Behind the Throne

by William Le Queux

acknowledgments, but, alas! only mechanically.She really did not recognise any of those men who raised their hats, thesmart officers who drew their heels together and saluted, or thewell-dressed women who nodded to her. Truth to tell, she was thinkingof the man with whom she had so suddenly come face to face, thestraight, athletic man who had spoken so openly and so frankly abouthimself when they had stood upon that green, level tennis-lawn at Orton.The recollection of him had almost faded from her memory until onlyhalf an hour ago, and now she found herself reflecting deeply, wonderingwhether he had really schemed to enter her father's service, and, if so,with what motive.

  He had acknowledged himself to be a friend of Dubard, the man she heldin such suspicion and distrust, and yet there was something so frank andhonest in his manner that it held her mystified. As she walked alongthat narrow, crowded thoroughfare in the heart of Rome, memories ofthose idle summer days in England arose vividly before her, of the ruraltennis tournament at Thornby, of the village flower-show held in theold-world rectory garden, and of George Macbean's visit to Orton.

  Teresa spoke to her, but she heeded not. Her mind was filled withthoughts of the pleasant past when her life was free and she wasunfettered. Now, however, that compact she had made to secure herfather's freedom had crushed all light and hope from her young heart, sothat day by day, as her marriage approached, she became more inert andmelancholy.

  Her delicacy, grace, and simplicity were astonishing when one viewedthat irresponsible and artificial world of modern _chic_ in which shelived. Her character, indeed, resolved itself into the very elements ofwomanhood. She was beautiful, modest, and tender, so perfectlyunsophisticated, so delicately refined that she was peerless among allothers in that vain, silly, out-dressing set, where religion was onlythe cant of the popular confessor and the scandal of a promenade throughSaint Peter's or San Giovanni, the brilliant glittering crowd who formedthe court circle of modern Italy around King Umberto's throne.

  She had sprung up into beauty in that far-off modest school that facedthe grey English Channel at Broadstairs, and on making her bow beforeher sovereign she had instantly created a sensation and a vogue forherself that still continued, one which, was fostered by the Ministerand his wife, although at heart she hated all the hollow shams andscandalous gossip. True, she had had her little flirtations the same asother girls, yet she had never caught from society one imitated orartificial grace. She preferred the society of her father or her motherto that of girl friends; for most of the latter of her own world shefound giddy and empty-headed, generally boasting of conquests they hadmade among men, and ridiculing them as fools.

  She tolerated society only under sheer compulsion. Through these threewild years of whirling excitement she had fortunately retained herwoman's heart, for it was unalterable and inalienable, as part of herbeing. And it was because of that she had now sacrificed herself tobecome the wife of Jules Dubard.

  Oh, the tragedy of it all! No single person was there in whom toconfide, or of whom to seek advice. The bitter truth was forced uponher more and more each day. The compact with the man whoseartificiality and mannerisms she held in such abhorrence she was boundto keep, for did she not hold her beloved father's future in her hands?

  Of a sudden, when she was half-way up the Corso towards the Porta delPopolo, she heard the musical sounds of harness bells as a fine landauand pair swept up behind her.

  Every man's head was uncovered and every woman bowed, for there flashedby Umberto the Good and his Queen Margherita, both worshipped by thepeople, and on every hand there rose the cry, "Viva il Re! Viva laRegina!"

  Mary bowed with the rest, and Her Majesty, quick to notice her, gave hera nod of recognition and gracious smile; for, as the world of Rome knewquite well, she was one of those behind the throne, a personal friend ofthe queen, who was never tired of admiring the wondrous beauty of theMinister's daughter.

  The royal pair passed on at a gallop up the Corso, and Mary sighed toherself as the carriage disappeared. It recalled to her that she wascompelled to attend the state ball at the Quirinale that night, much asshe hated all those glittering official functions. Her dress, amarvellous creation in yellow, had arrived from Paris the day before;but when Teresa had taken it from its long box and shaken out themagnificent skirt, she had scarcely glanced at it. She wore thosegorgeous gowns which were so admired at court only because it gratifiedher father. Personally, she delighted in a short, tailor-made skirt anda blouse like those she could wear at Orton. The vagaries of the _mode_never interested her in the least. Paquin had her model, and made herdresses as he liked. She simply wore them, annoyed at those long anddifficult trains he gave her--that was all.

