The man whose brilliant career had ended, longed to open the safe and to
see whether certain papers it contained had really been disturbed. But
even if he possessed the key which he had flung into the Arno on that
memorable night, it could not be opened on account of the piece of wire
which prevented the lever from working. The truth was therefore
withheld from him.
Sometimes he regarded Mary's story as ridiculous, while at others he
wondered whether Dubard had really opened the safe in order to
investigate. He had been inclined to think that Mary, watching through
the keyhole as she had done, had not been able to see distinctly, and
that in her limited range of vision had imagined that the safe was being
tampered with. Ricci's words on the telephone were, however, ominous.
Apparently Dubard was in some mysterious way taking part in that vile
and despicable plot which sought to brand Mary as a traitress equally
with himself.
He turned from the safe and again flung himself into his writing-chair,
where he remained a long time with his arms folded, staring straight in
front of him.
At last he stirred himself, reached down a sheet of notepaper, and
commenced to write rapidly a letter commencing, "My dear wife." Briefly
and to the point, he explained that he had fallen the victim of
circumstances, although he had done his best for his king and country,
and prayed for her forgiveness.
The next letter he wrote was upon the big official paper headed
"Ministro della Guerra: Divisione prima," and with tears in his eyes and
hand trembling with emotion he penned his resignation to his sovereign.
He sought to make neither explanation nor excuse.
"I have been your Majesty's obedient and trusted servant and the servant
of the Italian nation for twenty-one years," he wrote, "and during my
term of office as Minister of War my endeavour has been to improve the
condition of the army and place it upon a level with those of other
nations. Your Majesty has been pleased to signify your gracious
pleasure at my efforts, and that, in itself, has been for me my highest
reward. Circumstances which I could not foresee have, however, so
conspired against me and mine that I am unable to remain longer in
office, and therefore beg of your Majesty to relieve me of the portfolio
I have so long held. I have enjoyed your Majesty's marks of favour
through many years, and I only beg most humbly to express a fervent hope
that justice may be done to me, for, if so, it will be proved that I
have never abused either my sovereign's confidence nor disgraced the
honour of the Italian people. I pen this resignation with deep and
heartfelt regret--the regret of a man whose life has been for his
country, and who is taking leave of an office he was proud to hold, and
of a high and gratifying position in his sovereign's gracious esteem."
He read and re-read the words he had penned with such difficulty. Such
was the ignominious end of his brilliant ministerial career! The
resignation would go direct into the hands of His Majesty, yet before it
could reach the Quirinale he would have escaped his enemies.
The third note he wrote was to Mary, a long and tender letter, in which
he sought her forgiveness and declared himself innocent of the grave
offences with which his enemies were charging him.
"I admit that I have had faults, that I have misappropriated the public
money under dire necessity, in order to sustain my position as Minister.
Yet it is an open secret that every member of the Cabinet has done the
same. I am no better and no worse than the others. But as regards the
sale of our military secrets to France, I am as innocent as I believe
you to be. They may attack you, but do not heed their charges. Marry,
be happy, and when you recollect your father, remember him only as one
who has been more sinned against than sinning; one who has been the
victim of a foul conspiracy, ruined and broken by the false and
exaggerated charges of adventurers, but also one who, having given his
life for his king and his country, has also forgiven his enemies. My
estates will be sold--confiscated, probably--and you and your mother
will be comparatively poor. Yet you will, at least, have your husband
Jules to guard and protect you even though your father has left you. I
need not speak of my regrets--for they are but vain ones. My reputation
has been undermined, and I have fallen. I must face the inevitable, and
do so with courage, and in the knowledge that you, Mary, my daughter,
will forgive me. There are charges--base, false charges--which I cannot
refute. Why should I give my enemies satisfaction by facing them? I
cannot hope for justice either at their hands in a court of law or of
the people themselves, on account of the widespread intrigue to secure
my downfall. It is therefore best to turn my back upon them in
contempt, and bid you, my beloved child, farewell."
And as his thin, unsteady hand penned those final words in Italian, the
hot tears dropped, blurring the writing and blistering the paper--the
tears of a man bidding adieu to the one he most cherished--nay, to life.
