‘Oh Ilma, I really do not do Sempronia an injustice. She hates me as much as I hate her. I cannot describe to you what misery my life is. At least, I may say this for myself; I always treat her with deference and politeness, whereas she is brutal towards me. Do not think I was merely forced into this marriage by my father. If it had been only that, I should have resisted at whatever cost. But I knew myself that if this alliance were not brought about, a terrible war would have taken place for certain; and one must sacrifice himself for many. Having sacrificed myself, am I bound to do more?
‘You know how passionately fond I am of children. For my own child I do not care at all; indeed he seems instinctively to avoid me, although I have never in any way been unkind to him. I have done my duty to the State and have provided an heir to the throne. I shall have no more children from that quarter. Oh how I should love to have a child whom I could call quite my own. It does seem a little hard—almost absurd—that I, an autocrat, with so-called absolute power, may not have a little cot of my own, where I can turn for peace and quiet, among those I love. I do not affect not to be vain enough to believe that you in some measure reciprocate my affection; so you will pity me and not be harsh with me. It is, indeed, much I ask of you; but then is there any real dishonour attached? We should be as if married; I should be faithful to you alone. If anything should happen to Sempronia, then I would marry you publicly, before all the world.’
‘Hush!’ she answered, ‘Do not say that! Nothing would induce me to marry you under any circumstances. You know how keenly, dear, I feel dishonour. But I understand your position… Yes… I will consent to be your concubine. I am a virgin; no other man has approached me, nor ever shall. Only one stipulation I make—I will not receive a penny of money from you. Of course, I am not going to be so absurd as to say that I will return to you such presents as this emerald necklace; I would not part with it if I was starving. It is not the gift, but the giver. I feel you do not realise how much I love you. Do you see that large vase over there? That contains the petals of every flower you have ever given me. In that drawer is every scrap of paper you have ever written to me.’
When Valentine was seven years old, the king said—
‘Now he's getting so big we must give him a title. What shall we call him? Duke of—?’
‘He shall have no title at all; not even my own. I am sorry you should have said that.’
It is certainly an unusual thing to find the autocrat of an important country like Nicosia, acting as tutor to a little child; but the King would not suffer him to be taught by anyone else. Every moment he could spare he spent in Ilma's unpretentious villa, and certainly his instruction bore good fruit. He was a man of marvellous erudition himself, and the child learnt from him with phenomenal quickness. Whereas his step-brother, the Crown Prince Baldwin, although he had a large staff of tutors—the best that money could afford—never seemed to learn anything.
At the time this story commences, both Prince Baldwin and Valentine were grown up. Their respective mothers were both dead. The King was getting old, or rather perhaps prematurely aged from overwork. To manage the affairs of Nicosia single-handed was no light task.
Prince Baldwin, if he had been born in another rank of life, would have been simply insignificant and wholly harmless. It was only his position as heir to the throne which gave him a certain aggressiveness and arrogance of manner which displeased many. Not that he was without good nature; he was affable enough when not cross in humour.
He liked to fraternize with gamekeepers and grooms. But even they, his favourites, did not quite trust him, knowing that what might be said one day would please the Prince, and might the next day cause offence. He was himself under the impression that he was very popular, because in his jollier moments he affected a ‘Hail fellow well met’ kind of air with everybody. But he was not popular. The King himself was very popular indeed, and deservedly so, on account of the many burdens of which he had relieved the people. Indeed, he had practically redeemed them from slavery, and there was an unanimous feeling of enthusiastic gratitude, not to speak of personal affection. But then one cannot please all. To some, the King's reforms caused loss of position and loss of money, and they regarded him with bitter hatred. It was they who sought to influence Prince Baldwin, whom his father seldom saw except on official occasions; and the people knew and understood. It was far different with Valentine.
His uniform courtesy to all—of whatever grade of life—endeared him both to nobility and to the people. He was the terror of the official classes, who knew his great influence with his father, and also knew that his penetrating intellect discovered much which they would rather have remained unknown.
