“Why, what should she do—burn the hotel down, or kidnap me? Paschics and Dietrich and I keep a very good look-out, I can assure you. If I believed there was actual danger, do you think I would expose my wife to it?”
“But why not come to England?”
“And leave Michael’s affairs to go wrong again? Now that we have eliminated you, as I wished, I hope to set them right before very long. No, don’t be afraid; I shall do my work.”
“If you had seen her face when she spoke of you——”
“My dear Usk, I don’t doubt her will to ruin me body and soul, but merely her power. If she had me anywhere in the wilds of Dardania, now, with a few half-Roumi retainers within call—but she hasn’t, and if I can help it, she won’t get the chance. That’s enough.”
Thus dismissed, Usk carried to Queen Ernestine the news of his approaching departure, and noticed that she looked at him with the same anxious, questioning glance as his uncle. She said nothing, however, save to agree that it was better he should go, and he went to tell Nicholson, who was quite prepared to make a personal grievance out of the announcement.
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Usk, when a fit of coughing had forced the invalid to desist from his animadversions upon the vile selfishness which was about to deprive him of the only man he knew in this wretched place, “but I really can’t stay. You see, I—I—— Well, I didn’t know you liked seeing me so much, but I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll ask my aunt to come and see you sometimes, and that’ll be much better.”
“Oh, don’t alter your plans for me,” muttered Nicholson frigidly. “If your aunt cares to come in, I shall be thankful, and if she doesn’t, I shan’t be surprised. I shan’t long be a bother to any one, but I never thought you would go and leave me out here like this.”
Usk felt somewhat guilty, but he reflected that, after all, he had not brought Nicholson to Nice, and that his visits had never seemed to give him any particular pleasure. At any rate, he could not bring himself to alter his determination, for the whole aspect of the place was hateful to him now. He thought of London mud and fog with absolute yearning, feeling that this sunlit white and green town with its fringing blue sea could never be anything but a loathed memory in future. Idleness was intolerable, and such sports as the Riviera afforded were not much better. Work was his only hope—to plunge into it, bury himself in it, and thus to forget the dazzling, disquieting, bitterly disappointing experiences of the past few months. Therefore he remained immovable, and, in spite of Nicholson’s fretful objections, insisted on bringing the Queen to see him the next day. Nicholson was too ill now to be conscious of the awed satisfaction that the rank of his visitor would have caused him in his days of health, but the gracious kindness which had conquered so many hearts did not fail of its effect with him; and when the Queen had promised to visit him every day, and talk to him a little if he was well enough, he was quite ready to let Usk go. Thus relieved of his chief anxiety, Usk had time to make a farewell call on the Grand-Duke and Duchess, neither of whom he saw, and then applied himself to the preparations for his journey.
Late in the afternoon he was on his way to the station, alone, by his own wish, when he found that his rug had been left behind, and sent his driver back for it, himself walking on to get his ticket. Presently a carriage drew up just beyond him, and a resplendent chasseur came to say that the Grand-Duchess of Schwarzwald-Molzau would be glad to speak to him if he could spare her a moment. When he reached the carriage, the Grand-Duchess insisted on giving him a lift to the station, and talked volubly of the loss his absence would prove to his uncle and aunt.