Camillo Morini stood at the big window of his private cabinet in the
Ministry of War at Rome, gazing down upon the silent courtyard, white in
the glaring heat of afternoon.
He was dressed in a cool suit of clean white linen, as is the summer
mode in the South, and as he stood gazing out at the sentry standing in
his box motionless as a statue, he calmly smoked his after-luncheon
cigar--a good Havanna he had brought from England. The man who was so
constantly juggling with a nation's future pressed his lips together,
and afterwards heaved a big sigh--a sigh that echoed through the big,
lofty room.
The Minister's cabinet, like all the rooms in the new War Office, was
big and bare, with a marble floor for summer, and a high stove of white
terra-cotta with broad brass bands for winter. Upon the ceiling were
fine modern frescoes; the walls, however, unlike those of the other
rooms, which were mostly colour-washed, were papered dark red, and the
heavy furniture was covered with thick red plush; while in one corner
was a handsome marble bust of Victor Emmanuel upon a pedestal, and above
hung a large framed portrait of King Umberto, the reigning sovereign,
and a huge shield bearing the arms of Italy. In the centre stood a huge
writing-table of carved walnut, with a great high-backed chair, the seat
of the man who ruled the army of Italy.
The doors were double, with a wide space between, so that the messenger
in uniform who lounged outside should overhear nothing, while so hemmed
in by secretaries was the Minister that he was as difficult of approach
as the very sovereign himself.
That huge square block of new stuccoed buildings, with long corridors,
enormous clerks' room, and big courtyard, the echoes of which were
awakened day and night by the regular tramp of the sentries and the
clank of arms, was at that moment a veritable hive of industry--for of
all the government departments in Rome, the War Office, with its
tremendous responsibilities, is the best conducted.
His Excellency was reflecting upon something that Angelo Borselli, the
Under-Secretary, had told him while they had been lunching together at
the club. He recognised the seriousness of it all, and he sighed in
consequence.
Presently, while his eyes were still fixed upon that sentry erect and
motionless in his box, upon which the sun beat down so fiercely, there
was a rap at the door, and there entered the uniformed messenger who had
been on guard outside, who saluted, saying--
"General Arturo Valentini of the 6th Alpine Regiment, together with a
captain of the same regiment, crave an audience with your Excellency."
"What is the captain's name?" grunted the Minister of War.