CHAPTER VII.
BREAKING WITH THE PAST.
A WEEK had passed since Philippa’s departure from the villa before she entered it again, accompanied by her uncle, to spend the day with Princess Lida. Cyril’s presence had not been sought by his niece. In fact, poor Philippa, terrified lest she should be helping to involve him in the toils of the Princess of Dardania, had assured him plainly, almost rudely, that she preferred to go by herself. But Cyril could be singularly dense when he chose. He insisted that he had nothing particular to do, and could find no more delightful employment for an idle hour than escorting his niece to the villa. This assurance only confirmed Philippa’s fears, and the crowning touch was put to her misery by the message which awaited Cyril on his entrance, that the Princess would be glad to see him if he could spare her a few minutes. Philippa cast an imploring glance at him, but he smiled wickedly at the sight of her woe-begone face, and followed the servant sent to conduct him to the Princess’s boudoir.
“Some dodge on hand,” he muttered to himself, when the man had left him with the announcement that her Royal Highness would receive him in a short time. “I wonder what it is? Ah!”
His eye had been caught by an unfamiliar object in the room, a large portrait on an easel, carelessly draped with a gold and crimson scarf. It was turned away from him, and he went round the easel to look at it, only to recoil with a start which even his self-control could not restrain. The gay hues of the drapery served only to accentuate the utter desolation revealed by the photograph. A woman, dressed in white, was sitting listlessly upon a block of stone, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. The portrait revealed with cruel distinctness the grey hair, the lines in the worn face, and the unfathomable sorrow in the hopeless eyes. The Princess had given special directions that the reproduction was to be a faithful, not a flattering, one.
“Good heavens!” broke from Cyril under his breath, “and this is Ernestine!”
The wild rush of remorse and pity almost made him stagger, as he stood with clenched hands and compressed lip before the portrait; but it was succeeded by a vehement indignation against the woman who had deliberately prepared this miserable shock for him. “I showed you little mercy when last we met, dearest,” he muttered, addressing the pictured Ernestine; “but she shall have none.”
The sound of his own voice recalled him to himself, and before the faint frou-frou of the Princess’s silk-lined robes, sweeping over the polished floor, announced her approach, he had had time to compose his features, and to adopt an attitude of interest, not untouched with criticism, as he stood before the portrait. The Princess came rustling in, exquisitely dressed (during the past week she had mitigated the severity of her weeds in various scarcely perceptible ways, which caused the general effect to be considerably less sombre), graceful and gracious, with the utmost made of every good point in face and figure. Truth to tell, her mood at the moment was not of the most tranquil. It had been no part of her plan that Cyril should be left alone with the portrait of his old love. She had intended to confront him with it unexpectedly, and to scrutinise with jealous minuteness the effect it produced upon him, but the stupidity of the footman had prevented this. If she felt any anxiety as to the result of her experiment, she did not betray it, however. Her whole manner was expressive of a superb confidence in her own power to charm, as compared with the faded and unhappy woman in the photograph. As she entered, Cyril turned towards her with a start, letting his eye-glass drop from his hand.
“Pardon me, madame,” he said hastily, without waiting for her to speak first, “but I cannot help tracing in this portrait some resemblance to the features of my august mistress, Queen Ernestine. Surely it is not possible that the photograph is hers?”
“Now who can have put that portrait here?” cried the Princess, in tones of strong irritation. “Yes, it is the latest likeness of my poor cousin, and I have just had it enlarged at Vindobona, but it was not intended for exhibition in public. Birnsdorf is so officious!” She lifted the scarf as though to cover the picture with it, but Cyril stopped her.
“Permit me to entreat you to leave the portrait as it is, madame. If your Royal Highness needed a foil, you could find no better one than this.”
The callousness of the words would have disgusted most women, but they rejoiced the Princess’s heart. Her expedient had succeeded. She let the scarf fall, and stooped to look at the photograph more closely.
