The Fry girls were clever mandolinists, and taking up their instruments at Madame Morini's invitation, played and sang that sweet old Tuscan serenade--

"Io ti amero finche le Rondinelle Avranno fatto il nido dell' amore; Io ti amero fin che nel Cielo stelle Vi saran sempre a illuminarmi il cora.

Io ti amero, Io ti amero, Fin che avro vita Mio bel tesor!"

As they sang, Dubard stood beside Mary and looked into her dark eyes for some responding glance.

But there was none. She was not thinking of him, but of that unfortunate man convicted of treason, disgraced and languishing in gaol--and of Filomena Nodari, the woman who had foully betrayed him.

"You are sad to-night," he managed to whisper to her as they turned together from the singers.

She nodded, but no response escaped her lips.

Her feelings towards Jules Dubard were mixed ones. She found him a very pleasant and entertaining companion, always courteous, elegant of manner, and excessively polite--the kind of man who at once attracted a woman. And yet somehow, when she came to calmly a.n.a.lyse her regard for him, she found it to be based merely upon his attractive personality; or, in other words, it was little more than a mere flirtation, which may be forgiven of every woman who is courted and flattered as she was.

True, he had, in a kind of joking manner, more than once declared his love for her. But she had always affected to treat his words as empty and meaningless, and to a.s.sume that they were good friends and nothing more. At heart, however, she knew that both her parents would be pleased to see her marry this man; for not only would she be the wife of a wealthy landowner, but would also obtain the ancient and honoured t.i.tle of Comtesse Dubard.

Sometimes, in the secrecy of her room, she sat and reflected upon the whole situation, but on each occasion she arrived at the same distinct and unalterable conclusion. She admired Jules; she was fond of his society, and he was, even though his Gallic elegance of manner was a trifle forced, nevertheless a perfect gentleman. But surely there was a great breach between admiration and actual affection.

What he had told her out on the terrace in the sundown, however, showed plainly that he was really her father's friend. And yet, strangely enough, he did not wish her to alarm her father unduly. Why? she wondered. If that grave peril actually existed he should surely be forewarned!

"What I told you this evening has, I fear, upset you, signorina," Dubard said in a low, sympathetic voice. "But do not be disquieted. I will a.s.sist your father in thwarting this conspiracy against him. Do not tell Her Excellency a word. It would be harmful for her, you know."

"I shall say nothing," was her reply. "But," she added, "I cannot help feeling anxious, especially as you suggest that I shall not write to my father and warn him."

"Oh, write if you wish," he exclaimed quickly. "Only recollect all that I have told you is only hearsay. Therefore, I think it unwise to arouse your father's apprehensions if the rumour of the conspiracy is baseless.

No?" he went on. "Remain patient, and leave everything to me."

She sighed, without replying; then, in order to rea.s.sure her, he whispered, at the same time looking into her eyes intensely--

"You know, Mary, that I will do my very best--for your sake. You know me sufficiently well for that."

He would have continued his protestations of affection had not the singers at that moment ceased, and they were both compelled to rejoin the little group, much to Mary's relief, for at that moment she had no thought beyond her father's peril. She did not exactly mistrust the count, yet some strange intuition told her that his solicitude for her father's safety was feigned. What made her think so she knew not, but she experienced that evening a strange, unaccountable presage of evil.

He asked her to sing, and then, being pressed by the others, she responded, chanting one of those old _stornelli_ of the countryfolk which she was so fond of collecting and writing in a book, the weird love-chants that have been handed down from the Middle Ages. It was one she had taken down from the lips of a _contadino_ at Castellina a few days previously--

"Giovanottino dal cappel di paglia, Non ti voglio amar piu, non n'ho piu voglia...

Voglio piuttosto vincer la battaglia!"

And while she sang, Violet Walters, standing with Dubard, looked at him with an expression which told him that he had created a favourable impression upon her. Thus the evening pa.s.sed quietly, until the bell over the private chapel of the castle tolled eleven, and the guests rose and parted to their rooms, being conducted through the long ghostly corridors by the domestics with candles.

Mary allowed her Italian maid Teresa to brush her long brown tresses before the mirror, as was her habit, but the faithful servant remarked in surprise upon the signorina's preoccupied look.

