Chapter Twenty One. The Ear of the Minister.

After luncheon Camillo Morini left his wife, Mary, and the three young English girls, Anna and Eva Fry and Violet Walters, and retired as usual to his study. He had been silent and thoughtful at table, and his wife, ignorant of the crisis, attributed it to worry over state affairs, as was so often the case. A Minister’s life is never a happy one, and always full of grave responsibilities.

Her Excellency had seen her husband, to whom she was so devoted, age before his time, and in the years gone by she had greatly assisted him by her wise counsels and womanly help.

He looked at her in silence from where he sat at the head of the table, and sighed bitterly to himself. If he told her all, the shock would be too great for her. It might, indeed, have serious consequences. Therefore he was compelled to keep his secret from everyone save Mary.

The long green sun-shutters were closed, and the great, high, old frescoed room in which he sat alone was in half-darkness. He had told the liveried servant Francesco that he did not wish to be disturbed, and on entering had locked the door behind him. It was a dull, depressing room at any time, for the ponderous cases of old vellum-bound books breathed an atmosphere of a glorious but forgotten past. Gerino’s frescoed angels looked down upon him from the ceiling, and the ponderous beams still bore traces of bright colouring and faded gilt. Closed against the stifling heat outside, only a few rays of light struck across the big writing-table where His Excellency was sitting dejectedly, his head buried in his hands. From without came the monotonous hum of the insects and the harsh chirp of the cicale, the only live things astir under the burning Tuscan sun.

His wife and the girls had gone to their rooms for the siesta, previous to driving over to Montelupo to visit the Marchioness Altieri, and he was alone with his bitter grief and blank despair.

Little sleep had come to his eyes for the past week. Last night he had spent the hours under the steely sky, first down in the valley and then away over the mountains until he reached a point high up on a barren summit, where he sank down upon a heap of stones and watched the breaking of day over the Apennines. His thoughts were always of what Vito had revealed to him, and of his failure.

His return to the house had passed unnoticed, and after a wash he had taken his coffee and entered that room with a firm and desperate resolve. The whole morning he had occupied in placing his papers in order, arranging them carefully, tying them in bundles, and scribbling certain instructions upon each, with the names of the secretaries or other officials to whom they were to be handed.

He had worked on in grim silence, sighing sometimes and laughing bitterly to himself at others. More than once he murmured Mary’s name or that of his beloved wife, while nearly the whole time his kind eyes were filled with tears.

At luncheon he had motioned Francesco to give him a liqueur-glass of cognac with his coffee, a most unusual proceeding, for he was a very abstemious man, and now he sat motionless, his fingers in his grey hair, staring thoughtfully at the blotting-pad before him.

For fully half an hour he remained in that position, often murmuring to himself. He was reflecting upon all the bitterness of the past. He, the man whose name was one to conjure with in Italy, was at that moment without one single friend to give him help or sympathy.

Suddenly the silence of the room was broken by the whir-r of the telephone bell—the private line that connected him direct with his secretary at the Ministry at Rome three hundred miles away.

Quickly he rose, walked to the corner where the instrument was placed, and responded.

“The Onorevole Ricci desires to speak with your Excellency in private,” announced the voice which he recognised as one of his private secretaries.

“Va bene!” was the Minister’s anxious response.

Vito had, before they parted at the club, arranged to telephone to him in case of necessity.

“Are you there?” inquired the voice of the deputy for Asti.

“Yes. What is it?” asked the Minister, as through the instrument he distinctly heard the snap of the padded door of the telephone cabinet in the Ministry, which was now closed against listeners.

“It is as I thought,” Ricci said in a slow, distinct voice. “I have been active ever since my return, and it is just as I believed. Last night at the club, Lapi, Marchesi, Prosperi, and Montebruno were playing bridge together, and when they had finished at half-past two I joined them, and from their conversation learned that Montebruno is to bring forward the question of the French frontier in the Camera. This morning I saw Borselli and that young Frenchman Dubard walking together in the Corso. They were talking earnestly, and it seemed as though the count was telling Angelo something which surprised him. I stopped and spoke to them, but they appeared to betray some uneasiness at meeting me. What do you know about the Frenchman?”

“Nothing to his detriment,” was the Minister’s reply. “It is at present a secret, but he has asked me for Mary’s hand.”

“Then don’t give it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like his intimate friendship with Borselli.”

“It was I who first introduced them. They met at dinner at my table,” Morini said, surprised at his spy’s warning. “What do you suspect?”