Having folded the paper and addressed the envelope with the simple
words, "To my daughter Mary," he took from his finger a curious old
Etruscan ring he wore, an ornament that had been found years ago during
the excavations of the amphitheatre at Fiesole, and imprinting a kiss
upon it, enclosed it in the envelope for her.
Then he glanced anxiously at his watch. Soon the dread news would be
spoken into his ear. He sighed again, his face white and hard set, his
pale lips trembling.
He leaned back in his padded chair, and all the past came before him in
rapid review. Now he saw clearly how Angelo Borselli had, through all
those years, been his cringing underling and for what object. The
cunning Under-Secretary had squeezed secret commissions out of everyone
for their mutual pecuniary benefit, yet at the same time he was always
careful to incriminate the man whose position he was so cleverly
scheming to occupy.
Mary had never liked him. A dozen times had she openly expressed her
suspicion and distrust. But he had been blind--blind to everything. He
was a man with, few vices himself, and never recognised them in others.
Had his wife enjoyed good health she would nowadays have been his
helpmate. But, unfortunately, owing to a carriage accident at Vichy
five years before, her nerves were unstrung, and she was nearly always
under medical treatment.
But there were mysteries connected with the curious conspiracy that had
arisen against him--mysteries which he could not solve.
Had he acted rightly in suggesting to Mary that she should marry Jules
Dubard? That point sorely troubled him. Ricci's words over the
telephone caused him to reflect deeply. His devotion to his daughter
was complete, and he had suggested marriage with that man because he was
an honourable gentleman of means, and had, during their acquaintance,
rendered him certain valuable services in Paris. He looked upon Dubard
as a friend of the family, and therefore had been much gratified when he
had asked for Mary's hand. Now, however, in those moments of despair as
he reviewed the past, he recollected his daughter's calm dignity when he
had approached the subject, and how she had accepted the man with an
inert disregard, as though she had only done so to obey his wish.
And this man was in active association with his bitterest enemy!
He remembered how at Orton, when the pair had met beneath his roof, they
had betrayed no desire for each other's company. Indeed, Borselli had
dropped a plain hint that Dubard's presence was unwelcome. And yet at
the moment of the crisis they had become warm friends!
Was it possible that the man who only a few days before had asked for
Mary as his wife could actually be plotting against him in secret? The
idea seemed too absurd, and he dismissed it. Dubard had already shown
himself as his friend, and with that open generosity that had caused his
downfall, he declined to prejudge him until he received absolute proof.
He was shrewd and far-seeing concerning affairs of state, but to his own
interests he was often utterly indifferent.
He rose again, and for half an hour he paced up and down the marble
floor of the long darkened room. The carriage-bells sounded outside,
and as the noise of wheels died away he knew that his wife and the girls
had gone out visiting.
"Mary! Mary!" he cried aloud to himself. "Have I done right? If not,
forgive me!"
Of a sudden he thought of what Vito had told him in the club on the
previous day regarding the startling allegation that his daughter had
furnished information to the man now degraded and imprisoned as a
traitor. Why had she begged for his release? That very fact in itself
went far to prove that the allegation had some foundation in fact. He
saw how his enemies, not content with attacking him, intended to
denounce her as a traitress.
She had declared that Felice Solaro was innocent. Yet if his last
decree as Minister of War was one of clemency, releasing the accused
man, his action would surely be misconstrued into one of connivance at
the betrayal of the secrets of that high-up Alpine fortress.
Was Solaro really guilty after all? At times he was convinced of it,
because the proofs had been so plain, and the evidence of that young
woman Nodari had been borne out by witnesses. Sometimes, however, he
doubted. And if there was doubt, should not the accused be given the
benefit of it? Ought not his last act to be one of fearless clemency?
Slowly he walked to the window and then back again.
"Yes. He shall have the benefit of the doubt," he murmured,
recollecting how the man had defiantly broken his sword before him. "It
shall not be said that Camillo Morini did an injustice even to shield
himself. My enemies will regard my action as proof of my guilt, and
they are welcome to do so," he added in a blank, hoarse voice. "My last
action shall at least be one of justice."
