"The reason I invited you out here was to tell you frankly my intention,
and so allow you opportunity to leave the place before the truth is
known. I intend to go to-morrow to the Minister and tell him exactly
the true state of affairs. He is in utter ignorance that it was you who
stayed the adverse tide against him in the Chamber of Deputies--in
ignorance that you made that vile, despicable agreement with his poor
unfortunate daughter. When I have spoken we shall see whether he will
allow the marriage to take place."
"And when you have spoken we shall also see whether he will not hear my
own story."
"I am prepared for any allegation you may make against me," responded
George. "You may ruin me--you may do what you and your friends will--
but you shall never marry Mary Morini!"
"I defy you!"
"Very well--we shall see."
"Tell the Minister what you choose, but remember that if you endeavour
to create friction between us, I will show you no mercy," he cried
between his teeth. "Until now I have been silent, but--"
"You've been silent because you know too well that you fear to speak--
you fear to make any allegations against me. I know rather too much!"
declared the Englishman, with confidence.
"Much or little, it does not concern me in the least," replied the
foreigner. "You create unpleasantness, and _eh bien_! I do the same."
"Then you actually intend that that desperate woman, in deadly fear of
her father's ruin, shall become your wife?"
"I do."
"Then I tell you, Dubard," he cried, "that I will not allow it! I will
never allow it. I will tell the truth, and bear the consequences."
"The consequences!" exclaimed the Frenchman in a deep, serious voice,
his teeth hard set in anger which he strove to suppress, but which
nevertheless rose by reason of his quick foreign nature. "The
consequences! Have you realised them all? You seem to have a short
memory, my dear friend--and a short memory is often convenient. Shall I
refresh it for you?" he asked, as the man before him clutched at the
wooden rail of the stile for support, although striving valiantly to
preserve a defiant calm. "Shall I recall to you the memory of those
sunny winter days when your employer Morgan-Mason took you with him to
the Villa Puget at Mentone, when he was the guest of his brother-in-law,
General Felix Sazarac? Shall--"
"I know! I know!" cried the young Englishman. "I know all--why should
you recall all that?"
"To refresh your memory, my dear friend," responded Dubard, with
withering sarcasm. "Do you recollect how that we were friends in those
days--you, Felice Solaro, and myself? Solaro and I were at the Hotel
National, and you were given a room at the villa by your employer's
hostess, his elder sister, Madame Sazarac--who had married the general.
Do you not remember these days, spent at Monte Carlo, or up at La
Turbie, our luncheons, our dinners at the Paris, and our little games at
the tables? Oh yes, you had a merry time then--we all had--even the
poor general himself. And then--"
"Stop!" Macbean implored, raising both his hands. "Enough!--I know!
Heavens!--as though I could ever forget!"
"But you have forgotten, it seems, or you--of all persons--would never
seek to come between me and the woman I am to marry. Therefore hear
me--once and for all. And when you have heard, reflect well before you
adopt a course which must inevitably reflect upon yourself--nay more,
which must cause your own ruin. Do you recollect how your employer
Morgan-Mason had gone alone to Marseilles to meet his Indian manager who
was returning to England, and how you, being alone, the general often
invited you to ride with him up the Corniche road, and sometimes into
the mountains? He was fond of the English because his wife was English,
and he had taken a great fancy to you. Being in command of the Alpine
frontier defences in France, he had often to make inspections of those
high-up fortresses that guard the passes into Italy, and one day he
invited you to ride with him away up to the fortress of Saint Martin
Lantosque that overlooks Monte Malto."
"I will not hear you!" cried Macbean hoarsely. "Enough! Enough!"
But the Frenchman continued in the same quiet, hard, meaning tone, his
voice sounding clear in the quiet of night.
"With Solaro I chanced to call at the villa just as your horses were
brought round, and we stood upon the steps and saw you mount. You waved
your hand triumphantly to us, and trotted away at the side of the man
who held the south-east frontier of France under his command. Do you
recollect, as you rode down the drive bordered by its flowering azaleas,
how you turned and looked back at us, in wonder whether we suspected
your intentions? Perhaps not--the truth remains the same," he added,
his face now closer to that of the man against whom he was making that
withering accusation. "You rode nearly twenty miles into the mountains,
and were high up above the Vesubie, in a wild, solitary district devoid
of any human habitation, when, it being hot, you offered your
brandy-flask to the general, who was without one--for you yourself had
surreptitiously taken it from his holster prior to setting out. Being
thirsty, he took a long drink. Half an hour later he felt ill, and
dismounted. And in an hour the poor fellow was dead!"
George Macbean stood still, gripping the moss-grown rail, glaring at his
accuser, though no word escaped his lips.
"The cognac you gave to the general was never suspected by the doctors,
who declared the fatality to be due to an internal malady from which he
had long suffered, and which was known might cause sudden death. The
gallant officer was buried with military honours in Nice, and none were
aware of the truth save Solaro and I. We knew that a sum of money which
the general had upon him had been stolen, and further, that the brandy
you had given him you had not dared to drink yourself. In secret, we
charged you with the general's murder, for the sake of the money upon
him; but you defied us, and made a gallant fight to brave it out. But
it was useless. Solaro declared that you had concealed the money,
whereupon you offered to allow us to search your possessions, and we
found a draft on the Credit Lyonnais in the flap of your writing-case.
