Behind the Throne

by William Le Queux

very man Dubard who was his intimatefriend--the man who it was said had furnished the Opposition withfacts--most of them false--regarding her father's politicalshortcomings?

  She tried to reason it all out, but became the more and more utterlybewildered.

  The reason of the captain's denunciation of George Macbean was amystery. When he mentioned the Englishman's name she had noticed aflash in his deep-set eyes betokening a deadly, deep-rooted hatred. Andyet it was upon this very man that all her thoughts and reflections hadof late been centred.

  As they were alone in that grim, gloomy room with its barred partition--the governor having granted them a private conference--she explained howthe Socialists had endeavoured to make capital out of the chargesagainst him with a view to obtaining her father's dismissal from office.She made no mention of her compact with Dubard or her engagement tohim, but merely explained how at the eleventh hour, while Montebruno wason his feet in the Chamber of Deputies, the mysterious note had beenplaced in his hand which had had the effect of arresting the charges hewas about to pour forth.

  Solaro listened to her in silence while she gave a description of thescene in the Chamber, and related certain details of the conspiracywhich she had learned through her father, the details gathered in secretby Vito Ricci.

  "Ah?" he sighed at last, having listened open-mouthed. "It is exactlyas I expected. Your father's enemies are mine. Having drawn me safelyinto their net, they intend to use my condemnation as proof of theinsecurity of the frontier and the culpability of the Minister of War."

  "But if they attack the Minister they must attack me personally?"exclaimed the general in surprise; for he had been in ignorance of thewidespread intrigue to hold the Ministry of War up to public ridiculeand condemnation. "As the frontier is under my command, I am personallyresponsible for its security?"

  "Exactly," Solaro said in a somewhat quieter tone. "If His Excellencyhad ordered a revision of my trial, I should most certainly have beenproved innocent, and that being so, the Socialists would have had nodirect charge which they could level against the Ministry. But as itis, I stand here condemned, imprisoned as a traitor, and therefore mygeneral is culpable, and above him the Minister himself."

  "My father should have pardoned you long ago. It is infamous!" Marydeclared, with rising anger. "By refusing your appeal for a new trialhe placed himself in this position of peril!"

  "Had I been released I would have given into his hands certaininformation by which he could have crushed the infamous intrigue againsthim," said the man behind the bars in a low, desperate tone. "But nowit is too late for a revision of my sentence. Our enemies havetriumphed. I am to be sent to Gorgona, sent to my death, while the plotagainst His Excellency still exists, and the _coup_ will be made againsthim at the very moment when he feels himself the most secure." Then,watching the pale face, he added suddenly, "Forgive me, signorina, forspeaking frankly like this; he is, I recollect, your father. But he hasdone me a grave injustice; he could have saved me--saved himself--if hehad cared to do so."

  "But you have said that my father fears to give you your liberty?" Sheremarked. "If that is so, it is fear, and not disinclination, that hasprevented him granting you a pardon?"

  "It is both," he declared hoarsely.

  "But is there no one else who could assist you--who would expose theseenemies and their plot?" she asked.

  "No one," he answered. "The most elaborate preparations were made toset the trap into which I unfortunately fell. I was watched in Paris,in Bologna, in Turin--in garrison and out of it. My every movement wasnoted, in order that it might be misconstrued. That Frenchman whostruck up an acquaintance with me in Paris, and who afterwards lent memoney, was in the pay of my enemies; and from that all the damningevidence against me was constructed with an ingenuity that was fiendish.I, an innocent man, was condemned without being given any opportunityof proving my defence! Ask Dubard, or the Englishman. Ask them to tellthe truth--if they dare!"

  "But tell me more of Mr Macbean," she cried eagerly. "What do youallege against him?"

  "I make no allegations," he answered in a low, changed voice. "I cansuffer in silence. Only when you meet that man tell him that FeliceSolaro, from his prison, sends him his warmest remembrances. Then watchhis face--that is all. His countenance will tell you the truth."

