Buch lesen: «Behind the Throne», Seite 7
Chapter Thirteen
The Villa San Donato
The sky was aflame in all the crimson glory of the Tuscan sunset.
The Angelus of a sudden clashed forth from the high castellated tower of the village church away over the Arno, winding deep in its beautiful fertile valley, that veritable paradise of green vale and purple mountain, and was echoed by a dozen other bells clanging discordantly from the hillsides, while from afar came up the deep-toned note of the big bell in the campanile of brown old Florence.
It was the hour of the venti-tre, and those patient toilers, the contadini, in the vineyards, who had been busy since dawn plucking the rich red grapes that hung everywhere in such luscious profusion, crossed themselves with a murmured prayer to the Madonna, and prodded their ox-teams homeward with the last load for the presses. All day long “babbo,” with his wife and children of all ages, had worked on beneath that fiery sun, singing as they laboured; for the grape harvest was a rich one, the wine would be abundant, and they, sharing half the profits with the padrone in lieu of payment, would receive a good round sum.
Like most of the great estates in Tuscany, that of San Donato, the property of His Excellency Camillo Morini, was held by the peasantry on what is known as the messeria system, by which the whole of the land was divided into a number of fields, or poderi, half the produce of which was retained by the mezzadro, or peasant who cultivated the soil, and the other half went to the landlord as rent. The poderi varied in size, but were usually about thirty acres in extent, each with its contadino’s house colour-washed in pale pink, and upon the wall, painted in distemper, a heraldic shield bearing the bull’s head erased argent, the arms of the proprietor.
The estate of San Donato, with its huge old fourteenth-century villa – a great castellated place with high, square towers, that would in England be called a castle, on the crest of a hill – and its fattoria, or residence of the bailiff, another great rambling place with its oil mills and wine-presses, in the valley below, was one of the largest in Tuscany.
The villa, with its long façade of many windows, its flanking towers, its enormous salons of the cinquecento, its splendid frescoes, its antique marbles, its grey old terraces and broken statuary, was indeed in a delightful situation. Perched on the summit of a lofty and broken eminence, it looked down upon the vale of the Arno and commanded Florence with all its domes, towers, and palaces, the villas that encircle it and the roads that lead to it. The recesses, swells, and breaks of the hill on which it stood were covered with groves of pines, ilex, and cypress. Behind, deep below, lay quiet old Pistoja in the distance, and still farther off swelled the giant Apennines.
From the villa ran a broad open road, straight to the ancient gate of the little walled village of San Donato itself – a remote, ancient place, almost the same to-day as when in the days of Dante it guarded the valley against the incursions of the Pisans. From its high brown walls, now crumbling to decay, the view was, like that from the villa of its lord, without rival in all Italy. Its tiny piazza was grass-grown, and outside the walls, in a shady cypress grove, stood a ruined calvary with some of Gerino’s wonderful frescoes.
San Donato, though only seven miles from Florence as the crow flies, was an un-get-at-able place, inaccessible to the crowd of inquisitive English, and therefore unchanged and its people unspoilt. Indeed, in winter a week often went by without communication with the world below; for the post did not reach there, and the little place was self-supporting. The people, descendants of the men who had shot their arrows from those narrow slits in the walls, were proud that they had the great Minister of War for their lord, and that the estate was not like that adjoining, going to decay through the neglect and gambling propensities of its owner, who had not visited it for twenty years! On the contrary, San Donato, still almost feudal, was prosperous under a generous padrone, and the few weeks each year which the Minister and his family spent there was always a time of rejoicing with the whole countryside. Then the contadini made excuse for many festas, and there was much dancing, playing of mandolines, and chanting of siomelli. The padrone delighted to see his people happy, and the signorina was always so good to the poor and the afflicted.
Out upon the great wide stone terrace that ran the whole length of the villa, where spread such a wonderful panorama of river and mountain, Mary was standing beneath an arbour of trailing vines; for even though the venti-tre was ringing, the sun’s rays were still too strong to stand in them bareheaded. She presented a slim, neat figure, delightfully cool in her plain white washing gown with a bow of pale blue tulle at the throat, yet, as her face was turned towards the far-distant heights of Vallombrosa, there was in her handsome countenance a look of deep anxiety.
Jules Dubard, leaning against the grey old wall at her side, noticed it and wondered. He too was dressed all in white, in a suit of linen so necessary in the blazing Tuscan summer, and as he folded his arms he smiled within himself at the effect of his words upon her.
