Behind the Throne

Macbean tried to speak, but his throat contracted; he was unable. Alas! that terrible truth had been ever before him since that fatal day in spring, when his life had been fettered. Try how he would, he could not put from him the horror of those awful hours. There were, unfortunately, witnesses against him, witnesses who could prove his guilt and send him to an assassin’s punishment.

“Well?” he managed to gasp at last in a low, half-frightened voice, his heart beating quickly as he half turned and faced his accuser.

“Only this,” answered Jules Dubard determinedly; “silence for silence! You understand now, my friend – silence for silence!”

And then the two men parted.

The morning dawned bright and sunny – the morning of Mary’s wedding day – one of those fresh, brilliant days in June when the grass-country looks its gladdest and best.

The bells were pealing merrily from the old church-tower of Orton in honour of the event, upon the lawn a large marquee had been erected, and the men down from London with the wedding breakfast were bustling everywhere, while the excitement out in the village was intense.

Morini and his wife were both happy at the match, and in the long dining-room some of the presents were displayed, including a splendid pearl collar from Her Majesty the Queen of Italy. The house was full of visitors, several of them being persons of the highest aristocracy in Italy, who had been specially invited over for the wedding, and there was gaiety everywhere.

The only person who took no part in the bustle was the bride herself, for alone in her bright little room she was upon her knees imploring the Divine aid for strength in that hour of her greatest trial.

During those past weeks, as each day brought her nearer that hateful union, she had pondered deeply, trying to devise some means by which to escape, but alas! she saw too well that refusal would only bring ruin upon her father’s head; while, if she did marry Dubard, she had no security that the blow would not fall upon her family afterwards. So she had been compelled to bow to the inevitable, to make that sacrifice of her love, of her very life.

Those who had seen her in Rome lolling in her splendid carriage drawn by that perfect pair of English bays, dancing in those gilded salons, or laughing with her neighbour at dinner at one or other of the foreign embassies, had surely never dreamed that that bright, happy girl, whose engagement was discussed everywhere, had such a heavy burden of sorrow within her young heart.

Before her lay her bridal gown, a magnificent creation from the Rue de la Paix, with old lace that had once belonged to the extinct royal house of Naples. But when she gazed upon it she burst into a flood of tears, and sank again upon her knees in desperation.

Teresa came at last and tried to calm her.

“Signorina! signorina!” she exclaimed, stroking the dark hair, which, unbound, fell upon her shoulders. “Your eyes will look so red. Oh, surely you should be happy to-day!”

“Happy!” groaned the unfortunate girl bitterly, as she slowly staggered to her feet. “There is no happiness for me – none – none.”

At last the pale-faced girl, summoning up all the courage she possessed, seated herself before the mirror, and having allowed Teresa to dress her hair for the bridal, proceeded, with the help of Santina, her mother’s maid, her mother, and Vi Walters – who was one of the wedding guests – to put on the gown with its wonderful train and real orange-blossoms from the orangery at San Donato.

Meanwhile, however, in the study below, Camillo Morini was sitting with his enemy, Angelo Borselli, who had practically invited himself on a flying visit to the ceremony, and whom he could not well refuse without giving him a direct insult. Morini hated the man who had ever been his evil genius, but in the present circumstances dared not openly quarrel with him. Therefore he treated him with diplomatic friendliness.

They were smoking their cigars together when Dubard, elegantly dressed, entered merrily, and greeted them. Borselli had only arrived late on the previous night, therefore he had not seen him before.

“Well, my friend!” cried the Sicilian, “I congratulate you. You will have the best of wives in all the world – and the best of fathers-in-law, that I’m sure.”

“Ah, I’m certain I shall,” replied the bridegroom. “But what great preparations are being made!”

“Half the country will be here to the reception later on,” Morini remarked, laughing.

“Where is your secretary – Macbean?” inquired Dubard.

“He is not here yet. He is staying with his uncle over at Thornby,” was His Excellency’s reply.

And the bridegroom smiled to himself. His words of the previous night would, he knew, have their effect.

Silence for silence!

