Re-entering the room she found herself alone, Leucha having gone downstairs into the garden to walk with Ignatia. Therefore she drew the letter from her pocket and re-read it.
“Dearest Heart,” he wrote,—“To-night the journals in Rome are publishing the news of the King’s death, and I write to you as your Majesty—my Queen. You are my dear heart no longer, but my Sovereign. Our enemies have again libelled us. I have heard it all. They say that we left Treysa in company, and that I am your lover; foul lies, because they fear your power. The Tribuna and the Messagero have declared that the King contemplates a divorce; yet surely you will defend yourself. You will not allow these cringing place-seekers to triumph, when you are entirely pure and innocent? Ah, if his Majesty could only be convinced of the truth—if he could only see that our friendship is platonic; that since the clay of your marriage no word of love has ever been spoken between us! You are my friend—still my little friend of those old days at dear old Wartenstein. I am exiled here to a Court that is brilliant though torn by internal intrigue, like your own. Yet my innermost thoughts are ever of you, and I wonder where you are and how you fare. The spies of Hinckeldeym have, I hope, not discovered you. Remember, it is to that man’s interest that you should remain an outcast.
“Cannot you let me know, by secret means, your whereabouts? One word to the Embassy, and I shall understand. I am anxious for your sake. I want to see you back again at Treysa with the scandalous Court swept clean, and with honesty and uprightness ruling in place of bribery and base intrigue. Do not, I beg of you, forget your duty to your people and to the State. By the King’s death the situation has entirely changed. You are Queen, and with a word may sweep your enemies from your path like flies. Return, assert your power, show them that you are not afraid, and show the King that your place is at his side. This is my urgent advice to you as your friend—your oldest friend.
“I am sad and even thoughtful as to your future. Somehow I cannot help thinking that wherever you are you must be in grave peril of new scandals and fresh plots, because your enemies are so utterly unscrupulous. Rome is as Rome is always—full of foreigners, and the Corso bright with movement. But the end of the season has come. The Court moves to Racconigi, and we go, I believe, to Camaldoli, or some other unearthly hole in the mountains, to escape the fever. I shall, however, expect a single line at the Embassy to say that my Sovereign has received my letter. I pray ever for your happiness. Be brave still, and may God protect you, dear heart.—Carl.”
Tears sprang to her beautiful eyes as she read the letter of the man who was assuredly her greatest friend—the man whom the cruel world so erroneously declared to be her lover.
The red afterglow from over the sea streamed into the room as she sat with her eyes fixed away on the distant horizon, beyond which lay the wealthy, picturesque kingdom over which she was queen.
Leucha entered, and saw that she was triste and thoughtful, but, like a well-trained maid, said nothing. Little Ignatia was already asleep after the journey, and dinner would be served in half an hour.
“I hope Madame will like Worthing,” the maid remarked presently, for want of something else to say. She had dropped the title of Majesty, and now addressed her mistress as plain “Madame.”
“Delightful—as far as I have seen,” was the reply. “More rural than Hastings, it appears. To-morrow I shall walk on the pier, for I’ve heard that it is the correct thing to do at an English watering-place. You go in the morning and after dinner, don’t you?”
“Yes, Madame.”