Loe raamatut: «The Day of Temptation», lehekülg 13

Chapter Twenty Four
By Stealth

Before she had parted from the Marquis she had made a demand boldly and fearlessly, to which, not without the most vehement protest, he had been compelled to accede. She knew him well, and was aware that, in order to gain his own ends, he would betray and denounce his nearest relative; that, although a shrewd, clever statesman, he had won universal popularity and esteem in Italy by reason of certain shady transactions by which he had posed as the saviour of his country. The revelations she could make regarding the undercurrent of affairs in Rome would astound Europe. For that reason he had been forced to grant her what she asked in return for the incriminating paper from the archives of the Embassy.

For over an hour they sat together in the darkness engaged in a strange discussion, when at last they rose and together walked on, still deep in conversation. The Marquis had an appointment, and was about to take leave of her when, as they crossed the wide deserted space between the Admiralty and the Horse Guards, a man in a heavy fur-trimmed overcoat and felt hat, in hurrying past, gazed full into the faces of both. At that moment they were beneath one of the lamps flickering in the gusty wind, and he had full view of them.

Gemma’s eyes met his, and instantly the recognition was mutual.

It was the man who had attempted to take her life – Frank Tristram. He had evidently arrived from the Continent by the day express from Paris, left his despatches at the Foreign Office, and was walking to his chambers in St. James’s Street by the nearest way across the Park. He usually preferred to walk home in order to stretch his legs, cramped as they were by many tedious hours in railway carriages.

When he had passed he turned quickly as if to reassure himself, then, with some muttered words, he strode forward with his hands deep in his pockets and his head bent towards the cold boisterous wind.

“Did you notice that man who has just passed?” Gemma gasped, in a low voice betraying alarm.

“No; who was he?” asked the Marquis, turning back to glance at the retreating figure.

“A man you know; Tristram, the English Foreign Office messenger.”

“Tristram!” ejaculated Montelupo quickly. “He’s never recognised me?”

“I think so,” she replied. “He looked straight into your face.”

The Minister ejaculated a fierce Italian oath. “Then the fact that I’m in London will be at once made known,” he said.

“That is not of much importance, is it? Castellani already knows, for you’ve been to the Embassy.”

“But he will be silent. I’m here incognito,” the Marquis cried quickly, in a changed voice. “I have several matters with regard to Abyssinia and our foreign policy to settle with the British Government, but am procrastinating with an object. If they know yonder at the Foreign Office that I am in London, and have not called upon their Minister, it will be considered an insult, and may strain our relations with England. This we can’t afford to do. These English are useful to us. Italy has nothing to fear from the alliance of France and Russia, but nevertheless her only safe policy consists in a firm union with England. The Anglo-Italian naval alliance preserves the peace of Europe by throwing its weight into the scale against any disturber of tranquillity. We shall want English ships to fight and protect us in the Mediterranean when France invades us on the Tuscan shore.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, he glanced at the illuminated clock-face of Big Ben, and added, “No, I must leave London at once, for in this direction I see a pressing danger. It’s now nearly seven. I’ll dine and get away by the night-mail for Paris. I must be back in Rome again at the earliest possible moment.”

“Am I still to go to the Embassy?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered quickly. “Don’t delay an instant. It is imperative that we should obtain that document, and you are the only person who can successfully accomplish the task. When you have done so bring it to me in Rome. Our safety lies in the expeditious way in which you effect this coup.”

“In Rome?” she echoed. “That’s impossible.”

“Why? With us everything is possible.”

“You forget that, owing to your absurd and foolish action a few months ago, I shall find myself arrested the moment I cross the frontier,” she answered.

“Ah, yes, I quite forgot,” he replied. “But that’s easily remedied.”

They were passing through the square of the Horse Guards at that moment, and halting beneath a lamp where stood a cavalry sentry motionless and statuesque, he took from his bulky wallet a visiting-card and scribbled a few words upon its back. Then, handing it to her, said – “This is your passport. If there is any difficulty in reaching me, present this.”

She took it, glanced at the scribbled words, and thrust it into her glove. Then, upon the wide pavement in Parliament Street, a few moments later, he lifted his hat politely, and they parted.

