His Excellency was reflecting upon something that Angelo Borselli, the Under-Secretary, had told him while they had been lunching together at the club. He recognised the seriousness of it all, and he sighed in consequence.
Presently, while his eyes were still fixed upon that sentry erect and motionless in his box, upon which the sun beat down so fiercely, there was a rap at the door, and there entered the uniformed messenger who had been on guard outside, who saluted, saying—
“General Arturo Valentini of the 6th Alpine Regiment, together with a captain of the same regiment, crave an audience with your Excellency.”
“What is the captain’s name?” grunted the Minister of War.
The messenger looked at the card that had been given him, and replied—
“Captain Felice Solaro, your Excellency.”
“Ah! Solaro! Solaro!” exclaimed Morini, tossing away his cigar. “Show them in.”
And as he passed before the tiny mirror he glanced at himself to adjust his cravat and see that not a single hair was awry—a habit of his before giving audience.
A few moments later two men in uniform were ushered in. The general, short of stature, white-haired, with firm military step, a red face, and white moustache, saluted and stood at attention as he entered the Minister’s presence; while the captain, a smart-looking, dark-haired man of forty, followed his superior’s example, yet as Morini darted a quick glance at him, he visibly trembled at it. The captain’s face was white as death, and as he stood for a moment in the awkward silence that followed, his gloved fingers chafed his sword hilt nervously.
“Well, general?” inquired the Minister, who had never before met that distinguished officer, but whom he, of course, knew well by repute. Valentini had been Inspector-General of Genio fifteen years ago, and had served Italy well in those fierce campaigns of the early sixties, as his row of medals and decorations showed. “Why do you wish for audience?” he asked sharply.