The result of Queen Ernestine’s journey to Kaufenhafen was in one respect satisfactory, although it threw no light upon the mystery of her husband’s fate. The Emperor of Scythia received her kindly, and pledged his imperial word that neither he nor his ministers had had any hand in Count Mortimer’s disappearance, nor had they the slightest idea where he was at present. No reference was made to the Zionist plot, and the Emperor did not express any disapprobation of Cyril’s late political activity, which, said Prince Soudaroff when he heard of the interview, was a clear waste of a heaven-sent opportunity. Even if the Emperor did know nothing about Cyril, he might surely have dissembled his ignorance, and obtained some useful pledges from the Queen by means of vague promises and hinted hopes. But the whole subject of the interview amused Prince Soudaroff extremely, and he confided his bon mot respecting the “Prince of the Captivity” so freely to the two or three kindred souls he contrived to gather round him even at Geneva, that it was repeated all over Europe before the end of the week. It was generally added, and the addition may also have been due to the kindred souls, that the Emperor had been wise in asserting his Chancellor’s non-participation in the affaire Mortimer before, and not after, questioning the Chancellor himself on the subject.
Heart-sick from her failure, the Queen was driven almost mad by the accounts which reached her from Illyria of the discovery of Paschics’s body and the abortive search at Bagnanera. Fresh confusion had been imported into the matter by a surgeon of high reputation for whom Usk had telegraphed to the capital of the province, for he certified that the bruises on the body had been caused before death, and could not, therefore, be the result of a buffeting in the subterranean river. Anxious to examine into the mystery herself, and also pay the last tribute of gratitude to her husband’s faithful servant by attending his funeral, Queen Ernestine hurried away from Kaufenhafen, only to fall ill on her journey to Illyria. A nervous fever, brought on by grief and overstrain, kept her a prisoner at Vindobona, tended by her aunt Princess Amalie, who was almost as much at home in the sick-room as at a wedding, and watched over by Lord Caerleon, who had not the heart to leave her and go on to Novigrad.
Then, before Prince Soudaroff’s witticism had time to grow stale by repetition, and when the papers, having made the most of the sensation afforded by the medical evidence as to the cause of the secretary’s death, were beginning to hunt for a fresh topic of interest, there came a rush of events which swept the “Balkan mystery” clean out of men’s minds. Just at first it was remembered sufficiently for Prince Soudaroff’s friends to say among themselves, with exquisite glee, that if he had his secrets from the Emperor, the Emperor clearly kept one or two things secret from him. But as Prince Soudaroff only looked wise and said nothing in public, the world in general thought he had known of the matter all along, little guessing the gnashing of teeth and tearing of hair which had taken place in certain chancelleries, that of Scythia not excepted, when the news came. There was a revolution—the fifth, if minor outbreaks are left out of the calculation—in Neustria.
This new revolution was the crowning glory of its kind. Other revolutions had been bungled at their inception, or had dragged on for several years before they could fairly be considered successful, but this one seemed to have been born full-grown. One night Prince Timoleon Malasorte was a casual sojourner in a Lutetian hotel, so little thought of as a political personage that the police either were not aware of his arrival in the forbidden capital, or winked at it. The next night he was master of the army, and by its means of every fortress in the country, master of the ecclesiastical system, and through it of the women of Neustria, master also of the national purse-strings. The whole thing came about with almost the suddenness of a transformation scene. It was never known publicly when and how the idea of the revolution had taken shape, or how long the astutest minds in Europe had toiled by devious and underground paths to prepare its way; all that was certain was that one morning the city was white and purple with unauthorised proclamations, posted in all sorts of forbidden places. The police tore them down, only to find that whatever way they turned, fresh bills were posted behind their backs, and while they did their confused best to keep pace with the bill-stickers, a drastic “Pride’s Purge” was being administered at the centre of parliamentary life. The Senate and the Chamber of Deputies were found to be surrounded by troops, and the alarmed legislators saw their sacred precincts invaded by armed men, headed by—as it seemed to their startled eyes—the counterfeit presentment of Timoleon I. Without giving them time to recover from their surprise, the new Timoleon informed them that he had assumed the office of Dictator in order to save the country from the evils menacing it, and announced a dissolution. Before even the most violent deputy could raise his voice in protest, soldiers were filing down the alleys between the rows of seats, and arresting one man here and another there. Those arrested were taken at once into safe keeping, where they met many of their friends in other walks of life, who had been apprehended at their homes or places of business. The