Behind the Throne

by William Le Queux

for when he informed him of theMinister's order, he remained silent and his sallow face assumed anexpression of distinct disapproval. The general had not expected thatMorini would take the young man into his service, or he would probablyhave hesitated to call him from London. Nevertheless, theUnder-Secretary was too clever to openly exhibit any annoyance at thechief's decision. Indeed, he was always humble and obedient, bowing toevery decree of his superior, even though in his heart he was everplotting against him. And so George Macbean had become one of HisExcellency's private secretaries, and very soon enjoyed a good deal ofthe confidence of his principal.

  Hitherto, however, his work lying always at the Ministry, he had neverhad occasion to go to the palace. From the first moment of his arrivalin Rome his mind had been full of recollections of Mary. He had seenher driving on the Pincio on the bright winter afternoons; he had passedher in the Corso, and had seen her, exquisitely gowned, seated with hermother in a box at the Constanzi. But she had never once noticed him,and on that morning, when he had been compelled to call at the palace toreceive instructions from his chief, who was unwell, they had comesuddenly face to face for the first time.

  The meeting gave them mutual satisfaction. There was no doubt upon thatpoint. She had looked hard at him ere she recognised him, for, like allthe corridors in those mediaeval palaces, it was not very light, and shewould have passed him without acknowledgment had he not uttered hername.

  While standing there in that painted room with the tarnished goldfurniture and mosaic floor, so different from the country drawing-roomat Orton, with its bright chintzes and flowers, he had briefly told herof the unexpected offer that had reached him in England, of hisacceptance, and of his ultimate appointment to be one of her father'sprivate secretaries.

  "Only fancy!" she laughed. "The world is really very small, is it not?I never thought, when we played tennis together at your uncle'stournament at Thornby, that you would be given an office in the Ministryof War. But I remember now how well you spoke Italian, and that youtold me how fond you were of Italy."

  "I owe all my good fortune to your father, Miss Morini. Believe me, ithas lifted me out of a world of drudgery and insult--for, as I think Itold you, I have been secretary to a Member of Parliament namedMorgan-Mason."

  "Ah! of course!" she exclaimed quickly, regarding him with a curious,fixed look. "You were secretary to Mr Morgan-Mason."

  "Yes. Do you know him?"

  "Not personally," she faltered, with some confusion. "I--well, I'veheard of him. Some English friends of mine know him very well, andthrough them I have heard of the fellow's pompous egotism."

  "Then you can well understand how very deeply I thank your father forhis kindnesses towards me." And then he spoke of her engagement, aboutwhich everyone in Rome was at that moment talking.

  He noticed her disinclination to speak of the man whom she was tomarry--that man whom he knew so well.

  "The count is in Paris," she answered briefly, when he inquired abouthim. "Have you not met him yet? I recollect when in England he wasvery anxious to meet you."

  "No. I have not seen him to congratulate him upon his good fortune,"replied George, with a touch of bitterness; "but no doubt he will soonreturn, and we shall come across each other."

  "He is due back in a week in order to go to the royal reception at theQuirinale on the nineteenth," she said. "When I write to-morrow I willtell him that you are now in Rome."

  "No," exclaimed Macbean quickly. "Don't tell him. I like giving oldfriends pleasant surprises. When he returns I will call on himunexpectedly."

  His was a good excuse, and he was gratified to see that she accepted it.It would, he knew, never do for her to write and inform her lover ofhis presence in Rome. If she did, he certainly would not dare to returnto the Eternal City. George had resolved to conceal his presence fromthe Frenchman and to carefully watch his movements. Therefore heinduced the Minister's daughter to make no mention of him.

  He found her somewhat more wan and pale than she had been in England.She seemed preoccupied, _distraite_, with a touch of sadness in herdeep, liquid eyes that was scarcely in keeping with the passion andecstasy of an engagement. She was not her old self, bright,lighthearted, and careless, as she had been in those summer days inEngland. Something had occurred, but what it was he had no means ofascertaining.

