“Failed?” gasped the Minister as, in an instant, all the light died out of his face.
“The Opposition is too strong,” he explained. “Borselli has so completely won over the Socialists that he can cause them to dance to any tune he pleases.”
Camillo Morini’s face was blanched. Ruin was before him—ruin, utter and complete. He had trusted in Vito, feeling confidence in that adventurer’s ingenuity and influence. More than once this adventurer had cleverly turned the tide of popular thought, for certain journals were always open to write what the popular deputy for Asti dictated, and of course received substantial bribes for so doing. Yet at this most crucial moment he had failed!
“I made you the payment on condition that you were successful in rendering me the service,” remarked His Excellency hoarsely.
“I know, I know,” was the other’s response. “I have brought back the money to repay you.” And he took from his leather wallet a banker’s draft, which he handed to the Minister.
The tall, thin, refined-looking man stood motionless, his eyes fixed for a moment upon the slip of paper thus offered back to him. He recognised that the efforts of his secret agent, whose services had so often been invaluable, were of no avail, that his doom was sealed.
“No. Keep it, Vito,” he said hoarsely, with a dry, hollow laugh, that sarcasm born of desperation. “You have earned it—keep it.”
The other raised his shoulders in regret, and then, with a word of thanks, replaced the draft in his pocket.
There was a long silence. A company of bersaglieri, those well-set-up men with their round hats and cock’s plumes, were crossing the piazza, marching to the fanfare of trumpets, and behind them came a company of the Misericordia, that mediaeval confraternity disguised in their long black gowns with slits for their eyes, passing with their ambulance on an errand of mercy.
Morini gazed upon that weird, tragic procession hurrying across the square, and within him there arose grave and morbid reflections. He had worked for Italy, had given his whole soul to the reform of the army and the perfecting of the defences of the nation he had loved so well. It was more the fault of the system than his own that he had been guilty of dishonesty. The other members of the Cabinet were equally guilty of misappropriating the national funds. They were, indeed, compelled to do so in order to keep up their position, to maintain and pay the secret agents they employed, and to bribe the men of influence from seeking to expose their thefts.