“There is no posing in it, you see,” she said. “My unhappy cousin never knew that she was watched. The original was merely a snap-shot taken by one of the doctors whom the King sent to Syria to visit his mother. There was some idea that it might be necessary”—possible was the word on the Princess’s tongue, but she had no intention of revolting Cyril by an undue display of her hatred towards the woman she had injured—“to place her under restraint, and indeed it was a fortnight before she would consent to receive the doctors. But when they saw her they found that violence formed no part of her disorder, merely extreme depression, as you perceive there.”
“Madame, it is too sad for words,” returned Cyril, in the perfunctory tone of one who finds it incumbent upon him to sympathise in a matter for which he has no sympathy. The Princess noticed his manner with marked satisfaction.
“Alas, Count! I have bored you. You must forgive me. My poor cousin and I have always been such devoted friends. But tell me how you have settled your dispute with England?”
“Without difficulty, madame. The day after my letter reached the Duchess of Old Sarum, Mr Forfar, speaking in London, took occasion to dissociate himself and the Government from the views expressed by Lord Ormsea, and very soon afterwards Lord Ormsea himself, in fear of losing his post, explained that his words were to be understood only in a Pickwickian sense. The slight fall in Consols was so adroitly managed that it seemed the result rather of public alarm than of a Jewish coup de main, and British opinion has definitely ranged itself on our side.”
“Good generalship usually meets with good fortune,” said the Princess, with a smile that converted the truism into an infinitely flattering compliment.
“You are too kind, madame. May I hope for your good wishes in the next little difficulty that lies before me?”
“Indeed you have them, Count. But what is this new trouble?”
“I am obliged to leave for Vindobona to-morrow, madame. One of our agents, whose name you may have heard, the scientist Texelius, has contrived to embroil himself with the Vindobona University, and the citizens, whose sympathies are strongly Anti-Semitic, are making a racial question of the matter.”
“And you leave to-morrow?” said the Princess, with an irritation which she made no attempt to conceal. “It seems quite impossible for me to keep in touch with your movement as I was hoping to do.”
“If I might have the honour of waiting upon you on my return, madame, it would be my delight to report such success as I may meet with. Your wonderful sympathy and kindness——”
“Oh, pray come, Count. You are not mistaken. I am deeply interested—perhaps more than is altogether wise,” she sighed. “You don’t know what a practical proof I have just given you of my sympathy. I have instructed my son Kazimir to withdraw from the candidature which was so embarrassing to you.”
“Madame, I am overwhelmed. When you graciously offered to exert your influence on our behalf, I little dreamed of this.”
“It is a sacrifice, I don’t deny,” said the Princess, sighing again. “With my son enthroned at Jerusalem, I should have little left to wish for. You know that in crusading times the Kings of Jerusalem were said to wear the crown of the world? But I felt it my duty, Count. Kazimir is too young, too inexperienced, for such a post. He would be merely the mouthpiece of Scythia, and I fear your poor Jews would be as badly off as they are now. Besides,” her eyes met Cyril’s, “there is a man who ought to be appointed, and he is not Kazimir.”
“Alas, madame, that I can exert no influence even in favour of your candidate!”
“It is unnecessary, Count. My candidate will win the suffrages of the Powers by virtue of his fitness for the post. Even now he would be found, like Themistocles, second on every list. He has links uniting him to all the Powers, but he is bound to none. He can work or fight his way to power, as may be necessary, and it would surprise me very much if he failed to keep what he had won.”
“Ah, madame! What hope is there that so suitable a person should ever obtain the post?”
“There is the help of friends, Count, and there is a curious condition suggested in a letter I have just received from Pavelsburg. The Emperor consents to withdraw the demand for an Orthodox Prince, but insists that Orthodox influence shall be present in some form in the new state. If the future governor were married to an Orthodox princess, for instance, all would be well. A quaint idea is it not?”
Cyril considered the matter as gravely as if he had believed that the Emperor was really responsible for the suggestion. “I fear, madame, that it is only mentioned because it is impracticable,” he said. “How could the person you speak of aspire so high?”
“Ah, Count, all is fair in—other fine arts as well as politics. Hearts move faster sometimes than the pens of diplomatists.”
“True, madame, but the world has sometimes occasion to say that presumption is rightly punished.”