Chapter Thirty Nine

Revelations

At that moment, however, the door suddenly opened, causing the three men to turn and glance, when, to their surprise, they saw, standing before them, the man whose name had just been mentioned. Dubard held his breath. Macbean’s face was bloodless, his lips quivered, his hands were clenched, his whole countenance seemed to have altered in those moments of tension and determination, and as he closed the door behind him and advanced boldly into the room, trying to speak in a cool voice, he addressed the Minister —

“Your Excellency, the tragedy of this marriage must not take place – for your own sake, as well as for your daughter’s.”

In an instant the three men were upon their feet, electrified by the Englishman’s startling words.

“What do you mean?” asked Morini, looking at him amazed.

“Yes,” cried Dubard, stepping forward angrily. “Let us hear what this fellow means.”

“You wish to hear,” exclaimed Macbean, facing the Frenchman boldly. “Then listen! I allege that Miss Morini has been forced into this marriage by you – and by that man there,” he added, pointing to the sallow-faced Sicilian. “If you doubt me,” he said, turning to the Minister of War, “ask her yourself. This man Dubard made a promise to her that, in exchange for her hand, he would prevent the crisis which Borselli had arranged to bring ruin and disgrace upon you. You will recollect the mysterious letter received by Montebruno when he was already upon his feet in the Chamber. That letter was sent by your enemy, Borselli, at Dubard’s instigation, because your poor daughter had consented to sacrifice herself in order to save you. It is my duty to tell you this, your Excellency. You have been pleased to take me into your service, to treat me almost as a confidential friend, and it is my duty therefore to speak the truth and to save Miss Mary from falling the victim of this man?”

“Victim!” cried Dubard quickly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you intend to marry her, and having done so, your friend here, General Angelo Borselli, will strike his blow at His Excellency – a merciless blow, that will crush and ruin him.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the Sicilian. “All this is a mere fiction! He loves your daughter himself, my dear Camillo. There is lots of gossip about it in Rome.”

“During my employment in the Ministry I have kept both ears and eyes open,” Macbean went on. “I know well with what devilish ingenuity you have plotted against your chief, how you have forced him deeper and deeper into financial intrigue, in order that your revelations may be the greater, and how, in order to propitiate your accomplice Dubard, you have stayed your hand until this marriage is effected.”

“Basta!” cried the Sicilian. “I will not be insulted by a common employee like you!”

“Nor I!” exclaimed Dubard, his face white with passion, as he turned to Macbean. “My affairs are no concern of yours – they concern myself and the lady who is to become my wife. I am amazed that you, of all men, should dare to come forward and make these unfounded charges against us. Hitherto I have kept my silence, but as you have sought exposure I will speak the truth. Then your employer shall judge as to which of us is worthy of confidence, and which – ”

“I make no plea for myself,” declared George, quickly interrupting him. “I merely intervene on behalf of a broken and defenceless woman – the woman you have so cleverly entrapped.”

But Dubard only laughed drily, and said —

“Very well. Let His Excellency listen to you – and afterwards to me.”

“Then let me speak first,” cried the Englishman desperately. “Let me tell you myself the truth of the Sazarac affair.”

Borselli’s face fell, and Morini’s countenance changed colour in an instant. Mention of that name was sufficient to cause both men quick apprehension.

“You need not do that,” the Sicilian managed to say. “But I will,” Macbean went on. “You shall hear me. I know the truth is an unwelcome one, but lest others shall tell you any garbled version of it, I will be frank and fearless with you. In the winter three years ago I was taken by Mr Morgan-Mason, whose secretary I was, to stay with General Felix Sazarac, whose wife was my employer’s elder sister, the younger sister having married a Mr Fitzroy. The general, who was in command of the French garrisons on the Alpine frontier, lived at the Villa Puget, at Mentone, and at the Hôtel National there was staying his friend Dubard – the man before you. We became friendly, for the general often invited Dubard to dine at the villa, and after a time there arrived in Mentone at the same hotel an acquaintance of the count’s – a young Italian gentleman of means named Solaro, who was also introduced at the Villa Puget, and who also became one of our intimate friends. Curiously enough, however, the general did not seem to care for Solaro’s company, yet he frequently invited me to ride out with him, and gave me good mounts from the barracks. Well,” he went on, after a slight pause, “all went merrily for over two months, until one day, when Mr Morgan-Mason had gone to Marseilles, the general invited me to ride with him up into the mountains to the fortress above Saint Martin Lantosque, which he had to inspect. The morning was a bright one, with all the prospects of a blazing day, and we first rode across the plain behind Mentone, and then began to ascend the rough mountain paths into the Alps. We had ridden some fourteen miles or so, when the general suddenly exclaimed, ‘That rascally servant of mine has forgotten my flask again!’ ‘Never mind,’ I called to him. ‘I have mine. I filled it with cognac and water before starting.’ ‘That’s good!’ he laughed. – ‘We shall want a drink before long. It’s going to be a blazer to-day!’ And then we toiled on and on, up the steep rough paths that wound higher and higher over the mountains. Just before midday, however, the general pulled up, removed his cap, and declaring that he was thirsty, took a long pull at the flask I handed to him.”

