Behind the Throne. Le Queux William
do you know? Have you invited me up here to threaten me again?”
“I merely say that I know the reason why you received the letter calling you to Paris this morning,” replied the Under-Secretary in a cold, calm voice. “It was because you met and were recognised by a certain Englishman named Macbean, the secretary of that vulgar fellow we saw eating his supper half an hour ago.”
Dubard’s jaw fell. He saw that by some utterly unaccountable means his enemy was aware of the real reason which compelled him to fly from Leicestershire.
Was it possible that he could know the whole truth? No; it was impossible. Macbean dare not speak. Of that he felt quite assured.
“Ah?” continued the general, a grim smile crossing his thin, hard features as he narrowly watched his companion. “You see I am not quite as ignorant of the past as you believe, my dear Jules.”
“Nor am I!” cried the Frenchman, turning upon him savagely. “Last night you threatened me, remember!”
“And to-night I have invited you here, my dear friend, to arrive at some amicable agreement that will be to our mutual advantage,” answered the clever Under-Secretary, with a suavity of manner which showed him to be a born diplomat.
“Yes, I know,” answered the other in a dry, hard voice. “This is not the first time you and I have discussed matters, General Borselli. I know that if it suited you you’d betray your own mother. You have no conscience, no code of honour?”
“My code of honour is exactly the same as yours, caro mio,” replied the Italian, laughing. “I try to turn all I can into profit for myself, just as you are trying to do. My maxim is ‘self first.’”
“And for that reason you are plotting the downfall of Morini and the whole Ministry!”
“A work in which you are actively assisting,” added the Under-Secretary.
“I did not come here to be insulted,” Dubard protested.
“Neither did I invite you here to pose as a censor of political morality,” responded his shrewd companion, looking straight and determinedly into his pale face. “But why should we quarrel, when it is to our mutual interests to remain friendly?”
“I have not quarrelled. Last night you objected to me visiting the Morinis.”
“Because I am well aware of your object.”
“I admit that I intend to marry Mary,” and he removed his cigar from his mouth and examined it.
“And you have also a further object in view, my dear count – one that is even more interesting,” declared Borselli, “a plan that I can very easily frustrate.”
“Well, you told me that last night,” he said. “And I, on my part, frankly declare that I do not in the least fear any revelations you can make.”
“Not of the affair of General Sazarac?” whispered the cunning Italian, his dark eyes fixed upon the younger man as he bent towards him. “Have you so completely forgotten certain events which, if recalled, would mean – well, they would mean that you would neither marry Morini’s daughter nor be successful in the next very ingenious trick by which you intend to make a grand coup at the expense of my country.”
At the mention of the name of General Sazarac the other’s face blanched, and holding his breath he stood glaring at the man who with raised eyebrows smiled so calmly at him. He saw that this political adventurer was aware of a certain deep, terrible secret of the past which he believed was buried for ever. His enemy’s attitude of cool confidence was sufficient to bring him at once to a sense of his insecurity.
“Well?” he managed to gasp. “And what is your proposal?”
“Ah, my dear friend, I am glad you are ready to listen to reason,” responded the Sicilian. “We must both face the future unshrinkingly, you know. You have your own schemes; I have mine. By acting in accord we shall succeed, but if we are enemies then we shall commit the very foolish and unpardonable error of exposing each other. I know quite well that there are certain rather unfortunate incidents regarding my own career, those disagreeable little matters of which you have knowledge, and by which you could retaliate. You see, I do not for a single moment intend to deny them. On the contrary, I frankly suggest that by an agreement of silence we can be helpful in each other’s interests. We both desire advancement, and can gain it through the medium of Morini. Are you not agreed?”
Dubard, slowly convinced that without the general’s aid he must be powerless and in peril, nodded in the affirmative. He did not discern the wily man’s ulterior motive, or the secret reason of the proposed compact.
“Your primary object, my dear Jules, is of course money,” the general went on. “Now, by a simple written declaration I shall absolve you from all connection with the Sazarac affair, while you, on your part, will deny my connection with that ugly little matter in Rome two years ago. Both of us will then emerge again honest and upright – models of virtue. Bygones will be bygones. I shall go my way, you will go yours; I to assist you, and you to help me – a perfectly reciprocal arrangement. I shall become Minister, while you – well, you will by a single coup become a rich man, and at the same time gain a very charming wife.”
“And Morini?”
The Under-Secretary elevated his shoulders and exhibited his palms.
“And the Englishman Macbean?”
“He is a mere fly in amber,” declared the Sicilian, with a sinister smile. “Fortune lies before us in Italy, my dear Jules – for you wealth and a wife; for me, office and distinction. By acting in accord we have nothing whatever to fear. Morini dare not disobey us, and Macbean, being a poor man, will easily fall into our power. Leave him entirely to me. I have a scheme by which he will shortly discover that his whole future depends upon his silence, and that a single indiscreet word will mean his ruin.”
“And if that fails?”
“Then there is still that effective method which was adopted towards Sazarac – you understand?”
The Frenchman nodded, darting a swift glance at the thin-featured man before him.
He understood too well.
Chapter Seven
An Afternoon at Thornby
The Thornby Flower-Show was held a week later in the rectory grounds, the work of arrangement chiefly devolving upon the bluff, good-natured rector and his nephew George.
The little rural fête, encouraged by the richer residents, was, like other village flower-shows, the annual occasion for the cottagers to exhibit their “twelve best varieties of vegetables,” their “six best pot-plants,” the ferns from their windows, and such-like horticultural possessions. Though quite a small show, it was typically English, well managed, and therefore always attended by people from the big houses in the neighbourhood, whose gardeners themselves competed in the open classes.
The judges – three gardeners from a distance – had inspected the exhibits in the marquee, and having made their awards, had, together with the committee, consisting of the local butcher and baker and two or three cottagers, all in their Sunday clothes and wearing blue rosettes, been entertained to luncheon by Mr Sinclair, when just before two o’clock the village band in uniform filed in at the garden-gate and put up their music-stands on the lawn. Then, as the church clock struck two, the villagers were admitted, each exhibitor making a rush for the tent, anxious to ascertain whether his exhibit bore the coloured card indicative of a prize.
At half-past two several smart carriages had driven up, and at last came the Morini landau, containing Mr Morini and his wife and daughter Mary. Basil Sinclair and George having welcomed them at the gate, Mr Morini was conducted to a small platform on the lawn, where, after a few words of introduction from the rector, he made a short speech in fairly good English, declaring the flower-show open.
Afterwards the party were conducted round the show by Sinclair, while George, of course, walked with Mary, who looked cool and sweet in a simple gown of pale grey voile, with a large