Chapter Twenty Seven. Vito is Inquisitive.

Three months had gone by.

The winter season in Florence had commenced in real earnest, and the streets of the grey old city were agog with the crowd of wealthy foreigners who migrate there for blue sky and sunshine. The Via Tornabuoni was bright with smart toilettes, the Lung Arno was crowded with handsome equipages, the Cascine was full of life at the fashionable hour of four, while Vieusseux’s and the Floreal tea-shop overflowed, and there was gay laughter and cosmopolitan chatter everywhere.

Florence had awakened from her summer siesta beneath the glare and heat, and with her streets still sun-blanched she had put on that air of irresponsibility which is always so attractive to the leisured foreigner. Florentine hostesses were already beginning to receive, and the mass of small and jealous cliques, which calls itself English society, had started their five o’clock and teacup scandals.

The Englishman who visits Florence to inspect her art treasures and to bask in the sunshine of the Lung Arno or the heights of Fiesole is entirely ignorant of its curious complex society—of the blood pride of the Florentines, or of the narrow-minded prejudices of those would-be cosmopolitan Britons, mostly with double-barrelled names, who are residents. Probably there is no circle in all the world so select and so conservative as the society of the aristocratic Florentines. The majority of the princes, marquises, or counts are on the verge of bankruptcy, be it said; nevertheless, they still retain all their pride of race, and neither man nor woman is judged by his pocket. Those huge, ponderous cinquecento palaces, with their gloomy cortiles and their closely barred windows, may have been stripped of their pictures, their sculptures, and their antique furniture long ago, yet at the receptions given in those bare skeletons of ancestral homes no one comments upon the pinch of poverty that is so painfully displayed.

Your Florentine aristocrat makes a brave show to the world and to the little English cliques around him. He has a grand carriage with his arms and coronet boldly emblazoned on every panel, he drives fine horses, he has his clothes made in London, and his wife’s dresses come from the Rue de la Paix; he gambles at the circolo, and he lounges picturesquely at Giacosa’s or Doney’s. And yet in his great palace, the doors of which are rigorously closed, he lives frugally in a few huge, barely furnished rooms, and is scarcely able to make both ends meet.

The American invasion has, however, commenced to break down even this barrier of caste, for several men of the bluest Florentine blood have, of necessity, married American wives, in order to save themselves from ruin, and have been loudly condemned for so doing.

In those bright January days all Florence was agog regarding the engagement of Count Jules Dubard with Mary Morini, daughter of the popular War Minister. By reason of her mother’s health, they had remained on at the villa all the autumn; for neither had any desire for the wild gaieties and entertaining which residence in Rome entailed upon them, and preferred the quiet life of their ancient hillside home.

Daily through the streets of Florence Mary and Dubard flashed in the Minister’s motor-brougham, hither and thither, paying calls or shopping, being greeted and congratulated on every hand. Her father’s official position had given Mary the entrée to the most exclusive set, and in Florence she was always as popular as she was in the court circle at the Quirinale. She dressed usually in cream flannel, with a large black hat and a huge ostrich boa; while Dubard, smiling and elegant, was ever at her side in the smart conveyance which rushed everywhere with loud trumpeting.

Her family, in ignorance of the tragedy of her young life, were delighted with the engagement, and on every hand had she received heartiest good wishes. For a girl to marry an Englishman or Frenchman is considered the height of chic in Italy, and Mary’s social prestige was increased a hundredfold by her prospect of becoming a French countess. The young pair became the most striking and popular figures in the best Florentine society, while the English sets all vainly struggled to get them to their houses. Madame Morini being too unwell to go out at night, Mary was usually chaperoned by the old Princess Piola, a well-known society leader; and solely in order to please her mother, Mary went to all the functions to which she was bidden.

