name."
She stood staring at him, utterly amazed and mystified. FeliceSolaro!--a traitor!
"But it is impossible!" she declared quickly. "There must surely besome mistake!"
"I heard it on the very best authority," was the young Frenchman's calmanswer. "A court-martial has, it seems, been held with closed doors,and as a result the man Solaro has been dismissed and sentenced toimprisonment for a term of fifteen years."
"Dismissed the army!" she exclaimed blankly. "Then the court-martialfound 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 theFrenchman. "But how far that is true I have no idea."
Mary's face was paler than before. Her brows were contracted, and inher 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 dismissingSolaro from the army. I believe the matter is being kept as quiet aspossible, but unfortunately the Socialists have somehow obtainedknowledge of the true facts, and will go to the country with the crythat Italy, under the present Cabinet, is in danger." Then, after aslight pause, he went on, "I look upon your father as my friend, youknow, signorina, therefore I think he ought to know the plot beingformed against him. They intend to make certain distinct chargesagainst him, of bribery, of receiving money from contractors who havesupplied inferior goods, and of being directly responsible for therecent reverses in Abyssinia. If they do--" Pausing, he elevated hisshoulders without concluding the sentence.
"But it is impossible, Count Dubard, that the man you name could havesold 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," sheanswered quickly. "Therefore if he really has been convicted of such anoffence, he must be the victim himself of some conspiracy."
The count regarded her heated declaration as the involuntarydemonstration of a bond of friendship, and looked into her eyes inundisguised wonder. She stood facing him, her white hand upon thebroken 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," shedeclared, her face hard set and desperate. "If those enemies of myfather's are endeavouring so cleverly to oust him from office, is it notquite feasible that they have laid the blame purposely upon CaptainSolaro?"
"Why purposely?"
She paused, and again his eyes met hers.
"Because they knew that if Captain Solaro were accused," she saidslowly, "my father, as Minister, would show him no clemency."
"Why?"
"There is a reason," she responded hoarsely, adding, "I know that he isinnocent--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? Itwould never do for the public to learn that the loyalty of Italy'sofficers had been found wanting. That would shake the confidence of thecountry."
"And yet my father's enemies are preparing to strike a crushing blow athim by making capital out of it?" she exclaimed. "Ah yes. I see--I seeit all!" she cried. "It is a vile, despicable conspiracy which has sentto 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 theaffair," she went on. "Was her name Nodari--Filomena Nodari--and doesshe not live in Bologna?"
Her companion's lips pressed themselves together, but so slightly thatshe did not notice the almost imperceptible expression of annoyance uponhis face.
"I do not know," he declared. "I merely heard that there was a woman inthe case, and that she had given certain evidence before the militarycourt that left no doubt of the guilt of the accused. But," he added,half apologetically, "I had no idea, signorina, that Solaro was a friendof 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 Ishall at once ask my father to have the most searching inquiry made. Hewill do so, if it is my wish," she added confidently.
"Then you intend to champion the cause of the man who is accused ofbeing a traitor to Italy?" remarked the wily Parisian, regarding herfurtively as he spoke. "I fear, signorina, if you adopt any such courseyou will only place in the hands of your father's enemies a furtherweapon against him. No; if you desire to assist His Excellency at thisvery critical moment, you must refrain from taking any action which theycould construe into your own desire, or your father's intention, toliberate the man who is convicted of having sold his country to itsenemy."
"But it is unjust! He is innocent."
"Be that how it may, your duty surely is to help your father, not to actin a manner which would convince the public that he had connived at thesale of the military secrets of Tresenta."
Her dark eyes fixed themselves upon the distant towers and cupolas ofFlorence, down where the grey mists were now rising. They were filledwith tears, and her chest beneath her laces heaved slowly and then fellagain.
And the man lounging at her side with studied grace laughed withinhimself, 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 thathuge, lofty _sala di pranzo_, or dining-room, with its marble floor, itshigh prison-like windows closely barred with iron, its antique frescoedwalls, and old low settees covered with dark green damask running rightround the apartment.
In that enormous echoing room nothing had been touched for two hundredyears. The old oak furniture had been well-preserved, the greathigh-backed chairs, covered with leather and studded with big brassnails, the fine carved buffet, and the graven shield over the doorbearing the arms of the princely house that had once owned the place,all spoke of a brilliant magnificence of days bygone when those hugehalls had echoed to the tread of armed men, and the lord of San Donatoentertained his retainers and bravoes with princely generosity. Thevilla was so huge that the guest easily lost himself in itsramifications, its long corridors and huge salons each leading from oneto the other. Like all the fortified villas of the cinquecento, everywindow on the ground floor was closely barred, and this, combined withthe bareness of the rooms, gave to them an aspect of austerity. Overthe whole place was a comfortless air, like that of most Italian houses,save in Madame Morini's rose boudoir, and the little sitting-room whichMary had arranged in English style, and called her own.
In the great dining-room there was sitting accommodation for twohundred, and yet on that evening the party only numbered six: HerExcellency, Mary, Jules Dubard, an English schoolfellow of Mary's namedViolet Walters, the fair-haired daughter of an eminent KC, and twosisters, named Anna and Eva Fry, daughters of an English merchant atGenoa whom Her Excellency had invited up for the vintage.
The voices of the little party echoed strangely in that enormous oldapartment, and from time to time a peal of laughter came back from thecorners of the place with weird and startling repetition. The party hadthat day made an excursion over to another estate which the Ministerpossessed above the Arno, at Empoli, where the vintage was in fullswing. The trip had been delightful, and the peasantry had receivedthem 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 carnationpink, sat conversing mechanically in English with her friend Violet, apretty girl, about a year her senior, but within herself reflectingdeeply upon what the man sitting opposite her had told her when out uponthe terrace an hour before.
Her father was in peril; it was her duty to warn him. Felice Solaro hadfallen a victim of some dastardly plot, but for what reason and how wasan utter mystery.
She longed to explain to her father all that the count had told her, butin reply to a question, her mother had said that she did not expect himto leave Rome for at least a fortnight. Therefore she remainedthoughtful, apprehensive, and undecided
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