“But you don’t really anticipate that my father’s enemies are plotting his downfall?” she asked seriously turning her great dark eyes upon him.
“Unfortunately, I fear they are,” was his reply. “What I heard in Paris is sufficient to show that here, in Italy, you are on the eve of some grave political crisis.”
“For what reason?” she inquired earnestly. “Tell me all you know, for your information may be of the greatest use to my father. I will write to him to-night,” she added, in a voice full of apprehension.
“No. Do not write,” he urged. “You will see him in a week or ten days, and then you can tell him the rumours I have heard. It seems,” he went on, “that there is a group of Socialists fiercely antagonistic to the Government, and that they have formed a most ingenious conspiracy to secure its downfall. Other men, rivals of the present Ministry, are eager for office and for the pecuniary advantages to be thereby obtained.”
“What is the character of the conspiracy?” she inquired seriously. “Perhaps my father can thwart it.”
“It is to be hoped that he can, but I confess I doubt it very much,” was his slow answer. “Downfall seems imminent. Indeed, a friend of mine, whom I met the other day in Biffi’s café, in Milan, was discussing it openly. It seems that our French secret service has been at work on your Alpine frontier, and that the plans of the new fortress at Tresenta have been sold by one of the officers of the garrison. Out of this the Opposition intend to make capital, by charging your father with neglect, even connivance at the traitorous dealings with France, and thereby hounding him from office.”
“But it is unjust!” cried the girl wildly. “It is disgraceful! If the spies of France have been successful, it is surely not my father’s fault, but the fault of the officer who prepared and sold them. What is his name?”
“I hear it is Solaro.”
“Solaro!” she gasped hoarsely. “Not Captain Felice Solaro, of the Alpine Regiment?”
“Yes, signorina, that was the name.”
She stood staring at him, utterly amazed and mystified. Felice Solaro! – a traitor!
“But it is impossible!” she declared quickly. “There must surely be some mistake!”
“I heard it on the very best authority,” was the young Frenchman’s calm answer. “A court-martial has, it seems, been held with closed doors, and as a result the man Solaro has been dismissed and sentenced to imprisonment for a term of fifteen years.”
“Dismissed the army!” she exclaimed blankly. “Then the court-martial found him guilty?”
“Certainly. But did you know the man?”
She hesitated a moment, then faltered —
“Yes, I knew him once. But what you tell me seems utterly impossible. He was the very last man to betray Italy.”
“They say that a woman induced him to prepare the plans,” remarked the Frenchman. “But how far that is true I have no idea.”
Mary’s face was paler than before. Her brows were contracted, and in her dark, luminous eyes was a look of quick determination.
“Is my father aware of all this?” she demanded.
“Undoubtedly. He, of course, must have signed the decree dismissing Solaro from the army. I believe the matter is being kept as quiet as possible, but unfortunately the Socialists have somehow obtained knowledge of the true facts, and will go to the country with the cry that Italy, under the present Cabinet, is in danger.” Then, after a slight pause, he went on, “I look upon your father as my friend, you know, signorina, therefore I think he ought to know the plot being formed against him. They intend to make certain distinct charges against him, of bribery, of receiving money from contractors who have supplied inferior goods, and of being directly responsible for the recent reverses in Abyssinia. If they do – ” Pausing, he elevated his shoulders without concluding the sentence.
“But it is impossible, Count Dubard, that the man you name could have sold our military secrets?”
“You know him sufficiently well, then, to be aware of his loyalty?” sniffed her companion suspiciously.
“I know that he would never be guilty of an act of treason,” she answered quickly. “Therefore if he really has been convicted of such an offence, he must be the victim himself of some conspiracy.”
The count regarded her heated declaration as the involuntary demonstration of a bond of friendship, and looked into her eyes in undisguised wonder. She stood facing him, her white hand upon the broken marble of an ancient vase, yellow and worn smooth by time.
“You appear to repose the utmost confidence in him,” he remarked, surprised. “Why?”
“Because I am certain that he has fallen the victim of a plot,” she declared, her face hard set and desperate. “If those enemies of my father’s are endeavouring so cleverly to oust him from office, is it not quite feasible that they have laid the blame purposely upon Captain Solaro?”
“Why purposely?”
She paused, and again his eyes met hers.
“Because they knew that if Captain Solaro were accused,” she said slowly, “my father, as Minister, would show him no clemency.”