“That, Count, will never be said of the man I mean. If he is willing to be guided by me, he will leave that part of the matter in my hands. He will continue his diplomatic campaign, and the rest is my business. Is there any reason why he should refuse to accept the arrangement, Count?”
“I see none, madame, unless he is a fool.”
Cyril kissed the hand held out to him, and retired. The Princess flung the scarf contemptuously over the portrait of Queen Ernestine.
“There!” she cried, “you have done your work, and I don’t want your miserable eyes staring at me any longer. Birnsdorf, call one of the servants to take this thing away.”
Following on the complete success of this morning’s experiment, however, the Princess’s plans were threatened by a danger of an entirely unforeseen character. Her son’s withdrawal of his candidature happened very opportunely for the Scythian Court, which was anxious to climb down gracefully from its untenable position, in view of the necessity for yielding to the demands of the United Nation. Still, the opportuneness of the fact could not be allowed to stifle inquiry as to its cause. There was something suspicious, or at any rate strange, about the Princess of Dardania’s proceedings, and a suitable emissary was despatched to look into them. The day after Cyril had left Ludwigsbad for Vindobona, economising the time spent in travelling by making notes for the letters which Mansfield, sitting opposite him, was working off with feverish haste on the typewriter, Prince Soudaroff arrived at the villa from the north, and requested to be allowed to wait upon her Royal Highness. The news of his advent paralysed the Princess with momentary dismay, but an instant’s reflection decided her to embark upon a bold course.
“You have no bad news for me, I hope, Prince?” she asked anxiously of the visitor, when he was ushered into her presence.
“None, madame; and I grieve to have alarmed your Royal Highness. My reason for intruding is a vexatious delay which has interrupted our communications. We understand that you have ordered your son to withdraw from his Palestine candidature, but we have not yet been informed of the reasons for your action.”
“No?” said the Princess sweetly, although this authoritative demand for an explanation roused her ire. “But you, Prince, can have had no difficulty in perceiving my motive?”
“I must confess with shame, madame, that your diplomacy is too deep for me,” was the cautious reply. Prince Soudaroff thought he could guess the motive very well, but he did not intend to exhibit his suspicions unnecessarily.
“You will make me too proud, Prince. That you should be baffled by my little plot, and find it necessary to come to me for information! Surely you must remember begging me to involve Count Mortimer in some intrigue that would bring about his political ruin?”
“Naturally I remember it, madame. This step, then, is a part of the process?”
“Undoubtedly, Prince. The unfortunate man is at this moment captivated by the double hope of winning my affections and finding himself appointed Governor of Palestine,” said the Princess, with a hardihood that was nothing less than magnificent. Prince Soudaroff listened in amazement.
“The scheme, madame, is colossal in its boldness and simplicity. How do you propose to bring about the dénoûment?”
“That will be your part, I think, unless I can see my way to secure the pleasure for myself. What do you say, Prince? Will Mortimer be sufficiently discredited when it is known that he was intriguing for his own advancement while posing as the disinterested friend of Israel?”
“It would be enough for Europe, madame, and for his enemies among the Jews; but there is a large section, with his friend the banker Goldberg at its head, that would care nothing so long as he did not betray them.”
“I see. Then we must think of something else. How would a secret understanding do—say that, in consideration of a handsome sum of money, he was to resign in favour of a Scythian Grand-Duke a month or so after his election?”
“It is an excellent idea, madame, for the Jews would be specially chagrined to find themselves outbidden. But permit me to ask whether your Royal Highness intends to appear as the temptress, or as a fellow-dupe, when the dénoûment comes?”
“As the temptress, of course,” replied the Princess, without a moment’s hesitation. “I can’t resign my European reputation, even for the sake of sparing Count Mortimer’s feelings.”
Prince Soudaroff found himself foiled. He had felt certain that the Princess would justify his suspicions at this point, but she had stood the test, and he had no option but to believe her. “May I ask whether your Royal Highness’s efforts have been attended with success hitherto?” he asked.
“I cannot boast that success is absolutely secure,” she replied thoughtfully. “Every man has his weak spot, as you know, Prince, but with some men it is very difficult to find. It is my impression, however, that Count Mortimer is safely landed.”