That he was the son of the King was no secret, and though he bore no official title he was universally accepted as such. And murmurs began to arise, here, there, and everywhere, that ‘It were better if this one were King than the other.’
But the first thing of the nature of an outbreak arose from a very trivial cause. The Crown Prince was shooting on one of the Royal estates, and halted, as was occasionally his wont to do, at a little wayside inn to get drink and refreshment for himself and his keepers. The landlady happened not to be there for the moment, and the only person in charge was her young daughter. The girl was naturally much abashed at having to serve the Crown Prince and his numerous retinue. Baldwin was in what might be called one of his jolly moods—perhaps a trifle drunk. He chafed the girl a great deal, and put his arm round her waist, at which the others laughed, which brought tears to the girl's eyes. After they had at last gone, and the girl had somewhat recovered her nerves, she began to water her garden which was her special pride. A very good-looking gentleman of somewhat studious appearance, came and asked for a glass of wine, and then began to express admiration for the beautiful way in which her garden was laid out. The girl flushed with pride and pleasure. Just then her mother came back, and also several persons dropped in—peasants returning from work; that was their time. After a courteous greeting to the mother, the stranger went on his way. ‘Now that was a really nice gentleman,’ the girl began.
‘What! don't you know who he is?’ said the mother.
‘Well,’ said the girl hotly, ‘if he's the son of the King, I like him much better than the other one. And if our present King—may God preserve him!—should die, how much better that he should be King!’
Then one voice among the peasants said—
‘How much better that he should be King!’
Then another still louder—‘How much better that he should be King!’
Then all the peasants took up the same cry. So this ejaculation, first ejaculated by a common girl in private pique, went through the whole breadth and length of the land.
Cyril and Methodius were chiefs of Police. One day they came to Prince Baldwin and said—
‘Your royal highness knows that your royal father is now getting old and painful as it is to us to say it, it is nevertheless our duty to add that he is now no longer in complete possession of his great faculties. Many measures he has lately taken have caused much dissatisfaction to a large circle. Of course we know well enough that his majesty is merely in ill health, requiring above all things rest and quiet, and has practically entrusted his affairs to advisers—or may we be permitted to say an adviser—who shall be nameless. It is even murmured that next week he is about to sign a constitution which will destroy at one fell blow, all the time-honoured immemorial—we might almost say divine—institutions of this great kingdom, Nicosia. You are the one chosen to be the “Lord's Anointed”, and fearing the worst,—alas! your father is not surrounded by truly faithful servants—we come to throw our allegiance at your feet and beg that you will come and see some guarantee to a large number of your devoted future subjects, that you will preserve the ancient laws and customs of our forefathers.’
‘You know perfectly well, I don't agree with my father about these things. He has gone more than far enough already. Indeed, in my time I shall try and restore things as they were. You know I am not particularly good friends with my father. As to the Adviser, as you call him, he will stop advising pretty quickly when I am on the throne.’
‘Well,’ said Cyril to Methodius, as they went out, ‘I don't think we've managed badly in that matter. He will not be so difficult to deal with. Though I suppose you know already, let me recapitulate once more the details of the plan—at least, my part of the plan. I think I've managed this matter nicely. Then you will tell me of your part. It is indeed the most difficult to deal with. I will willingly admit that in some respects you are cleverer than I am.’
‘Next Thursday the King goes to the review. He will pass in state along the Canal Street. The King will go by the right hand side. I will arrange that something shall be done—I've not settled quite what; it does not really matter particularly what, as long as the persons in question have no suspicion of us; a shrieking woman would do, or anything to attract attention—to happen on the left side. This would distract everyone's attention. Meanwhile I will have my two assassins, or let us rather say assistants, just at the junction of “Little Fountain Alley”. We have given them some money already. I do not think they will cost us much more. I promised them a great deal; it does not matter about the exact sum. But they won't get it. We told them we would so arrange the Police that they would cover their escape, so they could go through that little side-door of the house at the corner, which will be ready to be open for them. We could, of course, station the Police at the end of the “Little Fountain Alley”, and the door in question could be locked. So there can be little doubt they will be lynched, and of course the blame will fall upon the anarchists; and I will be busy disseminating reports abroad of the terrible plots anarchists bring against the King, and that he requires our utmost protection. This will be somewhat of a damper to our friend the Adviser, as by that means he would hardly have the means of being alone with his papa; and quick ears would be stationed at all the doors to hear whatever is said. Still this popular gathering seems very formidable. We cannot ignore it. I left that to you. Tell me, what is your idea?’
