wish, father, that I should become his wife, you may givehim an affirmative answer. But--"
And she suddenly burst into a torrent of hot tears.
"Ah no! no!" her father cried, touching her pale cheek tenderly. "No.Do not give way, dear. I have no desire that you should marry this manif you yourself do not really love him. Perhaps your mother has beenmistaken, but by various signs and looks that both of us noticed in Romeand in England, we believed that you entertained for him a warmaffection."
"I know that my marriage would please you," she said. "Mother gave meto understand that two months ago, therefore,"--and she paused as thoughshe could not utter the words which were to decide her fate--"thereforeI am willing to accept him."
"Ah, Mary!" he exclaimed quickly, his face brightening, for her decisionaroused hope within him. "I need not tell you what happiness your wordsbring to me. I confess to you that I have hoped that you would giveyour consent, for I would rather see you the wife of the count, withwealth and position, than married to any other man I know. He lovesyou--of that I am convinced. Has he never told you so?"
She did not answer for a few moments. She was reflecting upon thatscene in the little salon in Rome when he had revealed himself to her inhis true colours.
"Yes," she answered at last in that same hard, colourless voice. "Hetold me so once."
He attributed her blank, despairing look to the natural emotion of themoment. It was the great crisis of her young life, for she was decidingher future. He was in ignorance of how already she had made the compactwith Dubard--of how she had decided to sacrifice herself in order tosave him.
Her father, in ignorance of the truth of how nobly she was acting, wenton to analyse the young Frenchman's good qualities and relate to her allthat he had learnt regarding him.
"His youth has been no better and no worse than that of any young manbrought up in Paris," he said, "yet from the information I have gatheredit seems that he has sown his wild oats long ago, and for the pastcouple of years he has given up racing and gambling and all such vicesof youth, and has become a perfect model of what a young man should be.Men who know him in Paris speak highly of him as a man of real grit--aman with a future before him. You do not think, Mary," he went on,"that I should have welcomed him as a guest at my table if I were notsure that he was a man worthy the name of friend?"
"Ah!" she sighed, "you have, my dear father, sometimes been disappointedin your friendships, I fear. Angelo Borselli, for instance, has beenyour friend through many years."
"Angelo!" he exclaimed impatiently. "Yes, yes, I know. But I amspeaking of Jules--of the man you have consented to marry."
A slight hardness showed at the corners of her mouth at mention of theman who had so cleverly entrapped her. She knew that escape wasimpossible. He could place her father in a position of triumph over hisenemies, and in return claimed herself. Ah! if she could only speak thetruth; if she could only take her father into her confidence, and showhim the reason she so readily gave her consent to a union that wasodious to her! Yet she knew that if she gave him the slightestsuspicion of her self-sacrifice he would withhold his consent, and theresult would be dire disaster.
She knew her father's brave, unflinching nobility of character. Ratherthan he would allow her to marry a man whom she hated and mistrusted, hewould face ruin--even death.
And for that reason she, pale and silent, gazing into the rising mists,accepted the man who had made her father's honour the price of her ownlife.
"Tell the count," she said, in a voice broken by emotion, "tell him thatI am ready to be his wife."
And her father, gladdened at what he, in his ignorance, believed to be awise decision, bent to her and pressed his lips to her cheek withfatherly affection, in a vain endeavour to kiss her tears away.
They were not tears of emotion, but of a sweet and tender woman's blankdespair.
CHAPTER TWENTY.
TELLS THE TRUTH.
On the following afternoon, in consequence of a telegram, the Ministerof War drove into Florence, and met Vito Ricci at the club.
He seldom took the train to Florence because, on account of hisposition, the obsequious officials treated him with so much ceremony.He was a modest man, who at heart hated all bowing officialdom, muchpreferring to drive through the rich vineyards of the Arno valley tobeing received at the station by all the officials and having theordinary traffic stopped on his arrival.
The Florence Club, an institution run upon English lines, is one of themost exclusive in Europe. It occupies the whole of a huge flat in thenew Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele, handsomely appointed, with fine spaciousrooms overlooking the busy centre of Florentine life. Its members aremostly men of the highest social standing in Italy, together with aselect few of rich English and Americans, to whom membership gives thehall-mark of rank in that complex cosmopolitan world. In winter andspring its rooms are well-filled and its bridge-tables are wellpatronised, but in summer and autumn, when all Florence is away in themountains or at the sea, it is deserted and handed over to the care of acouple of waiters, who scarcely see a member from one week's end to theother.
The Deputy Ricci had telegraphed that he had no time to come up to SanDonato, as he could only spend three hours in Florence; therefore theclub was the most convenient place where they could meet and consultundisturbed. The urgency of Ricci's message had aroused the other'sapprehensions that something was amiss.
"Ah!" cried the deputy in relief as the Minister entered the smallcard-room where he stood impatiently awaiting him. "I began to fearthat my telegram had not reached you." And the pair having shakenhands, Ricci went to the door and locked it.
Then when they crossed to the window, which gave a view of the wide-openpiazza with its colossal statue in the centre, Ricci said--
"I left Rome this morning at nine, and I return by the express at six.I came here purposely to see you."
"Has something occurred?" asked His Excellency quickly, glancing at thedark face of the Piedmontese lawyer who sat in the Chamber of Deputiesand made politics his living.
"Yes," was Ricci's answer in a low half-whisper. "You recollect ourconversation when we met last--about the impending crisis?"
"Yes. You promised, for certain considerations, to turn the politicaltide in my favour."
"I have tried to do so, but have failed," said the other in a deep,serious voice.
"Failed?" gasped the Minister as, in an instant, all the light died outof his face.
"The Opposition is too strong," he explained. "Borselli has socompletely won over the Socialists that he can cause them to dance toany tune he pleases."
Camillo Morini's face was blanched. Ruin was before him--ruin, utterand complete. He had trusted in Vito, feeling confidence in thatadventurer's ingenuity and influence. More than once this adventurerhad cleverly turned the tide of popular thought, for certain journalswere always open to write what the popular deputy for Asti dictated, andof course received substantial bribes for so doing. Yet at this mostcrucial moment he had failed!
"I made you the payment on condition that you were successful inrendering me the service," remarked His Excellency hoarsely.
"I know, I know," was the other's response. "I have brought back themoney to repay you." And he took from his leather wallet a banker'sdraft, which he handed to the Minister.
The tall, thin, refined-looking man stood motionless, his eyes fixed fora moment upon the slip of paper thus offered back to him. He recognisedthat the efforts of his secret agent, whose services had so often beeninvaluable, were of no avail, that his doom was sealed.
"No. Keep it, Vito," he said hoarsely, with a dry, hollow laugh, thatsarcasm born of desperation. "You have earned it--keep it."
The other raised his shoulders in regret, and then, with a word ofthanks, replaced the draft in his pocket.
There was a long silence. A company of _bersaglieri_, those well-set-upmen with their round hats and cock's plumes, were crossing the piazza,marchin
g to the fanfare of trumpets, and behind them came a company ofthe Misericordia, that mediaeval confraternity disguised in their longblack gowns with slits for their eyes, passing with their ambulance onan errand of mercy.
Morini gazed upon that weird, tragic procession hurrying across thesquare, and within him there arose grave and morbid reflections. He hadworked for Italy, had given his whole soul to the reform of the army andthe perfecting of the defences of the nation he had loved so well. Itwas more the fault of the system than his own that he had been guilty ofdishonesty. The other members of the Cabinet were equally guilty ofmisappropriating the national funds. They were, indeed, compelled to doso in order to keep up their position, to maintain and pay the secretagents they employed, and