Behind the Throne Part 19

"By what means did he learn the truth?"

"Ah, that is not clear!" responded the thin-faced man. "He knows; but how, is more than we can tell. The merchant of provisions, his employer, was the general's friend. Therefore the general probably knew the secretary, and may have taken him into his confidence! Cannot you therefore see that the fellow must be given an appointment in our Ministry? We cannot afford to allow him to remain the secretary of this parvenu, treated worse than a dog, ill-paid and sneered at on account of his superior birth and education. We must run no risk."

"Then the English Member of Parliament is not a very good employer--eh?"

"The reverse; a very bad one. He is a man who rose from being an a.s.sistant in a grocer's shop in a London suburb to be what he is, the greatest dealer in provisions in all the world--a man who is wors.h.i.+pped in London society because of his millions, and upon whose smile even an English d.u.c.h.ess will hang. Ah, my dear Camillo! You, although you have a house in England, do not know those English. They are a people of millions; and in society they count their virtues by the millions they possess. I know a man who was a waiter in an hotel in South Africa a few years ago who now has the proud English n.o.bility--their milords and their miladies--around his table. They eat his dinners, they shoot his birds, they use his yacht, they beg of him for loans--and yet they jeer and laugh at him behind his back. It is so with this member of the English Parliament to whom our young friend now acts as secretary."

"I cannot see your point," said the Minister of War, his uniform-hat tucked beneath his arm.

"Cannot you see that if this Englishman really knows the story of Sazarac it is to our mutual interests that he should not speak of it?

It might mean ruin for us," Borselli pointed out in a low, earnest voice. "Cannot you see that, being in the employ of that pompous hog-merchant Morgan-Mason, and badly paid for his services he is longing for a higher and more lucrative position? Is it not but natural? He knows Italy, and would be only too eager to accept an appointment in the Ministry--where we really want a good English secretary. Such a man would be of the utmost value to both of us."

"Then you suggest that we should offer him an appointment?"

"Exactly," was Borselli's reply. "If you agree to give the fellow a secretarys.h.i.+p, leave the rest to me. He will be only too eager to accept an appointment under the Government, and once in Rome and in our employ, he will never dare to open his mouth regarding the ugly affair."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

COUNTING THE COST.

Next day at noon Mary, who was out driving in the smart English victoria, called at the Ministry and again sat alone with her father trying to persuade him to order an inquiry into the case of the unfortunate Felice Solaro.

"It is useless, my dear," was his impatient answer. "He has already been here himself, but the case is proved up to the very hilt. I therefore cannot interfere."

"Proved by that woman Nodari?" she cried, with fierce indignation.

Then, after a pause, she leaned towards him and said in a low, earnest voice, "You will not allow an inquiry because you fear its result, father?"

"Hus.h.!.+ Who told you that?" he gasped, staring at her.

"No one. It is only a logical conclusion. The captain is the victim of a wicked conspiracy, and he is suffering in silence because he knows the utter futility of appeal."

"He has already appealed to me."

"And you have refused him justice!" was his daughter's quick reproachful declaration. "You are surely not unjust, father? You cannot be."

The tall, distinguished-looking man was silent, and rising, walked up the long strip of carpet placed upon the marble floor. Then slowly he returned to her, and looking straight into her face, said--

"My hands are tied, my girl. I am powerless, I confess to you."

"But in your heart you believe that he is innocent? Tell me the truth."

"Yes," he whispered in a broken voice. "I do--I do."

She made no response. His admission was full of a poignant meaning.

She saw that he was somehow fettered, held in some mysterious bondage of which she was in ignorance.

Again she spoke of the examination of the safe by Dubard, but this matter he seemed disinclined to discuss, and pleading other affairs, he urged her to return home and await him at luncheon.

At three o'clock, after eating his midday meal with her, he went forth again to make a round of official calls, when, a quarter of an hour later, the Italian footman threw open the long white doors of the small salon where Mary was sitting writing letters, and announced--

"Comte Dubard!"

She started quickly, held her breath, and rose to greet her visitor, who, foppishly dressed in a pale grey flannel suit, came forward smiling, and, drawing his heels together, bowed low over her white hand.

The man's calm impertinence and cool unscrupulousness held her speechless.

"I thought you were still at San Donato," she stammered, when at last she found tongue. "I had no idea you were here, in Rome."

