When Malakopf went home that night, he came near to being a victim of exultation. That delightful emotion he always eschewed, for he considered it a dangerous feeling, one that blunts the perception, deadens acumen, and has no practical significance. Indeed, the greatest extravagance in this way that he usually allowed himself on the conclusion of some very successful bargain was a pleased contempt at the contemplation of wits inferior to his own, and a disdainful indifference, amounting sometimes to dislike, to those who had been his tools or his unfortunate adversaries. But to-night he was strangely moved; perhaps he was even a little dazzled at the greatness of the stake for which he was playing, perhaps he was only much pleased and surprised at the aptness of the tool which Providence—he made no doubt it was Providence, which always looks after those who look after themselves—had so kindly put in his hand. Like the Prince himself, he too was writing a private little drama of much the same nature, the chief difference being that while the Prince’s play was entitled ‘The Emperor of the East,’ Malakopf’s was more modestly called ‘The President of the Republic.’ Another variation between the two is perhaps worth recording: in the Prince’s production there was a minor character, a sort of gentleman-in-waiting, called Malakopf (Count Malakopf, perhaps), whereas in his ‘President of the Republic’ no mention was made of any Petros, Prince or otherwise.

But as a tool Petros seemed admirable; he was sharp, and could be thrown away when done with. His relation to the Princess would put him, in the minds of all loyal people—and Malakopf valued loyalty in others—beyond the reach of suspicion. For what could be more suitable, or more gratifying to the folk of RhodopÉ, than to see the husband of their beloved Princess, that accomplished rider, that finished squire of dames, so identifying himself with the affairs of the kingdom? Furthermore, there was a vast deal of underground work which would probably have to be done, and if there was one thing more than another in which the busy brain of Malakopf delighted, it was to make himself a mole, a delver in the dark, and spring his castles on the foolish grazing cattle where they were least suspected. The ChÂteau Vryssi (1832) was sweet, though dryer, than the vintage of his thoughts.

Prince Petros was, in a way, wise to trust the plan and execution of his conspiracy—for so we may already call it—to Malakopf. He himself, at any rate, had neither the courage, the caution, nor the constructive ability which could warrant any decent chance of success. He was cunning, no more, and cunning is but a pin-point to go a-fighting with. On the other hand, he was irredeemably foolish to trust Malakopf further than he could see him, and he could not see far. Thus, he was like to fall between two stools, an inexcusable and an undignified position, which ends on the floor.

As for Malakopf, that astute politician had as usual several strings to his bow. His scheme, as he had planned it, could scarcely fail altogether of success. The target at which he aimed was a long and hazardous shot, being, indeed, no less than the overthrow of the dynasty, the establishment of a republic in RhodopÉ, and the establishment of himself as President of the same. He had, as he had told Prince Petros, a considerable influence in the State. For some years past, under different names, he had invested immense sums in Government stock, and if at any moment he chose to throw his shares on the market, he could not only discredit the National Bank in the eyes of Europe, but he would also seriously cripple the State itself. Again, under an alias, he had driven a flourishing money-lending trade in Amandos, and many of the Members of the Assembly were seriously in his debt. Thirdly, his vast estates in the country gave employment to a large body of the electorate, and he could, so he supposed, command when necessary a great number of votes.

But it was characteristic of the man that he was preparing at first to use a slower and more devilish method of magnifying himself to the detriment of the reigning family. He had on the tip of his poisonous tongue all the clap-trap of socialism, and he had, what is almost as important, a real acquaintance with the spirit of their demands. The scheme proposed by the absurd catchword of ‘three acres and a cow’ contained its residuum of truth, and if so enticing a phrase was not sufficient, he could justify it to willing ears. Princess Sophia was, as he knew, an unrivalled Aunt Sally for such random weapons; her extravagance, her Parisian toilettes, her magnificent jewels, her nights spent in ruinous card-playing, were all texts ready for the ranter. He did not intend to do the ranting himself, that should be for those whom he controlled; he, the Prime Minister, with quivering lip, but firm of purpose, would sit in his exalted place on the Assembly and find himself unable to answer such damnation of criticism. The Budget was the instrument on which he greatly relied. A little judicious arrangement, the money spent in outdoor relief prominently contrasted with the civil list of the Princess, could not fail to tell.

These were the methods by which he had long planned to make an attack on the reigning house, and they still seemed to him trustworthy. But he realized that this new ally, in the shape of the Prince, might open to him other and directer roads. In any case, it was a sound policy to put this man of straw in the place which the Princess Sophia, who was undeniably flesh and blood, occupied in the Assembly. If once he could be completely installed there, it was comparatively easy to turn him out, leaving, so he hoped, a vacancy in the President’s chair. But such a delectable conclusion, he realized, must be largely a matter of luck. He was merely prepared to take a chance, if it came in his way.

But the man, with all his burning audacity, was yet cautious. Personally, supposing no great stroke of luck occurred and he had to follow his slower methods, he gave the dynasty four years; by that time his unholy leaven would have worked. He would instruct the ignorant in the ways of Court life, he would water their growing knowledge with disgust, he would evolve a strongly socialistic class of ignorant content. Then, and not till then, would he clench the matter by the withdrawal of his stock, threatening letters to his debtors, and plain speaking to the electorate which he commanded.

