Chapter Thirty. The Path of the Tempter.

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.

Blasé 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 daïs 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?