Three months had gone by.
The winter season in Florence had commenced in real earnest, and the
streets of the grey old city were agog with the crowd of wealthy
foreigners who migrate there for blue sky and sunshine. The Via
Tornabuoni was bright with smart toilettes, the Lung Arno was crowded
with handsome equipages, the Cascine was full of life at the fashionable
hour of four, while Vieusseux's and the Floreal tea-shop overflowed, and
there was gay laughter and cosmopolitan chatter everywhere.
Florence had awakened from her summer siesta beneath the glare and heat,
and with her streets still sun-blanched she had put on that air of
irresponsibility which is always so attractive to the leisured
foreigner. Florentine hostesses were already beginning to receive, and
the mass of small and jealous cliques, which calls itself English
society, had started their five o'clock and teacup scandals.
The Englishman who visits Florence to inspect her art treasures and to
bask in the sunshine of the Lung Arno or the heights of Fiesole is
entirely ignorant of its curious complex society--of the blood pride of
the Florentines, or of the narrow-minded prejudices of those would-be
cosmopolitan Britons, mostly with double-barrelled names, who are
residents. Probably there is no circle in all the world so select and
so conservative as the society of the aristocratic Florentines. The
majority of the princes, marquises, or counts are on the verge of
bankruptcy, be it said; nevertheless, they still retain all their pride
of race, and neither man nor woman is judged by his pocket. Those huge,
ponderous cinquecento palaces, with their gloomy cortiles and their
closely barred windows, may have been stripped of their pictures, their
sculptures, and their antique furniture long ago, yet at the receptions
given in those bare skeletons of ancestral homes no one comments upon
the pinch of poverty that is so painfully displayed.
Your Florentine aristocrat makes a brave show to the world and to the
little English cliques around him. He has a grand carriage with his
arms and coronet boldly emblazoned on every panel, he drives fine
horses, he has his clothes made in London, and his wife's dresses come
from the Rue de la Paix; he gambles at the circolo, and he lounges
picturesquely at Giacosa's or Doney's. And yet in his great palace, the
doors of which are rigorously closed, he lives frugally in a few huge,
barely furnished rooms, and is scarcely able to make both ends meet.
The American invasion has, however, commenced to break down even this
barrier of caste, for several men of the bluest Florentine blood have,
of necessity, married American wives, in order to save themselves from
ruin, and have been loudly condemned for so doing.
In those bright January days all Florence was agog regarding the
engagement of Count Jules Dubard with Mary Morini, daughter of the
popular War Minister. By reason of her mother's health, they had
remained on at the villa all the autumn; for neither had any desire for
the wild gaieties and entertaining which residence in Rome entailed upon
them, and preferred the quiet life of their ancient hillside home.
Daily through the streets of Florence Mary and Dubard flashed in the
Minister's motor-brougham, hither and thither, paying calls or shopping,
being greeted and congratulated on every hand. Her father's official
position had given Mary the _entree_ to the most exclusive set, and in
Florence she was always as popular as she was in the court circle at the
Quirinale. She dressed usually in cream flannel, with a large black hat
and a huge ostrich boa; while Dubard, smiling and elegant, was ever at
her side in the smart conveyance which rushed everywhere with loud
trumpeting.
Her family, in ignorance of the tragedy of her young life, were
delighted with the engagement, and on every hand had she received
heartiest good wishes. For a girl to marry an Englishman or Frenchman
is considered the height of _chic_ in Italy, and Mary's social prestige
was increased a hundredfold by her prospect of becoming a French
countess. The young pair became the most striking and popular figures
in the best Florentine society, while the English sets all vainly
struggled to get them to their houses. Madame Morini being too unwell
to go out at night, Mary was usually chaperoned by the old Princess
Piola, a well-known society leader; and solely in order to please her
mother, Mary went to all the functions to which she was bidden.
