The great gilded ballroom of the French Embassy in Rome was thronged by
a brilliant crowd, even though it was out of the season and the majority
of the official and diplomatic world were still absent from the Eternal
City, in the mountains or at the baths.
The bright uniforms, the glittering stars and coloured ribbons worn by
the men, and the magnificent toilettes of the women, combined to form a
perfect phantasmagoria of colour beneath the huge crystal electroliers.
The orchestra was playing a waltz, and many of the guests were dancing;
for the floor at the Farnese Palace was the best in Rome. Camillo
Morini, though in no mood for gaiety and obliged to attend, was
wandering aimlessly through the rooms, exchanging salutes with the men
he knew and now and then bowing low over a woman's hand. In his
brilliant uniform as Minister of War, with the cerise and white ribbon
of the Order of the Crown of Italy and a number of minor decorations, he
presented a strikingly handsome figure, tall, erect, and
distinguished-looking, as he strode through the huge painted salons
dazzling with their heavy gilt mirrors and giant palms, a man of power
in that complex nation, modern Italy.
After Mary had sought him and revealed the amazing fact of Dubard's
secret investigations, she had gone on home to the palace with her maid
Teresa, where he had joined her about six o'clock.
Father and daughter had dined alone in the long, high, old frescoed
room. Few words they exchanged, for both felt that a crisis was
imminent, and that if the blow fell the catastrophe must be overwhelming
and complete. A true bond of deepest sympathy had always existed
between them, for, as an only child, he had lavished upon her all his
affection, while she, in turn, regarded him with a strong affection
unusual in these decadent days. More than once since she had returned
from the Broadstairs school she had been his assistant and adviser in
the hours when she had found him alone and agitated as he so often was.
More than once, indeed, he had confided in her, telling her of affairs
which he withheld even from his wife for fear of unduly disturbing her
in her delicate state of health. Often he had, of his own accord,
sought his daughter's counsel. Hence she was in possession of many
confidential facts concerning persons and politics in Rome, and with her
woman's keen perception had already in consequence become a trained
diplomat.
In the long and painful silence during dinner he urged her to accompany
him to the French Ambassador's reception, adding with a sigh, "I would
rather remain at home with you, my dear; but I must go. It will not do
for me to betray any sign of fear."
"Go, certainly. It is your duty, father. But I am really too tired
after my journey."
And so she excused herself from accompanying him, and went off early to
her room.
His Excellency had been chatting with the Prince Demidoff, the Russian
Ambassador, and was passing into the great ballroom, where the gaiety
was then at its height, when he came face to face with Angelo Borselli,
gorgeous in his brilliant general's uniform.
"Ah, my dear Camillo!" exclaimed the latter. "I only returned from
Paris to-day, and called upon you on my way here. I must see you at
once--privately."
The Minister, who had not met the Under-Secretary since the adventurer
Ricci had revealed to him the truth regarding the Socialist conspiracy,
controlled his feelings with marvellous calmness, and greeted his friend
effusively.
"Why?" asked His Excellency under his breath. "Has anything happened?"
"A good deal. But here the very walls have ears," was the answer. "I
have come in search of you."
"Well?" asked the Minister of War in abrupt surprise, recollecting the
warning Ricci had already given him.
"Come with me. I know my way about this place," Borselli said. "There
is an anteroom at the end of the south corridor where we can talk
without risk of eavesdroppers."
Their host, Baron Riboulet, the French Ambassador, a tall, handsome,
brown-bearded man, stopped and greeted the pair at that moment, while
several other personages well-known in Roman society came up to pay
their respects to His Excellency the Minister. Then at last the
Under-Secretary managed to whisper--
"Let's get away. I must see you without further delay. Come."
And together they strolled through the magnificent salons with their
brilliant crowds and presently entered a small, barely furnished room in
a distant part of the historic old palace which is now the residence of
the representative of the French Republic. As soon as they were within
Borselli switched on the electric light, closed the door and locked it.
When he turned to the Minister the latter saw that his countenance had
changed. He was pale and anxious, as though he had information of the
highest importance to impart.
"Well?" asked Morini, wondering why he had brought him there so
mysteriously.
"I have been in London again," the other exclaimed. "The truth of the
Sazarac affair is known!"
Camillo Morini held his breath, his brows knit themselves, and his teeth
were set hard. If this were a fact, then Borselli himself must have
revealed the truth, for he alone knew it. What Ricci had told him had
opened his eyes to this fellow's secret intentions. This was, no doubt,
part of the vile, despicable conspiracy to secure the downfall of the
Ministry. He knew that Angelo Borselli, the ambitious schemer with the
rank of general, who owed everything to him, was his bitterest opponent,
and he now saw an opportunity of fathoming the ingenious ramifications
of the plot that was to effect his ruin. He was, however, too well
versed in statesmanship to betray in his face the inner workings of his
mind, and Borselli, notwithstanding that consummate craft which was his
most prominent characteristic, had no suspicion that his chief was aware
of the conspiracy.
"If the truth regarding General Sazarac is out, my dear Angelo," he said
quite calmly, "then you must forgive me for suspecting that the
catastrophe is due to your own indiscretion."
"Ah, my dear friend, there you are entirely wrong!" the other declared
in a low, intense voice. "A man whom you know in England is well aware
of the whole of the facts."
"And who is he, pray?" inquired the Minister, still preserving an
outward calm that was perfect.
"The young Englishman George Macbean--the man who was staying with
Sinclair of Thornby."
"Macbean?" slowly repeated His Excellency, gradually recalling to his
memory the young Englishman whom Mary had introduced to him upon his own
lawn. "Ah, of course! I recollect. He is Sinclair's nephew, and
secretary to that fellow Morgan-Mason who came to Rome to see us about
provisioning."
"The same. He knows everything."
The Minister was silent. His brows were knit. He recollected Macbean
quite well, and wondered whether what Borselli was telling him were the
actual truth. Since Vito Ricci had revealed the amazing cunning with
which the Under-Secretary was working, he naturally mistrusted him.
"Well, and what does it matter?" asked Morini, still quite cool.
"Matter?" gasped the other. "Matter? Why, if he reveals what he knows
it will mean ruin for us both--ruin?"
"You have expressed fear several times, my dear Angelo," laughed the
Minister, leaning easily with his back to the table. "For myself, I
entertain no fear. How did you discover that he held this knowledge?"
"I had my suspicions, and I therefore returned to England and found him
in London. I did not approach him myself, of course, but from
information I gathered I know that he must be aware of the whole truth.
That being so, we must not risk any revelations."
"But even if he really does know, what motive could he ever have in
bringing any distinct charge?" queried Morini, facing the man who, he
knew, intended to himself occupy the post of Minister of War.
"You forget that he is secretary to that overbearing parvenu
Morgan-Mason, and that the latter was Sazarac's most intimate friend."
Camillo Morini bit his lip. He had never thought of that. The affair
of General Sazarac was to the public a mystery--one which the English
Member of Parliament had actively endeavoured to solve. The young
Englishman Macbean, if he really knew the truth, might be induced by his
employer to speak! In an instant he recognised a further peril in a
quarter hitherto entirely unexpected.
"You are quite certain he knows?"
"Absolutely."
"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
assistant 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 worshipped
in London society because of his millions, and upon whose smile even an
English duchess 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 nobility--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
secretaryship, 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."