Prince Petros’s scheme was far different, and infinitely less sagacious. He would get his permanent in the Assembly; he would, during one of Sophia’s absences, get himself trusted by the anti-dynastic party which it should be Malakopf’s business to form. He would be a model of sedulous industry in his attendances at the House, reaping a harvest of golden opinions from the legislators, and at the end down would come in full spate from the mountains of moral indignation his torrent of broken-hearted eloquence. The revenues of the State had been squandered for years past—he admitted and deplored it; their Sovereign was at Monte Carlo—the time was come when these things could not be borne in silence—wasting her moneys there. Her child—his child—had been initiated by her into the mysteries of a game which he was told was called baccarat. He was here to tell them that he resigned his seat in the Assembly, for he was in a false position. He did not represent one whom he was nominally there to represent; he represented plain living and high thinking, his position was therefore false, and to be in a false position was more than he could bear. Overcome by his emotion, torn by conflicting affection, he would sit down; a murmur, carefully prepared by his poor friend the Prime Minister, would swell up round him. Then, recovering himself with an effort, he would get up to leave the House; the House would rise to their feet; a voice would say, ‘Stay, do not go’; the chorus would be taken up; and next day he would write a polite letter to Sophia, saying that he had been elected Prince of RhodopÉ by the Assembly, while she had become the Princess Sophia, wife of the Prince of RhodopÉ.

Such was the roughly-sketched outline of their schemes as conceived by the two conspirators. The working of the plot, as has been mentioned, was entrusted to Malakopf, the Prince’s part being confined to an industrious attendance on public business until their sowing had ripened. Up to this point, at any rate, the plans of each pulled with the other; at that point they parted. Malakopf had no intention of letting the Prince make his pathetic speech in the House, or of himself organizing any sympathetic murmurs, and the Prince had no intention of any official but himself supreme in RhodopÉ. The throne was to be for him and his children after him. He was unwise enough to give Malakopf a sketch of what he had designed the progress of affairs to be, and the other had smilingly acquiesced, saying it was singular how completely identical the Prince’s forecast was with his own. And Petros turned aside, and thought to himself, ‘Poor dear old Malakopf!’

The business of securing the Prince a permanent seat in the Assembly was carried through the next week, but not without some little opposition. The suggestion of the Princess that her husband should take her place in her absence had been received with unanimous cordiality as coming from her, but this further step was not understood to have been initiated where the first had been, and there were those who opposed. But this opposition fully suited Malakopf’s hand; he did not wish Prince Petros to think that the matter was easily accomplished. The more he felt himself indebted to the Prime Minister, the better; he would be thus less likely to take incautious steps on his own initiative, for Malakopf was fully alive to the danger of Petros making a false move, and thus involving the plans of both in ruin.

But the thing was carried through, and Prince Petros, who had gracefully absented himself from the sitting in which it was to come under discussion, was informed of the success of the motion in a letter from the Prime Minister, who was again to dine with him that evening. Malakopf suggested that he should at once tell Sophia what had happened, since it was always wise to be frank about matters which it was impossible to conceal, and that he should take his seat next day or as soon as he received a favourable reply from her.

The Prince at once telegraphed in private cipher to his wife, and was pleased to get the following answer before Malakopf arrived that evening:

This was entirely satisfactory, and Malakopf, to whom he read the telegram, thought so too. The clause ‘Since there is no longer any need of me at RhodopÉ’ seemed to both a word of good omen. The last sentence also quite delighted the Prime Minister.

‘From what you know of the Princess,’ he said, ‘do you imagine that her losses will tend to make her come away the sooner?’

‘It will be a reason the more, if reason was wanted,’ said Petros, ‘for making her remain. Oh, I know her as I know my gloves.’

‘So I hoped. And if she loses more—if she loses all the money she has in hand, would she borrow?’

‘Of whom?’

Malakopf paused. He was not sure that he was not talking with a risk. But he decided to chance it, as he had the highest opinion of the idiocy of his fellow-conspirator.

‘Of me, for choice,’ he said at length.

Prince Petros flushed; he did not quite like this.

‘Her Royal Highness would probably apply to her husband,’ he said stiffly, ‘if she was in want of money.’

‘And would you lend it her?’

‘Certainly not. I should request her to come home.’

‘Then you would be acting unwisely,’ said Malakopf, knowing he had done right to open this point. ‘Do you not see that the more hopelessly she beggars herself, and the more deeply she gets into debt to someone, you or another, by so much the more are our plans advanced? If we are to overthrow the dynasty—dethrone the Princess Sophia, I mean—she must meet us half-way; she must run to meet her ruin.’

‘I am sure she would not apply to you for money,’ said Petros—‘not directly, at least.’

‘Indirectly, perhaps,’ suggested Malakopf.

‘You mean through me?’