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

  IN THE TWILIGHT HOUR.

  For Mary Morini the world was full of base intrigue anduncharitableness, of untruth and false friendship. Four years ago shehad returned to Italy from that quiet school at Broadstairs to findherself plunged suddenly into a circle of society, torn by all theconflicting failings of the human heart. The world which she hadbelieved to be so full of beauty was only a wild, stormy waste, whereoneach traveller was compelled to fight and battle for reputation and forlife. Already world-weary before her time, she was nauseated by thehollow shams about her, tired of the glare of those gilded salons, andappalled by the intrigues on every hand--the intrigues which had fortheir object her father's ruin and the sacrifice of all her love, heryouth, and happiness.

  Often she asked herself if there could be any element of good remainingin such a world as hers. She tried it by the test of her religiousprinciple and found it selfish, indolent, and vain, attracting andswallowing up all who lived within the sphere of its contaminatinginfluence. She had believed herself adapted to the exercise of heraffections, that she might love, and trust, and hope to the utmost ofher wishes; but, alas! hers had been a rude awakening, and the sternrealities of life were to her a cruel and bitter revelation.

  In her Christian meekness she constantly sought Divine guidance, eventhough compelled to live amid that gay whirl of Rome; for the date ofher marriage was rapidly approaching, the day when the man to whom shehad bartered herself in exchange for her father's life would comeforward and claim her.

  The season, as society knew it, was far advanced, and although her mindwas filled by those grave suspicions conjured up by Solaro'sallegations, she frequently met and talked with George Macbean. Hisduties as her father's secretary took him to the palace a great deal,and sometimes of an evening they met at various official functions towhich the young Englishman had also been bidden.

  Out of the very poverty and the feebleness of her life, out of sheerdesperation, she became drawn towards him, and the bond of friendshipbecame still more closely cemented, even though those suspicions everarose within her. He was Dubard's friend--he had admitted that to her--and as Dubard's friend she mistrusted him.

  She had no friend in whom she could confide, or of whom she might askadvice. She exchanged few such confidences with her mother, while shewas unable to reveal to her father her secret visit to Solaro's prisonfor fear of his displeasure. It was at this crisis of her young lifethat she felt the absolute want of a participator in her joys, arecipient of her secrets, and a soother of her sorrows, and it was thissense of utter loneliness which rendered the young Englishman's societyso welcome to her.

  Weeks had passed since her painful interview with poor Solaro. The dullburden of accumulated sorrows hung heavily upon her. She had begunafresh. She had made a fresh dedication of her heart to God. She hadcommenced her patient work of unravelling the mystery of the greatintrigue by which to save her father, and to escape herself from thefate to which she was consigned--she had commenced the work as though ithad never been undertaken before, supported by Christian faith, and everstriving not to prejudge the man whose friendship had now become sonecessary to her existence.

  What the unfortunate prisoner had told her, however, had opened her eyesto many plain facts, the chief of them being that Borselli had, by hissuggestion that she should secure the captain's release, endeavoured toinduce her to bring ruin upon her own father. For the Minister to signa decree of pardon now was impossible. Such an action must inevitablycause his downfall; therefore it was necessary that the captain shouldremain in prison, although innocent.

  In Rome a sudden tranquillity had fall
en upon the face of thatever-changing political world around the throne. Mary, who was seen atevery ball and at every official dinner, still retained her golden andexuberant youth, her joyous step, her sweet smile, and the worldbelieved her very happy. She was to marry Jules Dubard. But at home,in the hours of loneliness in her own room, there fell upon her the grimtragedy of it all, and she shed tears, bitter tears, because she wasstill fettered, still unable to discover the truth.

  Two years ago she had possessed all the freshness of unwearied nature,the glow of health, that life-spring of all the energies of thought andaction--the power to believe as well as to hope--the earnestness of zealunchilled by disappointment, the first awakening of joy, the clearperception of a mind unbiassed in its search of truth, the fervour of anuntroubled soul. But