Behind the Throne

by William Le Queux

of improving your position--ofmaking money. Now, I am desirous of obtaining certain information, forwhich I am prepared to pay very handsomely, and at the Ministry of Waryou can, if you go cautiously to work, obtain it."

  "You mean some military secret?" remarked Macbean, looking quickly athis master. "I certainly shall never betray my employers."

  "No, no, not at all," protested the arrogant man before him, with a drylaugh. "It is a secret which I desire to learn--one for which I willwillingly pay you ten thousand pounds in cash, if you can give me proofof the truth--but it is not a military one. You need have no fear thatI am asking you to act the traitor to your employers." The two menregarded each other fixedly. Each was suspicious of double-dealing.The millionaire was searching to discover whether the sum named wassufficiently tempting to induce his secretary to act as his spy, whilethe latter, scanning the large eyes of the other, endeavoured to readthe motive of the mysterious offer.

  "You can earn ten thousand pounds easily if you are only wary and actwith careful discretion," went on the millionaire, seeing that Macbeanhad become interested. "It only requires a little tact, a few judiciousinquiries, and the examination of a few official documents. To thelatter you will no doubt have access, and if so it will be easy enough."

  "And what is it?" asked George Macbean after a brief pause, shifting inhis chair as he spoke. "What is it you desire to know?"

  "The truth regarding the exact circumstances of the death of poorSazarac."

  The other held his breath.

  "I desire to avenge his death," went on the millionaire quietly, lookingstraight into the face of the astonished man, "and I intend to do so.He was my friend, you know. Discover the truth, and I will willinglypay you the sum I have named--ten thousand pounds." George Macbean satbefore his employer utterly bewildered, stupefied.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

  VITO IS INQUISITIVE.

  Three months had gone by.

  The winter season in Florence had commenced in real earnest, and thestreets of the grey old city were agog with the crowd of wealthyforeigners who migrate there for blue sky and sunshine. The ViaTornabuoni was bright with smart toilettes, the Lung Arno was crowdedwith handsome equipages, the Cascine was full of life at the fashionablehour of four, while Vieusseux's and the Floreal tea-shop overflowed, andthere was gay laughter and cosmopolitan chatter everywhere.

  Florence had awakened from her summer siesta beneath the glare and heat,and with her streets still sun-blanched she had put on that air ofirresponsibility which is always so attractive to the leisuredforeigner. Florentine hostesses were already beginning to receive, andthe mass of small and jealous cliques, which calls itself Englishsociety, had started their five o'clock and teacup scandals.

  The Englishman who visits Florence to inspect her art treasures and tobask in the sunshine of the Lung Arno or the heights of Fiesole isentirely ignorant of its curious complex society--of the blood pride ofthe Florentines, or of the narrow-minded prejudices of those would-becosmopolitan Britons, mostly with double-barrelled names, who areresidents. Probably there is no circle in all the world so select andso conservative as the society of the aristocratic Florentines. Themajority of the princes, marquises, or counts are on the verge ofbankruptcy, be it said; nevertheless, they still retain all their prideof race, and neither man nor woman is judged by his pocket. Those huge,ponderous cinquecento palaces, with their gloomy cortiles and theirclosely barred windows, may have been stripped of their pictures, theirsculptures, and their antique furniture long ago, yet at the receptionsgiven in those bare skeletons of ancestral homes no one comments uponthe pinch of poverty that is so painfully displayed.

  Your Florentine aristocrat makes a brave show to the world and to thelittle English cliques around him. He has a grand carriage with hisarms and coronet boldly emblazoned on every panel, he drives finehorses, he has his clothes made in London, and his wife's dresses comefrom the Rue de la Paix; he gambles at the circolo, and he loungespicturesquely at Giacosa's or Doney's. And yet in his great palace, thedoors of which are rigorously closed, he lives frugally in a few huge,barely furnished rooms, and is scarcely able to make both ends meet.

  The American invasion has, however, commenced to break down even thisbarrier of caste, for several men of the bluest Florentine blood have,of necessity, married American wives, in order to save themselves fromruin, and have been loudly condemned for so doing.