‘This is what I mean,’ said the Prime Minister, bridling his irritation at the comparative slowness of the man: ‘How would it be if, when she applied to you for money, you borrowed it of me? Does not the idea strike you as sound? You would in the Assembly acknowledge your indebtedness to me, but, as you so finely sketched, in pathetic degrees it would be drawn from you how the debt was incurred, to shield whom from European exposure. For, indeed, not even the loyalty of RhodopÉ would stand their Princess being notorious for not paying her gambling debts. My suggestion seems to me a double-edged weapon. It would cut against the Princess; it would move pity and compassion for you.’

‘I think you are right,’ said the Prince reluctantly.

‘And I know I am right,’ thought Malakopf, who saw in this little scheme a hold not so much over Sophia—she would be easily managed—but over Prince Petros.

The Prince was formally installed in the Assembly next day. As Regent he occupied Sophia’s place, but his permanent seat when taking part in the debates was with the other Ministers in the body of the House. He was well received, even, he thought, enthusiastically—for applause sounds loud in the ears of its recipient—and he made a speech which he thought excellently telling, as it would sound loyal to the loyal, and to any who might not be blind to his wife’s edifying absences from the Assembly a hint that even her husband deplored her conduct.

‘It has been my lot during the last fortnight,’ he said, ‘to have received two very great honours at the hand of this august Assembly. Last week only I was admitted to the House to act as Regent for Her Royal Highness my beloved wife. That moment was very sweet to me, for it showed me in how loyal an esteem you held her, in adopting her suggestion that I should during her absence do my very humble best to fill her place. I am unable to tell you how unworthy I felt myself, how incapable of following her steps, of acquainting myself with the infinite details of procedure which she knows so well, but I do not think that any man can ever have made a stronger determination to do all that in him lies than I. To-day the honour you have done me is more personal. My lords and gentlemen, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for it. I am comparatively a stranger among you, but you have treated me as a friend. You have made me one of yourselves, and I too, with you, have my part in the glorious responsibility of furthering the interests of this realm of RhodopÉ. The Princess Sophia has telegraphed to me her warm approval of this step. She will thus be able, she said, to take a few more weeks of that holiday she so much needs. Gentlemen, I thank you—I thank you; I can say no more.’ And the Prince’s voice choked with emotion, and he sat down.

For the next week he was a pattern of sedulous attention to public affairs. He spoke on the Criminal Law Amendment Act with marked ability, and the RhodopÉ Courier referred to his speech as a locus classicus on the psychology of crime. His short contribution to the debate on the Hares and Woodcock Bill was masterly. In this he espoused the cause of the landlord against the tenant. What was not put into the ground by the tenant clearly belonged to the landlord, and to repeal any portions of the Game Laws of 1852, as had been suggested, was surely a short-sighted policy. To abolish the close time, to abolish the necessity for licenses to kill game, was to exterminate it. What had been the result of the repeal in Greece, a country once as rich in game as theirs? Was not the whole of the Peloponnese desert of wild animals? On the question of tobacco-growing he showed himself equally conversant with the salient points of the dispute. He had naturally a fine delivery, and his voice was a marvel of tone and clearness. He never hesitated for a word; he never hurried. He was in his seat at the opening of the debates; he never left until the end. He was always courteous, obliging, and encouraging, and, like the speeches of all great statesmen, his remarks were distinguished by a keen grasp of the obvious.

Malakopf watched his entry into this public life with amusement and satisfaction. No tool could have been more apt, and the work he turned out was excellent. At present the growing popularity of the Prince was exactly what he wished to see. The more he shone in State matters, the dimmer would become the light of the Princess. When the one had reached its necessary brilliance, and the other suitably declined, he would again intervene. In the meantime, the Prince gave him impeccable dinners, priceless wines, and conversation that was positively interesting owing to its extreme naÏvetÉ.

Princess Sophia, while the moles were at work under the feet of her throne, had much enjoyed herself at Monte Carlo. During the early days there she had been the victim of a run of extreme ill-luck, but the second half of August saw her more than quits. She had begun her little outing with unwonted soberness, never staking on one number, often backing a dozen, and occasionally even so far demeaning herself as to bet by the hour on the colour. On this ignoble plan she had lost with great regularity, and, as her stakes were usually high, with fair rapidity. She became disgusted, almost bored, and returned with ardour to her more hazardous procedure. The fickle goddess was charmed at the recantation of the heresies which could never have been permanent, and had looked on her with peculiar favour, and thus it came about that in the third week in September, even before the House, which the fine example of Petros had rendered even more conscientious and industrious than usual, had risen, she announced by telegram her earlier return, and the return of forty thousand napoleons.

Petros went down to MavromÁti to meet the Felatrune, and she seemed pleased and a little surprised to see him.

‘I should have thought your duties in the Assembly would not have allowed you leisure to come,’ she said. Then, suddenly laying her hand on his shoulder, ‘How you have grown, Petros!’ she said; and it seemed to Petros that she was in the mood to be amused, for she laughed at her own remark, which seemed to him so void of point that he did not even remember to repeat it to Malakopf, who would probably not have been amused at all.