“You are not afraid that he is encouraging you in that belief for his own purposes?” Prince Soudaroff suggested, with becoming diffidence.
The Princess’s heart uttered an indignant contradiction, but her lips did not echo it.
“Do you know,” she said, leaning towards him confidentially, “that has struck me more than once? ‘What if he is merely amusing himself with me?’ I have said; but I have seen nothing, absolutely nothing, to justify the misgiving. And I am a woman of some little experience, Prince.”
“Indeed, madame, I have often envied you. Since all is secure, then, we may go forward. The pressure of circumstances has forced us to send orders to-day to our ambassador at Czarigrad to withdraw his opposition to the Jewish concession. When Count Mortimer is at the pinnacle of popularity among his friends on account of this success, I would propose that we make public his negotiations with you.”
“Excellent, Prince! You won’t publish my name, of course? My sons might object to that; but a few dots and dashes and asterisks would only add to the piquancy of the affair.” In her own mind she resolved quickly, “Then I must marry him before it is generally known that the concession is granted. That in itself will destroy most of the effect of the exposé when it comes; and as to the rest—well, I will make him Prince of Palestine whether Scythia or any one else stands in the way.”
“It is an unsatisfactory business,” Prince Soudaroff said to himself as he left the villa. “Clever men have undoubtedly been beguiled by astute women before now; but it is most unlike Mortimer. I can’t help suspecting that he has some plot on hand. At all costs we must anticipate him in exploding the mine.”
The news which had summoned Cyril to the Pannonian capital was sufficiently grave. Vindobona had long held a bad pre-eminence among the cities of Europe on account of its malignant Anti-Semitism, and that most militant of philosophers, Dr Texelius, had managed to bring matters to a climax at this very unpropitious moment. His feud with the town was of old standing. Some years before, when his fame was only beginning to spread beyond the bounds of his own seat of learning, he had been invited to deliver a course of lectures at Vindobona. The course was largely attended, but the students of the University, who came to scoff and remained to howl, formed the greater part of the audience. To lecture, save in dumb show, was impossible, and Dr Texelius shook the dust of Vindobona from his feet, declaring darkly that the city should yet rue the day it had insulted him. The passage of time and the spread of his fame did not tempt him to forget his threat, and he devised a scheme of vengeance, which he unfolded, under a promise of secrecy, to the Chevalier Goldberg. The financier pointed out that the plan would involve the Jews in universal odium, and brought pressure upon him promptly to renounce it. Dr Texelius consented, under protest, to forego his revenge, and would probably have kept his word but for a hostile move on the part of the University of Vindobona. The latest idea in the city was to boycott everything that was Jewish, and in an evil hour the University resolved to follow the fashion. A boycott was decreed forthwith against the works of Dr Texelius, which were extensively used by the students and professors belonging to the faculty of philosophy, and it proved disastrously effective. The injured author rose up in his wrath, and descended upon his foes with might and main in the columns of a newspaper owned by the Chevalier Goldberg. No one thought of boycotting that particular paper while the wordy war continued, for Dr Texelius had a pretty taste in opprobrious epithets, and the whole empire rang with the echoes of the strife. But the University remained unaffected by the wealth of logic showered upon it. Dr Texelius might demonstrate the iniquity, folly, illiberality, or anything else of its conduct, but it was not in his power to bring about the removal of his books from its Index Expurgatorins. Once convinced of this fact, the philosopher relieved his feelings in a parting letter that outdid all its predecessors in scurrility, and prepared to make use of more material weapons.
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.
“You would never turn tail before a mob?” cried Cyril, roused at last.
“How should I answer to the Emperor if you were injured, Count?” was the reply. “Besides, it is not expedient to expose the Court vehicles to insult—and—and this brave young man’s wounds ought to be dressed. I will merely send to the barracks in the next street for an escort of cavalry, and we shall not be more than a few minutes.”
