Chapter Twenty Three. The Plot.

On that same hot afternoon, while His Excellency was pacing the library in the high-up old villa in the Apennines, Dubard alighted from a cab in the Via Salaria, in Rome, and entered a fine modern mansion, the home of Angelo Borselli, Under-Secretary for War. He was conducted to a small sitting-room, where, in the dim light of the closed sun-shutters, the arch-schemer was taking his siesta in a long wicker lounge-chair, half dozing, and yet revolving within his brain every detail of his ingenious plan to oust the Minister from office and to replace him.

“Why, my dear Jules!” he cried in surprise as the young Frenchman entered. “I thought you had gone up to San Donato in order to be near your charmer when the blow fell.”

“No,” responded Dubard in a rather hard voice. “I am still here—in Rome.” Then after a brief pause he looked the sallow man straight in the face and added, “The question must not be asked in the Chamber. The blow must not be struck—do you understand?”

“What do you mean?” cried Borselli, starting to his feet. “What has happened? I see by your face that something has occurred.”

“It has,” was the other’s answer. “Montebruno must be stopped.”

“Why?”

“Because to seek to overthrow Morini at this moment is against our interests.”

“Oh!” laughed the other. “So you have just discovered that fact, have you? It is against your interest, of course, because you intend to marry his daughter; but not against mine.”

“I tell you that no revelation must be attempted,” said Dubard firmly.

“But why do you say this? What is there to prevent the question being put and the Ministry criticised?”

“It is unwise. It would be a serious blunder on your part.”

“And yet you have assisted me! My dear Jules, I don’t really understand you! Do you not recollect what we arranged in London when our reconciliation took place? Have you forgotten what we agreed only the day before yesterday?”

“I have forgotten nothing. I only speak plainly, and say that by making the revelations at the present moment you will imperil your own position.”

“No. I shall become Minister on Morini’s downfall. All is arranged. I am not the man to pick the chestnuts out of the fire for others—you surely know that?”

“But will you not be incriminated in the matter of certain secret commissions? Did you not rather unfortunately arrange matters and act as the go-between?”

“Of course. But I shall be careful enough that my own interest in the matter does not appear. The Minister of Justice is no friend of Morini,” he added, with a grin upon his thin, hard features.

“Montebruno must be stopped,” declared Dubard determinedly after a pause. “Let us telephone to him to come here.”

“He is already down at the Camera,” said the Under-Secretary, glancing at the little French timepiece on the mantelshelf. “The question is to be put at five, and it is already half-past four.”

“But it shall not be put!” cried the young man.

“Who will prevent it?” inquired Borselli, looking at him defiantly.

“I will,” he said sternly. “Let us be quite plain and outspoken, my dear Angelo. I tell you that you shall not imperil the future by this premature action. Morini knows of the conspiracy against him, and is prepared.”

“Well—and if he is? What then?”

“He may seek to defend himself in a manner of which you little dream.”

Borselli regarded his companion suspiciously, for he saw that he was in possession of some information which he was keeping to himself.

“You know something,” he said, fixing his dark eyes upon Dubard. “What is it?”

“I only know that it would be most injudicious to make any revelations, or to stir up the public indignation at the present moment,” was the response. “There is no time to lose. You must telephone at once to Montebruno and stop him.”

“Impossible. The whole matter is arranged. All the Socialist deputies are in their places awaiting the bolt to be launched.”

“Then let them wait. It shall not be launched to-day,” replied Dubard in a clear, distinct voice.

“But it shall?” exclaimed Borselli. “It has taken me nearly three years to complete preparations for this coup, and I do not intend to abandon it merely because you hint mysteriously that it is premature. I speak quite candidly upon this point.”

“And I speak equally candidly when I tell you that Montebruno must not put the question to the Chamber. There are reasons—serious reasons.”

He said nothing of his compact with Mary or of his demand of His Excellency for her hand.

“And what are they, pray?”

“Well,”—and he hesitated. “Well, if the coup is made at the present moment you will merely imperil yourself, that is all I can say. Morini will retaliate, and charge you with certain things which will place you in a very awkward position.”

A silence fell between the two men. Borselli was reflecting upon a certain agreement at which they had arrived when in London.

“I really can’t understand you, Jules,” he exclaimed at last. “You have rendered us the most valuable assistance until the present moment, and now, when all is prepared, you suddenly withdraw and make mysterious hints that our efforts may result in serious consequences. What do you mean?”

“I mean that the revelations are premature.”

“But tell me the truth, once and for all. Are you still on our side, or has the girl’s beauty appealed to you, and you now intend to save her father? I know what a soft, impressionable heart you have—like all your race.”

“I am still united with you,” the Frenchman declared quickly. “It is because of that I give you warning.” Borselli’s dark eyes were fixed upon the other’s with a look of quick shrewdness. He was a man whose mind, when once made up, was not easily turned from its purpose.

