William Le Queux - Behind the Throne

“Oh, there is no engagement, I assure you,” was her reply, as she looked at him with open frankness, her cheeks betraying a slightly heightened colour. “I know there’s quite a lot of gossip about it, but the rumours are entirely without foundation,” she laughed; and as she sat there in the deep old window-seat, he recognised that, notwithstanding the refined and dignified beauty of a woman who was brilliant in a brilliant court, she still retained a soft simplicity and a virgin innocence; she was a woman whose first tears would spring from compassion, “suffering with those that she saw suffer.” She had no acquired scruples of honour, no coy concealments, no assumed dignity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulness as they spoke together was less a quality than an instinct; like the self-folding flower, spontaneous and unconscious. Cosmopolitan life in that glare and glitter of aristocratic Rome – that circle where, from the innate distrust women have of each other, the dread of the betrayed confidence and jealous rivalry, they made no friends, and were indeed ignorant of the true meaning of friendship, where flattery and hypocrisy were the very air and atmosphere and mistrust lay in every hand-clasp and lurked in every glance – had already opened Mary Morini’s eyes to the hollow shams, the manifold hypocrisies, and the lamentable insincerity of social intimacies, and she had recoiled from it with disgust.

She had retained her woman’s heart, for that was unalterable and inalienable as a part of her being; but her looks, her language, her thoughts, assumed to George Macbean, as he stood there beneath the spell of her beauty, the cast of the pure ideal.

And yet she loved Jules Dubard!

He bit his lip and gazed out of the old diamond panes upon the tangle of red and white roses around the lawn.

Ah! how he longed to speak to her in confidence – to reveal to her the secret that now oppressed his heart until he seemed stifled by its ghastliness.

But it was utterly impossible, he told himself. Now that Dubard had fled, he must find other and secret means by which to acquaint her with the truth, and at the same time shield himself from the Frenchman’s crushing revenge.

He contrived to conceal the storm of emotion that tore his heart, and laughed with her about the unfounded rumours that had got abroad concerning her engagement, saying —

“Of course in a rural neighbourhood like this the villagers invent all kinds of reports based upon their own surmises.”

“Yes,” she declared. “They really know more about our business than we do ourselves. Only fancy! That I am engaged to marry Count Dubard – ridiculous!”

“Why ridiculous?” he asked, standing before her.

“Well – because it is!” she laughed, her fine eyes meeting his quite frankly. “I’m not engaged, Mr Macbean. So if you hear such a report again you can just flatly deny it.”

“I shall certainly do so,” he declared, “and I shall reserve my congratulations for a future occasion.”

She then turned the conversation to tennis, evidently being averse to the further discussion of the man who had courted and flattered her so assiduously – the man who was her father’s friend – and presently she took Macbean out across the lawn to introduce him to her father, who had seated himself in a long cane chair beneath the great cedar, and was reading his Italian paper.

His Excellency looked up as they approached, whereupon Mary exclaimed —

“This is Mr Macbean, father. He wishes to salute you. He was here yesterday playing tennis, but you were not visible.”

“Very glad to meet you, sir,” exclaimed Camillo Morini, rising, grasping the young man’s hand, and raising his grey felt hat. “You know,” he explained, as he reseated himself, “I am a busy man, and so I have but little opportunity of meeting my wife’s English friends. But,” he added, in very good English, after a slight pause, as he readjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and looked harder at the young man, “if I am not mistaken, we have met before, have we not? I seem to recognise your face.”

“Yes, your Excellency,” laughed Macbean, whereupon both Mary and her father started in surprise, for it was apparent that their visitor was aware of Morini’s true position. “I had the honour of having an audience of your Excellency in Rome. I am secretary to Mr Morgan-Mason, and accompanied him to Rome on the deputation which waited upon you regarding the concession of supplying army stores in Abyssinia.”

“Of course, of course!” exclaimed the Minister, suddenly interested. “I recollect quite well. You introduced the deputation, and I remember remarking how well you spoke Italian for an Englishman. Ah yes. I could not give the concession, as it had already been given to a German firm,” he added, omitting, however, the real reason, namely, because the English company had offered no secret commission. “And you are secretary to Morgan-Mason? He is a deputy, I believe.”

Macbean explained that his employer sat for South-West Norfolk, and in response to other inquiries gave certain information concerning his politics and his social influence, facts of which the clever Minister made a note; for an idea had occurred to him that the monied provision-dealer whose pompousness had struck him as he had sat in his private cabinet at the Ministry of War might be one day of service to him.

All through his career it had been part of Camillo Morini’s creed to note persons who might be of assistance to him, and to afterwards use their influence, or their weaknesses, to his advantage. A keen judge of character, he read men’s minds as he would an open book. He had recognised the weakness of that white-waistcoated Englishman who was struggling into society, and he resolved that one day both the Member of Parliament and his secretary should be put to their proper uses.

“Mr Macbean called to see Count Dubard, who is a friend of his,” his daughter explained.

“Oh, you are acquainted! How curious!” exclaimed His Excellency. “Dubard unfortunately left this morning – because he received a letter which recalled him at once to Paris. But as my valet tells me that no letters arrived for the count this morning, I can only surmise that he was tired of us here, and found country life in England too dull,” he laughed knowingly. “I’ve received the same fictitious letter myself before now, when I’ve been tired of a host and hostess.”

And they all three laughed in chorus. His Excellency was of course unaware of the real reason of Jules Dubard’s flight, and the young Englishman smiled within himself as he reflected upon the staggering surprise it would cause that calm, astute man who was such a power in the south of Europe if he knew the actual truth.

“Of course,” added Signor Morini, turning to the young man, “you will do me one kind favour? You will not mention to anyone here my true position. I come to England each year for rest and quiet, and if I am unknown no political significance can be attached to my summer visits – you understand?”

“Certainly, your Excellency, I shall respect your wishes,” was Macbean’s reply, and a few minutes later he took leave of the great statesman and his daughter, and, full of strange conflicting reflections, rode out upon the broad highway back to Thornby.

As Big Ben boomed forth twelve o’clock over London that same night the supper-room at the Savoy was filled to overflowing with a boisterous, well-dressed crowd of after-theatre revellers. The scene was brighter and gayer perhaps than any other scene at that hour in all the giant city. The “smart set,” that slangy, vulgar result of society’s degeneration, was as largely represented as usual; the women were fair, the jewels sparkled, the dresses were rich, and in the atmosphere was that restlessness, that perpetual craze for excitement which proves so attractive to habitués of the place.