  In those bright January days all Florence was agog regarding theengagement of Count Jules Dubard with Mary Morini, daughter of thepopular War Minister. By reason of her mother's health, they hadremained on at the villa all the autumn; for neither had any desire forthe wild gaieties and entertaining which residence in Rome entailed uponthem, and preferred the quiet life of their ancient hillside home.

  Daily through the streets of Florence Mary and Dubard flashed in theMinister's motor-brougham, hither and thither, paying calls or shopping,being greeted and congratulated on every hand. Her father's officialposition had given Mary the _entree_ to the most exclusive set, and inFlorence she was always as popular as she was in the court circle at theQuirinale. She dressed usually in cream flannel, with a large black hatand a huge ostrich boa; while Dubard, smiling and elegant, was ever ather side in the smart conveyance which rushed everywhere with loudtrumpeting.

  Her family, in ignorance of the tragedy of her young life, weredelighted with the engagement, and on every hand had she receivedheartiest good wishes. For a girl to marry an Englishman or Frenchmanis considered the height of _chic_ in Italy, and Mary's social prestigewas increased a hundredfold by her prospect of becoming a Frenchcountess. The young pair became the most striking and popular figuresin the best Florentine society, while the English sets all vainlystruggled to get them to their houses. Madame Morini being too unwellto go out at night, Mary was usually chaperoned by the old PrincessPiola, a well-known society leader; and solely in order to please hermother, Mary went to all the functions to which she was bidden.

  The Minister's wife, however, had never entertained any great affectionfor the English set in Florence. She had once been an English governessherself, and having known them all well through twenty years, had becomethoroughly disgusted with their petty bickerings and constantscandal-mongering. Strange that the English on the Continent alwaysdivide into a quantity of small cliques. The French, the Germans, eventhe Scots, all join harmoniously and patriotically in a continentaltour; but, as the Italians are so fond of saying, "the English is a goodbut strange nation."

  With the exception of the British Consul-General's wife, who was an oldfriend of her mother's, Mary visited no other English house.

  "The Italian law of caste is bad enough, my dear," her mother had saidto her one day, "but the English backbiting is infinitely worse."

  And so, with the man she was engaged to marry, she was seen night afternight at those huge old mediaeval palaces, often dimly lit on account ofthe penury of their owners, and where the refreshments frequentlyconsisted of home-made lemonade and tarts from the pastrycook's.

  One night at a dance at the great Cusani Palace on the Lung Arno, wherethe old Marchioness Cusani was entertaining her friends, she foundherself chatting with Vito Ricci, the deputy, who, wearing on the lapelof his coat the dark green ribbon and white cross of the Order of SaintsMaurice and Lazarus, had bowed low over her hand and murmured hiscongratulations.

  The great salon, with its polished floor, faded gilding, and crumblingfrescoes, was of the ornate style of three centuries before, but overeverything was a faded and neglected aspect. Those empty niches in thewall had once contained statues by Donatello, Niccolo Pisano, andMontorsoli, all of which had been sold and exported from Italy toAmerica years ago; while the two large panels painted white had eachcontained a Raphael, long since disposed of to the National Gallery inLondon. And although the supper consisted of sandwiches from Doney's,and in lieu of champagne sweet Asti at two-francs-fifty the bottle, yetthe nobility of Florence far preferred gathering
there to beingpatronised by the wealthy Americans or English.

  The music was good, and Ricci invited Mary to the waltz which at thatmoment was just commencing. She had known her father's secret agentever since she had been a child; therefore, nothing loth, she gave himthe favour he requested. Both were excellent dancers. Ricci went intosociety of necessity, in order to keep in touch with the trend ofaffairs, and was equally well known in Rome as in Florence, in Turin, orin Naples. His sponsor had been Morini himself, and he was one of thevery few of the rank and file of the Camera who moved actually in thebest sets.

  "I have wanted to meet you for quite a long time, Miss Mary," he said inItalian, after they had finished dancing and were strolling through oneof the high old ante-rooms, where two or three cavalry officers werelounging with their partners. At dances in Italy