At noon next day Gemma called at the Embassy, and was shown into the waiting-room. She had not remained there five minutes when suddenly the Ambassador’s daughter burst into the room with a loud cry of welcome, and kissed her visitor enthusiastically on both cheeks in Italian fashion. Slight, and strange rather than pretty, she had a delicate face, dark eyes, a small quivering nose, a rather large, ever-ruddy mouth, and curling, straggling black locks, which ever waved as in a perpetual breeze.

“I’m so glad, so very glad you’ve called, dear,” Carmenilla said enthusiastically. “Father mentioned the other day that you were in England, and I’ve wondered so often why you’ve never been to see us.”

“I’ve been staying with friends in the country,” Gemma explained. “I suppose you speak English quite well now.”

“A little. But oh! it is so difficult,” she laughed. “And it is so different here to Firenze or Rome. The people are so strange.”

“Yes,” Gemma sighed. “I have also found it so.”

In their girlhood days they had been close friends through five years at the grey old convent of San Paolo della Croce in the Via della Chiesa at Firenze, and afterwards at Rome, where Carmenilla had lived with a rather eccentric old aunt, the Marchesa Tassino, while her father had been absent fulfilling the post of Ambassador at Vienna.

“I’m so very glad you’ve called,” Castellani’s daughter repeated. “Come to my room; take off your things and stay to luncheon. Father is out, and I’m quite alone.”

“The Count is out,” repeated her visitor in a feigned tone of regret. Truth to tell, however, it was intelligence most welcome to her. “I’m sorry he’s not at home. We haven’t met for so long.”

“Oh, he’s dreadfully worried just now!” his daughter answered. “The work at this Embassy is terrible. He seems writing and interviewing people from morning until night. He works much harder now than any of the staff; while at Brussels it was all so different. He had absolutely nothing to do.”

“But this England is such a great and wonderful country, while Belgium is such a tiny one,” Gemma observed. “The whole diplomatic world revolves around London.”

“Yes, of course,” she resumed. “But to sustain Italy’s prestige we are compelled to do such lots of entertaining. I’m terribly sick of it all. The situation in Rome began to change almost as soon as father was appointed here, and now it has become extremely grave and critical. The men who were once his friends are now his bitterest foes. He has adjusted several most difficult matters recently, but no single word of commendation has he received from the Marquis Montelupo.”

“Perhaps the Marquis is not his friend,” Gemma hazarded, for the purpose of ascertaining the extent of her knowledge.

“No. He is his enemy; of that I’m absolutely confident,” the girl replied. “I hate him. He’s never straightforward. Once, in Rome, he tried to worm from me a secret of my father’s, and because I would not speak he has never forgiven me.”

“Was it some very deep secret?” Gemma inquired. “Yes. It concerned the prestige of Italy and my father’s reputation for probity,” she replied. “Why the King trusts him so implicitly, I can never understand.”

“If there are serious political complications in Rome, as you seem to think, then the days of his power are numbered,” observed her visitor, now master of herself again. “The Ministry will be thrown out.”

“Ah! that would be the best thing that could happen to Italy,” she declared with a look of wisdom. “Montelupo is my father’s enemy; he seeks to fetter him in every action, in order that his reputation as a diplomat may be ruined, so that the King may be forced to send him his letters of recall. Truly the post of Ambassador in London is no sinecure.”

Gemma was silent. She hesitated and shuddered, Carmenilla noticed it, and asked her if she were cold.

“No, no,” she answered quickly. “It is quite warm and cosy here.” The light played on her smooth skin to admiration, and the colour changed in her excited face.

At luncheon, served with that stateliness which characterised the whole of the Ambassador’s household, they chatted on, as women will chat, of dress, of books, of plays, and of the latest gossip from Florence and Rome, the two centres of Italian society. They were eating their dessert, when the hall-porter entered bearing a card upon the salver. Carmenilla glanced at it, smiled, and rose to excuse herself.

“A visitor!” Gemma exclaimed. “Who is it?”

Her friend hesitated, blushing ever so faintly.

“An Englishman,” she answered. “I won’t be more than ten minutes. Try and amuse yourself, won’t you, dear? Go back to the boudoir and play. I know you love music.” And she left the room hurriedly.

