Behind the Throne. Le Queux William
times, yes,” was his brief reply. He did not wish to burden her with his own disappointments and misfortunes. She knew what was his position, a mere secretary, and that was sufficient. What hope could he ever have of daring to aspire to her hand? He might stand as her friend, but become her lover, never!
And when, a week later, he called at Orton to wish her farewell, as his vacation was at an end and he was compelled to return to his chambers in the Temple, and to that room in Mr Morgan-Mason’s flat in Queen Anne’s Mansions, he looked in vain in her eyes for some sign of genuine regret. There was none. No, she too had realised that on account of his position love was forbidden him.
“We shall meet here again, I hope, Mr Macbean – next summer,” she exclaimed, laughing airily, as she gave him her small white hand.
“I hope so,” was his fervent reply in a low, meaning voice, as their hands clasped.
And then, with sinking heart and full of grave apprehensions regarding her future, he bowed and left her, left her, alas! to Jules Dubard – Jules Dubard of all men!
Chapter Eight
The Traitor
Camillo Morini stood at the big window of his private cabinet in the Ministry of War at Rome, gazing down upon the silent courtyard, white in the glaring heat of afternoon.
He was dressed in a cool suit of clean white linen, as is the summer mode in the South, and as he stood gazing out at the sentry standing in his box motionless as a statue, he calmly smoked his after-luncheon cigar – a good Havanna he had brought from England. The man who was so constantly juggling with a nation’s future pressed his lips together, and afterwards heaved a big sigh – a sigh that echoed through the big, lofty room.
The Minister’s cabinet, like all the rooms in the new War Office, was big and bare, with a marble floor for summer, and a high stove of white terra-cotta with broad brass bands for winter. Upon the ceiling were fine modern frescoes; the walls, however, unlike those of the other rooms, which were mostly colour-washed, were papered dark red, and the heavy furniture was covered with thick red plush; while in one corner was a handsome marble bust of Victor Emmanuel upon a pedestal, and above hung a large framed portrait of King Umberto, the reigning sovereign, and a huge shield bearing the arms of Italy. In the centre stood a huge writing-table of carved walnut, with a great high-backed chair, the seat of the man who ruled the army of Italy.
The doors were double, with a wide space between, so that the messenger in uniform who lounged outside should overhear nothing, while so hemmed in by secretaries was the Minister that he was as difficult of approach as the very sovereign himself.
That huge square block of new stuccoed buildings, with long corridors, enormous clerks’ room, and big courtyard, the echoes of which were awakened day and night by the regular tramp of the sentries and the clank of arms, was at that moment a veritable hive of industry – for of all the government departments in Rome, the War Office, with its tremendous responsibilities, is the best conducted.
His Excellency was reflecting upon something that Angelo Borselli, the Under-Secretary, had told him while they had been lunching together at the club. He recognised the seriousness of it all, and he sighed in consequence.
Presently, while his eyes were still fixed upon that sentry erect and motionless in his box, upon which the sun beat down so fiercely, there was a rap at the door, and there entered the uniformed messenger who had been on guard outside, who saluted, saying —
“General Arturo Valentini of the 6th Alpine Regiment, together with a captain of the same regiment, crave an audience with your Excellency.”
“What is the captain’s name?” grunted the Minister of War.
The messenger looked at the card that had been given him, and replied —
“Captain Felice Solaro, your Excellency.”
“Ah! Solaro! Solaro!” exclaimed Morini, tossing away his cigar. “Show them in.”
And as he passed before the tiny mirror he glanced at himself to adjust his cravat and see that not a single hair was awry – a habit of his before giving audience.
A few moments later two men in uniform were ushered in. The general, short of stature, white-haired, with firm military step, a red face, and white moustache, saluted and stood at attention as he entered the Minister’s presence; while the captain, a smart-looking, dark-haired man of forty, followed his superior’s example, yet as Morini darted a quick glance at him, he visibly trembled at it. The captain’s face was white as death, and as he stood for a moment in the awkward silence that followed, his gloved fingers chafed his sword hilt nervously.
“Well, general?” inquired the Minister, who had never before met that distinguished officer, but whom he, of course, knew well by repute. Valentini had been Inspector-General of Genio fifteen years ago, and had served Italy well in those fierce campaigns of the early sixties, as his row of medals and decorations showed. “Why do you wish for audience?” he asked sharply.
“Your Excellency, I am here to crave for a more merciful sentence upon this man,” the kindly old officer answered, turning to the captain, who stood with head bowed at his side. “I am his commanding officer, and in justice I wish to intercede for him.”
The Minister raised his eyes in surprise, and asked —
“And what is this man’s name, pray?”
“I am Felice Solaro, your Excellency,” faltered the captain, as though fearing to pronounce his own name. “My general has travelled with me from Piedmont to obtain audience and to implore your mercy.”
“Solaro!” echoed the Minister, looking straight at him. “Ah yes, I remember!” Then turning to the general, Morini added in a hard, impatient tone —
“I cannot see why you should have troubled yourself to come to Rome on such an errand – and without leave too! I thought this man was under arrest? Is this the way you execute military justice in the north?”
“I took it upon myself to bring the captain here,” was the fine old officer’s answer.
“And he wears his sword, I see!” remarked the Minister, with a sneer. “I suppose you have taken it upon yourself to give it back to him – eh?”
“I returned him his sword temporarily, your Excellency, in order that during our journey here no one should recognise him as the man who has been sentenced, and further, in order that he should stand before you in the full possession of his rights as an officer, and ask your leave to explain.”
“I have no time to hear any explanations from men who have been condemned by court-martial, General Valentini. It is your duty to hear his excuses – not mine. The whole matter is quite clear. I have had the papers before me, and have gone through them carefully. They were sent to me in England. And if you ask me my private opinion, general, I think that dismissal from the army and fifteen years’ imprisonment is a very light sentence upon a traitor. Had I been on the court-martial I should have given a life sentence.”
“But, your Excellency!” gasped the unhappy captain, his face blanched, his hands trembling, “I am innocent. I am the victim of some clever conspiracy, by which the real culprit has shielded himself. I had no chance of defending myself at the court-martial, for – ”
“Silence!” cried the Minister. “You have been tried and found guilty of treason against your king and country. The evidence is as plain as the light of day, and yet you deny your guilt?”
“I do deny it,” declared the unhappy captain. “They refused to hear my explanation.”
“That is true, your Excellency,” interposed the general. “The court sat for four days in Turin with closed doors, and as three of the officers composing it were due to go on their annual leave, the sitting on the fourth day was terminated hurriedly, sentence was given, and sent to you for confirmation. Your Excellency has confirmed it, therefore Captain Solaro has no appeal except to yourself.”
“You, as his commanding officer, were not a member of the court?”
“No,