“And your warning I shall certainly not heed,” he said slowly. “You know my intentions, and I shall carry them out to-day to the letter.”

“You shall not?” the other exclaimed defiantly.

“Oh! and who will prevent it?” asked the Under-Secretary.

“I will. You shall not seek your own ruin blindly like this!”

Dubard very cleverly endeavoured to convince his companion of his own interest in the conspiracy against Morini, while Borselli, of course, had no knowledge of his compact with Mary. Nevertheless, he saw plainly that the Frenchman’s sudden withdrawal from the affair was due to some hidden motive, and he refused to be turned from his object. To him the overthrow of Morini meant wealth and power, and he had no intention of relinquishing his efforts just at the moment when the reins of office were within his grasp. All was prepared. The revelations were to be made, and charges of misappropriation and treason hurled at the unfortunate Minister; charges which would, on the morrow, be taken up by the subsidised Press and exaggerated and distorted into a public scandal which no statesman, however popular, could withstand. The plot had cost him three years of clever scheming, during which time he had acted as Morini’s humble underling, expressing profound thanks for any small benefits, but secretly hating and despising him, and yet always seeking to worm himself further into his confidence. And Dubard wished him to abandon it all at the very hour when success was assured! No. He flatly refused. And he told his companion so in plain, forcible language.

The other, however, merely shrugged his narrow shoulders and was silent, allowing the Under-Secretary to upbraid him without offering a word in self-defence. Then, when Borselli paused to gain breath, he said—

“I merely repeat what I have said—the question must not be put.”

“I say it shall be put?” cried the other fiercely.

Dubard was silent again and quite cool, only the slight flush upon his high cheeks told that a fierce anger consumed him.

“If it is put, it will be at your own risk,” he exclaimed at last, placing his forefinger on the table to emphasise his words. “Remember there are many who would gloat over the downfall of Angelo Borselli.”

“And there are more who would like to see me Minister of War.”

“You will never obtain office if you carry out the scheme you have arranged,” Dubard declared. “I think up to the present I have shown myself your friend, for without me you surely could not have done what you have. You have many times admitted that. Why, therefore, do you not take my advice?”

“Because, my dear Jules, you have suddenly turned round and are now championing Morini.”

“No, you mistake me. I am merely warning you in our mutual interests. Morini will retaliate—and if he does—!” And again he shrugged his shoulders significantly.

“Well, and if he does? What can he do?”

“He can make some ugly revelations, you know.”

“I have no fear of anything he may allege,” laughed the other. “He cannot establish his innocence.”

“Then you will not listen to reason and postpone the public sensation you have arranged for this afternoon?”

“No,” replied Angelo. “I will not.”

“Then, if you intend to imperil both of us by acting so injudiciously, I, for one, do not intend to suffer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply this. If you are determined not to interfere, and to allow the question to be put and the stream of allegations to pour forth from the Socialists, I shall, in order to save myself, place myself on the side of Morini.”

“Of course, my dear Jules. You are always on the side which pays you best,” sneered the other.

“And in your company,” remarked the Frenchman quite coolly, adding in a firm voice, “I wish you to give me a line to Montebruno now, this moment, and I will take it to him in the Camera—a word to him to postpone the question.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort. I do not intend to sacrifice my future because of your sentimentalities. You are defending Morini.”

“Yes,” he cried. “I will defend him! I tell you again, and very clearly, that if Montebruno speaks in the Camera to-day you will be relieved of office.”

“Oh, how’s that?”

“I am speaking plainly,” Dubard said, with knit brows.

“Time does not admit of more words, otherwise Montebruno will rise and put the question. I therefore tell you that if you do not give me the letter I require at once, I shall make a clean breast of the whole affair.” And he glanced at his watch as he spoke.

“You!” gasped Borselli quickly, staring at the speaker. “Ah yes! I was a fool to have trusted you after all. I recognised it when too late. You have turned in Morini’s favour.”

“I have my own interests to serve as well as yours,” Dubard remarked quite frankly. “It is to my interest that the question is postponed.”

“And it is to mine that it should be put.”

“But you will not allow Montebruno to proceed, and risk your own position. Remember that in this affair my interests at the moment are not the same as yours.”

“And you actually declare that you will tell the truth if Montebruno speaks?” said Borselli hoarsely, realising how completely the man before him held his future in his hands.

“I do,” was the response. “You surely know me well enough! In such moments as these I do not trifle. Give me the letter! It is already a quarter to five, and I have only just time to drive to the Camera and place it in Montebruno’s hand.”

“But I can’t understand your motive,” exclaimed Borselli, realising that his companion meant what he said. “Remember what we agreed that night in London.”

“Perfectly. While our interests are similar, I am your friend; but where they divide, I am friend of myself alone. Come, Angelo, we cannot afford to waste further words—the letter, just two lines, or exposure of the truth. The latter would, I think,” he laughed, “be even a greater sensation to the public than the allegations against the Minister.”