‘Well,’ said Methodius, in a low slow voice, ‘this is my idea. We will now go and offer our allegiance to the Bastard.’
‘What?’ said Cyril, ‘do you intend to change the entire programme? True, if we put the Bastard on the throne, he would have more reason to be grateful to us than the Crown Prince. But then he would be much more difficult to deal with.’
‘Yes,’ said Methodius, ‘we will help him onto the throne.’
Here Methodius whispered something into Cyril's ear.
They then presented themselves before Valentine.
‘We are come on a strange and painful errand,’ they said. ‘Knowing your great love for your father, it must be terrible for you to see how his health is breaking down. Still, we must look facts in the face. To speak bluntly, he might die any moment. And what then?
‘You know your brother is absolutely incompetent to rule this country, and all the reforms your great liberal-minded father has made he could destroy at a single stroke of the quill. You know that the people count upon you. All might be arranged peacefully. We do not think your brother really cares to reign. If you gave him a handsome allowance, he would be only too glad to live in some foreign country, with every luxury. And that would be behaving very generously, for we have yet to learn that your brother has ever shown any kindness towards you. There can be no doubt as to which arrangement your father would prefer. You know your influence is great in the country, and we come as, we might almost say, representatives of your father's wish. We would offer you our allegiance, as it is in our power practically to summon the whole army to take up your cause.’
‘But the kingdom is not my birthright!’ said Valentine in almost agonised tones.
‘Think!’ said Methodius simply.
There was a long silence, at last broken by the soft slow voice of Methodius.
‘Supposing Baldwin were to become King, how would he treat you, Prince Valentine? Do you remember at the Officer's Banquet, how he publicly slighted you? You may say he is not obliged to recognise you as a brother—but why he should not I do not know—but in your status as an ordinary officer, he should have behaved to you as to the rest. The people's hopes are set upon you; and what will you do? Be turned out like a dog—with infamy—that is how he will behave to you—and oh! how many will be disappointed!’
After another silence, Valentine said—
‘Yes, perhaps you are right. The case is not pressing, my father is not so ill as you think.’
On an eventful day, Methodius remarked to Cyril—
‘The question is, where are we to place the Bastard's regiment? It must be neither too near nor too far. If too near it must frustrate our purposes; if too far for a totally different reason it might also frustrate our purposes. It must be near enough to be within reach, but not near enough to come into the sphere of our immediate action.’
The King drove in state down the Great Canal Street. All took place as pre-arranged. The disturbance on the other side of the Canal diverted the attention of the King and of his immediate escort.
A sudden bomb was thrown. The King had just time to turn around and say—
‘Is anyone hurt? What is this?’ when a certain bomb was thrown which struck the King in a vital part.
As predicted, the crowd rushed upon the assassins who found no means of escape, and hung them from the nearest lamp-posts.
Suddenly the crowd cleared for a horse, wildly galloping. Someone, whom all knew, but none hardly could see, leapt at one bound from the horse, and rushed to the King's carriage, and took him in his arms. The King making a futile endeavour to embrace him, said faintly—
‘Oh my Ishmael, my Esau, wherefore has thy brother taken thy birthright?’
Then he just managed to lift up one arm and place it on his head in benediction.
Valentine remained long, his arms clasped round his father's body. Then at last rising, he saw all the crowd standing silent, with bare heads.
