“The third, fifth, and eleventh have caused us most uneasiness.”
“Very well; we will get them out of the way. Let them march today towards Lorenzo and halt anywhere ten miles out of the city as a supporting brigade. Now, who is to command?”
“Rollo is senior, Sir.”
“A fool, a fossil, and out of date,” cried the President.
“Stupid, but steady,” said Sorrento. “You can rely upon his attempting nothing brilliant; he will do what he is told, and nothing more.”
Molara reflected on this tremendous military virtue. “Very well; give him the supporting brigade; they will have no fighting. But the other business; that is different. Brienz should have it.”
“Why not Drogan?” suggested the War-Minister.
“I can’t stand his wife,” said the President.
“He is a good musician, Sir,” interposed Miguel.
“Guitar—very melodious.” He shook his head appreciatively.
“And has a capital cook,” added Sorrento.
“No,” said Molara; “this is a matter of life and death. I cannot indulge my prejudices, nor yours; he is not a good man.”
“A good Staff would run him all right, Sir; he is very placid and easily led. And he is a great friend of mine; many’s the good dinner—”
“No, Colonel, it’s no good; I cannot. Is it likely that when so much is at stake, when my reputation, my chances in life, indeed life itself, are on the hazard, that I or anyone would give a great command on such grounds? If claims were equally balanced, I would oblige you; but Brienz is a better man and must have it. Besides,” he added, “he has not got a horrid wife.” Sorrento looked terribly disappointed but said no more. “Well, that is all settled. I leave all details to you. The Staff, everything, you may appoint; but the troops must start by noon. I will speak to them myself at the station.”
The War-Minister bowed and departed, solaced by the minor appointments which the President had left to his decision.
Molara looked at his secretary dubiously. “Is there anything else to do? None of the revolutionaries in the city have moved, have they?”
“They have given no sign, Sir; there is nothing to incriminate them.”
“It is possible this has surprised them; their plans are not ready. At the first overt act of violence or sedition, I will arrest them. But I must have proofs, not for my own satisfaction, but for the country.”
“This is a critical moment,” said the Secretary. “If the leaders of the sedition could be discredited, if they could be made to appear ridiculous or insincere, it would have a great effect on public opinion.”
“I had thought,” replied Molara, “that we might hope to learn something of their plans.”
“You have informed me that Her Excellency has consented to ask Señor Savrola for information on this point?”
“I dislike the idea of any intimacy between them; it might be dangerous.”
“It might be made most dangerous for him.”
“In what way?”
“In the way I have already indicated to you, General.”
“Do you mean in the way I forbade you to suggest, Sir?”
“Certainly.”
“And this is the moment?”
“Now or never.”
There was a silence, after which they resumed the morning’s business. For an hour and a half both worked busily. Then Molara spoke. “I hate doing it; it’s a dirty job.”
“What is necessary, is necessary,” said the Secretary sententiously. The President was about to make a reply when a clerk entered the room with a deciphered telegram. Miguel took it from him, read it, and passed it to his chief, saying grimly as he did so: “Perhaps this will decide you.”
The President read the message, and as he read his face grew hard and cruel. It was from the Police Commissary at Turga, brief but terrible; the soldiers had deserted to the invaders, having first shot their officers.
“Very well,” said Molara at last, “I shall require you to accompany me tonight on a mission of importance. I will take an aide-de-camp as well.”
“Yes,” said the Secretary; “witnesses are necessary.”
“I shall be armed.”
“That is desirable, but only as a threat, only as a threat,” said the Secretary earnestly. “He is too strong for violence; the people would be up in a moment.”
“I know that,” curtly replied the President, and then with savage bitterness he added: “but for that there would be no difficulty.”
“None whatever,” said Miguel, and went on writing.
Molara rose and went in search of Lucile, choking down the disgust and repugnance he felt. He was determined now; it might just make the difference to him in the struggle for power, and besides, it contained the element of revenge. He would like to see the proud Savrola grovel and beg for mercy at his feet. All mere politicians, he said to himself, were physical cowards; the fear of death would paralyse his rival.
Lucile was still in her sitting-room when her husband entered. She met him with an anxious look. “What has happened, Antonio?”
“We have been invaded, dearest, by a large force of revolutionaries. The garrison of Turga have deserted to the enemy, and killed their officers. The end is now in sight.”
“It is terrible,” she said.
“Lucile,” he said with unwonted tenderness, “one chance remains. If you could find out what the leaders of the agitation in this city intend to do, if you can get Savrola to show his hand, we might maintain our position and overcome our enemies. Can you—will you do this?”
Lucile’s heart bounded. It was, as he said, a chance. She might defeat the plot, and at the same time make terms for Savrola; she might still rule in Laurania, and, though this thought she repressed, save the man she loved. Her course was clear; to obtain the information and sell it to her husband for Savrola’s life and liberty. “I will try,” she said.
“I knew you would not fail me, dearest,” said Molara. “But the time is short; go and see him tonight at his rooms. He will surely tell you. You have power over men and will succeed.”
Lucile
