Behind the Throne

by William Le Queux

Fitzroy is the wife ofa Mr Charles Fitzroy, a London fur merchant, and Alderman of the City,and sister to a man named Morgan-Mason, a member of the English House ofCommons. This man you must watch. Recollect his name. Although he isa bachelor and lives in an apartment in Westminster, he spends much ofhis time at his sister's house; hence you will have an opportunity offorming his acquaintance and keeping observation upon his movements. Heis clever, crafty, and quite unscrupulous, therefore be cautious in allyour movements. You must try and seize an opportunity to get a glimpsethrough his private papers if possible, and see if there are anydocuments in Italian of an unusual character."

  "Then you suspect him to be an enemy of Italy?" she remarked seriously.

  "We suspect that this blatant, pompous orator, who is now gathering sucha following in the House of Commons, is forming certain plans toundermine our strength, to turn English opinion against an Italianalliance. Therefore it is necessary that we should be in possession ofall the details, and you alone can obtain knowledge of the truth. Hedoes not know Italian, a fact which gives you distinct advantage. Watchhim very carefully, and report each week to Genoa; while, on my part, ifI have any important instructions to send, I shall address the letter tothe Poste Restante at Charing Cross--which is opposite the railwaystation. Your aim must be to find out all you can; to discover withwhom this man is in association in Italy, remembering that whateversecret information, or more especially any documentary evidence you cansecure, will be of the utmost service to us. Go, my dear signorina," headded, placing his hand upon her shoulder, "go to London, and carry withyou my very best wishes for success."

  The woman sat silent, thinking over his instructions, while through theopen window on the evening air came the strains of military music.

  And as he watched her his thin, sallow face slowly relaxed into asinister smile, when he reflected within himself the real reason why hewas sending the pretty spy to England.

  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 ofthe village church away over the Arno, winding deep in its beautifulfertile valley, that veritable paradise of green vale and purplemountain, and was echoed by a dozen other bells clanging discordantlyfrom the hillsides, while from afar came up the deep-toned note of thebig 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 therich red grapes that hung everywhere in such luscious profusion, crossedthemselves with a murmured prayer to the Madonna, and prodded theirox-teams homeward with the last load for the presses. All day long"babbo," with his wife and children of all ages, had worked on beneaththat fiery sun, singing as they laboured; for the grape harvest was arich one, the wine would be abundant, and they, sharing half the profitswith the padrone in lieu of payment, would receive a good round sum.

  Like most of the great estates in Tuscany, that of San Donato, theproperty of His Excellency Camillo Morini, was held by the peasantry onwhat is known as the _messeria_ system, by which the whole of the landwas divided into a number of fields, or _poderi_, half the produce ofwhich was retained by the _mezzadro_, or peasant who cultivated thesoil, and the other half went to the landlord as rent. The _poderi_varied in size, but were usually about thirty acres in extent, each withits _contadino's_ house colour-washed in pale pink, and upon the wall,painted in distemper, a heraldic shield bearing the bull's head erasedargent, the arms of the proprietor.

  The estate of San Donato, with its huge old fourteenth-century villa--agreat castellated place with high, square towers, that would in Englandbe called a castle, on the crest of a hill--and its _fattoria_, orresidence of the bailiff, another great rambling place with its oilmills and wine-presses, in the valley below, was one of the largest inTuscany.

  The villa, with its long facade of many windows, its flanking towers,its enormous salons of the cinquecento, its splendid frescoes, itsantique marbles, its grey old terraces and broken statuary, was indeedin a delightful situation. Perched on the summit of a lofty and brokeneminence, it looked down upon the vale of the Arno and commandedFlorence with all its domes, towers, and palaces, the villas thatencircle it and the roads that lead to it. The recesses, swells, andbreaks of the hill on which it stood were covered with groves of pines,ilex, and cypress. Behind, deep below, lay quiet old Pistoja in thedistance, and still farther off swelled the giant Apennines.

  From the villa ran a broad open road, straight to the ancient gate ofthe 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 thevalley against the incursions of the Pisans. From its high brown walls,now crumbling to decay, the view was, like that from the villa of itslord, without rival in all Italy. Its tiny piazza was grass-grown, andoutside the walls, in a shady cypress grove, stood a ruined calvary withsome of Gerino's wonderful frescoes.

  San Donato, though only seven miles from Florence as the crow flies, wasan un-get-at-able place, inaccessible to the crowd of inquisitiveEnglish, and therefore unchanged and its people unspoilt. Indeed, inwinter a week often went by without communication with the world below;for the post did not reach there, and the little place wasself-supporting. The people, descendants of the men who had shot theirarrows from those narrow slits in the walls, were proud that they hadthe great Minister of War for their lord, and that the estate was notlike that adjoining, going to decay through the neglect and gamblingpropensities of its owner, who had not visited it for twenty years! Onthe contrary, San Donato, still almost feudal, was prosperous under agenerous padrone, and the few weeks each year which the Minister and hisfamily spent there was always a time of rejoicing with the wholecountryside. Then the _contadini_ made excuse for many festas, andthere was much dancing, playing of mandolines, and chanting of_siomelli_. The padrone delighted to see his people happy, and thesignorina was always so good to the poor and the afflicted.

  Out upon the great wide stone terrace that ran the whole length of thevilla, where spread such a wonderful panorama of river and mountain,Mary was standing beneath an arbour of trailing vines; for even thoughthe _venti-tre_ was ringing, the sun's rays were still too strong tostand in them bareheaded. She presented a slim, neat figure,delightfully cool in her plain white washing gown with a bow of paleblue tulle at the throat, yet, as her face was turned towards thefar-distant heights of Vallombrosa, there was in her handsomecountenance a look of deep anxiety.

  Jules Dubard, leaning against the grey old wall at her side, noticed itand wondered. He too was dressed all in white, in a suit of linen sonecessary in the blazing Tuscan summer, and as he folded his arms hesmiled within himself at the effect of his words upon her.

  "But you don't really anticipate that my father's enemies are plottinghis downfall?" she asked seriously turning her great dark eyes upon him.

  "Unfortunately, I fear they are," was his reply. "What I heard in Parisis sufficient to show that here, in Italy, you are on the eve of somegrave political crisis."

  "For what reason?" she inquired earnestly. "Tell me all you know, foryour information may be of the greatest use to my father. I will writeto 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 wenton, "that there is a group of Socialists fiercely antagonistic to theGovernment, and that they have formed a most ingenious conspiracy tosecure its downfall. Other men, rivals of the present Ministry, areeager for office and for the pecuniary advantages to be therebyobtained."

  "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," washis slow answer. "Downfall seems imminent. Indeed, a friend of
mine,whom I met the other day in Biffi's cafe, in Milan, was discussing itopenly. It seems that our French secret service has been at work onyour Alpine frontier, and that the plans of the new fortress at Tresentahave been sold by one of the officers of the garrison. Out of this theOpposition intend to make capital, by charging your father with neglect,even connivance at the traitorous dealings with France, and therebyhounding him from office."

  "But it is unjust!" cried the girl wildly. "It is disgraceful! If thespies of France have been successful, it is surely not my father'sfault, but the fault of the officer who prepared and sold them. What ishis name?"

  "I hear it is Solaro."

  "Solaro!" she gasped hoarsely. "Not Captain Felice Solaro, of theAlpine Regiment?"

  "Yes, signorina, that was the