You offered to allow us to seal, before your eyes, the brandy in the
bottle in your room, together with that remaining in your flask, and we
sent it to be analysed by an analyst in Paris whom you yourself named.
You hoped to mislead us, to disarm our suspicions by allowing us to make
all the inquiries we, as friends of the general, thought fit! Ah! that
was a fatal mistake, my friend! You condemned yourself. The analyst's
report does not lie. I still have it here, in my pocket-book, and do
you know what it says? It states that the contents of both bottle and
the flask filled from it were submitted to the tests of Marsh, Reinsch,
and Fresenius, and in each case the result was the same--the cognac
contained sufficient of a specific irritant poison of an arsenical
nature to render a single mouthful of it a fatal dose! This document,"
he added, touching his breast-pocket as he spoke, "proves you to be the
murderer of Felix Sazarac--you poisoned him deliberately when up alone
in that mountain pass, and Solaro found in your effects part of the
money you stole from the dead man's pockets?"
Macbean tried to speak, but his throat contracted; he was unable. Alas!
that terrible truth had been ever before him since that fatal day in
spring, when his life had been fettered. Try how he would, he could not
put from him the horror of those awful hours. There were,
unfortunately, witnesses against him, witnesses who could prove his
guilt and send him to an assassin's punishment.
"Well?" he managed to gasp at last in a low, half-frightened voice, his
heart beating quickly as he half turned and faced his accuser.
"Only this," answered Jules Dubard determinedly; "silence for silence!
You understand now, my friend--silence for silence!"
And then the two men parted.
The morning dawned bright and sunny--the morning of Mary's wedding day--
one of those fresh, brilliant days in June when the grass-country looks
its gladdest and best.
The bells were pealing merrily from the old church-tower of Orton in
honour of the event, upon the lawn a large marquee had been erected, and
the men down from London with the wedding breakfast were bustling
everywhere, while the excitement out in the village was intense.
Morini and his wife were both happy at the match, and in the long
dining-room some of the presents were displayed, including a splendid
pearl collar from Her Majesty the Queen of Italy. The house was full of
visitors, several of them being persons of the highest aristocracy in
Italy, who had been specially invited over for the wedding, and there
was gaiety everywhere.
The only person who took no part in the bustle was the bride herself,
for alone in her bright little room she was upon her knees imploring the
Divine aid for strength in that hour of her greatest trial.
During those past weeks, as each day brought her nearer that hateful
union, she had pondered deeply, trying to devise some means by which to
escape, but alas! she saw too well that refusal would only bring ruin
upon her father's head; while, if she did marry Dubard, she had no
security that the blow would not fall upon her family afterwards. So
she had been compelled to bow to the inevitable, to make that sacrifice
of her love, of her very life.
Those who had seen her in Rome lolling in her splendid carriage drawn by
that perfect pair of English bays, dancing in those gilded salons, or
laughing with her neighbour at dinner at one or other of the foreign
embassies, had surely never dreamed that that bright, happy girl, whose
engagement was discussed everywhere, had such a heavy burden of sorrow
within her young heart.
Before her lay her bridal gown, a magnificent creation from the Rue de
la Paix, with old lace that had once belonged to the extinct royal house
of Naples. But when she gazed upon it she burst into a flood of tears,
and sank again upon her knees in desperation.
Teresa came at last and tried to calm her.
"Signorina! signorina!" she exclaimed, stroking the dark hair, which,
unbound, fell upon her shoulders. "Your eyes will look so red. Oh,
surely you should be happy to-day!"
"Happy!" groaned the unfortunate girl bitterly, as she slowly staggered
to her feet. "There is no happiness for me--none--none."
At last the pale-faced girl, summoning up all the courage she possessed,
seated herself before the mirror, and having allowed Teresa to dress her
hair for the bridal, proceeded, with the help of Santina, her mother's
maid, her mother, and Vi Walters--who was one of the wedding guests--to
put on the gown with its wonderful train and real orange-blossoms from
the orangery at San Donato.
Meanwhile, however, in the study below, Camillo Morini was sitting with
his enemy, Angelo Borselli, who had practically invited himself on a
flying visit to the ceremony, and whom he could not well refuse without
giving him a direct insult. Morini hated the man who had ever been his
evil genius, but in the present circumstances dared not openly quarrel
with him. Therefore he treated him with diplomatic friendliness.
They were smoking their cigars together when Dubard, elegantly dressed,
entered merrily, and greeted them. Borselli had only arrived late on
the previous night, therefore he had not seen him before.
"Well, my friend!" cried the Sicilian, "I congratulate you. You will
have the best of wives in all the world--and the best of fathers-in-law,
that I'm sure."
"Ah, I'm certain I shall," replied the bridegroom. "But what great
preparations are being made!"
"Half the country will be here to the reception later on," Morini
remarked, laughing.
"Where is your secretary--Macbean?" inquired Dubard.
"He is not here yet. He is staying with his uncle over at Thornby," was
His Excellency's reply.
And the bridegroom smiled to himself. His words of the previous night
would, he knew, have their effect.
Silence for silence!