The card was still lying beside her plate, and Gemma, in curiosity reached forward and took it up. In an instant, however, she cast it from her.

The man who had called was Frank Tristram.

In order not to attract the undue attention of the grave-faced man who stood silent and immovable before the great carved oak buffet, she finished her apple leisurely, sipped the tiny cup of coffee, dipped the tips of her fingers in the silver-rimmed bowl of rose-scented water, and rising, passed out along the corridor back to the warm, cosy little room where they had passed such a pleasant hour.

She had detected Carmenilla’s flushed cheeks, and had suspicion that this caller was no ordinary friend. This man, whose murderous fingers had not long ago clutched themselves around her own throat, was a friend of this smart, slim girl who was so admired in London society. She stood silent in the centre of the little room, her heart beating wildly, wondering whether she might, without arousing suspicion, retrace her steps along that long, thickly carpeted corridor and secure the document which Montelupo required. The voices of servants sounded outside, and she knew that at present to approach and unlock the door unobserved was impossible.

Therefore she advanced to the grate, and spreading out her chilly, nervous hands to the fire, waited, determined to possess herself in patience. Even now she felt inclined to draw back because of the enormous risk she ran. Castellani was not her friend. If he knew, he might give her over to the English police as a common thief. Her face was of deathlike pallor at that moment of indecision. Again she shuddered.

With her hand upon her heaving breast, as if to allay an acute pain that centred there, her white lips moved, but no sound escaped them. She listened. The servants had gone.

Carmenilla was downstairs chatting with Tristram; the house at last seemed silent and deserted, therefore Gemma, losing no time in further indecision, and holding her silken skirts tight around her so that they should not rustle, crept out on tiptoe, holding in her hand the key which Montelupo had given her. At first she proceeded slowly and noiselessly, but, fearing detection, hurried forward as she approached the door of the Ambassador’s room.

At last she gained it, breathless. With scarce a sound she placed the key in the lock, and a moment later was inside, closing the door after her.

Unhesitatingly she went straight to the table, and placed her hand upon the drawer containing the document. It was locked. Next instant her heart beat wildly as her quick eye espied the key still remaining in another drawer, and, taking it, she opened the locked drawer and stood examining the great blue official envelope in her hand.

Yes, the blue pencil mark was upon it in the form of a cross, as the Marquis had described. She had gained what she sought. Triumph was hers.

Quickly she turned to make her exit, but next second fell back with a loud wild cry of alarm.

Count Castellani had entered noiselessly, and was standing erect and motionless between her and the door.

Chapter Twenty Five
A Woman’s Diplomacy

Gemma stood immovable; a deathly pallor overspread her cheeks, her eyes fixed themselves in terror upon this tall, well-dressed man, who was her bitterest enemy. With one trembling hand she had clutched the revolving book-stand for support; the other held the envelope containing the secret document. She dared not to breathe; amazement and alarm held her dumb.

“And by what right, pray, do you enter my room?” the Ambassador inquired, after a few seconds of silence, complete and painful. His face was blanched in anger; in his dark eye was a keen glance of suspicion and hatred.

She laughed – that strange hollow laugh which her lover knew so well.

“I came to call on you,” she answered. The door was closed, and they were alone together.

“And you entered my room to pry into my private papers?” he said, his blood rising. “What’s that you have in your hand?”

She set her lips firmly. She was no longer the sweet, almost childlike girl, but a hard-faced, desperate woman.

“A paper I want,” she boldly answered, at the same moment doubling the envelope in half, and crushing it in her palm.

“Then you have at last become so bold that you actually have the audacity to enter one’s house and steal whatever you think proper?” he cried, in a towering passion. “Fortunately, I’ve returned in time to frustrate your latest bit of infernal ingenuity.”

“My action is but fair, now that we are enemies,” she answered with feigned indignation. “If you could, you’d ruin me; therefore I’m entirely at liberty to return the same compliment.”

“I thought you were already ruined,” the Count exclaimed. “Your reputation, at any rate, cannot be rendered blacker than it is.”

