Highness’s efforts have been attended with success hitherto?” he asked.
“I cannot boast that success is absolutely secure,” she replied thoughtfully. “Every man has his weak spot, as you know, Prince, but with some men it is very difficult to find. It is my impression, however, that Count Mortimer is safely landed.”
“You are not afraid that he is encouraging you in that belief for his own purposes?” Prince Soudaroff suggested, with becoming diffidence.
The Princess’s heart uttered an indignant contradiction, but her lips did not echo it.
“Do you know,” she said, leaning towards him confidentially, “that has struck me more than once? ‘What if he is merely amusing himself with me?’ I have said; but I have seen nothing, absolutely nothing, to justify the misgiving. And I am a woman of some little experience, Prince.”
“Indeed, madame, I have often envied you. Since all is secure, then, we may go forward. The pressure of circumstances has forced us to send orders to-day to our ambassador at Czarigrad to withdraw his opposition to the Jewish concession. When Count Mortimer is at the pinnacle of popularity among his friends on account of this success, I would propose that we make public his negotiations with you.”
“Excellent, Prince! You won’t publish my name, of course? My sons might object to that; but a few dots and dashes and asterisks would only add to the piquancy of the affair.” In her own mind she resolved quickly, “Then I must marry him before it is generally known that the concession is granted. That in itself will destroy most of the effect of the exposé when it comes; and as to the rest—well, I will make him Prince of Palestine whether Scythia or any one else stands in the way.”
“It is an unsatisfactory business,” Prince Soudaroff said to himself as he left the villa. “Clever men have undoubtedly been beguiled by astute women before now; but it is most unlike Mortimer. I can’t help suspecting that he has some plot on hand. At all costs we must anticipate him in exploding the mine.”
The news which had summoned Cyril to the Pannonian capital was sufficiently grave. Vindobona had long held a bad pre-eminence among the cities of Europe on account of its malignant Anti-Semitism, and that most militant of philosophers, Dr Texelius, had managed to bring matters to a climax at this very unpropitious moment. His feud with the town was of old standing. Some years before, when his fame was only beginning to spread beyond the bounds of his own seat of learning, he had been invited to deliver a course of lectures at Vindobona. The course was largely attended, but the students of the University, who came to scoff and remained to howl, formed the greater part of the audience. To lecture, save in dumb show, was impossible, and Dr Texelius shook the dust of Vindobona from his feet, declaring darkly that the city should yet rue the day it had insulted him. The passage of time and the spread of his fame did not tempt him to forget his threat, and he devised a scheme of vengeance, which he unfolded, under a promise of secrecy, to the Chevalier Goldberg. The financier pointed out that the plan would involve the Jews in universal odium, and brought pressure upon him promptly to renounce it. Dr Texelius consented, under protest, to forego his revenge, and would probably have kept his word but for a hostile move on the part of the University of Vindobona. The latest idea in the city was to boycott everything that was Jewish, and in an evil hour the University resolved to follow the fashion. A boycott was decreed forthwith against the works of Dr Texelius, which were extensively used by the students and professors belonging to the faculty of philosophy, and it proved disastrously effective. The injured author rose up in his wrath, and descended upon his foes with might and main in the columns of a newspaper owned by the Chevalier Goldberg. No one thought of boycotting that particular paper while the wordy war continued, for Dr Texelius had a pretty taste in opprobrious epithets, and the whole empire rang with the echoes of the strife. But the University remained unaffected by the wealth of logic showered upon it. Dr Texelius might demonstrate the iniquity, folly, illiberality, or anything else of its conduct, but it was not in his power to bring about the removal of his books from its Index Expurgatorins. Once convinced of this fact, the philosopher relieved his feelings in a parting letter that outdid all its predecessors in scurrility, and prepared to make use of more material weapons.