city Municipality, indeed, found its numbers almost complete in this new place of meeting. The whole scheme could not, naturally, be carried out with the same celerity and certainty as these preliminary steps, and in the streets of Lutetia there were a number of spasmodic attempts to erect barricades. But Prince Timoleon and his supporters were not men to be trifled with; troops had been posted at strategic points throughout the whole city, and there were cannon ready wherever they were likely to be needed. In these circumstances the barricade-builders found it well to carry back into the houses the bedding and furniture they had requisitioned, to restore the overturned cabs to their normal position, and even to lay down again the torn-up paving-stones. In the more respectable portions of the city no opposition was offered to the new rule. The better class of people were so sick of their late government, so weary of a long succession of mediocrities diversified by knaves, that they were ready to welcome any change that promised stability and some measure of relief from corruption, and above all, they hailed the advent of a man—a commanding personality who would not only command but be obeyed. The priests headed processions of their flocks to take the oath of allegiance to the new government, and—surest sign of the strength that lay behind the movement—the credit of the country rose higher than before, and the Dictator had no difficulty in obtaining money. In all the larger provincial towns a similar change of affairs had taken place, and each town saw that the district round it followed its example. The rural inhabitants submitted to the altered conditions quite philosophically. They had always been of the opinion that they lived in the worst possible world for honest people, so that it was clear they could not become worse off. There was some fear lest the sacred names which had been handed down from the days of the first revolution should be lost to sight, and an absolutist empire, supported, as it was now currently believed this new enterprise had been throughout, on one side by the Jews and on the other by the Jesuits, be set up. But the Dictator was too wise for this. The proclamation which he issued on the night of his triumph, dated from the Presidential palace (which the former occupant had quitted in haste and without much reluctance), was a model in its way. After a short sketch of Roman history, appropriate to the occasion, Prince Timoleon called the nation to witness that he had been welcomed as the saviour of society by the whole people, and established at the head of the government with scarcely the shedding of a drop of blood. There was the inevitable reference to the deeds, sacrifices, and triumphs of his ancestors; but with touching modesty and fairness Timoleon Lucanor, Prince-Dictator, concluded by saying that he proposed immediately to take a plébiscite of the whole nation on the question of reviving the imperial form of government in Neustria. This clinched matters. Timoleon Lucanor trusted the people.
When the great news was flashed over the wires from Neustria to Illyria, and the flock of newspaper correspondents which had settled upon the country round Novigrad, like rooks upon a ploughed field, pocketed their notebooks and their fountain-pens, and took the quickest way back to Europe, they were followed also by all the detectives who had been engaged in the search for Cyril. Curiously enough, as it seemed to Usk and Helene, these men all saw in the Neustrian revolution a chance of exercise for their peculiar talents, and no bribe would induce them to remain. Consequently, to continue the investigation of the mystery there were only Mr Hicks, still pursuing his inquiries in the Bagnanera district, the Chevalier Goldberg, who was called away every few days to Vindobona on business of European importance, but returned doggedly to Novigrad when it was settled, and the two young people at Drinitza, who were now absolutely at a loss, and could not even think of anything more that might be done. They made long driving excursions, during which Helene was duly tutored in the use of the reins, and which were always made the occasion of questioning any country-people who might be met on the road, and they wandered through the beech-forests on the Pelenko estate, and invented wonderful series of events which might happen, to crown all their work and anxiety with success, if only some clue would opportunely show itself. But in the minds of both there was surely growing up the conviction, hateful and long resisted, that the black pool in the cave at Bagnanera held the clue to the secret.
Riding back to the inn one day from Novigrad, tired and dusty, and perhaps a little cross, Usk caught sight of Helene talking to a lady on the terrace. The lady’s face was not familiar to him, and there was something about her look and dress which made him think she was not likely to be an acquaintance of the Schwarzwald-Molzau family, but Helene was so deeply engrossed in listening to her that she had not even heard him ride up.
“Who is the lady talking to Lady Usk?” he asked of the landlord, who came out to take his horse.
The old man looked embarrassed. “It is a Scythian lady, honourable sir, who has driven out to see the glen. Her name is—at least she calls herself—Mlle. Garanine.”
“Tania Garanine—the actress?” cried Usk.
“I know, honourable sir. She is not suitable company for the gracious lady, but what could I do? It was not for me to——”