The Minister's wife, however, had never entertained any great affection
for the English set in Florence. She had once been an English governess
herself, and having known them all well through twenty years, had become
thoroughly disgusted with their petty bickerings and constant
scandal-mongering. Strange that the English on the Continent always
divide into a quantity of small cliques. The French, the Germans, even
the Scots, all join harmoniously and patriotically in a continental
tour; but, as the Italians are so fond of saying, "the English is a good
but strange nation."
With the exception of the British Consul-General's wife, who was an old
friend of her mother's, Mary visited no other English house.
"The Italian law of caste is bad enough, my dear," her mother had said
to her one day, "but the English backbiting is infinitely worse."
And so, with the man she was engaged to marry, she was seen night after
night at those huge old mediaeval palaces, often dimly lit on account of
the penury of their owners, and where the refreshments frequently
consisted of home-made lemonade and tarts from the pastrycook's.
One night at a dance at the great Cusani Palace on the Lung Arno, where
the old Marchioness Cusani was entertaining her friends, she found
herself chatting with Vito Ricci, the deputy, who, wearing on the lapel
of his coat the dark green ribbon and white cross of the Order of Saints
Maurice and Lazarus, had bowed low over her hand and murmured his
congratulations.
The great salon, with its polished floor, faded gilding, and crumbling
frescoes, was of the ornate style of three centuries before, but over
everything was a faded and neglected aspect. Those empty niches in the
wall had once contained statues by Donatello, Niccolo Pisano, and
Montorsoli, all of which had been sold and exported from Italy to
America years ago; while the two large panels painted white had each
contained a Raphael, long since disposed of to the National Gallery in
London. And although the supper consisted of sandwiches from Doney's,
and in lieu of champagne sweet Asti at two-francs-fifty the bottle, yet
the nobility of Florence far preferred gathering there to being
patronised by the wealthy Americans or English.
The music was good, and Ricci invited Mary to the waltz which at that
moment was just commencing. She had known her father's secret agent
ever since she had been a child; therefore, nothing loth, she gave him
the favour he requested. Both were excellent dancers. Ricci went into
society of necessity, in order to keep in touch with the trend of
affairs, and was equally well known in Rome as in Florence, in Turin, or
in Naples. His sponsor had been Morini himself, and he was one of the
very few of the rank and file of the Camera who moved actually in the
best sets.
"I have wanted to meet you for quite a long time, Miss Mary," he said in
Italian, after they had finished dancing and were strolling through one
of the high old ante-rooms, where two or three cavalry officers were
lounging with their partners. At dances in Italy a hostess is always
careful to have a sprinkling of the military on account both of the
brilliant uniforms and of the fact that they are all dancing men. "I
suppose, however," he added, bending to her and speaking in a low tone
that could not be overheard, "I suppose that, now you are to marry
Jules, any question that concerns him is debarred--eh?"
"What do you mean?" she inquired, looking at him quickly with her fine
dark eyes.
"I mean that I hesitate to put a question to you lest you should be
offended."
"It all depends upon the nature of the question," she answered, as they
turned into a long, dim corridor, where they found themselves alone.
"Well," he said, "as you are aware, I am your father's friend, and have
been so through many years. Recently there was a--well, a crisis, which
was averted in a very unexpected and mysterious manner."
"I know," she remarked, turning rather pale. She wore turquoise blue
that night, a beautiful gown of Paquin's which suited her admirably.
"My father has told me everything. You made every effort to wreck the
Socialist conspiracy--and you were fortunately successful. I return you
my very warmest thanks. You saved my father."
"No; you are quite mistaken. I did not. The questions were abandoned
for some mysterious motive which I am still endeavouring to discover.
It is in pursuance of my inquiries that I am now approaching you. Do
you follow me?"
"Perfectly."
"As far as I can gather, your father's enemies have only postponed their
blow. It may fall at any time, therefore we must be prepared for it.
Montebruno received orders in secret to postpone his attack, and there
must have been a reason for this. Perhaps the time was not yet ripe--
perhaps the Socialists feared a retaliation which might crush them. In
any case, we must get at the truth, and thus be forearmed."