“And then?” asked Morini almost involuntarily, as he stood listening to the story.

“I was not thirsty myself, so I put the flask back into the holster, and we rode on again, laughing together and enjoying the glorious panorama at our feet. Half an hour later, however, my companion complained of queer pains in his head and giddiness, which he attributed to the sun, and pulling up he dismounted. We were then in a lonely spot in a district utterly unknown to me. The general grew worse, being seized by strange cramping pains in the stomach and a curious twitching of the face. I gave him some water from a spring close by, and bathed his head, but he grew worse, and seemed to lapse into a state of coma. Suddenly he opened his eyes, and motioning to me that he wished to speak, he gasped faintly, ‘Tell them I did it because those Jews were pressing me – I regret it – regret – but it is useless!’ Then after a pause he managed to articulate, ‘My wife! – my dear wife – my love to her, M’sieur Macbean – my love to her – I – I’ – Then his jaw dropped, and I found him dead upon my arm! This fatal seizure appalled me. I shouted, but no one heard. I was miles and miles from civilisation in the centre of the wildest district of the Alps, therefore I covered the dead man’s face with his handkerchief, tethered his horse, and rode back ten miles or so to a little village we had passed. The general was brought back to Mentone that night, and at the Villa Puget the scene was a sad and tragic one. I gave poor madame her husband’s dying message, but his words about the Jews puzzled her. She could not understand them in the least. It was a mystery.”

“They were words invented by you,” declared Dubard in a hard tone. “Tell these gentlemen the truth! It was you who gave the poor fellow the cognac – you who poisoned him!”

“I gave him the brandy, I admit,” exclaimed Macbean quickly, “but I swear I was unaware that it was poisoned!”

“You filled it from the bottle in your room. Now you have gone so far, tell the whole truth.”

“I am not afraid,” Macbean went on boldly. “On the night when the body of the general was brought home you came with Solaro to my room, locked the door, and charged me with administering poison – although three doctors had seen him, and as they had all previously treated him for a malady which they knew might terminate fatally on too violent exercise, they had decided that no post-mortem examination was necessary. Your allegation astounded me, but you asked for the key of the cupboard wherein I kept the bottle of brandy. There was some remaining, as well as the remains of that mixed with water in the flask. As I denied that I had poisoned him you both urged that, in satisfaction, I should seal both bottle and flask and submit them to some analyst in Paris. This I willingly did, entirely unsuspecting any plot. I packed them in a box, and myself saw them despatched.”

“And the analyst’s report is here!” exclaimed Dubard, waving the paper triumphantly before the speaker’s eyes. “It proves that you deliberately poisoned General Sazarac, while Solaro, if he were here, could prove further that he found in your writing-case the draft which you stole from the dead man’s pocket?”

“I know only too well the circumstantial evidence that was against me,” said Macbean, addressing Morini. “I had been the victim of a clever and ingenious plot in which the unfortunate officer had lost his life. But why? There seemed no motive whatever. I returned to England a suspected man, and from that day I did not come face to face with Dubard until I recognised him last year driving on the Rugby road, and heard to my amazement that he was engaged to your daughter Mary. Ever since then I have desired to re-encounter this man, and to clear myself of the terrible charge he brings against me.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” inquired His Excellency, astonished at the entirely new complexion placed upon that tragic affair which had caused him so much mental anxiety and so many sleepless nights.