“Why?”
“There is a reason,” she responded hoarsely, adding, “I know that he is innocent – he must be innocent.”
“But he has been tried by a competent court-martial, and found guilty,” remarked her companion.
“With closed doors?”
“And is not that the usual procedure in cases of grave offence? It would never do for the public to learn that the loyalty of Italy’s officers had been found wanting. That would shake the confidence of the country.”
“And yet my father’s enemies are preparing to strike a crushing blow at him by making capital out of it?” she exclaimed. “Ah yes. I see – I see it all!” she cried. “It is a vile, despicable conspiracy which has sent to prison in disgrace an innocent man – a second case of Dreyfus!”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders but made no reply.
“You said that a woman’s name had been mentioned in connection with the affair,” she went on. “Was her name Nodari – Filoména Nodari – and does she not live in Bologna?”
Her companion’s lips pressed themselves together, but so slightly that she did not notice the almost imperceptible expression of annoyance upon his face.
“I do not know,” he declared. “I merely heard that there was a woman in the case, and that she had given certain evidence before the military court that left no doubt of the guilt of the accused. But,” he added, half apologetically, “I had no idea, signorina, that Solaro was a friend of yours.”
“Oh, he is not a friend, only an acquaintance,” she protested.
“Then why are you so intensely interested in his welfare?” he inquired.
“Because I have certain reasons. An injustice has been done, and I shall at once ask my father to have the most searching inquiry made. He will do so, if it is my wish,” she added confidently.
“Then you intend to champion the cause of the man who is accused of being a traitor to Italy?” remarked the wily Parisian, regarding her furtively as he spoke. “I fear, signorina, if you adopt any such course you will only place in the hands of your father’s enemies a further weapon against him. No; if you desire to assist His Excellency at this very critical moment, you must refrain from taking any action which they could construe into your own desire, or your father’s intention, to liberate the man who is convicted of having sold his country to its enemy.”
“But it is unjust! He is innocent.”
“Be that how it may, your duty surely is to help your father, not to act in a manner which would convince the public that he had connived at the sale of the military secrets of Tresenta.”
Her dark eyes fixed themselves upon the distant towers and cupolas of Florence, down where the grey mists were now rising. They were filled with tears, and her chest beneath her laces heaved slowly and then fell again.
And the man lounging at her side with studied grace laughed within himself, triumphant at his own clever diplomacy.
Chapter Fourteen
In the Silence of Night
Dinner at the Villa San Donato was always a stately meal, served in that huge, lofty sala di pranzo, or dining-room, with its marble floor, its high prison-like windows closely barred with iron, its antique frescoed walls, and old low settees covered with dark green damask running right round the apartment.
In that enormous echoing room nothing had been touched for two hundred years. The old oak furniture had been well-preserved, the great high-backed chairs, covered with leather and studded with big brass nails, the fine carved buffet, and the graven shield over the door bearing the arms of the princely house that had once owned the place, all spoke of a brilliant magnificence of days bygone when those huge halls had echoed to the tread of armed men, and the lord of San Donato entertained his retainers and bravoes with princely generosity. The villa was so huge that the guest easily lost himself in its ramifications, its long corridors and huge salons each leading from one to the other. Like all the fortified villas of the cinquecento, every window on the ground floor was closely barred, and this, combined with the bareness of the rooms, gave to them an aspect of austerity. Over the whole place was a comfortless air, like that of most Italian houses, save in Madame Morini’s rose boudoir, and the little sitting-room which Mary had arranged in English style, and called her own.
In the great dining-room there was sitting accommodation for two hundred, and yet on that evening the party only numbered six: Her Excellency, Mary, Jules Dubard, an English schoolfellow of Mary’s named Violet Walters, the fair-haired daughter of an eminent KC, and two sisters, named Anna and Eva Fry, daughters of an English merchant at Genoa whom Her Excellency had invited up for the vintage.
The voices of the little party echoed strangely in that enormous old apartment, and from time to time a peal of laughter came back from the corners of the place with weird and startling repetition. The party had that day made an excursion over to another estate which the Minister possessed above the Arno, at Empoli, where the vintage was in full swing. The trip had been delightful, and the peasantry had received them with that deep homage and generous hospitality which the Tuscan contadini extend to their lord.
