“Si—Signora Contessa,” the man answered. “I arrived in London only an hour ago, and I leave again subito. The Marquis has sent me expressly for this.”
“Then see that he gets it at the earliest possible moment,” she said quickly. “It is of the utmost secrecy and importance.”
“I quite understand, Signora Contessa,” the man courteously replied, carefully placing the envelope in the breast-pocket of his heavy frieze overcoat. “His Excellency has already given me instructions.”
“Va bene. Then go. Make all haste, for every hour lost may place Italy in greater jeopardy. Remember that your early arrival is absolutely imperative.” She spoke authoritatively, and it was evident that they were not strangers.
“I shall not lose an instant,” answered the Minister’s private messenger. “The Contessa has no further commands?” he added inquiringly.
“None,” she answered briefly. “Arivederci!”
“Arivederci, Signora Contessa,” he replied; and a moment later Gemma found herself again alone.
“God forgive me!” she murmured as she paced the room wildly agitated. “It’s the only way—the only way! I have transgressed before man and before Heaven in order to free myself from this hateful tie of heinous sin; I have risked all in order to gain happiness with the man I love. And if I fail”—she paused, pale-faced, haggard-eyed, shuddering—“if I fail,” she went on in a changed voice, “then I must take my life.”
She threw herself into a chair before the fire, and was silent for a long time. The dressing-bell sounded, but she took no heed; she had no appetite. The crowded table d’hôte, with its glare and colour and clatter, jarred upon her highly-strung nerves. She had dined in the great gilded saloon the night before, and had resolved not to do so again. She would have a little soup and a cutlet brought to her room.
At that moment she was calmly, deliberately contemplating suicide.