And reseating himself at his table, he took out a big sheet of official
paper, upon which he wrote--
"It is hereby ordered that Felice Solaro, ex-captain of the 6th Alpine
Regiment, convicted of treason, degraded, dismissed from the army of
Italy, and imprisoned at the military prison of Turin, shall be
immediately released and reinstated in his former rank, with pay to
date from his arrest, as he is found not guilty of the false charges
brought against him.
"The governor of the military prison at Turin and General Arturo
Valentini commanding the forces on the Alpine frontier are ordered to
execute this decree given under my hand this first day of October in
the year one thousand nine hundred and one."
Then, beneath, he signed that name that was magical with everything
concerning the defences of Italy: "Camillo Morini, Il Ministro della
Guerra," after which he placed the document in an envelope and directed
it to the prison governor.
He drew a deep breath. At risk of being branded as one who sold Italy's
secrets to the French War Office, he had extended to the accused man a
clemency which he might not deserve. Nevertheless, he felt convinced
that he had acted with justice, and hoped that after all his enemies
would not denounce Mary as Solaro's accomplice.
The allegation was, to him, a mystery. It was true that she had met the
good-looking young captain in society, for he recollected perfectly well
how, about eighteen months before, at a ball given by the Princess
Capellari in Rome, he had noticed them dancing together. But Mary,
being a great favourite, was much sought after by her male
acquaintances, and he had never regarded the young Alpine captain as
anything more than her mere acquaintance.
He, however, could not disguise from himself the fact that she had had
access to those carefully guarded papers which constituted the complete
scheme by which the millions of Italy's armed men were to be mobilised
in case of war. In order to preserve greater secrecy, he had employed
her in his study in the palace in Rome to copy certain portions of the
secret scheme relative to the army of the north--portions which it was
necessary to place in the hands of the general commanding in case of
necessity. He preferred her assistance in this rather than to employ
one of the secretaries, for his confidence in her was complete. It was
therefore amazing that this should actually be known to those who were
seeking his ruin. They charged her with gaining knowledge of the whole
scheme--which, indeed, she might easily have done--and with having
afterwards handed a copy of it to Felice Solaro.
Such an imputation upon his daughter's honour was infamous. That was
Italy's reward for all he had done for her!
He glanced at his watch again, and saw that it was already five o'clock,
the fatal hour when that thin-faced adventurer, Paolo Montebruno--an
advocate, of course, as well as a Socialist deputy--was to rise and
launch his bombshell into the Chamber!
He held his breath, and as he sat staring before him fixedly in
desperation and despair, he pictured to himself the scene at
Montecitorio at that moment. He knew well that huge, semicircular
Camera, and he had often sat listening to Montebruno shrieking in that
quick, impetuous, high-pitched voice which inflamed the members of his
wild-haired party. Yes! he knew well what hard invectives he would use
when, as the mouthpiece of Angelo Borselli, he poured forth his terrible
charges against the Minister of War.
In that silent room, now darker as the sun declined, the man whose doom
was sealed conjured up to himself the staggering sensation which would
be caused by those allegations that he, the trusted adviser of his
sovereign, had foully betrayed his country. Already he was speaking,
without doubt, and already the wires were flashing the astounding
charges to every corner of Italy. In a few brief hours those
irresponsible journals inspired and subsidised by Borselli would be full
of the sensation, screaming that Italy had been betrayed, and demanding
a prosecution.
He knew, from what Ricci had told him, that the charges could not fail
to set all Italy aflame. The plot against him had been too cleverly
prepared. The hour had passed. The Camera were already staggered at
the magnitude and seriousness of the charges. He was already hounded
down as a thief and a traitor.
His nervous hand went to his vest-pocket, and drawing forth the small
glass tube, he gazed upon it with a bitter smile of satisfaction.
Of a sudden the telephone bell rang sharply behind him, causing him to
start. The voice from across those high misty mountains would speak his
doom.
For a few moments the despairing man sat motionless, bent forward upon
the table staring at the tube, then rising slowly, he staggered across
to the instrument, took the receiver in his trembling fingers, and
mechanically placed it to his ear.