An hour had passed, and Mary, against her inclination, had danced with
various partners, and had heard around her comments regarding her
personal beauty and her dress such as always reached her ears on such
occasions. Everyone courted and flattered her, for in that gay court
circle she was one of its reigning queens. Yet the hot air stifled her;
the mingled perfumes of flowers and chiffons nauseated her. She hated
it all, and was longing to get away back to the solitude of her own
room, where, after old Teresa had brushed her hair, she might sit in her
big easy-chair and think.
Blase of life before her time, she was disappointed, world-weary, and
heart-broken, although as yet only in her early womanhood. She had been
dancing with the young Prince de Sarsina, a well-known figure in Roman
society, and he had led her to a seat beside the old Duchess de Rovigor,
when, in the lull of the music, those mysterious knocks were again
repeated, and at the farther end of the ballroom there stood the
black-habited royal chamberlain.
There was silence at once. Then the royal official announced in Italian
in a loud, ringing voice--
"His Majesty the King!"
And at the same moment a pair of long gilt and blue doors were flung
open, and into the room there advanced the sovereign, a well-set-up,
pleasant-faced figure with white moustache, before whom all bowed low
three times in obeisance as he strode with regal gait into the centre of
the enormous ballroom. In his splendid uniform outrivalling all, and
wearing the grand crosses of the Crown of Italy, Maurice and Lazarus,
and Savoy orders of which he was master, his figure presented a fitting
centre to that brilliant assembly; and soon, when the obeisances were
made and he had saluted in return, he moved away in conversation with
Morini, who, as all were aware, was one of his most intimate friends.
Then, when the queen, wearing her wonderful pearls, entered with the
same ceremony, together with the Crown Prince and Princess of Naples,
the orchestra struck up again and the revelry continued notwithstanding
the presence of the sovereigns, who mixed freely with their guests and
laughed and talked with them.
Presently, as Mary on the arm of a partner was passing near to where Her
Majesty was sitting upon the raised dais at the end of the room, the
queen suddenly beckoned to her, whereupon she left the man who was her
escort, curtseyed as etiquette demanded, and approached the royal
presence.
"I only heard the news the day before yesterday on our return from
Berlin," exclaimed Her Majesty in English, with a kindly smile as the
girl came up to her. "But of course your engagement scarcely comes as a
surprise. Let me congratulate you. You must present the count to me at
the first opportunity. Is he now in Rome?"
"No, Madame," was the girl's blushing reply. "But I thank your Majesty
for your kind thought of me."
"I wish you every happiness, my dear," declared the queen, for Mary was
an especial favourite with her. "Perhaps I may be able to attend your
wedding. When will it be?"
"In June, Madame."
"Very well. Give me good notice of the date, and I'll see if I can
come." And then she dismissed the Minister's daughter by turning to
speak with one of her ladies-in-waiting who had returned from executing
some commission upon which her royal mistress had sent her.
What irony, thought the girl, as she curtseyed and left the royal the
trap into which she had fallen!
Through those high-roofed, magnificent chambers, with their wonderful
friezes, priceless paintings, and gilt furniture, she wandered on,
acknowledging greetings on every hand, yet only mechanically, for her
thoughts were far away from that scene of royal revelry. The atmosphere
held her asphyxiated, the music jarred upon her ears, and the gossip she
heard on every side was for her devoid of all interest.
One face alone arose before her amid that glittering throng, the face of
the Englishman she had met so unexpectedly that morning--George Macbean.
And why? She asked herself that question, and yet to it could give no
direct response. His frank honesty of countenance and his muscular
English form attracted her, but when the suggestion crossed her mind
that she loved him, she laughed such an idea to scorn. They were
comparative strangers, and she prided herself on being one who had never
fallen into the error of affection at first sight as so many other girls
did. Her character, it was true, was too well balanced for that.
Yet the truth remained that all her thoughts that day had been of him.
Both the Baron Riboulet, the French Ambassador, and old Prince Demidoff
had grasped her hand and paid their compliments, while the princess
managed to whisper in French, "I never saw you looking so well as
to-night, my dear. That gown suits you admirably, and is by far the
most striking here. One cannot wonder at Count Dubard's choice. He has
always been known in Paris as a connoisseur of beauty, you know," and
Her Excellency the Princess showed her yellow teeth in a broad grin at
what she meant as humour.
Wherever Mary went, half a dozen of the younger men followed in her
train like bees about their queen. She laughed with them, made humorous
remarks, and chatted to them with that air of bright, irresponsible
gaiety by which she so cleverly concealed the heavy burden of grief and
disappointment that filled her heart. In Roman society the younger men
vied with each other to become friends of Mary Morini, hence at such
functions as these they liked to be seen in her company, laughing or
dancing with her.
The young Duke di Forano, who had recently returned from Paris, where he
had acted as first secretary of the Italian Embassy, had taken her in to
supper in the huge winter garden where the tiny tables were set beneath
the palms, and they had been waited upon by the royal servants. In the
dim light of the Chinese lanterns the duke, an old friend, had taken her
hand in his; but she had withdrawn it in indignation, saying--
"You have no right to do that, now that I am engaged."