“That’s the truth, no doubt.” She laughed with an air of gaiety. “But one who makes secret diplomacy a profession, must care nothing for the good will of the world outside the diplomatic circle.”

“Those who make love their profession, should be constant, if they would achieve success,” he retorted bitterly.

At that moment a recollection flashed across her mind. It had slipped her memory until that instant. This man had on one occasion, in Rome, two years ago, spoken tenderly to her, and she had scorned his attentions. With a woman’s quick perception, she now saw that the fact that she had rejected him still rankled within his mind. Yet she was still young enough to be his daughter, and had always held him in dislike. He was a cold, scheming diplomatist, who would stake his very soul in order to get the better of his adversaries.

“Once you spoke of love to me,” she said, drawing herself up proudly. “Now you ruthlessly cast my past into my face. Even if I have acted as a diplomatic agent, you know well enough that all these scandalous stories about me are foul libels set about by Montelupo and yourself for political purposes.”

“Enough!” he cried, incensed at her words. “We need not discuss that now. I demand to know why I find you prying here, in my room?”

She smiled. “I came to see Carmenilla,” she answered.

“And she invited you to lunch? – you whom I have forbidden her to know!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “A woman of your stamp is no companion for my daughter.”

“Yet you once told me that you loved me, and I might, if I had felt so inclined, have now been the Countess Castellani, and done the honours of this Embassy. Ah, my dear Conte,” she went on, “you are a noted diplomatist, and no doubt as wary and cunning as most of your confrères. But you forget that every woman is by birth a diplomatist, and that in politics I have had a wide and, perhaps, unique experience.”

“You possess the ingenuity and daring of the very devil himself,” he blurted forth. “Show me that paper.”

“No,” she answered firmly. “It is in my possession – and I keep it.”

“You’ve stolen it!” he cried, advancing towards her determinedly. “Give it to me this instant.”

“I shall not.”

From where he stood his eyes wandered to the table, and he noticed that one of the drawers stood open. Within her hand, he saw the envelope was a blue one, secured by seals. In an instant he dashed towards the drawer, rummaged its contents, and finding the document missing, cried —

“Your infernal impertinence is really astounding. You enter my house, commit a theft, and when charged with it refuse to give up the stolen property. If you don’t return it to me at once, I’ll call in the police, and have you arrested.”

“Really?” she exclaimed with a sarcastic laugh which caused his cheeks to become flushed by anger. “I think after so many years of diplomacy, you ought to be aware that such a course is impossible. If you were a young attaché just fresh from Rome, my dear Count, you might be pardoned for not knowing that here, in this Embassy, I am on Italian soil, and, being an Italian subject, the London police are unable to arrest me.”

“But they could outside – in the Square.”

“Certainly. But if I choose to remain here – what then?”

“Remain here! You speak like an imbecile. Come, give me back that envelope.”

“Never!” she replied, still holding it firmly in her small hand, and regarding him in defiance.

Castellani knew well the contents of that envelope, and was aware that Gemma must have been employed by those implicated by the proofs it contained. For months he had held this in his possession as a weapon to use as a last resource, and the manner in which she had entered his room and filched it from the drawer made it plain to him that those to whom he was now opposed were prepared to go any length to gain their own ends. But he likewise knew Gemma well, and was aware that as a secret agent of the Ministry she was without equal – fearless, resourceful, and versed in every art of deception. He had met her often in society in Rome and Florence two years ago, been struck by her marvellous beauty as others had been, and had offered her marriage. In a word, he had made a fool of himself.

The revelations contained in that envelope she held were sufficient to cause the present Government to be hounded from its office and fat emoluments, and possibly force a criminal prosecution against certain ministers for misappropriating the public funds, therefore he was determined to regain it at all hazards and use it for his own advancement. He had, only a month ago, been promised by his party the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in the next Government, and this single document would place him in high office in Rome.

“If you defy me,” he said after a pause, his menacing gaze fixed upon that of the pretty, fragile woman, “I must be ungallant enough to wrench it from you.”

“I scarcely think you’ll do that,” she answered. “If you did, we could never come to terms.”

“Come to terms?” he echoed resentfully. “I don’t understand. I’ve no intention of coming to any arrangement with you.”

