Chapter Twenty Five. A Woman’s Diplomacy.

Gemma stood immovable; a deathly pallor overspread her cheeks, her eyes fixed themselves in terror upon this tall, well-dressed man, who was her bitterest enemy. With one trembling hand she had clutched the revolving book-stand for support; the other held the envelope containing the secret document. She dared not to breathe; amazement and alarm held her dumb.

“And by what right, pray, do you enter my room?” the Ambassador inquired, after a few seconds of silence, complete and painful. His face was blanched in anger; in his dark eye was a keen glance of suspicion and hatred.

She laughed—that strange hollow laugh which her lover knew so well.

“I came to call on you,” she answered. The door was closed, and they were alone together.

“And you entered my room to pry into my private papers?” he said, his blood rising. “What’s that you have in your hand?”

She set her lips firmly. She was no longer the sweet, almost childlike girl, but a hard-faced, desperate woman.

“A paper I want,” she boldly answered, at the same moment doubling the envelope in half, and crushing it in her palm.

“Then you have at last become so bold that you actually have the audacity to enter one’s house and steal whatever you think proper?” he cried, in a towering passion. “Fortunately, I’ve returned in time to frustrate your latest bit of infernal ingenuity.”

“My action is but fair, now that we are enemies,” she answered with feigned indignation. “If you could, you’d ruin me; therefore I’m entirely at liberty to return the same compliment.”

“I thought you were already ruined,” the Count exclaimed. “Your reputation, at any rate, cannot be rendered blacker than it is.”

“That’s the truth, no doubt.” She laughed with an air of gaiety. “But one who makes secret diplomacy a profession, must care nothing for the good will of the world outside the diplomatic circle.”

“Those who make love their profession, should be constant, if they would achieve success,” he retorted bitterly.

At that moment a recollection flashed across her mind. It had slipped her memory until that instant. This man had on one occasion, in Rome, two years ago, spoken tenderly to her, and she had scorned his attentions. With a woman’s quick perception, she now saw that the fact that she had rejected him still rankled within his mind. Yet she was still young enough to be his daughter, and had always held him in dislike. He was a cold, scheming diplomatist, who would stake his very soul in order to get the better of his adversaries.

“Once you spoke of love to me,” she said, drawing herself up proudly. “Now you ruthlessly cast my past into my face. Even if I have acted as a diplomatic agent, you know well enough that all these scandalous stories about me are foul libels set about by Montelupo and yourself for political purposes.”

“Enough!” he cried, incensed at her words. “We need not discuss that now. I demand to know why I find you prying here, in my room?”

She smiled. “I came to see Carmenilla,” she answered.

“And she invited you to lunch?—you whom I have forbidden her to know!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “A woman of your stamp is no companion for my daughter.”

“Yet you once told me that you loved me, and I might, if I had felt so inclined, have now been the Countess Castellani, and done the honours of this Embassy. Ah, my dear Conte,” she went on, “you are a noted diplomatist, and no doubt as wary and cunning as most of your confrères. But you forget that every woman is by birth a diplomatist, and that in politics I have had a wide and, perhaps, unique experience.”

“You possess the ingenuity and daring of the very devil himself,” he blurted forth. “Show me that paper.”

“No,” she answered firmly. “It is in my possession—and I keep it.”

“You’ve stolen it!” he cried, advancing towards her determinedly. “Give it to me this instant.”

“I shall not.”

From where he stood his eyes wandered to the table, and he noticed that one of the drawers stood open. Within her hand, he saw the envelope was a blue one, secured by seals. In an instant he dashed towards the drawer, rummaged its contents, and finding the document missing, cried—

“Your infernal impertinence is really astounding. You enter my house, commit a theft, and when charged with it refuse to give up the stolen property. If you don’t return it to me at once, I’ll call in the police, and have you arrested.”

“Really?” she exclaimed with a sarcastic laugh which caused his cheeks to become flushed by anger. “I think after so many years of diplomacy, you ought to be aware that such a course is impossible. If you were a young attaché just fresh from Rome, my dear Count, you might be pardoned for not knowing that here, in this Embassy, I am on Italian soil, and, being an Italian subject, the London police are unable to arrest me.”

“But they could outside—in the Square.”

“Certainly. But if I choose to remain here—what then?”

“Remain here! You speak like an imbecile. Come, give me back that envelope.”

“Never!” she replied, still holding it firmly in her small hand, and regarding him in defiance.