  The one thought that held him spellbound was the reflection that she wasactually to marry Jules Dubard.

  She was about to sacrifice herself, and yet he dare not tell her theterrible truth. He stood gazing into her great brown eyes, speechlessbefore that calm and wondrous beauty that had for months arisenconstantly before his eyes amid the whirl of London life. Yes, he lovedher--he had fallen to worship at her shrine ever since those warmafternoons when they had played tennis on the level English lawns, andnow this re-encounter had awakened within him all the wild passion ofhis yearning heart.

  During those days in Rome he had heard much of her, for she was populareverywhere, a reigning beauty in the gay, exclusive circle whichsurrounded the royal throne, and one of the most courted of all theunmarried girls in the capital. The season was at its height, thereforeshe was seen everywhere, mostly in company with Dubard. If the truthwere told, however, it was much against her own inclination. She was inno mood for gaiety. All the life and gaiety had been crushed from herheart, and she only attended the various functions because it was herduty towards her father to do so. Many a sleepless night she spent inprayer and in tears.

  Long ago she had become nauseated by all the glare and glitter, thechatter and music of those gilded salons where smart Rome amusedthemselves each evening. Whenever she could, she made excuses to stayat home in the quiet and silence of her own room; but as it was part ofher father's statecraft that she should be seen and congratulated, shewas compelled very often to put on her magnificent gowns with a sigh,dance when her heart was leaden, and smile even though she was burstingwith grief.

  Yet she rigorously kept the secret of her self-sacrifice, and nonesuspected that the young French _elegant_ had compelled her to accepthim as husband. Indeed, Dubard was already very popular in Rome. Hewas possessed of means, belonged to the most exclusive Italian club, anddrove a smart phaeton and pair each afternoon, frequently with Mary athis side.

  The men and women who were Dubard's friends were among the highest insociety, yet none knew the truth save Borselli and George Macbean,neither of whom dare, for their own sakes, utter one single word indenunciation.

  "You told me at Orton that the count was an old friend, Mr Macbean,"exclaimed Mary, after a brief pause. She had met his gazeunflinchingly, and then lowered her eyes to the ground. She lookedfresh and neat in her plain black tailor-made gown, for she was dressedready to go out for her morning walk in the Corso.

  "Yes. We met several years ago," was Macbean's reply.

  "Where?"

  "In London."

  "You must have been close friends," she remarked, "for he has on severaloccasions asked whether I had heard of you."

  George smiled, for his reflections were bitter ones. "Yes," he said, "Iknew him quite well; but we drifted apart, as friends so often do."

  "Then you will, of course, be glad to meet him again."

  "For one reason, very glad. Because I want to inquire of him what hasbecome of one who was our mutual friend, and who mysteriouslydisappeared--a very curious affair."

  "Was it a man?" asked Mary, suddenly interested.

  "Yes--a French army officer--a General Felix Sazarac."

  "Sazarac!" she gasped, with open mouth and cheeks suddenly blanched asthe name recalled to her the strange conversation between Borselli andher father. "Was Sazarac your friend?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

  AROUND THE THRONE.

  Mary, accompanied by the faithful Teresa, a stout, middle-aged woman inblack, who had seen fifteen years of service in the family, went outalong the Corso, at that hour crowded by the Roman idlers and foreignvisitors.

>   The bright air of the spring morning was refreshing after the dull gloomof the great old Antinori palace, and all Rome was full of life,movement, and gaiety. Carnival had passed, and the Pasqua was fastapproaching, that time when the Roman season is its gayest and when thehotels are full of wealthy foreigners from the north.

  The court receptions and balls had brought the Italian aristocracy fromthe various cities, and the ambassadors were mostly at their postsbecause of the weekly diplomatic receptions.

  As Mary went along the Corso to an artists' colour shop, in order topurchase some tubes for the painting which occupied her spare time, shewas saluted on every hand, for she was well-known and populareverywhere. Her beauty was remarked wherever she went.

  She bowed and smiled her