He was standing before her in the centre of the room, but she watched his every movement narrowly. She saw that he was desperate, and intended to regain possession of the envelope.

“Once again I ask you to give me that paper you have stolen,” he said in a voice that quivered with rage.

“I have already replied, Count Castellani,” she responded, “and I wish you good-afternoon.” Then with her skirts rustling, she bowed and swept past him towards the door.

“No!” he cried, springing forward and arresting her progress in a moment of fury. “You shall not escape like that. Give me the paper, or – or by Heaven, I’ll – ”

“Well?” she cried, turning upon him with flashing eyes. “What will you do?”

He drew back abashed.

“I apologise, Contessa,” he said quickly. “But give me back that paper. Remember that you’ve committed a barefaced, unpardonable theft.”

“And you, as Ambassador of Italy, utter barefaced lies every day,” she retorted.

“Diplomacy is the art of lying artistically,” he answered. “It is impossible to achieve success in diplomacy without resorting to realistic perversions of the truth. Every diplomatist must be a born liar – but he need not be a thief.”

“Some are,” she retorted. “You are one.”

His face went purple in anger.

“I – a thief?” he blurted forth. “Have you taken leave of your senses, woman?”

“Not entirely. I believe I have some remaining,” she replied. “I again repeat that you, the Count Castellani, His Majesty’s Ambassador, are a mean, despicable thief, whom the Tribunal at Rome would sentence to seven years’ imprisonment if they became acquainted with the facts.”

“Enough! Not another word, woman!” he cried in a towering passion. Then, grasping her arms, he, after a short desperate struggle, succeeded in wrenching from her the envelope for which she had risked so much. “Now you may go,” he said, as she stood flushed, panting, and breathless before him, her hair a trifle disarranged, the lace upon one of her cuffs torn and hanging. “If you don’t leave at once, I’ll ring and have you turned out.”

“I shall go when you give me back that paper,” she answered, facing him.

“You’ll never have it.”

“Then, listen,” she went on calmly, taking a few hasty steps towards where he was standing astride before the fire. “The worth of that document is to you considerable, I know, but there are others to whom its value is even greater. Just now I charged you with theft, and you feigned to have forgotten. Well, I will recall a fact or two to your memory. A year ago, at Como, there was an inquiry into certain scandals connected with the Bank of Naples.” Then she paused. The Ambassador’s face had instantly blanched. “Ah!” she went on, “I see that event has not quite slipped your memory. Well, as the result of that inquiry, in which certain statesmen were implicated, two well-known public men received sentences of ten years’ imprisonment, and others ranging from two to five years. But, at that inquiry, it was shown that a certain cheque was missing, and it was further proved that this cheque had been drawn for half a million francs. To whom that sum passed remained a mystery.”

“Well?” His Excellency gasped, still pale, glaring at her as if she were some object supernatural. All his self-possession had left him.

“The fact is a mystery no longer.”

“Why?”

“Because the identical cheque has been recovered and bears your endorsement,” she answered, in a slow, distinct voice.

“Who has recovered it?” he demanded quickly. “Who has it?”

She smiled triumphantly. This elegant man who but a moment ago had talked boldly, as became the Ambassador of Italy, was now cringing before her seeking information. His cool demeanour had altogether forsaken him.

“I have that cheque,” she said, her clear, unwavering eyes fixed upon his.

In an instant Castellani perceived that he was in the power of this pretty woman he had denounced and condemned. He knew well, too, that she was not the gay, abandoned woman that La Funaro was popularly supposed to be.

“Reflect for a single moment,” she continued ruthlessly. “What would be the result of the production of that missing draft about which so much has been written in the newspapers?”

The Ambassador bit his lip. Never in the whole course of his long and varied diplomatic career had he been so ingeniously checkmated by a woman. The estimate he had formed of her long ago was entirely correct. She possessed really remarkable talents.

“The result would certainly be rather annoying,” he observed, making a sorry attempt to smile.

“It would throw a very fierce light upon the ways and means of the party of thieves and adventurers who are endeavouring to grab Italy and grow fat upon its Treasury,” she exclaimed. “The situation at Rome has, I understand, changed considerably within the past week or so. The public mind is feeling the influence of unfavourable winds. Well, it is possible before long that this missing cheque will have to be produced.”

