An Uncrowned King Chapter 6 Part 6

“Call this being king?” said Caerleon, when he and Cyril met at dinner in the comparatively small room which they had chosen out of the wilderness of state apartments as their dining-room when by themselves, for there were few regular court officials at present. The chief functionaries had all gone into exile with the late king, and it had not been possible to appoint their successors as yet, so that matters were in the hands of such of the less important officials as had adopted the cause of the revolution. These had not yet acquired the reverential obtuseness which would have enabled those whose places they had taken to maintain their position about the king as long as etiquette required, in spite of his disinclination for their society. Accordingly they effaced themselves obediently when their sovereign intimated that their attendance was not further desired that night, and it did not strike Caerleon that even the freedom he now enjoyed would have been impossible in a properly constituted court. “I call it being a slave, no less,” he went on. “What a luxurious beast old Franza must have been! I never saw anything like the rooms up-stairs. Well, if luxury could compensate him for all the bother and fuss, he deserved it.”

“‘Uneasy lies the head——’” began Cyril.

“Oh, shut up, and don’t quote moral platitudes,” said Caerleon, wearily. “I tell you what, Cyril, there are two things we’ll do. We’ll look out some attic place where we can smoke in peace, with two chairs in it and a rug on the floor, and we will break through that absurd rule of never going out without an escort. I mean to do the Haroun-al-Raschid business, and poke about a little incog.”

“All right,” said Cyril; “I’ll be Grand Vizier. We will get hold of a couple of fur caps and these Thracian cloaks with high fur collars, and have some fun. Shall we begin to-night with the illuminations, or are you fagged out?”

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Caerleon. “Root out some cloaks, will you? There are servants enough, and it’s a charity to give them something to do. It’ll be all right if we are in by eleven o’clock, when some of those chaps from the town are coming to serenade us.”

Through the medium of Wright, who was preparing very reluctantly to resign the care of his master’s personal belongings into the hands of the new servants and return to his natural sphere, the charge of the stables, Cyril procured the required disguises, and he and his brother wrapped themselves up and slipped out. The palace was built round a square courtyard, in the midst of which stood the rude little chapel of St Peter, where the workmen had been busied all day in making preparations for the coronation. As the servants were all at supper, and the guards in their own hall, only the sentries were to be seen, and Caerleon and Cyril stole along in the shadow, giving the password when it was demanded, and reaching the gardens in safety. A private gate, to which they alone possessed a key, supplied them with the means of exit, and they descended the steep street and mingled with the crowd which was admiring the illuminations. These were more ambitious than successful, and although the Thracians were full of delight, Cyril turned up his nose at the display, and commented on it in disparaging whispers.

“It is rather slow here,” said Caerleon, stopping short suddenly. “Let us go and look up the O’Malachys.”

It was in Cyril’s mind to say, “I wondered how soon you would get to that,” but he held his tongue, and followed Caerleon to the Hôtel Occidental, the whereabouts of which the King had discovered in the course of his progress through the town. Keeping their cloaks well up to their faces, they passed through the hall without being recognised, and were conducted up-stairs to the O’Malachys’ sitting-room, where they found the Herr Oberst himself, Louis, and Nadia. Madame O’Malachy was suffering from a bad headache, and had gone early to her room.

“Indeed and ’tis very condescending in your Majesty to come and see us like this,” said the O’Malachy, when he had apologised for his wife’s absence. “Sure ’twas only an hour ago I was saying to Louie here, ‘What will we do about paying our respects to the King? Will we call upon um, or wait until he sends for us?’ And we couldn’t make up our minds about ut at all.”

“That’s not true,” said Cyril to himself. “I’m pretty sure you decided to wait until Caerleon came and looked you up, which you guessed he would do before long.”

“For pity’s sake,” said Caerleon, sinking into the chair which Louis pushed towards him, “leave the kingdom alone for a little while, O’Malachy. I am sick to death of it. Here, at any rate, let me have a little respite.”

“As you please,” said the O’Malachy, with a gracious wave of the hand. “I suppose a king may take a holiday like other people if he wants ut. You will find Liberty Hall here, whenever you like to look in.”

Caerleon sighed contentedly, and leaned back in his chair. The room looked comfortable and home-like, very different from the gorgeous solitudes at the palace. The O’Malachy, white-haired and soldierly, with a sly twinkle in his eye, was the picture of a courteous host. Nadia sat close by, under the light, with her work; and Louis, buried in a Bellaviste weekly journal, seemed less out of harmony with his surroundings than usual. The place was a haven of rest. But rest in itself was not sufficient for complete happiness, and Caerleon’s state of contentment did not last long. Cyril, watching from the background, was no better pleased. Before the evening was over, he had lost patience altogether with Nadia. Why did she sit there stiffly, in the full blaze of the electric light, working with unremitting assiduity at some coarse and unlovely garment for the poor, and refusing to answer any remark except in monosyllables? She would not take Caerleon into the conservatory to show him the flowers, as he asked her, nor did she respond to her father’s suggestion that she should point out to him the view from the balcony. There she sat, never looking up, sewing away as if for dear life, and acting as an effectual damper on the conversation of the rest, while Cyril was longing for a smoke with Louis and his father, and one or two of the latter’s stories, which were not altogether suited for ladies’ ears. All that Caerleon wanted was to be left alone with her, but she succeeded in baffling all his efforts, and Cyril waxed furious over her foolishness. Did she really imagine that by dint of coyness and coldness she could keep her lover from making her an open avowal of his feelings? Surely she must know that he would insist upon a plain answer, and that it would be impossible to put him off for ever? Caerleon would hear her decision from her own lips at one time or another, and the sooner she dismissed him and bade him turn his mind to other subjects the better.

These thoughts were seething in Cyril’s brain all the evening; but Nadia remained unconscious of their import and as immovable as before. The only time she exhibited any animation was when the brothers rose to go.

“You have not seen much of this place yet,” she said to Caerleon as he bade her good-night, “but I have gone about a good deal yesterday and to-day. There is plenty for you to do. The drunkenness is awful. You have before you as much work as you can wish.”

A chuckle from Louis followed her eager speech, and Caerleon had no opportunity to say more than that he would give his best attention to the matter, before Cyril hurried him away. They passed through the streets almost in silence, reached the palace without attracting notice, and after enduring patiently a long performance from the town band, went to bed.