  The gay world around the throne believed that she studied the fashionsand wore those costly gowns because she delighted in them. But such wasnot a fact. Her tastes were of the simplest, and her ideal always was alife in the rural quiet of Orton Court, with an occasional shoppingvisit to London as a dissipation. The very atmosphere of Rome, with itsfalse appearances, its bartering of a girl's bright youth, loveliness,and purity for titles, its gambling and its drug habits, stifled her.She loathed it all, and longed to enjoy life's good gifts in ruralEngland. Yet, alas! such an ideal was to her but a dream. It was herfate to be drawn into that maelstrom where each man and woman must beseen, must be known, and must be notorious in some way or other, nomatter how.

  And because she was born in the official world, she was bound, for herfather's sake, to act her part in it.

  Through all that day she reflected upon the words which the youngEnglishman had uttered regarding Sazarac--that unusual name she had onceoverheard spoken, and which she recollected so well. She remarked howher father had distinctly betrayed fear at mention of it, and thereforethe reason had ever since been a puzzling mystery to her.

  For months she had wondered at what Borselli meant when he hadthreatened her father. The latter had reproached him of his intentionto betray him, whereupon the Under-Secretary had said--

  "I am in earnest. You act as I have suggested--or you take theconsequences!"

  That in itself showed plainly that the Sicilian still held power overher father on account of what had been mentioned between them as "theSazarac affair."

  After luncheon she casually mentioned to her father her meeting withGeorge Macbean, whereupon he said--

  "Oh, I quite thought I had told you of his appointment. I wanted anEnglish secretary, and he was the very man to fill the post. Yourecollect that he visited us once or twice at Orton, but I hadpreviously met him when he came to interpret for his employerMorgan-Mason regarding an army contract for Abyssinia."

  "Did you offer him the appointment?" she asked.

  "No; Angelo did. He apparently knew of him."

  His Excellency's reply surprised Mary. Why, she wondered, had herfather's enemy appointed the young Englishman to a post in order totransfer him to her father's cabinet as private secretary? She wassuspicious of Borselli, and discerned in this some hidden motive.

  And yet was it not more than strange that the young Englishman wasDubard's friend, while Dubard himself was in the secrets of AngeloBorselli! The more she pondered over the problem the more bewilderingdid it become.

  At midnight she alighted with her mother from the brougham in the greatcourtyard of the Quirinale, and gathering up her train, passed throughthe long flower-decked corridors, up the great staircase of marble andporphyry, where stood the tall, statuesque guards, and on into themagnificent Hall of the Ambassadors, where the guests at the court ballwere assembling.

  As she let down her train and entered the magnificent salon with itsgilt ceiling and myriad electric lights her appearance caused a murmurof approbation as every eye was turned upon her. The assembly wasperhaps the most brilliant of any that could be gathered in any Europeancapital. The men were in uniforms of every colour, with the crosses andribbons of the various orders of chivalry. The ambassadors and theirstaffs were all there, from the Chinese representatives
in theirnational dress to the cunning old gentleman from St Petersburg in hiswhite uniform tunic with the blue ribbon of St Andrew at his throat.Lord Elton, the British Ambassador, a dark-bearded, elderly man, wearingthe star of Knight Commander of the Bath, came forward to greet the WarMinister's wife and daughter, and there came up also to salute theambassador Morini himself in his gorgeous uniform with the cerise andwhite ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy and the green and whitecross of Saints Maurice and Lazarus, as well as a number of minorforeign orders across his breast.

  In uniform Camillo Morini always looked his best, tall, refined,distinguished, a man who would be marked out anywhere as a leader amongmen. He was pale and haggard, however, having risen from his bed tocome there and be seen because it was policy--always policy.

  Around on every side were high Italian officers in their gala uniformwith golden epaulettes, women dressed