"WAS SAZARAC YOUR FRIEND?"
It was a bright morning in Rome.
"You will recollect, Miss Mary, that when I congratulated you at Orton
upon your engagement to Dubard, you declared that you had no thought of
any such thing," exclaimed George Macbean, with a smile. "I suppose I
may now be permitted to repeat my congratulations?"
"If you wish," was the girl's mechanical reply. "And I thank you very
much," she added, her face quite serious.
They were standing together one morning in one of the smaller
reception-rooms of her father's palace. He had called on the Minister
on official business, and they had met quite accidentally in the great
mediaeval courtyard, where the plashing of the old marble fountain broke
the quiet, playing on as it had done for nearly four hundred years; that
courtyard that was so full of stirring memories of the long past ages,
and the stones of which had echoed to the tramp of the armed retainers
of the great prince whose ancestral home it once was.
Since his arrival in Rome two months ago fortune had certainly smiled
upon George Macbean General Borselli had given him a lucrative
appointment in the Ministry at a salary which enabled him to rent a
comfortable little bachelor apartment in the Via Sistina. The work was
very different from the drudgery from Morgan-Mason's correspondence, and
he had quickly found that his position at once gave him the _entree_ to
the official society of the Italian capital. The Under-Secretary was
kindness itself, and he soon found that his office was one of those
sinecures with fat emoluments which are found more or less in every
Government department.
For three weeks or so after his arrival he had no occasion to meet His
Excellency the Minister, but when he one day entered Morini's private
cabinet, he took the opportunity of thanking him for the appointment.
The Minister thereupon, as though suddenly recollecting their previous
acquaintanceship, made a number of inquiries as to what office he was
filling in the Ministry and the nature of his work, the outcome of which
was that within six weeks of his arrival in the Eternal City he found
himself appointed private secretary to the Minister himself.
This displeased Borselli, he thought; for when he informed him of the
Minister's order, he remained silent and his sallow face assumed an
expression of distinct disapproval. The general had not expected that
Morini would take the young man into his service, or he would probably
have hesitated to call him from London. Nevertheless, the
Under-Secretary was too clever to openly exhibit any annoyance at the
chief's decision. Indeed, he was always humble and obedient, bowing to
every decree of his superior, even though in his heart he was ever
plotting against him. And so George Macbean had become one of His
Excellency's private secretaries, and very soon enjoyed a good deal of
the confidence of his principal.
Hitherto, however, his work lying always at the Ministry, he had never
had occasion to go to the palace. From the first moment of his arrival
in Rome his mind had been full of recollections of Mary. He had seen
her driving on the Pincio on the bright winter afternoons; he had passed
her in the Corso, and had seen her, exquisitely gowned, seated with her
mother in a box at the Constanzi. But she had never once noticed him,
and on that morning, when he had been compelled to call at the palace to
receive instructions from his chief, who was unwell, they had come
suddenly face to face for the first time.
The meeting gave them mutual satisfaction. There was no doubt upon that
point. She had looked hard at him ere she recognised him, for, like all
the corridors in those mediaeval palaces, it was not very light, and she
would have passed him without acknowledgment had he not uttered her
name.
While standing there in that painted room with the tarnished gold
furniture and mosaic floor, so different from the country drawing-room
at Orton, with its bright chintzes and flowers, he had briefly told her
of the unexpected offer that had reached him in England, of his
acceptance, and of his ultimate appointment to be one of her father's
private secretaries.
"Only fancy!" she laughed. "The world is really very small, is it not?
I never thought, when we played tennis together at your uncle's
tournament at Thornby, that you would be given an office in the Ministry
of War. But I remember now how well you spoke Italian, and that you
told me how fond you were of Italy."
"I owe all my good fortune to your father, Miss Morini. Believe me, it
has lifted me out of a world of drudgery and insult--for, as I think I
told you, I have been secretary to a Member of Parliament named
Morgan-Mason."
"Ah! of course!" she exclaimed quickly, regarding him with a curious,
fixed look. "You were secretary to Mr Morgan-Mason."
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Not personally," she faltered, with some confusion. "I--well, I've
heard of him. Some English friends of mine know him very well, and
through them I have heard of the fellow's pompous egotism."
"Then you can well understand how very deeply I thank your father for
his kindnesses towards me." And then he spoke of her engagement, about
which everyone in Rome was at that moment talking.
