I had no right to suppose that the Countess, as she then was, distinguished me from the crowd of those who paid homage to her; but yet it seems as though I had in some manner inspired her with a feeling of confidence and regard warmer than that usually felt by any woman for a man who is neither her lover nor her kinsman. I believe myself to be the only survivor of the tragedy who possesses the key to that strange and terrible career, and that in imparting my knowledge to the world I am discharging what has become a sacred duty to the dead. With this apology I will come straight to the history. It was some years since I had seen or heard anything of the Countess Draga, though, of course, I was aware, in common with all well-informed students of contemporary politics, of the passion which she had inspired in the young King of Servia, when I was astonished by receiving one day a private letter from her, imploring me to come to Belgrade at once to advise her on a matter of the highest importance. I lost no time in obeying the summons, by which I was singularly moved, since there is only one thing which can ever be of the highest importance to a woman. It was in the courtyard garden of an old stonewalled Servian house--more like a fortified farmhouse than a private mansion--that the revelation burst on my ears which was so soon to startle the capitals of Europe. A fountain plashed into a marble basin strewn with rose leaves, and the faint scent of myrtle and lemon blossom came from the curtain of shrubs which screened the gateway in the thick grey wall. The beautiful woman whose name was the object of maledictions throughout a continent, reclined on a low couch heaped with Oriental cushions, and fixed her dark eyes on me with a tragic intensity of appeal, as she confessed her secret. ‘I need the advice of a disinterested friend, one who stands apart from the intrigues which centre round the Servian throne.’ I sat upright on the French chair provided for me, and gazed down at her, outwardly calm and stern as ever, but gripping the throttle of emotions whose strength none can know but myself. ‘My advice will be disinterested in one sense,’ I answered slowly. ‘I care nothing for the plots and conspiracies which, under the name of politics, serve as a substitute for the old brigandage of the Balkans. But I am interested in your happiness.’ The Countess Draga let her eyelids fall for a moment as a quick spasm of pain crossed her face. ‘Do not let us speak of my happiness,’ she said in low tones. ‘It is of Alexander I must think.’ I folded my arms across my chest, and said nothing. ‘He has asked me to be his Consort.’ I did not succeed in quite concealing the astonishment with which I heard this piece of news, as yet unsuspected by Europe, and for which my friend Baron Rothschild would gladly have paid 1,000,000 francs. ‘I refused him,’ the Countess added; ‘I have refused him not once but twice, but he persists.’