“I can only declare my complete innocence. I was, no doubt, the agent who administered the fatal cognac, but I certainly was ignorant of it, and would never have poisoned the man who had showed me so many kindnesses.”

“Then I think it is only in the interests of justice if this report of the analyst is given into the hands of the Paris police,” remarked the Sicilian, who had remained silent, but whose active mind nevertheless had been at work to discern some means of effectually closing Macbean’s mouth.

The young Englishman started. He had not expected such a suggestion. He foresaw the difficulty of proving his innocence when such witnesses as Solaro and Dubard were against him.

“For the present, we will leave that aside,” said the Minister, in as quiet a voice as he could. “My first duty, as father of my child, is to investigate this allegation of Macbean’s,” and he touched the bell. To the man who answered his summons he said in English in a determined tone —

“Ask Miss Mary to kindly step down here for one moment. I desire to see her without a minute’s delay. Say that I have some urgent news for her.”

“Very good, your Excellency.” And the door was closed again.

Dubard and Borselli exchanged uneasy glances; but a dead silence had fallen between the four men – a silence that was broken by the sound of wheels out on the gravelled drive. There were lots of coming and going in that bustling day, wedding guests arriving, and the bride’s luggage being despatched, so as to meet her in London before they left for Paris on the following morning.

The pause was painful. Macbean looked at the pair who had for so long been united hand and glove against the Minister, and recognised the spirit of murder in their glance. They would have killed him had they dared, for they knew too well that he had now revealed to the Minister the actual truth. Borselli, who had enticed him to Rome hoping to ensure his secrecy over the Sazarac affair, had placed his own head in the lion’s mouth by so doing. It was seldom he made an error in his clever schemes, but he knew that he had done so on this occasion, and that it would require all his ingenuity and cunning to escape from such a compromising situation.

The minutes passed, but neither spoke a word. Each man feared to utter a sentence lest it should be seized upon and misconstrued, while the Minister himself, silent and distinguished-looking, glanced from one to the other, and waited for his beloved daughter to enter and to speak.

Chapter Forty

The Story of Captain Solaro

At last there was a light footstep out in the hall. The door opened, and she entered, radiant in her wonderful bridal gown and orange-blossoms, her long sweeping train behind, but without her veil, of course, her beautiful face revealed in all its haggard pallor.

Dubard sprang forward to welcome her; but ere he could take her hand he fell back in utter dismay, for behind her, silhouetted in the doorway, stood the figure of a man in a grey felt hat and a light overcoat.

“Great heavens!” gasped Macbean, who at the same moment recognised the new-comer. “Solaro! Felice Solaro!”

“Yes,” replied the other, in a quiet, distinct voice, as he came into the room behind the Minister’s daughter in her rustling silks. “I am fortunately here, not by His Excellency’s decree, but by the generous clemency of the king himself, who, on the occasion of his birthday, three days ago, and in consequence of a petition of my family, gave me my liberty with others. I heard what was in progress, and so I have travelled here to ascertain the truth, and to clear myself of the base and scandalous charges those men who stand there have brought against me,” and he raised his finger and pointed to the Sicilian and the Frenchman, both of whose faces had, on the instant of recognising him, become entirely changed.

“It seems, signorina,” he said in Italian, turning his pale, emaciated face to Mary, who stood in the centre of the room utterly dumbfounded at the dramatic scene, “it seems that by good fortune I am here in order to save you, your father, and the Signor Macbean from these two men who have so very cleverly plotted your father’s ruin, your own marriage, the disgrace of the Signor Englishman, and my own imprisonment.”

“Do you allege that they conspired to obtain the conviction against you?” cried the Minister, amazed.

“Listen, and I will tell you everything. Then you yourself shall take what steps against them that you desire.”

“I shall not remain to hear that traitor’s insults!” cried the Sicilian, moving quickly towards the door; but Solaro, noticing his action, stepped back, locked the door behind him, and placed the key in his pocket, saying, “You will remain, general. You have to answer to me.” Then, after a brief pause, he commenced —

“It may be news to you all, except the Under-secretary, that Jules Dubard is not a member of the French nobility at all, but a person who, while posing as a count, is one of the secret agents of the French Minister of War. It was for this reason that he desired to be married in England, as the unwelcome truth would have been shown upon his papers.”

