Dinner at the Villa San Donato was always a stately meal, served in that
huge, lofty _sala di pranzo_, or dining-room, with its marble floor, its
high prison-like windows closely barred with iron, its antique frescoed
walls, and old low settees covered with dark green damask running right
round the apartment.
In that enormous echoing room nothing had been touched for two hundred
years. The old oak furniture had been well-preserved, the great
high-backed chairs, covered with leather and studded with big brass
nails, the fine carved buffet, and the graven shield over the door
bearing the arms of the princely house that had once owned the place,
all spoke of a brilliant magnificence of days bygone when those huge
halls had echoed to the tread of armed men, and the lord of San Donato
entertained his retainers and bravoes with princely generosity. The
villa was so huge that the guest easily lost himself in its
ramifications, its long corridors and huge salons each leading from one
to the other. Like all the fortified villas of the cinquecento, every
window on the ground floor was closely barred, and this, combined with
the bareness of the rooms, gave to them an aspect of austerity. Over
the whole place was a comfortless air, like that of most Italian houses,
save in Madame Morini's rose boudoir, and the little sitting-room which
Mary had arranged in English style, and called her own.
In the great dining-room there was sitting accommodation for two
hundred, and yet on that evening the party only numbered six: Her
Excellency, Mary, Jules Dubard, an English schoolfellow of Mary's named
Violet Walters, the fair-haired daughter of an eminent KC, and two
sisters, named Anna and Eva Fry, daughters of an English merchant at
Genoa whom Her Excellency had invited up for the vintage.
The voices of the little party echoed strangely in that enormous old
apartment, and from time to time a peal of laughter came back from the
corners of the place with weird and startling repetition. The party had
that day made an excursion over to another estate which the Minister
possessed above the Arno, at Empoli, where the vintage was in full
swing. The trip had been delightful, and the peasantry had received
them with that deep homage and generous hospitality which the Tuscan
_contadini_ extend to their lord.
All were in good spirits except Mary, who, in a gown of pale carnation
pink, sat conversing mechanically in English with her friend Violet, a
pretty girl, about a year her senior, but within herself reflecting
deeply upon what the man sitting opposite her had told her when out upon
the terrace an hour before.
Her father was in peril; it was her duty to warn him. Felice Solaro had
fallen a victim of some dastardly plot, but for what reason and how was
an utter mystery.
She longed to explain to her father all that the count had told her, but
in reply to a question, her mother had said that she did not expect him
to leave Rome for at least a fortnight. Therefore she remained
thoughtful, apprehensive, and undecided how to act. At first she had
contemplated explaining everything to her mother, but on reflection she
saw that there were certain reasons why her anxiety should not be
aroused. Her Excellency was in very delicate health, and while in
London had consulted a physician, who had told her that she must have as
little mental worry as possible. For that reason Mary resolved to hide
the serious truth from her.
Dubard, with his studied elegance of manner, was entertaining the ladies
with droll stories, for he was something of a humourist, and essentially
a ladies' man. Once or twice as Mary's eyes met his he saw in them an
expression of deep anxiety, and of course knew well the reason.
The Fry girls were particularly interested in the young Frenchman, of
whom they had heard as a new star in the social firmament in Rome during
the previous season, but, being provincials, they had not met him. Both
were dark and fairly good-looking; Eva aged about twenty-one, and Anna
two years her senior. Their father, Henry Fry, was an exporter of
marble and of olive oil, who, like his father before him, carried on
business in Genoa, and had amassed a considerable fortune; but Mrs
Fry's death three years previously had left the girls to shift for
themselves in the social world, and their mother having long been an
intimate friend of Her Excellency, the latter each year invited the
girls up to San Donato as company for Mary.
Dinner ended at last, and the little party passed through the three
great salons lit by the thousand wax candles in their antique sconces,
into the minor drawing-room beyond, which was always used of an evening
because it was cosier and small enough to be carpeted.
The Fry girls were clever mandolinists, and taking up their instruments
at Madame Morini's invitation, played and sang that sweet old Tuscan
serenade--
"Io ti amero finche le Rondinelle
Avranno fatto il nido dell' amore;
Io ti amero fin che nel Cielo stelle
Vi saran sempre a illuminarmi il cora.
Io ti amero,
Io ti amero,
Fin che avro vita
Mio bel tesor!"
As they sang, Dubard stood beside Mary and looked into her dark eyes for
some responding glance.
But there was none. She was not thinking of him, but of that
unfortunate man convicted of treason, disgraced and languishing in
gaol--and of Filomena Nodari, the woman who had foully betrayed him.
"You are sad to-night," he managed to whisper to her as they turned
together from the singers.
She nodded, but no response escaped her lips.
Her feelings towards Jules Dubard were mixed ones. She found him a very
pleasant and entertaining companion, always courteous, elegant of
manner, and excessively polite--the kind of man who at once attracted a
woman. And yet somehow, when she came to calmly analyse her regard for
him, she found it to be based merely upon his attractive personality;
or, in other words, it was little more than a mere flirtation, which may
be forgiven of every woman who is courted and flattered as she was.
True, he had, in a kind of joking manner, more than once declared his
love for her. But she had always affected to treat his words as empty
and meaningless, and to assume that they were good friends and nothing
more. At heart, however, she knew that both her parents would be
pleased to see her marry this man; for not only would she be the wife of
a wealthy landowner, but would also obtain the ancient and honoured
title of Comtesse Dubard.