Then, when he looked round, a unanimous shout burst from all—
So apart from his own will, indeed, half against it, he found himself proclaimed King by the entire people. There was no resistance whatsoever. He sent a message to his brother, presenting him with all the large private fortune the King had bequeathed to himself, also promising him a large annual state grant.
After due time had elapsed, there came the solemn ceremony of the King's Coronation. Seldom was the King welcomed by the people so enthusiastically.
That night Cyril and Methodius came and craved an audience.
‘We have come to tend our congratulations to your Majesty,’ they said; ‘And if our humble endeavours in any measure contributed to this blessed state of things, your Majesty will deign not wholly to forget us.’
‘I shall always be pleased with your services,’ said the new King, ‘and ever remember that you supported my cause. But still, from your manner I gather that you allude to some special service, of which I should be more pleased if you would inform me more exactly.’
‘Your Majesty is too gracious,’ replied Methodius, ‘to ask for details of our service, and as your Majesty knows, we are only too willing to perform any service for your sake. If your Majesty particularly wishes to know, we may have facilitated a certain deplorable accident which has had such auspicious and unhoped-for results.’
The King's face became deadly pale. For some time he could not speak. His eyes flashed such anger, that even these two gentlemen quailed before him.
But hearing him articulate, Methodius recovered himself; and speaking in the same languorous tone of voice, he continued—
‘Your Majesty has no need to be angry with us. Nor,’ he said, elevating his voice somewhat, ‘has your Majesty any means of injuring us. We are well-known chiefs of the Police and our word is trusted. So if we revealed a certain little fact, which is not improbable in itself by any means, without special knowledge, that your Majesty found it convenient to cause your father to be assassinated, just at the time there was a popular reaction in your present Majesty's favour, it is not unlikely that the people would give credence to this. So perhaps we had better understand one another.’
The King said no word at all. In utter silence he passed them. They dare not lay a finger on him, but followed him stealthily. He passed through the Palace, out through the door.
The attendants and sentinels were struck with strange terror, and even forgot to salute him. He went straight on through the night, till he got to the shrine which he had erected in memory to his father on the spot where he was assassinated. What he intended to do none can say. But his heart broke, literally, and he fell dead before the shrine.
‘Better make sure of him,’ said Cyril, who took a dagger that he had with him and pierced the already broken heart once again, leaving the dagger there.
Methodius made a beautiful speech. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘oh people, what you have done. You preferred a wretched bastard to one chosen as the Lord's Anointed; and look what you have chosen. We could hardly imagine it at first. But in our capacity as Head of the Police we have ample means of investigation. This vile wretch, this veritable viper who the King nourished in his bosom, turned with almost more than loathsome ingratitude, against the father to whom he owed everything, and having by some means or other managed to procure the sympathies of a certain number—I trust a very few—of the populus, contrived a diabolical plot on the father, whose one fault was an excessive fondness for him, assassinated in that cowardly manner, of which we are all too well aware. But if this were not enough, with sickening hypocrisy the parricide comes to make sham lamentation over his murdered father; and—’ here Methodius broke out into tears ‘that father blesses him with his dying breath. At last found out he ends with cowardly suicide.’
The body of Valentine was cast onto a dust-heap, and covered with shop-rubbish.
Things are different now in Nicosia. Cyril and Methodius govern absolutely. Their figure-head, Baldwin, has lost his good nature, and has become brutal and suspicious. They frighten him sometimes with sham explosions, which keep him in a continual state of nervous terror. These they attribute to the anarchists. By that means they manage to arrest, banish or execute all those that stand in their way.
Cyril is Procurator of the State Church, which means persecuting everyone who does not fall in with his designs; and has the censorship of all books, so that it is practically impossible in Nicosia to read any book which goes against his policy. Methodius superintends the press, and edits the official journal, the statements in which are generally false, and no other journal may dare to gainsay it. He also has agents in all parts of the world, to give false impressions as to the state of things in Nicosia.
So, to conclude, I may say dear reader, that such news as you may hear from Nicosia is not very likely to be correct.