"I have followed you," he declared, smiling. "You left the villa unknown to me, and therefore I have come to you."

"For what reason?" she inquired, her brows slightly elevated.

"Because--well, because I fear that the reason of your sudden journey is to reveal to your father those things which I told you in confidence the other day. Remember the future rests entirely in your own hands. He must know nothing--at least at present."

"And is that the only reason you are here, count?" she asked meaningly, standing before him with her hands behind her back, her splendid dark eyes fixed upon him.

"I come here as your friend to warn you that silence is best at this moment. A word to your father will precipitate the crisis. I know," he went on, "that you are convinced that an injustice has been done in the case of poor Solaro. Your att.i.tude the other evening showed me that.

But I beg of you to make no effort to clear his character, because, in the first place, any such attempt must of necessity fail; and secondly, your father's enemies would at once shriek of the insecurity of the French frontier. No," he argued, speaking in a low tone in French, "you must keep your own counsel, mademoiselle. If this catastrophe is to be averted, if the Cabinet is to be saved, then it must be by some ingenious means that are not apparent to your father's enemies."

She stood listening to this declaration of friends.h.i.+p by the man who had pried into her father's secrets. It was on the tip of her tongue to openly charge him with ulterior motives, nevertheless her better judgment prevailed. She recognised, as her father had pointed out, that no good end could be served by showing her hand at that juncture, therefore she allowed him to argue without raising her voice in protest.

He had followed her from Tuscany because he was apprehensive lest she should tell her father the truth. Why? He was in fear of something; of what, she could not tell.

A great conspiracy, ingenious and widespread, was afoot to encompa.s.s her father's ruin, therefore she resolved to remain at his side and at any cost face the perils of exposure. The few hours she had spent in her father's society had shown that, so full was he of his responsible official duties and affairs concerning the army of Italy, he had, in a few weeks, become an entirely changed man. His face was now pale and drawn, and when he sat alone with her there rested upon his countenance a haunted look--the look of a man who was face to face with ruin.

Loving her father, she had been quick to recognise the truth. At first it had staggered her, but her surprise and horror had given place to a deep filial sympathy, and while determined to hide her secret from her mother, she had become at the same time her father's confidante and friend.

"I am quite well aware of the intentions of the Opposition," she answered coldly, after a painful pause. "But I am not in the least apprehensive. My father has for so many years been a faithful servant of his sovereign that the Italian people still have confidence in him.

Neither the country nor the Camera can fail to recognise the many reforms he has introduced into the army, or how he has alleviated the lot of the common conscript."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, with a deep sigh. "I am glad that you recognise your father's strong position--the strongest of any man in the Italian Government. Nevertheless," he added, "those shrieking firebrands can, if they so desire, set Italy aflame. We have that truth to face, and we must face it."

Her lips were pressed together, for she saw how cleverly he was changing his tactics towards her. She also recognised how, by appearing to have confidence in the future, she could place him off his guard. Her father's honour was, she felt, in her hands, and the magnitude of the issue aroused within her all her woman's innate tact and courage.

"I came to Rome because my father telegraphed to me," she said quite simply. "He wanted to take me with him to Palermo to visit my aunt, but the king's programme is changed, so we are not going after all. I intend to return to San Donato the day after to-morrow. It is still too hot in Rome."

"Ah! then I own myself quite mistaken," he laughed. "I have been unduly anxious, for I attributed your sudden departure to your natural desire to tell His Excellency all that I had explained in confidence. We men, you know, are in the habit of saying that women cannot keep secrets."

"I can keep one," she declared.

"Yes," he answered. "I know you can. Upon your secrecy in this affair the very fate of the Ministry depends, believe me. You know that I am your father's true friend--as well as yours."

She held her breath, and her eyes met his.

"You have told me that several times before," she remarked in a quiet, mechanical voice and with an a.s.sumed air of unconcern.

"And I mean it," he said earnestly. "Only you had better not tell your father that I am here. It is, perhaps, unwise to let him know that I have followed you from San Donato--he may suspect."

"Suspect what?"

"Well, suspect the reason of my visit to you to-day," he said, surprised at her quick question. "You see I have come here because--well, to tell you the truth," he faltered, "I am here to tell you something which I wanted to say at San Donato--yet I dared not."