He noticed her disinclination to speak of the man whom she was to
marry--that man whom he knew so well.
"The count is in Paris," she answered briefly, when he inquired about
him. "Have you not met him yet? I recollect when in England he was
very anxious to meet you."
"No. I have not seen him to congratulate him upon his good fortune,"
replied George, with a touch of bitterness; "but no doubt he will soon
return, and we shall come across each other."
"He is due back in a week in order to go to the royal reception at the
Quirinale on the nineteenth," she said. "When I write to-morrow I will
tell him that you are now in Rome."
"No," exclaimed Macbean quickly. "Don't tell him. I like giving old
friends pleasant surprises. When he returns I will call on him
unexpectedly."
His was a good excuse, and he was gratified to see that she accepted it.
It would, he knew, never do for her to write and inform her lover of
his presence in Rome. If she did, he certainly would not dare to return
to the Eternal City. George had resolved to conceal his presence from
the Frenchman and to carefully watch his movements. Therefore he
induced the Minister's daughter to make no mention of him.
He found her somewhat more wan and pale than she had been in England.
She seemed preoccupied, _distraite_, with a touch of sadness in her
deep, liquid eyes that was scarcely in keeping with the passion and
ecstasy of an engagement. She was not her old self, bright,
lighthearted, and careless, as she had been in those summer days in
England. Something had occurred, but what it was he had no means of
ascertaining.
The one thought that held him spellbound was the reflection that she was
actually to marry Jules Dubard.
She was about to sacrifice herself, and yet he dare not tell her the
terrible truth. He stood gazing into her great brown eyes, speechless
before that calm and wondrous beauty that had for months arisen
constantly before his eyes amid the whirl of London life. Yes, he loved
her--he had fallen to worship at her shrine ever since those warm
afternoons when they had played tennis on the level English lawns, and
now this re-encounter had awakened within him all the wild passion of
his yearning heart.
During those days in Rome he had heard much of her, for she was popular
everywhere, a reigning beauty in the gay, exclusive circle which
surrounded the royal throne, and one of the most courted of all the
unmarried girls in the capital. The season was at its height, therefore
she was seen everywhere, mostly in company with Dubard. If the truth
were told, however, it was much against her own inclination. She was in
no mood for gaiety. All the life and gaiety had been crushed from her
heart, and she only attended the various functions because it was her
duty towards her father to do so. Many a sleepless night she spent in
prayer and in tears.
Long ago she had become nauseated by all the glare and glitter, the
chatter and music of those gilded salons where smart Rome amused
themselves each evening. Whenever she could, she made excuses to stay
at home in the quiet and silence of her own room; but as it was part of
her father's statecraft that she should be seen and congratulated, she
was compelled very often to put on her magnificent gowns with a sigh,
dance when her heart was leaden, and smile even though she was bursting
with grief.
Yet she rigorously kept the secret of her self-sacrifice, and none
suspected that the young French _elegant_ had compelled her to accept
him as husband. Indeed, Dubard was already very popular in Rome. He
was possessed of means, belonged to the most exclusive Italian club, and
drove a smart phaeton and pair each afternoon, frequently with Mary at
his side.
The men and women who were Dubard's friends were among the highest in
society, yet none knew the truth save Borselli and George Macbean,
neither of whom dare, for their own sakes, utter one single word in
denunciation.
"You told me at Orton that the count was an old friend, Mr Macbean,"
exclaimed Mary, after a brief pause. She had met his gaze
unflinchingly, and then lowered her eyes to the ground. She looked
fresh and neat in her plain black tailor-made gown, for she was dressed
ready to go out for her morning walk in the Corso.
"Yes. We met several years ago," was Macbean's reply.
"Where?"
"In London."
"You must have been close friends," she remarked, "for he has on several
occasions asked whether I had heard of you."
George smiled, for his reflections were bitter ones. "Yes," he said, "I
knew him quite well; but we drifted apart, as friends so often do."
"Then you will, of course, be glad to meet him again."
"For one reason, very glad. Because I want to inquire of him what has
become of one who was our mutual friend, and who mysteriously
disappeared--a very curious affair."
"Was it a man?" asked Mary, suddenly interested.
"Yes--a French army officer--a General Felix Sazarac."
"Sazarac!" she gasped, with open mouth and cheeks suddenly blanched as
the name recalled to her the strange conversation between Borselli and
her father. "Was Sazarac your friend?"