The Minister’s wife, however, had never entertained any great affection for the English set in Florence. She had once been an English governess herself, and having known them all well through twenty years, had become thoroughly disgusted with their petty bickerings and constant scandal-mongering. Strange that the English on the Continent always divide into a quantity of small cliques. The French, the Germans, even the Scots, all join harmoniously and patriotically in a continental tour; but, as the Italians are so fond of saying, “the English is a good but strange nation.”

With the exception of the British Consul-General’s wife, who was an old friend of her mother’s, Mary visited no other English house.

“The Italian law of caste is bad enough, my dear,” her mother had said to her one day, “but the English backbiting is infinitely worse.”

And so, with the man she was engaged to marry, she was seen night after night at those huge old mediaeval palaces, often dimly lit on account of the penury of their owners, and where the refreshments frequently consisted of home-made lemonade and tarts from the pastrycook’s.

One night at a dance at the great Cusani Palace on the Lung Arno, where the old Marchioness Cusani was entertaining her friends, she found herself chatting with Vito Ricci, the deputy, who, wearing on the lapel of his coat the dark green ribbon and white cross of the Order of Saints Maurice and Lazarus, had bowed low over her hand and murmured his congratulations.

The great salon, with its polished floor, faded gilding, and crumbling frescoes, was of the ornate style of three centuries before, but over everything was a faded and neglected aspect. Those empty niches in the wall had once contained statues by Donatello, Niccolo Pisano, and Montorsoli, all of which had been sold and exported from Italy to America years ago; while the two large panels painted white had each contained a Raphael, long since disposed of to the National Gallery in London. And although the supper consisted of sandwiches from Doney’s, and in lieu of champagne sweet Asti at two-francs-fifty the bottle, yet the nobility of Florence far preferred gathering there to being patronised by the wealthy Americans or English.

The music was good, and Ricci invited Mary to the waltz which at that moment was just commencing. She had known her father’s secret agent ever since she had been a child; therefore, nothing loth, she gave him the favour he requested. Both were excellent dancers. Ricci went into society of necessity, in order to keep in touch with the trend of affairs, and was equally well known in Rome as in Florence, in Turin, or in Naples. His sponsor had been Morini himself, and he was one of the very few of the rank and file of the Camera who moved actually in the best sets.

“I have wanted to meet you for quite a long time, Miss Mary,” he said in Italian, after they had finished dancing and were strolling through one of the high old ante-rooms, where two or three cavalry officers were lounging with their partners. At dances in Italy a hostess is always careful to have a sprinkling of the military on account both of the brilliant uniforms and of the fact that they are all dancing men. “I suppose, however,” he added, bending to her and speaking in a low tone that could not be overheard, “I suppose that, now you are to marry Jules, any question that concerns him is debarred—eh?”

“What do you mean?” she inquired, looking at him quickly with her fine dark eyes.

“I mean that I hesitate to put a question to you lest you should be offended.”

“It all depends upon the nature of the question,” she answered, as they turned into a long, dim corridor, where they found themselves alone.

“Well,” he said, “as you are aware, I am your father’s friend, and have been so through many years. Recently there was a—well, a crisis, which was averted in a very unexpected and mysterious manner.”

“I know,” she remarked, turning rather pale. She wore turquoise blue that night, a beautiful gown of Paquin’s which suited her admirably. “My father has told me everything. You made every effort to wreck the Socialist conspiracy—and you were fortunately successful. I return you my very warmest thanks. You saved my father.”

“No; you are quite mistaken. I did not. The questions were abandoned for some mysterious motive which I am still endeavouring to discover. It is in pursuance of my inquiries that I am now approaching you. Do you follow me?”

“Perfectly.”

“As far as I can gather, your father’s enemies have only postponed their blow. It may fall at any time, therefore we must be prepared for it. Montebruno received orders in secret to postpone his attack, and there must have been a reason for this. Perhaps the time was not yet ripe—perhaps the Socialists feared a retaliation which might crush them. In any case, we must get at the truth, and thus be forearmed.”

“And how can I assist you?” she asked, knowing the bitter truth of her self-sacrifice, but determined to keep her secret to herself.