Castellani knew well the contents of that envelope, and was aware that Gemma must have been employed by those implicated by the proofs it contained. For months he had held this in his possession as a weapon to use as a last resource, and the manner in which she had entered his room and filched it from the drawer made it plain to him that those to whom he was now opposed were prepared to go any length to gain their own ends. But he likewise knew Gemma well, and was aware that as a secret agent of the Ministry she was without equal—fearless, resourceful, and versed in every art of deception. He had met her often in society in Rome and Florence two years ago, been struck by her marvellous beauty as others had been, and had offered her marriage. In a word, he had made a fool of himself.

The revelations contained in that envelope she held were sufficient to cause the present Government to be hounded from its office and fat emoluments, and possibly force a criminal prosecution against certain ministers for misappropriating the public funds, therefore he was determined to regain it at all hazards and use it for his own advancement. He had, only a month ago, been promised by his party the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in the next Government, and this single document would place him in high office in Rome.

“If you defy me,” he said after a pause, his menacing gaze fixed upon that of the pretty, fragile woman, “I must be ungallant enough to wrench it from you.”

“I scarcely think you’ll do that,” she answered. “If you did, we could never come to terms.”

“Come to terms?” he echoed resentfully. “I don’t understand. I’ve no intention of coming to any arrangement with you.”

He was standing before her in the centre of the room, but she watched his every movement narrowly. She saw that he was desperate, and intended to regain possession of the envelope.

“Once again I ask you to give me that paper you have stolen,” he said in a voice that quivered with rage.

“I have already replied, Count Castellani,” she responded, “and I wish you good-afternoon.” Then with her skirts rustling, she bowed and swept past him towards the door.

“No!” he cried, springing forward and arresting her progress in a moment of fury. “You shall not escape like that. Give me the paper, or—or by Heaven, I’ll—”

“Well?” she cried, turning upon him with flashing eyes. “What will you do?”

He drew back abashed.

“I apologise, Contessa,” he said quickly. “But give me back that paper. Remember that you’ve committed a barefaced, unpardonable theft.”

“And you, as Ambassador of Italy, utter barefaced lies every day,” she retorted.

“Diplomacy is the art of lying artistically,” he answered. “It is impossible to achieve success in diplomacy without resorting to realistic perversions of the truth. Every diplomatist must be a born liar—but he need not be a thief.”

“Some are,” she retorted. “You are one.”

His face went purple in anger.

“I—a thief?” he blurted forth. “Have you taken leave of your senses, woman?”

“Not entirely. I believe I have some remaining,” she replied. “I again repeat that you, the Count Castellani, His Majesty’s Ambassador, are a mean, despicable thief, whom the Tribunal at Rome would sentence to seven years’ imprisonment if they became acquainted with the facts.”

“Enough! Not another word, woman!” he cried in a towering passion. Then, grasping her arms, he, after a short desperate struggle, succeeded in wrenching from her the envelope for which she had risked so much. “Now you may go,” he said, as she stood flushed, panting, and breathless before him, her hair a trifle disarranged, the lace upon one of her cuffs torn and hanging. “If you don’t leave at once, I’ll ring and have you turned out.”

“I shall go when you give me back that paper,” she answered, facing him.

“You’ll never have it.”

“Then, listen,” she went on calmly, taking a few hasty steps towards where he was standing astride before the fire. “The worth of that document is to you considerable, I know, but there are others to whom its value is even greater. Just now I charged you with theft, and you feigned to have forgotten. Well, I will recall a fact or two to your memory. A year ago, at Como, there was an inquiry into certain scandals connected with the Bank of Naples.” Then she paused. The Ambassador’s face had instantly blanched. “Ah!” she went on, “I see that event has not quite slipped your memory. Well, as the result of that inquiry, in which certain statesmen were implicated, two well-known public men received sentences of ten years’ imprisonment, and others ranging from two to five years. But, at that inquiry, it was shown that a certain cheque was missing, and it was further proved that this cheque had been drawn for half a million francs. To whom that sum passed remained a mystery.”

“Well?” His Excellency gasped, still pale, glaring at her as if she were some object supernatural. All his self-possession had left him.

“The fact is a mystery no longer.”

“Why?”

“Because the identical cheque has been recovered and bears your endorsement,” she answered, in a slow, distinct voice.

“Who has recovered it?” he demanded quickly. “Who has it?”

She smiled triumphantly. This elegant man who but a moment ago had talked boldly, as became the Ambassador of Italy, was now cringing before her seeking information. His cool demeanour had altogether forsaken him.

“I have that cheque,” she said, her clear, unwavering eyes fixed upon his.

In an instant Castellani perceived that he was in the power of this pretty woman he had denounced and condemned. He knew well, too, that she was not the gay, abandoned woman that La Funaro was popularly supposed to be.

“Reflect for a single moment,” she continued ruthlessly. “What would be the result of the production of that missing draft about which so much has been written in the newspapers?”

