She handed him the paper, which displayed in a conspicuous position the announcement that it would appear no more under its present editorship. An editorial note explained that Dr Texelius, aware that his independent course was distasteful to the proprietor of the journal, felt it his duty to throw up his post and wreck the paper. His position thus indicated, the editor proceeded to business. He had always, he said, doubted the disinterestedness of Count Mortimer, but he had forborne to ventilate his suspicions until accident had shown them to be entirely justified. The man who posed as the high-minded friend of Israel was merely a vulgar schemer, seeking to exploit the greatest movement of the age for his own benefit. His ambition had led him to lend a ready ear to the blandishments of Scythia, the natural enemy of Zion, and he had fallen victim to the wiles of a Delilah hired to entrap him. While deceiving his unfortunate supporters, he had been deceived himself. The post of Governor of Palestine had been promised him, together with the hand of his enchantress, as the price of his care of Scythian interests throughout the negotiations, and in consideration of a large sum of money he was to resign his position in favour of a Scythian nominee immediately after his election. There had never been the slightest intention of keeping faith with him, however. The lady, whose identity was not obscurely hinted at, had held him in play as long as he was useful, only to cast him aside when she had done with him. He had betrayed Jewish interests in vain, and now that it suited Scythia to throw him over, he stood revealed in all his baseness as a faithless agent and an unsuccessful traitor. Through this indictment, couched in terms which did not err on the side of refinement, Cyril glanced carelessly, and, having read it, handed it back to the Princess.
“Well, what have you to say?” she asked him.
“I am utterly at a loss, madame. I have nothing to say.”
“What, Count! you don’t even feel called upon to testify the slightest sorrow for the way in which my name is involved in your proceedings?—for it is impossible for any one not to see who is meant.”
“Ah, madame, my assailant has displayed a scrupulous regard for your feelings. You are the conqueror throughout, not the victim.”
“Then you accept the rôle of victim, Count?”
“Even so, madame. What can I do but acknowledge your triumph and ask your gracious leave to retire? A discredited traitor is no fit associate for your Royal Highness.”
“Stop, Count! You have carried on this farce long enough. Why pretend to take the man’s nonsense seriously? You know as well as I do that whoever may have been deceived, you were not.”
“What, madame! Are you trying to restore my lost self-esteem! to re-establish your empire over me, according to Dr Texelius?” Cyril was smiling.
“Pray, Count, be serious. What is the object of raising a new barrier between us at this moment, when this kind enemy of yours has unintentionally broken them all down? The hero and heroine occupy the stage, every eye is fixed upon them, and the stupid audience, which thinks it has followed the play with the deepest attention, anticipates what it imagines to be the dénoûment. But it is mistaken, for it has failed to see what was before its eyes. The true dénoûment is the simplest, the most unconventional possible—all honour to the actors who have grafted it on so hackneyed a plot.”