The station was gained in safety, and a surgeon summoned, who adorned Mansfield’s face most artistically with strips of sticking-plaster, much to the disgust of the victim, who persuaded himself that he could have stanched the wounds with his handkerchief in another minute, if that idiot had not poked his nose in. When the decoration was complete, a troop of lancers was ready to escort the carriage, and the progress through the streets to the Schloss was made in gallant wise, a fence of bristling points and fluttering pennons separating the endangered visitors from the sullen, baffled mob.
At the Schloss the elaborate rules of the ordinary etiquette were suspended in view of the importance of the crisis, and Cyril was conducted at once to the Emperor’s private cabinet, where he found the Chevalier Goldberg and the Minister of the Interior. There was no time to be lost if Pannonia was to be saved from such an outbreak of Anti-Semitic fury as might spread all over the continent, and result in the settlement of the Jewish question in a much more drastic manner than was contemplated by the United Nation. The Chevalier had already telegraphed orders, at his own risk, for large supplies of coal, which was to be converted into gas as fast as it arrived from the various mining districts, but this was only a temporary expedient. It did not take long to arrange a concordat, since those assembled in council were genuinely anxious to come to an agreement, and in less than an hour it had been decided that a fair purchase price should be paid to the gas company by means of a loan from the Chevalier. This was to be guaranteed by the Imperial Government, and repaid by the municipality, to which coercion was to be applied if necessary. Every effort was to be made by the company to ensure the full supply of gas to the city that night and afterwards, and any deficiency was to be supplemented by means of a free distribution of oil to the poorer citizens. In conclusion, pressure was to be brought to bear by the Chevalier on the militant Dr Texelius, and he was to be ordered to leave Vindobona within twenty-four hours. A special Imperial proclamation spread the news of the settlement through the city, the streets were patrolled by troops, who dispersed the mob, and before long the only crowds to be found were in the vicinity of the railways, where they were watching the heavily laden coal-trucks as they rolled past on their way to discharge their load at the gasworks.
The Chevalier and Cyril were personæ gratissimæ at Court that day, and the latter took advantage of the fact to accomplish another piece of business connected with the Palestine scheme which was destined to astonish the Princess of Dardania when she heard of it. Meanwhile, the Chevalier presented himself as an ambassador of authority and peace at a hastily convened meeting of the representatives of the gas company. The members of the committee were already alarmed by the success of their bold step, and he plunged them into a state of abject terror by hinting at an intention on the part of the government to confiscate the works and carry them on for the public benefit. When they had been reduced to a sufficiently pitiable condition, he raised them suddenly to the seventh heaven by disclosing the arrangement which had been made, and sent them home happy in the prospect of saving something from the wreck. Their defection cut the ground from under the feet of Dr Texelius, who was the next person visited by the financier, and whose only regret hitherto had been that he dared not venture into the streets to observe the working of his revenge. His short-lived satisfaction was ended by the peremptory order to quit Vindobona, and he almost wished that he had not indulged in his trip to the city when he found himself listening to the upbraidings of the Chevalier, who charged him roundly with doing his utmost to ruin the cause of Israel.
The crestfallen philosopher was making his way on foot to the station the next morning, shadowed at a distance by two police officers in plain clothes, when a carriage containing two men drove past him. Although Dr Texelius had prudently kept his name concealed, for fear of the attentions of the populace, the mere fact that he was a Jew had made it impossible for him to procure a cab to convey him to the railway, and his luggage was being carried by a hanger-on of the police. But if the inhabitants of Vindobona were unconscious of the identity of their illustrious guest, the second secretary of the Scythian Embassy, who was one of the occupants of the carriage, was more fortunate.
“Look there!” he said to his companion, to whom he had been recounting with great spirit the humours of the preceding day, “that is the redoubtable Texelius himself. I used to see him continually when I was in South Germany.”
“Would it be possible to express one’s sympathy with the eminent philosopher?”
“Scarcely, Prince—in public, at least. Look at those two fellows behind. They would have a fine story to tell if they saw you speak to him.”
“You are right; they must not see it. Yet it would be a thousand pities if I could not speak to him. Volodia, my dear boy, do you think we could drive back to the station for a moment? I have unfortunately forgotten to inquire about my train.”