"I'm very tired, that's all," Mary replied, and as quickly as possible dismissed the girl and locked her door.

Her room she had furnished in English style with furniture she had chosen in London. It was a delightful little place, bright with clean chintzes and a carpet of pastel blue. Upon the toilet-table was a handsome set of silver-mounted bottles and brushes, a birthday gift from her devoted father, and around the bed, suspended like a canopy from the ceiling, were the long white mosquito curtains.

For a long time she sat before the gla.s.s in her pale blue dressing-gown, her pointed chin sunk upon her breast in thought. Ruin was before her father--and if so, it meant ruin for them all!

Should she disregard the count's suggestion and write to him, urging him to come from Rome and see her; or if not, to allow her to travel alone to Rome? Should she write in secret?

How long she remained pondering, she had no idea. Twice the clock struck solemnly over the deep dark valley that spread beneath her window, until presently, with her mind made up, she rose and crossed to her little writing-table on the opposite side of the apartment, but was dismayed to find the stationery rack empty of notepaper.

If she wrote, it was necessary to do so at once in order to give the letter to Teresa when she came with the coffee in the morning, for the young peasant who took the postbag each day left at eight in the morning, so as to catch the midday mail from Pistoja. There was paper in the library at the farther end of the mansion, therefore she resolved to go and obtain some.

Wrapping a white shawl about her shoulders, she took her candle, and opening her door noiselessly, crept down the long marble corridor past her mother's door, and then, turning at right angles, proceeded to the door at the end which gave entrance to the splendid book-lined room full of priceless editions.

As she crept along in her little felt-soled slippers she suddenly halted, fancying that she heard an unusual noise. The peasantry entertained an absurd belief that at night supernatural noises were heard in the place, but of course she did not believe in them. In fact, she believed that the story had been invented by the agent, and circulated among the superst.i.tious folk in order to give the house better protection against thieves.

She listened intently, her ears strained to catch every sound.

Yes, someone was moving in the library!

Her first thought was of burglars, but holding her breath and determined to first make certain before raising the alarm, she advanced cautiously to the door, placed her candle upon the floor, and peered through the keyhole.

She was not mistaken.

A light shone within. The great green door of her father's safe stood open before her, revealing the nest of iron drawers within, while someone was moving at the writing-table a little distance away, beyond her range of vision.

Her heart beat quickly as her eye was glued to the keyhole.

The thieves, whoever they were, had opened the safe with a key and were calmly rifling it!

She heard a noise as of crisp papers being turned over slowly, and then a few seconds later a dark figure crossed to the safe and took a further packet from one of the drawers.

As the man turned towards her his face became revealed in the dim light.

Sight of it staggered her.

The man who had opened the safe, and who was methodically examining her father's confidential papers in secret, was none other than Jules Dubard!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE PERIL OF A NATION.

The revelation of the truth that Jules Dubard was making a methodical examination of her father's private papers held Mary spellbound.

From where she bent her eye at the big old-fashioned keyhole, she saw that the ponderous steel door had been opened by a key, for it was still in the shining lock. Within that safe her father kept a number of important state papers relating to the army, and quant.i.ties of correspondence had, from time to time, been brought up from Rome by official secretaries and he had placed them there for safety.

Once, while she had been helping him to arrange a quant.i.ty of technical doc.u.ments and tie them in bundles with pink tape, he had remarked--

"These are safer here than in Rome, my dear. There are thousands who long to get sight of them, but they would never think of looking here."

But there had been a still further curious incident, one which she recalled vividly at that moment as she watched the man intently examining the doc.u.ments by the light of his candle. It had happened back in April, when some matters connected with the estate called His Excellency from Rome, and he had brought Mary with him up to San Donato, where they had remained only two days. The country was delightful in the bright springtime, and Mary had desired to remain longer, but it was impossible, for her father's official duties took him back to the Eternal City--and besides, to live in the country in spring is not considered fashionable.

On the second night, while they were at the villa, he being alone, she sat with him in the library after dinner watching him rearrange a series of papers in the safe. It was eleven o'clock when he concluded and locked the great green door, then, carrying the key in his hand, he crossed to where she sat, and said in a calm, earnest voice--

"Mary, I know that you will keep a secret if I reveal one to you, won't you?"

"Most certainly, father," was her answer, not without some surprise.