Such was the state of affairs when Cyril left Ludwigsbad, summoned to Vindobona by urgent letters from the Chevalier Goldberg, who was alarmed by his own knowledge of what Dr Texelius had proposed to do. Events developed rapidly during the few hours that followed, and when Cyril reached the city he found one of the Imperial chamberlains awaiting him on the railway platform, with a face of direful import.
“We were all in darkness last night,” he said, after a hurried greeting.
“Then Texelius has nobbled the gas company?” asked Cyril.
The official nodded. “We of the Court should not be sorry to see the municipality punished,” he said, “for they richly deserve it; but there will be barricades in every street, and a massacre of the Jews, if this goes on. The electric light is only in use in one or two quarters.”
The situation was serious enough. The lighting of the city was in the hands of a company, floated chiefly by means of Jewish capital, upon the dividends of which the Anti-Semitic majority of the municipality had for many years cast a covetous eye. An attempt to buy up the plant and fittings by force had been foiled by appeal to the courts of law, but the check served only to stimulate the townsmen to discover some means of coercing the company. The plan at length adopted involved the expenditure of an enormous sum of money, and a long course of litigation and chicanery, but it was successful in its object of exhausting the resources of the victims. The municipality was now in possession of a lighting system of its own, almost in working order, and the value of the company’s shares was rapidly approaching the vanishing point. But the new gas supply was not yet ready for use, and here Dr Texelius found his opportunity. When the strife first began, a committee of the company’s shareholders had been formed for the purpose of defending its rights, and since the majority of its members were Jews, he had now little difficulty in persuading them to unite in a last desperate effort. If it did not succeed in saving their property from spoliation, it would at least incommode their enemies seriously.
The day before that on which Cyril reached Vindobona was a holiday at the gasworks. The furnaces were allowed to grow cold, the retorts remained uncharged, the gas-holders empty, and as soon as the small amount of gas in reserve had been consumed, every jet in the city, after flickering precariously for a time, went out. Summer had passed its prime, and the evenings were drawing in, but the heat was still intense, and the citizens were enjoying themselves in their brilliantly lighted public gardens. On this particular evening the brilliance was somewhat to seek, and there were many complaints even before the moment at which all became darkness. An Anarchist plot was the first thought, and an irresistible panic seized the crowds of pleasure-seekers. Some rushed wildly hither and thither, others waited tremblingly in the stupefaction of terror. It was some time before even the police could collect their wits sufficiently to inquire into the mystery. At length, by the joint exercise of persuasion and moral force, as typified by the erection of temporary lights at the street-corners, and the employment of cavalry to disperse the crowds, they induced the populace to seek their homes, and a commission of inquiry was despatched post-haste to the gasworks. The explanation afforded by the few melancholy officials in charge was a simple one. Owing to the persistent machinations of its enemies, the company’s dues had been withheld from it, so that it was unable to procure coal for conversion into gas. Its whole reserve stock had been worked up, and prompt financial aid alone could enable it to obtain more. The honourable officials of police had better apply to the municipality. But the municipal gasworks, the police were well aware, would not be in working order, even if operations were carried on both day and night, for a fortnight at least, and it was impossible to contemplate the horror of a gas-famine lasting for that period. Hence the appearance of the Imperial chamberlain at the station to meet Cyril and convey him in a Court carriage to the Schloss, whither the Chevalier Goldberg had already been summoned; and hence also the furious mob assembled in the street outside, howling for the destruction of the Jews and the division of their property among the burgesses of Vindobona. Just as Cyril reached the carriage with his conductor, his servant Dietrich, who had been looking after the luggage, stepped up to him.
“Excellency,” he said hurriedly, “there is a riot. You cannot pass through the streets in safety.”
“I am not deaf,” said Cyril coldly—then, turning to the chamberlain with a smile, “My man is an old servant, and privileged, but I don’t feel obliged to humour him in everything.”
The chamberlain was beginning to look uncomfortable, but he nodded, and followed Cyril into the carriage. Mansfield took his place upon the opposite seat, and they drove out of the station, to be greeted with a storm of yells and execrations. “Traitor! renegade!” were the epithets that saluted Cyril as soon as his clear-cut, contemptuous profile was recognised, and the mob surged up to the carriage with fierce shouts of rage. Those who succeeded in reaching it attempted no actual violence, for the presence of the man who was so absolutely unmoved by their clamour seemed to paralyse them, but those behind, unable to catch a glimpse of the visitor, did not feel the influence of his silent scorn. Cyril had turned to make a remark to the chamberlain, when Mansfield sprang up with a cry, and threw himself before him, only just in time to intercept with his shoulder a large stone which was hurled through the window, the broken glass cutting him about the face.
“Well done, Mansfield!” cried Cyril, while the chamberlain called frantically to the coachman to turn and drive back again into the station.