"Ah yes! of course," he exclaimed, with a word of apology, at once
interested. "I heard something about it in Paris, but quite forgot.
Jules Dubard is the lucky fellow--isn't he?"
She nodded.
And as she looked into his dark, well-cut features in the half-light she
fancied she discerned a curious look, half of pity and half of surprise.
"I hope you'll be happy," he remarked in a hard voice. "I always
thought you would marry Solaro--poor devil! Do you remember him?"
"Remember!" she echoed. "Yes; I recollect everything. You may well say
`poor devil.' He has been convicted of being a traitor--of selling army
secrets to France."
"I know--I know," answered her companion quickly. "We had all the
papers concerning the charges through the Embassy, and I am aware of all
the facts. My own idea is that he's innocent, yet how can it be proved?
He was betrayed by some heartless woman in Bologna, it seems. She made
all sorts of charges against him."
"She lied!" cried Mary quickly. "He is innocent. I know he is, and
some day I hope to be able to prove it."
"Ah, I wish I could help you!" was his fervent declaration. "He was my
friend, you know. Perhaps the real truth may be known some day, but
until then we can only wait, and he must bear his unjust punishment."
"But it is a crying scandal that he should have been degraded when he is
innocent!" declared the daughter of the Minister of War.
"Your father, no doubt, ordered the most searching inquiry. It is
strange that, if he is really innocent, his innocence has not been
proved."
"You are quite right," she said. "That very fact is always puzzling
me."
"There may be some reason why he has been consigned to prison," remarked
the diplomatist, thoughtfully twisting his champagne-glass by the stem,
"some reason of State, of which we are ignorant."
"But my father would never willingly be party to such an injustice."
"Probably not; but what seems possible is that Solaro is held in prison
by some power greater than your father's--the power of your father's
enemies."
She thought deeply over those strange words of his. It almost seemed as
though he were actually in possession of the truth, and yet feared to
reveal it to her!
Presently they rose again, and returned to where the cotillon had
commenced. She did not take part in it, because her heart was too full
for such frivolities. The young diplomatist had left her at a seat,
when almost immediately her father's enemy, Angelo Borselli, approached,
and bowed low over her hand.
She knew well how he had endeavoured to ruin and disgrace her father,
and how he intended to hold the office of Minister himself; yet, owing
to the instructions His Excellency had given her, she treated him with
that clever diplomacy which is innate in woman. In common with her
father, she never allowed him to discern that she entertained the
slightest antipathy towards him, and treated him with calm dignity as
she had always done.
Borselli, in ignorance that the Minister was aware of all the
ramifications of his shrewd scheming, still affected the same friendship
for Morini and his family, and affected it with a marvellous
verisimilitude of truth. One of the cleverest political schemers in
Europe, he was unrivalled even by Vito Ricci, who in the past had
performed marvels of political duplicity. Yet Mary's tact was a match
for him.
Only three days ago she and her father had dined at his big new mansion
in the Via Salaria, and neither man had betrayed any antagonism towards
the other. It is often so in this modern world of ours. Men who
inwardly hate each other are outwardly the best of friends. Neither
Morini nor Mary had any trust in him, however, for both knew too well
that he intended by some clever _coup_ one day to deal the blow and
triumph as usurper. Yet both, while wary and silent, masked their true
feelings of suspicion beneath the cloak of indifference and
friendliness.
Having taken a seat beside her, he began to gossip pleasantly, while his
dark eyes were darting quick glances everywhere, when suddenly he
asked--
"Is not Jules here? I thought he was commanded here to-night."
"No. To the next ball. He is in Paris," she said simply, without
desire to discuss the man to whom she had engaged herself.
"And you do not regret his absence--eh?" remarked the Sicilian in a low
voice, bringing his sallow, sinister face nearer to hers.
"I do not understand you," she exclaimed, drawing herself up with some
hauteur. "What is your insinuation?"
"Nothing," was his low response. "You need not be offended, for I do
not mean it in that sense. I merely notice how you are enjoying
yourself this evening during his absence, and the conclusion is but
natural." And his face relaxed into a smile.
"Well," she declared, as across her fair face fell a shadow of quick
annoyance, "I consider, general, your remark entirely uncalled for."
And she rose stiffly to leave him.
But he only smiled again, a strange, crafty smile, that rendered his
thin, sallow face the more forbidding, as he answered in a low voice,
speaking almost into her ear, and fixing his eyes on hers--
"I may surely be forgiven as an old friend if I approach the truth in
confidence, signora. You have accepted that man's offer of marriage,
but you have done so under direct compulsion. You desire to escape from
your compact. You see I am aware of the whole truth. Well, there is
one way by which you may escape. But recollect that what I tell you is
in the strictest secrecy and confidence from your father--from everyone.
I speak as your friend. There is a way by which you can avoid making
this loveless alliance which is naturally distasteful to you--a way by
which, if you choose to adopt it, you may save yourself!"
She faced the man, her brown eyes meeting his in speechless surprise and
wonder at his enigmatical words.
What could he mean?