“A spy!” gasped the bride, standing open-mouthed on the eve of her deliverance.

“That is the vulgar term for such persons,” Solaro said. “It happened about four years ago that Borselli and he met, and the former, finding him a shrewd and clever adventurer, resolved to make use of him to gain a triumph over the Minister Morini. Borselli had also met General Sazarac at the Jockey Club in Paris, and had won from him several large sums at cards, accepting from him a number of promissory notes. Having done this, he discovered, to his delight, that Sazarac was actually in command of the Alpine frontier of France, therefore he proceeded with slow deliberation to win over Dubard from the French service, by promises of position when the Minister Morini was overthrown, and to unfold a plot which is a good specimen of his amazing ingenuity. Briefly, it was to place the promissory notes in the hands of some unscrupulous Jews in Antwerp, in order that they should press for payment, and when they did so, Dubard, who was attached to Sazarac’s division of the French army, should suggest a course out of the difficulty – namely, to sell to the Italian Ministry of War certain plans of the frontier defences which we were very anxious to obtain. This was done. Sazarac, in desperate straits for money, listened to his friend Dubard’s evil counsel, and agreed to allow the plans of the whole of the defences from Mount Pelvoux to the sea to be copied for a sum of two hundred thousand francs. These were the secrets which we had desired for many years to know, and the first I knew of the matter was a summons to the Ministry in Rome, where I saw Borselli, who introduced me to Dubard, and instructed me, because I spoke French perfectly and was a good draughtsman, to go to Mentone, take quarters at the Hôtel National, and make copies in secret of certain documents which Dubard would hand me from time to time.”

“You were in our service!” declared the Sicilian.

“Certainly,” he answered; and then proceeding he said, “I went to Mentone, and commenced the work of copying those plans which the general allowed Dubard to abstract from the safe at headquarters and bring to me in secret. While there we both became on friendly terms with the Englishman Macbean, who was secretary to the French general’s brother-in-law, and who was of course in entire ignorance of what was in progress. After about two months, during which Dubard and I led the life of wealthy idlers on the Riviera, the copying was complete, I had sent the last batch of tracings to Rome by the official of the Ministry who came specially to convey them, and was awaiting further instructions, when one evening, after we had seen Macbean and the general going out for a ride together, Dubard entered the hotel and said he had heard in a café the startling report of the general’s sudden death. We at once went round to the Villa Puget, and there sure enough he was lying dead, with madame inconsolable with grief. The doctors had declared death due to natural causes, as he had long been an invalid, and had been warned against riding too far. But Dubard took me aside in the garden and told me that he held a distinct suspicion that the general had been poisoned. The sum agreed to be paid for the plans had, he said, been paid on the previous day, and probably he had some of it upon him, which might serve as a motive for the crime. He suggested poison, and declared that he had suspicion of Macbean. At first I refused to entertain such a theory, but he persisted in it, and at his suggestion I accompanied him when he openly charged the Englishman with the crime. Macbean at once offered us every facility for the analysing of the cognac and the contents of his flask, sealed them up with his own seal, and packed them before our eyes, addressing them to a well-known chemist in the Rue Rivoli in Paris, and I despatched them. The report came back that there was an arsenical poison in both the bottle and the flask. It seemed that Macbean had tried to bluff us to the very last, but the most damning fact was that on searching his effects I discovered a draft on the Credit Lyonnais for fifty thousand francs from a firm in Genoa, but really emanating from our Ministry of War, and part of the agreed payment for the plans. This was concealed in the flap of his writing-case.”

“So the natural conclusion was that Mr Macbean was a poisoner!” remarked Mary, standing dumbfounded.

“Of course,” he said. “I certainly believed that he was, and that he was only allowed his liberty through Dubard’s clemency, until about three months after the affair, when Dubard and I being together at the Grand Hotel in Venice, my curiosity was one day aroused, and I pried into his despatch-box during his absence. Among other papers I found this letter,” he said, producing one from his pocket. “It is undated and unsigned, but it suggests that if some secret means were employed to induce S’s (meaning Sazarac, of course) fatal illness, two ends would be achieved. France would never suspect that he had sold the plans, and the payment of two hundred thousand francs need not be made.”