Read Ebook: The Day of Temptation by Le Queux William Grieffenhagen Maurice Illustrator

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 391 lines and 20489 words, and 8 pages

"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."

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.

THE PALAZZA FUNARO.

Days had lengthened into weeks, and it was already the end of February. In Florence, as in London, February is not the most enjoyable time of the year, and those who travel south to the Winter City expecting the sunshine and warmth of the Riviera are usually sadly disappointed. At the end of March Florence becomes pleasant, and remains so till the end of May; while in autumn, when the mosquitoes cease to trouble, the sun has lost its power, and the Lungarno is cool, it is also a delightful place of residence. But February afternoons beside the Arno are very often as dark, as dreary, and as yellow as beside the Thames; and as Gemma sat after luncheon in her cosy room, the smallest in the great old palazzo in the Borgo d'Albizzi which bore her name, she shuddered and drew a silken shawl about her shoulders. It was one of the show-places of Florence; one of those ponderous, prison-like buildings built of huge blocks of brown stone, time-worn, having weathered the storms of five centuries, and notable as containing a magnificent collection of works of art. Its mediaeval exterior, a relic of ancient Florence, was gloomy and forbidding enough, with its barred windows, over-hanging roof, strange lanterns of wonderfully worked iron, and great iron rings to which men tied their horses in days bygone. Once beyond the great courtyard, however, it was indeed a gorgeous palace. The Funaros had always been wealthy and powerful in the Lily City, and had through ages collected within their palace quantities of antiquities and costly objects. Every room was beautifully decorated, some with wonderful frescoes by Andrea del Sarto, whose work in the outer court of the Annunziata is ever admired by sight-seers of every nationality, while the paintings were by Ciro Ferri, Giovanni da Bologna, Filippo Lippi, Botticelli, and Fra Bartolommeo, together with some frescoes in grisaille with rich ornamentation by Del Sarto's pupil Franciabigio, and hosts of other priceless works.

It was a magnificent residence. There were half a dozen other palaces in the same thoroughfare, including the Altoviti, the Albizzi, and the Pazzi, but this was the finest of them all. When Gemma had inherited it she had at once furnished half a dozen rooms in modern style. The place was so enormous that she always felt lost in it, and seldom strayed beyond these rooms which overlooked the great paved courtyard with its ancient wall and curious sculptures chipped and weather-worn. The great gloomy silent rooms, with their bare oaken floors, mouldering tapestries, and time-blackened pictures, were to her grim and ghostly, as, indeed, they were to any but an art enthusiast or a lover of the antique. But the Contessa Funaro lived essentially in the present, and always declared herself more in love with cleanliness than antiquarian dirt. She had no taste for the relics of the past, and affected none. If English or American tourists found anything in the collections to admire, they were at liberty to do so on presenting their card to the liveried hall-porter. At the door the man had a box, and the money placed therein was sent regularly each quarter to the Maternity Hospital.

The furniture of the small elegant room in which she sat was entirely modern, upholstered in pale blue silk, with her monogram in gold thread; the carpets were thick, the great high Florentine stove threw forth a welcome warmth, and the grey light which filtered through the curtains was just sufficient to allow her to read. She was lying back in her long chair in a lazy, negligent attitude, her fair hair a trifle disordered by contact with the cushion behind her head; and one of her little slippers having fallen off, her small foot in its neat black silk stocking peeped out beneath her skirt. On the table at her elbow were two or three unopened letters, while in a vase stood a fine bouquet of flowers, a tribute from her deaf housekeeper.

Since the day she had parted from Count Castellani in the hall of the Embassy in Grosvenor Square she had travelled a good deal. She had been down to Rome, had had an interview with the Marquis Montelupo, and a week ago had unexpectedly arrived at the palazzo. As she had anticipated, when she broke her journey at Turin, on her way from London to Rome, and signed her name in the visitors' book at the hotel, a police official called early on the following morning to inform her that she must consider herself under arrest. But the words scribbled by Montelupo upon his visiting-card had acted like magic, and, having taken the card to the Questura, the detective returned all bows and apologies, and she was allowed to proceed on her journey.