All were in good spirits except Mary, who, in a gown of pale carnation pink, sat conversing mechanically in English with her friend Violet, a pretty girl, about a year her senior, but within herself reflecting deeply upon what the man sitting opposite her had told her when out upon the terrace an hour before.
Her father was in peril; it was her duty to warn him. Felice Solaro had fallen a victim of some dastardly plot, but for what reason and how was an utter mystery.
She longed to explain to her father all that the count had told her, but in reply to a question, her mother had said that she did not expect him to leave Rome for at least a fortnight. Therefore she remained thoughtful, apprehensive, and undecided how to act. At first she had contemplated explaining everything to her mother, but on reflection she saw that there were certain reasons why her anxiety should not be aroused. Her Excellency was in very delicate health, and while in London had consulted a physician, who had told her that she must have as little mental worry as possible. For that reason Mary resolved to hide the serious truth from her.
Dubard, with his studied elegance of manner, was entertaining the ladies with droll stories, for he was something of a humourist, and essentially a ladies’ man. Once or twice as Mary’s eyes met his he saw in them an expression of deep anxiety, and of course knew well the reason.
The Fry girls were particularly interested in the young Frenchman, of whom they had heard as a new star in the social firmament in Rome during the previous season, but, being provincials, they had not met him. Both were dark and fairly good-looking; Eva aged about twenty-one, and Anna two years her senior. Their father, Henry Fry, was an exporter of marble and of olive oil, who, like his father before him, carried on business in Genoa, and had amassed a considerable fortune; but Mrs Fry’s death three years previously had left the girls to shift for themselves in the social world, and their mother having long been an intimate friend of Her Excellency, the latter each year invited the girls up to San Donato as company for Mary.
Dinner ended at last, and the little party passed through the three great salons lit by the thousand wax candles in their antique sconces, into the minor drawing-room beyond, which was always used of an evening because it was cosier and small enough to be carpeted.
The Fry girls were clever mandolinists, and taking up their instruments at Madame Morini’s invitation, played and sang that sweet old Tuscan serenade —
“Io ti amerò finchè le Rondinelle
Avranno fatto il nido dell’ amore;
Io ti amero fin che nel Cielo stelle
Vi saran sempre a illuminarmi il cora.
Io ti amerò,
Io ti amerò,
Fin che avrò vita
Mio bel tesor!”
As they sang, Dubard stood beside Mary and looked into her dark eyes for some responding glance.
But there was none. She was not thinking of him, but of that unfortunate man convicted of treason, disgraced and languishing in gaol – and of Filoména Nodari, the woman who had foully betrayed him.
“You are sad to-night,” he managed to whisper to her as they turned together from the singers.
She nodded, but no response escaped her lips.
Her feelings towards Jules Dubard were mixed ones. She found him a very pleasant and entertaining companion, always courteous, elegant of manner, and excessively polite – the kind of man who at once attracted a woman. And yet somehow, when she came to calmly analyse her regard for him, she found it to be based merely upon his attractive personality; or, in other words, it was little more than a mere flirtation, which may be forgiven of every woman who is courted and flattered as she was.
True, he had, in a kind of joking manner, more than once declared his love for her. But she had always affected to treat his words as empty and meaningless, and to assume that they were good friends and nothing more. At heart, however, she knew that both her parents would be pleased to see her marry this man; for not only would she be the wife of a wealthy landowner, but would also obtain the ancient and honoured title of Comtesse Dubard.
Sometimes, in the secrecy of her room, she sat and reflected upon the whole situation, but on each occasion she arrived at the same distinct and unalterable conclusion. She admired Jules; she was fond of his society, and he was, even though his Gallic elegance of manner was a trifle forced, nevertheless a perfect gentleman. But surely there was a great breach between admiration and actual affection.
What he had told her out on the terrace in the sundown, however, showed plainly that he was really her father’s friend. And yet, strangely enough, he did not wish her to alarm her father unduly. Why? she wondered. If that grave peril actually existed he should surely be forewarned!
“What I told you this evening has, I fear, upset you, signorina,” Dubard said in a low, sympathetic voice. “But do not be disquieted. I will assist your father in thwarting this conspiracy against him. Do not tell Her Excellency a word. It would be harmful for her, you know.”
“I shall say nothing,” was her reply. “But,” she added, “I cannot help feeling anxious, especially as you suggest that I shall not write to my father and warn him.”
“Oh, write if you wish,” he exclaimed quickly. “Only recollect all that I have told you is only hearsay. Therefore, I think it unwise to arouse your father’s apprehensions if the rumour of the conspiracy is baseless. No?” he went on. “Remain patient, and leave everything to me.”
She sighed, without replying; then, in order to reassure her, he whispered, at the same time looking into her eyes intensely —
“You know, Mary, that I will do my very best – for your sake. You know me sufficiently well for that.”
He would have continued his protestations of affection had not the singers at that moment ceased, and they were both compelled to rejoin the little group, much to Mary’s relief, for at that moment she had no thought beyond her father’s peril. She did not exactly mistrust the count, yet some strange intuition told her that his solicitude for her father’s safety was feigned. What made her think so she knew not, but she experienced that evening a strange, unaccountable presage of evil.
He asked her to sing, and then, being pressed by the others, she responded, chanting one of those old stornelli of the countryfolk which she was so fond of collecting and writing in a book, the weird love-chants that have been handed down from the Middle Ages. It was one she had taken down from the lips of a contadino at Castellina a few days previously —
“Giovanottino dal cappel di paglia,
Non ti voglio amar più, non n’ho più voglia…
Voglio piuttosto vincer la battaglia!”
And while she sang, Violet Walters, standing with Dubard, looked at him with an expression which told him that he had created a favourable impression upon her. Thus the evening passed quietly, until the bell over the private chapel of the castle tolled eleven, and the guests rose and parted to their rooms, being conducted through the long ghostly corridors by the domestics with candles.
Mary allowed her Italian maid Teresa to brush her long brown tresses before the mirror, as was her habit, but the faithful servant remarked in surprise upon the signorina’s preoccupied look.
“I’m very tired, that’s all,” Mary replied, and as quickly as possible dismissed the girl and locked her door.
Her room she had furnished in English style with furniture she had chosen in London. It was a delightful little place, bright with clean chintzes and a carpet of pastel blue. Upon the toilet-table was a handsome set of silver-mounted bottles and brushes, a birthday gift from her devoted father, and around the bed, suspended like a canopy from the ceiling, were the long white mosquito curtains.
For a long time she sat before the glass in her pale blue dressing-gown, her pointed chin sunk upon her breast in thought. Ruin was before her father – and if so, it meant ruin for them all!
Should she disregard the count’s suggestion and write to him, urging him to come from Rome and see her; or if not, to allow her to travel alone to Rome? Should she write in secret?
How long she remained pondering, she had no idea. Twice the clock struck solemnly over the deep dark valley that spread beneath her window, until presently, with her mind made up, she rose and crossed to her little writing-table on the opposite side of the apartment, but was dismayed to find the stationery rack empty of notepaper.
If she wrote, it was necessary to do so at once in order to give the letter to Teresa when she came with the coffee in the morning, for the young peasant who took the postbag each day left at eight in the morning, so as to catch the midday mail from Pistoja. There was paper in the library at the farther end of the mansion, therefore she resolved to go and obtain some.
Wrapping a white shawl about her shoulders, she took her candle, and opening her door noiselessly, crept down the long marble corridor past her mother’s door, and then, turning at right angles, proceeded to the door at the end which gave entrance to the splendid book-lined room full of priceless editions.
As she crept along in her little felt-soled slippers she suddenly halted, fancying that she heard an unusual noise. The peasantry entertained an absurd belief that at night supernatural noises were heard in the place, but of course she did not believe in them. In fact, she believed that the story had been invented by the agent, and circulated among the superstitious folk in order to give the house better protection against thieves.
She listened intently, her ears strained to catch every sound.
Yes, someone was moving in the library!
Her first thought was of burglars, but holding her breath and determined to first make certain before raising the alarm, she advanced cautiously to the door, placed her candle upon the floor, and peered through the keyhole.
She was not mistaken.
A light shone within. The great green door of her father’s safe stood open before her, revealing the nest of iron drawers within, while someone was moving at the writing-table a little distance away, beyond her range of vision.
Her heart beat quickly as her eye was glued to the keyhole.
The thieves, whoever they were, had opened the safe with a key and were calmly rifling it!
She heard a noise as of crisp papers being turned over slowly, and then a few seconds later a dark figure crossed to the safe and took a further packet from one of the drawers.
As the man turned towards her his face became revealed in the dim light. Sight of it staggered her.
The man who had opened the safe, and who was methodically examining her father’s confidential papers in secret, was none other than Jules Dubard!