“Which will mean my ruin!” he blurted forth. “You know that well. If that cheque ever gets into the hands of the present Government, I shall be recalled and tried in a criminal court as a common thief.”

“That’s exactly what I said not long ago. You then declared that you had never touched a soldo of other persons’ money,” she observed, standing with her hand resting upon the writing-table, a slim, graceful figure in her dark stuff dress.

“No, Gemma, no!” he exclaimed earnestly. “You can’t mean to expose this. I – I don’t believe you have the cheque, after all. How did you learn my secret?”

“It is my duty to become acquainted with the secrets of those in opposition to the Government,” she answered simply. “Remember what you have said of me since we have been together in this room. Of a woman of my evil reputation, what can you expect but exposure?”

“You have resolved upon a vendetta?” he cried in a tone of genuine alarm.

“I have resolved to treat you fairly,” she replied, so calm that not a muscle of her face moved. “In return for that envelope and its contents which you’ve snatched from me, I will give you back your cheque.”

“When?” he cried eagerly.

“Now – at this moment.”

“You have it here?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Give me that envelope at once, and let us end this conversation. It is painful tome to speak like this to one who once offered to make me his wife.”

His Excellency frowned, meditating deeply. He saw that La Funaro had entrapped him so cleverly that there was no loophole for escape. She was remorseless and unrelenting as far as political affairs went, and he knew that if he had decided to hand the draft to the authorities, the result must prove utterly disastrous. Not only would he be ruined, but his party who sought office would be held up to public opprobrium and hopelessly wrecked.

“That paper is a purely private one,” he said. “I cannot allow you to take it, Gemma.”

“You prefer exposure, then?” she inquired, slightly inclining her head. “The Ministry of Justice are exceedingly anxious to recover that cheque, I assure you. Probably they will compel you to disgorge the substantial sum you received from the national funds when you endorsed the draft.”

He paused again, his eyes fixed upon the carpet.

“I’m not anxious for any revelations,” he answered in a sudden tone of confidence. “But your price is too high. The document which you so nearly secured is to me worth double that which you offer.”

“Very well,” she said, shrugging her shoulders impatiently. “If that’s your decision, I am content.” He was silent. His head was bent upon his breast, h’s arms were folded.

“Let me see this cheque of yours,” he exclaimed at last in a dry, dubious tone.

She unbuttoned the breast of her dress, tore away the switches of the lining, and took out a small envelope, from which she drew a large, green-coloured draft. Then, turning it over, she exhibited his own angular signature upon its back. Afterwards, she replaced it in its envelope, and then said —

“Shall we make the exchange? Or are you still prepared to face exposure? It will not be pleasant for poor Carmenilla if her father is sent to prison for embezzlement.”

“Yes, for Carmenilla?” the Ambassador gasped next instant. “For Carmenilla’s sake I will deal with you, and make the exchange. You are a truly wonderful woman, Gemma; the most shrewd, the most cunning, and” – he paused – “and the most beautiful in all the world.”

“Your compliments are best unuttered, my dear Count,” she replied, the muscles of her face unrelaxed. “Remember, like yourself, I’m a diplomatist, and it is scarcely necessary for us to bestow praises upon each other – is it? Give me the envelope.”

Slowly he walked over to the table and took the document from the drawer wherein he had placed it. For a moment he hesitated with it still in his hand. By giving it to her he was throwing down his arms; he was relinquishing the only weapon he held against his enemies in Rome.

But in her white hand he saw the piece of green incriminating paper which was such incontestable proof of his roguery and dishonesty in the past. The sight of it caused him serious misgivings. Once that were destroyed he need not fear any other proof that could be brought against him. He had a reputation for probity, and at all hazards must retain it. This last reflection decided him.

He crossed to where Gemma stood, and handing her the sealed envelope with the blue cross upon it, received the cancelled cheque in exchange.

His brow was heavy, and he sighed as, at the window, he examined it to reassure himself there was no mistake. Then, returning to the fire, he lit it at one corner, and in silence held it between his fingers until the flames had consumed it, leaving only a small piece of curling crackling tinder.