“By being frank with me.”

“Well?”

“You are to marry Jules Dubard?”

“Yes.”

“At your father’s instigation?”

She was silent, and her cheeks turned slightly paler. Their long acquaintance gave him the right to put such a question to her, yet within her heart she resented it. Why should this secret agent, this man who was an adventurer, although so useful in her father’s service, seek to learn the truth?

“My father gave his consent to our marriage,” she replied simply.

“I know that. He has already told me so. I speak plainly, and say that I am desiring to get at the truth.”

“The truth of what? I don’t understand you.”

“The truth regarding certain circumstances which are exceedingly curious. I have been for three months in active pursuit of knowledge, and in my inquiries have discovered some very strange things. Remember, I am working in the interests of your father, and anything you may say to me is in strict confidence. We have known each other for a long time, Miss Mary,” he added—“indeed, ever since you wore short frocks and used to flirt with me in the salon at San Donato. Do you recollect it?”

She laughed as a slight blush suffused her cheeks at recollection of her girlhood days before she went to school at Broadstairs. She recollected how in those youthful days she had admired Vito Ricci, the well-dressed, debonair deputy who was her father’s closest friend.

“I remember,” she admitted, laughing.

“Then let us speak in confidence,” he went on, deeply in earnest. “You were acquainted with Felice Solaro, captain in the 6th Alpine Regiment, who fell in love with you?”

She nodded, with eyes open in surprise.

“He declared his love, and you refused him. Your father, who suspected that the young captain had had the audacity to court you, was furious, and forbade you to receive him. But you saw him in secret one day to bid him farewell as he was ordered to a garrison on the French frontier. Your father being absent, you received him, at his own suggestion, in the library of the palace in Rome. While you were talking with him you heard some visitors approaching, and you rushed out, locking him in the library, pretending that your father had taken the key. He remained there in secret for over two hours, until you could escape from the callers, release him, and let him out in secret. Is that so?”

She blushed to the roots of her hair at recollection of that youthful escapade, and admitted that all he had alleged was the truth.

“And that man is now in prison, charged with having sold military secrets to France—a copy of a confidential document which was in a drawer in your father’s writing-table.”

She stood staring at him, utterly speechless.

“But that is not the charge against him,” she hastened to declare. “He is believed to have sold the plans of the Tresenta fortress.”

“That is so, but there is also the graver charge—the copying of that document which was in your father’s keeping, and one of the most secret and important concerning our army.”

“But he is innocent?” she exclaimed. “I know he is innocent, Signor Ricci. He is the victim of a woman named Nodari, at Bologna, who gave perjured evidence against him.”

“I know the whole facts. I have read the depositions given at the secret court-martial, but I have no means of judging whether he is innocent or guilty. One fact, however, I desire to learn, and it is this. Has the count ever mentioned to you the captain’s name, or has he ever admitted acquaintance with him?”

“Never to my knowledge,” was her frank answer. “Felice Solaro once declared his love for me, and therefore, in order not to arouse the count’s jealousy, I have never referred to him.”

“Naturally. But the fact is all the more curious that the allegation of Solaro’s sale of the copy of the secret document to France—the copy of that obtained from your father’s writing-table—was actually made by the count.”

“By the count?” she cried. “Then it was actually upon his evidence that poor Felice has been degraded and condemned?”

“Exactly. But the motive is utterly incomprehensible, for it would really seem as though the captain was actually guilty of the treasonable offence.”

Mary was silent as they paced down the long, deserted corridor. Then at last she turned slowly to her companion, and in a strange, hoarse voice said—

“Yes, it is incomprehensible why an innocent man should be made to suffer, unless—unless my father and the count have acted in accord to secure poor Felice’s ruin and disgrace.”

“But why?”

No words escaped her. She only shrugged her white shoulders. Yet the man at her side saw in her fine dark eyes the light of unshed tears. But even he did not suspect the truth.