The sky was aflame in all the crimson glory of the Tuscan sunset.
The Angelus of a sudden clashed forth from the high castellated tower of
the village church away over the Arno, winding deep in its beautiful
fertile valley, that veritable paradise of green vale and purple
mountain, and was echoed by a dozen other bells clanging discordantly
from the hillsides, while from afar came up the deep-toned note of the
big bell in the campanile of brown old Florence.
It was the hour of the _venti-tre_, and those patient toilers, the
_contadini_, in the vineyards, who had been busy since dawn plucking the
rich red grapes that hung everywhere in such luscious profusion, crossed
themselves with a murmured prayer to the Madonna, and prodded their
ox-teams homeward with the last load for the presses. All day long
"babbo," with his wife and children of all ages, had worked on beneath
that fiery sun, singing as they laboured; for the grape harvest was a
rich one, the wine would be abundant, and they, sharing half the profits
with the padrone in lieu of payment, would receive a good round sum.
Like most of the great estates in Tuscany, that of San Donato, the
property of His Excellency Camillo Morini, was held by the peasantry on
what is known as the _messeria_ system, by which the whole of the land
was divided into a number of fields, or _poderi_, half the produce of
which was retained by the _mezzadro_, or peasant who cultivated the
soil, and the other half went to the landlord as rent. The _poderi_
varied in size, but were usually about thirty acres in extent, each with
its _contadino's_ house colour-washed in pale pink, and upon the wall,
painted in distemper, a heraldic shield bearing the bull's head erased
argent, the arms of the proprietor.
The estate of San Donato, with its huge old fourteenth-century villa--a
great castellated place with high, square towers, that would in England
be called a castle, on the crest of a hill--and its _fattoria_, or
residence of the bailiff, another great rambling place with its oil
mills and wine-presses, in the valley below, was one of the largest in
Tuscany.
The villa, with its long facade of many windows, its flanking towers,
its enormous salons of the cinquecento, its splendid frescoes, its
antique marbles, its grey old terraces and broken statuary, was indeed
in a delightful situation. Perched on the summit of a lofty and broken
eminence, it looked down upon the vale of the Arno and commanded
Florence with all its domes, towers, and palaces, the villas that
encircle it and the roads that lead to it. The recesses, swells, and
breaks of the hill on which it stood were covered with groves of pines,
ilex, and cypress. Behind, deep below, lay quiet old Pistoja in the
distance, and still farther off swelled the giant Apennines.
From the villa ran a broad open road, straight to the ancient gate of
the little walled village of San Donato itself--a remote, ancient place,
almost the same to-day as when in the days of Dante it guarded the
valley against the incursions of the Pisans. From its high brown walls,
now crumbling to decay, the view was, like that from the villa of its
lord, without rival in all Italy. Its tiny piazza was grass-grown, and
outside the walls, in a shady cypress grove, stood a ruined calvary with
some of Gerino's wonderful frescoes.
San Donato, though only seven miles from Florence as the crow flies, was
an un-get-at-able place, inaccessible to the crowd of inquisitive
English, and therefore unchanged and its people unspoilt. Indeed, in
winter a week often went by without communication with the world below;
for the post did not reach there, and the little place was
self-supporting. The people, descendants of the men who had shot their
arrows from those narrow slits in the walls, were proud that they had
the great Minister of War for their lord, and that the estate was not
like that adjoining, going to decay through the neglect and gambling
propensities of its owner, who had not visited it for twenty years! On
the contrary, San Donato, still almost feudal, was prosperous under a
generous padrone, and the few weeks each year which the Minister and his
family spent there was always a time of rejoicing with the whole
countryside. Then the _contadini_ made excuse for many festas, and
there was much dancing, playing of mandolines, and chanting of
_siomelli_. The padrone delighted to see his people happy, and the
signorina was always so good to the poor and the afflicted.
Out upon the great wide stone terrace that ran the whole length of the
villa, where spread such a wonderful panorama of river and mountain,
Mary was standing beneath an arbour of trailing vines; for even though
the _venti-tre_ was ringing, the sun's rays were still too strong to
stand in them bareheaded. She presented a slim, neat figure,
delightfully cool in her plain white washing gown with a bow of pale
blue tulle at the throat, yet, as her face was turned towards the
far-distant heights of Vallombrosa, there was in her handsome
countenance a look of deep anxiety.
Jules Dubard, leaning against the grey old wall at her side, noticed it
and wondered. He too was dressed all in white, in a suit of linen so
necessary in the blazing Tuscan summer, and as he folded his arms he
smiled within himself at the effect of his words upon her.
"But you don't really anticipate that my father's enemies are plotting
his downfall?" she asked seriously turning her great dark eyes upon him.
"Unfortunately, I fear they are," was his reply. "What I heard in Paris
is sufficient to show that here, in Italy, you are on the eve of some
grave political crisis."
"For what reason?" she inquired earnestly. "Tell me all you know, for
your information may be of the greatest use to my father. I will write
to him to-night," she added, in a voice full of apprehension.
"No. Do not write," he urged. "You will see him in a week or ten days,
and then you can tell him the rumours I have heard. It seems," he went
on, "that there is a group of Socialists fiercely antagonistic to the
Government, and that they have formed a most ingenious conspiracy to
secure its downfall. Other men, rivals of the present Ministry, are
eager for office and for the pecuniary advantages to be thereby
obtained."
"What is the character of the conspiracy?" she inquired seriously.
"Perhaps my father can thwart it."
"It is to be hoped that he can, but I confess I doubt it very much," was
his slow answer. "Downfall seems imminent. Indeed, a friend of mine,
whom I met the other day in Biffi's cafe, in Milan, was discussing it
openly. It seems that our French secret service has been at work on
your Alpine frontier, and that the plans of the new fortress at Tresenta
have been sold by one of the officers of the garrison. Out of this the
Opposition intend to make capital, by charging your father with neglect,
even connivance at the traitorous dealings with France, and thereby
hounding him from office."
"But it is unjust!" cried the girl wildly. "It is disgraceful! If the
spies of France have been successful, it is surely not my father's
fault, but the fault of the officer who prepared and sold them. What is
his name?"
"I hear it is Solaro."
"Solaro!" she gasped hoarsely. "Not Captain Felice Solaro, of the
Alpine Regiment?"
"Yes, signorina, that was the name."
She stood staring at him, utterly amazed and mystified. Felice
Solaro!--a traitor!
"But it is impossible!" she declared quickly. "There must surely be
some mistake!"
"I heard it on the very best authority," was the young Frenchman's calm
answer. "A court-martial has, it seems, been held with closed doors,
and as a result the man Solaro has been dismissed and sentenced to
imprisonment for a term of fifteen years."
"Dismissed the army!" she exclaimed blankly. "Then the court-martial
found him guilty?"
"Certainly. But did you know the man?"