Sometimes, in the secrecy of her room, she sat and reflected upon the
whole situation, but on each occasion she arrived at the same distinct
and unalterable conclusion. She admired Jules; she was fond of his
society, and he was, even though his Gallic elegance of manner was a
trifle forced, nevertheless a perfect gentleman. But surely there was a
great breach between admiration and actual affection.
What he had told her out on the terrace in the sundown, however, showed
plainly that he was really her father's friend. And yet, strangely
enough, he did not wish her to alarm her father unduly. Why? she
wondered. If that grave peril actually existed he should surely be
forewarned!
"What I told you this evening has, I fear, upset you, signorina," Dubard
said in a low, sympathetic voice. "But do not be disquieted. I will
assist your father in thwarting this conspiracy against him. Do not
tell Her Excellency a word. It would be harmful for her, you know."
"I shall say nothing," was her reply. "But," she added, "I cannot help
feeling anxious, especially as you suggest that I shall not write to my
father and warn him."
"Oh, write if you wish," he exclaimed quickly. "Only recollect all that
I have told you is only hearsay. Therefore, I think it unwise to arouse
your father's apprehensions if the rumour of the conspiracy is baseless.
No?" he went on. "Remain patient, and leave everything to me."
She sighed, without replying; then, in order to reassure her, he
whispered, at the same time looking into her eyes intensely--
"You know, Mary, that I will do my very best--for your sake. You know
me sufficiently well for that."
He would have continued his protestations of affection had not the
singers at that moment ceased, and they were both compelled to rejoin
the little group, much to Mary's relief, for at that moment she had no
thought beyond her father's peril. She did not exactly mistrust the
count, yet some strange intuition told her that his solicitude for her
father's safety was feigned. What made her think so she knew not, but
she experienced that evening a strange, unaccountable presage of evil.
He asked her to sing, and then, being pressed by the others, she
responded, chanting one of those old _stornelli_ of the countryfolk
which she was so fond of collecting and writing in a book, the weird
love-chants that have been handed down from the Middle Ages. It was one
she had taken down from the lips of a _contadino_ at Castellina a few
days previously--
"Giovanottino dal cappel di paglia,
Non ti voglio amar piu, non n'ho piu voglia...
Voglio piuttosto vincer la battaglia!"
And while she sang, Violet Walters, standing with Dubard, looked at him
with an expression which told him that he had created a favourable
impression upon her. Thus the evening passed quietly, until the bell
over the private chapel of the castle tolled eleven, and the guests rose
and parted to their rooms, being conducted through the long ghostly
corridors by the domestics with candles.
Mary allowed her Italian maid Teresa to brush her long brown tresses
before the mirror, as was her habit, but the faithful servant remarked
in surprise upon the signorina's preoccupied look.
"I'm very tired, that's all," Mary replied, and as quickly as possible
dismissed the girl and locked her door.
Her room she had furnished in English style with furniture she had
chosen in London. It was a delightful little place, bright with clean
chintzes and a carpet of pastel blue. Upon the toilet-table was a
handsome set of silver-mounted bottles and brushes, a birthday gift from
her devoted father, and around the bed, suspended like a canopy from the
ceiling, were the long white mosquito curtains.
For a long time she sat before the glass in her pale blue dressing-gown,
her pointed chin sunk upon her breast in thought. Ruin was before her
father--and if so, it meant ruin for them all!
Should she disregard the count's suggestion and write to him, urging him
to come from Rome and see her; or if not, to allow her to travel alone
to Rome? Should she write in secret?
How long she remained pondering, she had no idea. Twice the clock
struck solemnly over the deep dark valley that spread beneath her
window, until presently, with her mind made up, she rose and crossed to
her little writing-table on the opposite side of the apartment, but was
dismayed to find the stationery rack empty of notepaper.
If she wrote, it was necessary to do so at once in order to give the
letter to Teresa when she came with the coffee in the morning, for the
young peasant who took the postbag each day left at eight in the
morning, so as to catch the midday mail from Pistoja. There was paper
in the library at the farther end of the mansion, therefore she resolved
to go and obtain some.
Wrapping a white shawl about her shoulders, she took her candle, and
opening her door noiselessly, crept down the long marble corridor past
her mother's door, and then, turning at right angles, proceeded to the
door at the end which gave entrance to the splendid book-lined room full
of priceless editions.
As she crept along in her little felt-soled slippers she suddenly
halted, fancying that she heard an unusual noise. The peasantry
entertained an absurd belief that at night supernatural noises were
heard in the place, but of course she did not believe in them. In fact,
she believed that the story had been invented by the agent, and
circulated among the superstitious folk in order to give the house
better protection against thieves.
She listened intently, her ears strained to catch every sound.
Yes, someone was moving in the library!
Her first thought was of burglars, but holding her breath and determined
to first make certain before raising the alarm, she advanced cautiously
to the door, placed her candle upon the floor, and peered through the
keyhole.
She was not mistaken.
A light shone within. The great green door of her father's safe stood
open before her, revealing the nest of iron drawers within, while
someone was moving at the writing-table a little distance away, beyond
her range of vision.
Her heart beat quickly as her eye was glued to the keyhole.
The thieves, whoever they were, had opened the safe with a key and were
calmly rifling it!
She heard a noise as of crisp papers being turned over slowly, and then
a few seconds later a dark figure crossed to the safe and took a further
packet from one of the drawers.
As the man turned towards her his face became revealed in the dim light.
Sight of it staggered her.
The man who had opened the safe, and who was methodically examining her
father's confidential papers in secret, was none other than Jules
Dubard!