The Ambassador bit his lip. Never in the whole course of his long and varied diplomatic career had he been so ingeniously checkmated by a woman. The estimate he had formed of her long ago was entirely correct. She possessed really remarkable talents.

“The result would certainly be rather annoying,” he observed, making a sorry attempt to smile.

“It would throw a very fierce light upon the ways and means of the party of thieves and adventurers who are endeavouring to grab Italy and grow fat upon its Treasury,” she exclaimed. “The situation at Rome has, I understand, changed considerably within the past week or so. The public mind is feeling the influence of unfavourable winds. Well, it is possible before long that this missing cheque will have to be produced.”

“Which will mean my ruin!” he blurted forth. “You know that well. If that cheque ever gets into the hands of the present Government, I shall be recalled and tried in a criminal court as a common thief.”

“That’s exactly what I said not long ago. You then declared that you had never touched a soldo of other persons’ money,” she observed, standing with her hand resting upon the writing-table, a slim, graceful figure in her dark stuff dress.

“No, Gemma, no!” he exclaimed earnestly. “You can’t mean to expose this. I—I don’t believe you have the cheque, after all. How did you learn my secret?”

“It is my duty to become acquainted with the secrets of those in opposition to the Government,” she answered simply. “Remember what you have said of me since we have been together in this room. Of a woman of my evil reputation, what can you expect but exposure?”

“You have resolved upon a vendetta?” he cried in a tone of genuine alarm.

“I have resolved to treat you fairly,” she replied, so calm that not a muscle of her face moved. “In return for that envelope and its contents which you’ve snatched from me, I will give you back your cheque.”

“When?” he cried eagerly.

“Now—at this moment.”

“You have it here?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Give me that envelope at once, and let us end this conversation. It is painful tome to speak like this to one who once offered to make me his wife.”

His Excellency frowned, meditating deeply. He saw that La Funaro had entrapped him so cleverly that there was no loophole for escape. She was remorseless and unrelenting as far as political affairs went, and he knew that if he had decided to hand the draft to the authorities, the result must prove utterly disastrous. Not only would he be ruined, but his party who sought office would be held up to public opprobrium and hopelessly wrecked.

“That paper is a purely private one,” he said. “I cannot allow you to take it, Gemma.”

“You prefer exposure, then?” she inquired, slightly inclining her head. “The Ministry of Justice are exceedingly anxious to recover that cheque, I assure you. Probably they will compel you to disgorge the substantial sum you received from the national funds when you endorsed the draft.”

He paused again, his eyes fixed upon the carpet.

“I’m not anxious for any revelations,” he answered in a sudden tone of confidence. “But your price is too high. The document which you so nearly secured is to me worth double that which you offer.”

“Very well,” she said, shrugging her shoulders impatiently. “If that’s your decision, I am content.” He was silent. His head was bent upon his breast, h’s arms were folded.

“Let me see this cheque of yours,” he exclaimed at last in a dry, dubious tone.

She unbuttoned the breast of her dress, tore away the switches of the lining, and took out a small envelope, from which she drew a large, green-coloured draft. Then, turning it over, she exhibited his own angular signature upon its back. Afterwards, she replaced it in its envelope, and then said—

“Shall we make the exchange? Or are you still prepared to face exposure? It will not be pleasant for poor Carmenilla if her father is sent to prison for embezzlement.”

“Yes, for Carmenilla?” the Ambassador gasped next instant. “For Carmenilla’s sake I will deal with you, and make the exchange. You are a truly wonderful woman, Gemma; the most shrewd, the most cunning, and”—he paused—“and the most beautiful in all the world.”

“Your compliments are best unuttered, my dear Count,” she replied, the muscles of her face unrelaxed. “Remember, like yourself, I’m a diplomatist, and it is scarcely necessary for us to bestow praises upon each other—is it? Give me the envelope.”

Slowly he walked over to the table and took the document from the drawer wherein he had placed it. For a moment he hesitated with it still in his hand. By giving it to her he was throwing down his arms; he was relinquishing the only weapon he held against his enemies in Rome.

But in her white hand he saw the piece of green incriminating paper which was such incontestable proof of his roguery and dishonesty in the past. The sight of it caused him serious misgivings. Once that were destroyed he need not fear any other proof that could be brought against him. He had a reputation for probity, and at all hazards must retain it. This last reflection decided him.

He crossed to where Gemma stood, and handing her the sealed envelope with the blue cross upon it, received the cancelled cheque in exchange.

His brow was heavy, and he sighed as, at the window, he examined it to reassure himself there was no mistake. Then, returning to the fire, he lit it at one corner, and in silence held it between his fingers until the flames had consumed it, leaving only a small piece of curling crackling tinder.