“I have no suspicions,” was the reply. “Only if he is an intimate friend of yours, as he seems to be if he is to marry the signorina, it is strange that he should at this moment be so constantly in Borselli’s company. I hear that nowadays the pair are inseparable. They walked to the Ministry, and were closeted together for over an hour. This has struck me as very curious, especially as I have just heard from a secret socialistic source that the question is to be asked by Montebruno in the Camera at five o’clock this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?” gasped His Excellency, his countenance in an instant white to the lips. “Then they really mean to ask the question?”

“Yes. I understand that the Opposition have made a sudden resolve, and that they intend to strike the blow against the Government immediately. To-morrow, unfortunately, all Italy will be aflame. I only regret that I am powerless to prevent it. I miscalculated my influence—I admit it.”

“Then I must face the worst, Vito!” remarked the unhappy man in a low, desperate voice, starting at his own whispered words as they seemed to ring through the lofty, old-world room.

“The instant I heard their intentions I made investigations, and found that nearly every Socialist deputy is in Rome ready to shriek that the safety of the kingdom is at stake. Our friend Borselli has indeed laid his plans very cleverly. But what puzzles me most is the reason Dubard is associating himself so closely with your enemy if he intends to marry your daughter! He surely cannot anticipate becoming your son-in-law and at the same time conspire to cause your downfall! To me it is a mystery, and that is why I urge you to be wary. That man has some hidden motive—depend upon it.”

Morini glanced mechanically across at that big green-painted steel door of the safe, and recollected Mary’s curious story of what she had witnessed.

“But he is very fond of Mary, and as I have given my consent to their marriage and my daughter has accepted him, he can surely have no motive in acting contrary to my interests.”

“He is your enemy, I repeat,” declared Vito Ricci. “I have made inquiries, and the results all point to one conclusion, namely, that he is acting with Angelo; and, moreover, I have been told on the best authority that certain of the charges to be made against you are based upon information supplied by him.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Be patient, and you will soon see whether the facts I have gathered are true. The question is to be put at five o’clock. I will telephone to you the result as soon as it occurs. I am going down to the Chamber at once, and will do my very utmost; but, as you can see, against such overwhelming opposition I am utterly powerless. If we could prevent Montebruno from putting the fatal question we might gain time and perhaps succeed, but how can we prevent Borselli carrying out his ingenious conspiracy when he is assisted in it by a hundred hungry office-seekers and adventurers of the Socialist party?”

“Try! Try!” urged Camillo in a wild, desperate voice. “Try, Vito—for the sake of my poor wife and daughter.”

“Remain firm,” came back the voice of the deputy. “Be patient, and watch the result of the attempt to wreck the Government.”

“You are hopeless. I recognise it in your voice!” wailed the desperate man. “I know too well that all the blame and opprobrium must fall upon me. They intend, as you have already told me, that I shall be the scapegoat, and that Angelo shall take my portfolio.”

The deputy returned no answer. What, indeed, could he say? His Excellency, who was a shrewd, far-seeing man, spoke the truth.

“Ah, I know!” cried the Minister. “The plot is complete. For me, the future is hopeless. Yet I am more than mystified at what you tell me regarding Dubard. Try and discover his motive. Do not fail me in this, Vito, I beg of you. My poor daughter’s future depends on that.”

“Trust me, my dear friend,” was the response. “Spinola is awaiting me outside, and we are going down to Montecitorio together. Have courage, and after five o’clock I will ring you up again. Addio!”

And a moment later the tiny bell rang, which showed that the communication had been cut off.

Then Camillo Morini, after glancing at his watch and finding that it was already three o’clock, stood immovable, his dark eyes staring across the silent room like a man in a dream.

“Courage! Courage!” he repeated to himself hoarsely, with a bitter laugh. “Courage—and for a man who has no to-morrow!”

In two short hours that voice from the Eternal City would, he knew, sound his doom.

“I am ready?” he laughed to himself. “I am quite ready. They think to place all the blame upon me, to hound me down and charge me with having sold Italy into the hands of her enemies?” And from his vest-pocket he took tenderly a tiny glass tube containing three small pink tabloids, and held it in the ray of light to satisfy himself that they were still there under the plug of cotton wool.

Then, as he replaced the tube in his pocket and slowly paced the room, his thoughts wandered to what Ricci had said regarding the man whom he had given leave to marry his daughter Mary.

“He has suspicions—but of what?” he asked, speaking to himself in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “That he should be friendly with the man who has so suddenly turned my enemy is certainly curious. But he surely cannot be seeking my ruin if he is to marry dear Mary?”

His eye caught the shining brass knobs of the safe door, and he halted before it. If Dubard had really examined those papers he might be aware of the truth! The very thought caused him to hold his breath. But next instant, when he reflected upon the morrow, his countenance relaxed into a bitter smile.