"And how can I assist you?" she asked, knowing the bitter truth of her
self-sacrifice, but determined to keep her secret to herself.
"By being frank with me."
"Well?"
"You are to marry Jules Dubard?"
"Yes."
"At your father's instigation?"
She was silent, and her cheeks turned slightly paler. Their long
acquaintance gave him the right to put such a question to her, yet
within her heart she resented it. Why should this secret agent, this
man who was an adventurer, although so useful in her father's service,
seek to learn the truth?
"My father gave his consent to our marriage," she replied simply.
"I know that. He has already told me so. I speak plainly, and say that
I am desiring to get at the truth."
"The truth of what? I don't understand you."
"The truth regarding certain circumstances which are exceedingly
curious. I have been for three months in active pursuit of knowledge,
and in my inquiries have discovered some very strange things. Remember,
I am working in the interests of your father, and anything you may say
to me is in strict confidence. We have known each other for a long
time, Miss Mary," he added--"indeed, ever since you wore short frocks
and used to flirt with me in the salon at San Donato. Do you recollect
it?"
She laughed as a slight blush suffused her cheeks at recollection of her
girlhood days before she went to school at Broadstairs. She recollected
how in those youthful days she had admired Vito Ricci, the well-dressed,
debonair deputy who was her father's closest friend.
"I remember," she admitted, laughing.
"Then let us speak in confidence," he went on, deeply in earnest. "You
were acquainted with Felice Solaro, captain in the 6th Alpine Regiment,
who fell in love with you?"
She nodded, with eyes open in surprise.
"He declared his love, and you refused him. Your father, who suspected
that the young captain had had the audacity to court you, was furious,
and forbade you to receive him. But you saw him in secret one day to
bid him farewell as he was ordered to a garrison on the French frontier.
Your father being absent, you received him, at his own suggestion, in
the library of the palace in Rome. While you were talking with him you
heard some visitors approaching, and you rushed out, locking him in the
library, pretending that your father had taken the key. He remained
there in secret for over two hours, until you could escape from the
callers, release him, and let him out in secret. Is that so?"
She blushed to the roots of her hair at recollection of that youthful
escapade, and admitted that all he had alleged was the truth.
"And that man is now in prison, charged with having sold military
secrets to France--a copy of a confidential document which was in a
drawer in your father's writing-table."
She stood staring at him, utterly speechless.
"But that is not the charge against him," she hastened to declare. "He
is believed to have sold the plans of the Tresenta fortress."
"That is so, but there is also the graver charge--the copying of that
document which was in your father's keeping, and one of the most secret
and important concerning our army."
"But he is innocent?" she exclaimed. "I know he is innocent, Signor
Ricci. He is the victim of a woman named Nodari, at Bologna, who gave
perjured evidence against him."
"I know the whole facts. I have read the depositions given at the
secret court-martial, but I have no means of judging whether he is
innocent or guilty. One fact, however, I desire to learn, and it is
this. Has the count ever mentioned to you the captain's name, or has he
ever admitted acquaintance with him?"
"Never to my knowledge," was her frank answer. "Felice Solaro once
declared his love for me, and therefore, in order not to arouse the
count's jealousy, I have never referred to him."
"Naturally. But the fact is all the more curious that the allegation of
Solaro's sale of the copy of the secret document to France--the copy of
that obtained from your father's writing-table--was actually made by the
count."
"By the count?" she cried. "Then it was actually upon his evidence that
poor Felice has been degraded and condemned?"
"Exactly. But the motive is utterly incomprehensible, for it would
really seem as though the captain was actually guilty of the treasonable
offence."
Mary was silent as they paced down the long, deserted corridor. Then at
last she turned slowly to her companion, and in a strange, hoarse voice
said--
"Yes, it is incomprehensible why an innocent man should be made to
suffer, unless--unless my father and the count have acted in accord to
secure poor Felice's ruin and disgrace."
"But why?"
No words escaped her. She only shrugged her white shoulders. Yet the
man at her side saw in her fine dark eyes the light of unshed tears.
But even he did not suspect the truth.