Nearly nine months had elapsed since she last set foot within her great old palazzo, and as she sat that afternoon she allowed her book to fall upon her lap and her eyes to slowly wander around the pretty room. She glanced at the window where the rain was being driven upon the tiny panes by the boisterous wind, and again she shuddered.

With an air of weariness she raised her hand and pushed the mass of fair hair off her brow, as if its weight oppressed her, sighing heavily. The events of the past month had been many and strange. In Rome she had found herself beset by a hundred pitfalls, but she had kept faith with the Marquis, and the terms she had made with him were such as to give her complete satisfaction. A crisis, however, was, she knew, imminent; a crisis in which she would be compelled to play a leading part. But to do so would require all her ingenuity, all her woman's wit, all her courage, all her skill at deception.

"The signore!"

"At last I at last!" she cried, excitedly jumping up instantly. "Show him up at once." Then, facing the great mirror, she placed both hands to her hair, rearranging it deftly, recovered her lost slipper, cast aside the wrap, and stood ready to receive her visitor.

Again the door opened. The man who entered was Charles Armytage.

For a few moments he held her in fond embrace, kissing her lips tenderly again and again; while she, in that soft, crooning voice that had rung in his ears through all those months of separation, welcomed him, reiterating her declarations of love.

"I received your telegram in Brussels two days ago, and have come to you direct," he said at last. "I did not go to the Post Office every day, hence the delay."

"Ah! my poor Nino must be tired," she cried, suddenly recollecting. "Here, this couch. Sit here; it will rest you. Povero Nino! What a terrible journey--from Brussels to Florence!"

He sank upon the divan she indicated, pale, weary, and travel-worn, while she, taking a seat beside him, narrated how she had left Lyddington for London, and afterwards travelled to Rome. Feeling that the glance of the woman he worshipped was fixed upon him, he raised his head; and then their eyes met for a moment with an expression of infinite gentleness, the mournful gentleness of their heroic love.

"Why did you go to Rome?" he asked. "You always said you hated it."

"I had business," she answered. "Urgent business; business which has again aroused hope within me."

"Still of a secret nature?" the young Englishman hazarded, with a quick glance of suspicion.

"For the present, yes," she replied in a low, intense voice. "But you still love me, Nino? You can trust me now, can't you?" and she looked earnestly into his face.

"I have already trusted you," he replied. "Since that night I left you at Lyddington my life has indeed been a dull, aimless one. You have been ever in my mind, and I have wondered daily, hourly, what was the nature of the grave mysterious peril which you say threatens both of us."

"That peril still exists," she answered. "It increases daily, nay hourly."

"You are still threatened? You, the wealthy owner of this magnificent palazzo!" he exclaimed, gazing around the pretty room bewildered. "Often when I was in Florence, in those days when we first met, I passed this great building. Little, however, did I dream that my Gemma, who used to cycle with me in the Cascine, was its owner."

She laughed. "I had reasons for not letting you know my real name," she replied. "It is true that I have money; but wealth has brought me no happiness--only sorrow, alas!--until I met you."

"And now you are happy?" he asked earnestly. "Ah! yes, I am happy when you are beside me, Nino," she responded, grasping his hand in hers. "I never thought that I could learn to love you so. I am still nervous, still in dread, it is true. The reason of my fear is a strange one; I fear the future, and I fear myself."

"Yourself?" he echoed. "You told me that once before--long ago. You are not very formidable."

"Ah, no! You don't understand," she cried hastily. "I fear that I may not have the strength and courage to carry through a plan I have formed to secure your safety and my own liberty."

"But I can assist you," he suggested. "Your interests are mine, now, remember," he added, kissing her.

"Yes," she said, looking up into his eyes. "But to render me assistance is not possible. Any action on my part must necessarily imperil both of us. No, I must act alone."

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet