The Shadow of Great Britain

”What’s wrong with Napoleon’s Thoughts? Isn’t Louis’ book quite good?”

Arthur smiled and casually recited a passage from Louis’ great work: ”Progress has never perished, but it often changes its direction. It flows back and forth between rulers and the ruled. The tendency of revolution is always to bring progress back into the hands of those in power. When it dwells at the summit of society, it can advance decisively, for it leads the way. But when it sinks down among the people, it can only trudge forward slowly, for it must struggle with all its might. In the former case, the people trustingly accept governance. In the latter, they instead wish to seize everything with their own hands.”

Flora lifted her eyes and looked at Arthur; there was a touch of unease in her gentle gaze. ”This passage... is very good, but it’s too good—so good it makes one anxious.”

”Anxious?” Arthur had no idea what exactly she meant to say, but he didn’t think in any other direction. He had long known that this cousin of his was very traditional in her thinking. Jokingly, he said, ”Flora, you’re not worried I’m inciting the people to usurp power, are you? It’s only been a few years since Fleet Street tore me to shreds; just about everyone who went through the Tower of London affair is still alive.”

”Arthur, dear, I’m not joking with you.” Flora’s tone suddenly sank. ”Perhaps Mr. Bonaparte writes very well and argues very rightly, but to run his work in the Economist... now is not the time—at least not this month.”

Arthur caught a whiff of something amiss. ”Flora, what are you worried about? You just said ’now is not the time’—what do you mean by that?”

Flora fell silent for a moment, as though weighing whether she ought to let the matter spill out.

She lowered her head and lightly stroked the edge of her lace glove. Only after a long while did she say in a low voice, ”The political atmosphere has been very tense of late. George says the same...”

At this point, she seemed afraid Arthur might not take her warning seriously, so she stressed it again: ”Believe me, at least for this month, you must first pull pieces like Napoleon’s Thoughts—these political essays—off the page.”

”Why?” Arthur realized something was wrong, but his desire to get to the bottom of it drove him to feign utter puzzlement. ”Flora, is there something you’re hiding from me, something you can’t tell me?”

”I’m not, it’s just that...”

Flora struggled with herself for a while. In the end she drew a deep breath, as though finally making up her mind. ”Dear, promise me first: don’t go talking about this. Even if the person you trust most presses you, even if I myself ask you later, you must not reveal what I’m about to tell you today.”

Arthur gazed at her, neither nodding nor shaking his head. ”Flora, I know what’s at stake. If it really is that important, I wouldn’t agree even if you told me to pass it on.”

Hearing this, Flora first made a polite gesture for the old butler and her maid to step farther away. Then she raised her hand to shield her mouth and whispered, ”His Majesty the King...”

”Mm... His Majesty the King...”

”His Majesty the King fell ill at Windsor half a month ago. Not the sort of chill old people often catch, but a real coma—he did not wake for a whole night. The Imperial Physician thought at the time... thought he might not pull through.”

At this Arthur couldn’t help widening his eyes. ”Is this information reliable?”

”Dear, do you think I would deceive you about something like this?” Flora shot back. ”Princess Sophia and the Duke of Cumberland both hurried to Windsor a few days ago. After Princess Sophia returned she has been in tears, and the atmosphere at Kensington Palace is very heavy right now. Even Conroy hasn’t dared say much these last two days.”

Arthur frowned and asked, ”But... didn’t His Majesty the King receive visitors at Windsor just a few days ago? And he attended the ball Queen Adelaide gave as well.”

Flora answered irritably, ”That’s because he survived it. If you’d attended Queen Adelaide’s ball, you’d have seen that His Majesty’s spirits are nothing like they used to be. His face may still have worn its usual smile, but he sat in his chair for almost the entire evening and did not rise to dance even a single set.”

Hearing this, Arthur finally understood why Flora had told him to be more cautious.

If King William IV really had been gravely ill, then even if this old sailor had weathered the storm by virtue of his sturdy constitution, he could no longer stand another battering.

In other words, the King could pass away at any time—perhaps in a year, perhaps in half a year, or perhaps in a month, or even tomorrow.

If the Empire Publishing Company kept trumpeting Napoleon’s Thoughts at such a critical juncture, it would inevitably grate on the Conservative Party’s raw nerves. It really was not worth taking such a risk.

Arthur pressed a hand to his chest and theatrically wiped at the sweat on his brow. ”Flora, if not for you, I would have been headed for another nasty fall this time.”

Flora was very pleased by Arthur’s gratitude. Smiling, she replied, ”Then what will you give me in return?”

At those words Arthur’s heart gave an involuntary jolt.

He picked up his teacup, took a slow sip, and pretended not to notice the emotional undertone behind Flora’s word ”return.”

”In return... ah, yes, aren’t you a woman of letters? Recently the company took over an old warehouse near Piccadilly, and we unexpectedly found a batch of finely bound books from the last century inside. Among them there’s a copy of Pope’s Pastoral Poems. I was originally planning to keep it for myself, but you clearly understand how to appreciate Pope’s art better than I do.”