The orchestra was playing a waltz, and many of the guests were dancing; for the floor at the Farnese Palace was the best in Rome. Camillo Morini, though in no mood for gaiety and obliged to attend, was wandering aimlessly through the rooms, exchanging salutes with the men he knew and now and then bowing low over a woman’s hand. In his brilliant uniform as Minister of War, with the cerise and white ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy and a number of minor decorations, he presented a strikingly handsome figure, tall, erect, and distinguished-looking, as he strode through the huge painted salons dazzling with their heavy gilt mirrors and giant palms, a man of power in that complex nation, modern Italy.
After Mary had sought him and revealed the amazing fact of Dubard’s secret investigations, she had gone on home to the palace with her maid Teresa, where he had joined her about six o’clock.
Father and daughter had dined alone in the long, high, old frescoed room. Few words they exchanged, for both felt that a crisis was imminent, and that if the blow fell the catastrophe must be overwhelming and complete. A true bond of deepest sympathy had always existed between them, for, as an only child, he had lavished upon her all his affection, while she, in turn, regarded him with a strong affection unusual in these decadent days. More than once since she had returned from the Broadstairs school she had been his assistant and adviser in the hours when she had found him alone and agitated as he so often was. More than once, indeed, he had confided in her, telling her of affairs which he withheld even from his wife for fear of unduly disturbing her in her delicate state of health. Often he had, of his own accord, sought his daughter’s counsel. Hence she was in possession of many confidential facts concerning persons and politics in Rome, and with her woman’s keen perception had already in consequence become a trained diplomat.
In the long and painful silence during dinner he urged her to accompany him to the French Ambassador’s reception, adding with a sigh, “I would rather remain at home with you, my dear; but I must go. It will not do for me to betray any sign of fear.”
“Go, certainly. It is your duty, father. But I am really too tired after my journey.”
And so she excused herself from accompanying him, and went off early to her room.
His Excellency had been chatting with the Prince Demidoff, the Russian Ambassador, and was passing into the great ballroom, where the gaiety was then at its height, when he came face to face with Angelo Borselli, gorgeous in his brilliant general’s uniform.
“Ah, my dear Camillo!” exclaimed the latter. “I only returned from Paris to-day, and called upon you on my way here. I must see you at once—privately.”
The Minister, who had not met the Under-Secretary since the adventurer Ricci had revealed to him the truth regarding the Socialist conspiracy, controlled his feelings with marvellous calmness, and greeted his friend effusively.
“Why?” asked His Excellency under his breath. “Has anything happened?”