The Queen hastily discarded all her festal attire, robe, flowers, diamonds and rouge. She slipped on a white dressing-gown, then took a taper, went down a long passage, and having crossed a whole suite of rooms, arrived at last at a solitary room very simply furnished, and communicating with the outer world by means of a secret staircase of which the Queen had one key, and her chief of secret police,- Pasquale di Simone, had another. The windows of this room remained constantly closed and not a ray of light entered. A bronze lamp was securely fixed in the middle of the table, and was provided with a shade which cast the light of the lamp down on the table, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

  Here informers brought their denunciations. If they feared recognition they might wear a mask, or might in the anti-chamber put on one of those terrible penitential robes in which the wearer might be taken for a spectre; the holes left for the eyes resembling those in a Death’s head. Three inquisitors generally presided, whose names have acquired a dismal celebrity. Castel-Cicala, Minister of Foreign Affairs, Guidobaldi, vice-president of the Junta, and Vanni, procurator fiscal. The populace, observing that the shutters of this room remained always closed, called it the “Dark Chamber,” and had formed a tolerably correct idea as to the use made of it. To-night, however, the chamber was empty, the lamp extinguished, and only the monotonous tic-tac of a large clock broke the funereal silence which prevailed in the room.

  Just as the Queen entered, taper in hand, pale as Lady Macbeth, a whirring sound was heard and the clock struck half-past two. The Queen, startled, hesitated for a moment, then assuring herself that the room was indeed empty, she slowly and thoughtfully seated herself at the table, which, unlike that in the King’s room, had an ample provision of writing materials, and was heaped up with official-looking documents.

  The Queen turned the papers absently over, without attempting to read them. Her mind was evidently elsewhere, and her power of hearing at the utmost tension. Unable to sit still any longer, she went to the door leading to the secret staircase, put her ear to it, and listened intently.

  After a few moments she heard the sound of a key turning in the door below. “At last!” she murmured. Then opening the door against which she stood, “Is that you, Pasquale?” she asked.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said a man’s voice at the foot of the staircase.

  “You are exceedingly late,” said the Queen angrily.

  “It is only by good luck that I come at all,” replied the voice drawing nearer and nearer.

  “How is that? What do you mean?”

  “Because we had a rough customer,” said the man, appearing at length at the door. “Thanks to God and Saint Pasquale we have done our work and done it well; but it cost us dear.”

  So saying he deposited on a chair something wrapped up in a mantle which gave forth a metallic clink as he put it down. The Queen looked on with a mixed expression of curiosity and disgust. “What has it cost us?” she asked.

  “Only one man killed and three wounded!”

  “Well! The widow shall have a pension and the wounded men some compensation. There were many then?”

  The officer bowed his thanks. “No, madame,” he said, “the man was alone but he fought like a lion. I threw my knife at him at a distance of ten paces or I should have fared like the rest.”

  “Then you took the papers by force?”

  “Oh! no, madame, not at all. He was quite dead.”

  “Ah!” said the Queen shuddering, “then you were obliged to kill him?”

  “Obliged, indeed! And yet I confess I am sorry. If it had not been for Your Majesty’s service.”

  “What! you regret having killed a Frenchman? I did not suppose you had such tender regard for the soldiers of the Republic.”

  “This was no Frenchman,” said Pasquale, shaking his head.

  “What!” said the Queen, “surely you have not made some terrible blunder. I carefully described a Frenchman coming on horseback from Capua to Pozzuoli.”

  “Exactly, madame, and thence by boat to the palace of Queen Joanna.”

  “An aide-de-camp of General Championnet.”

  “Oh, yes, it is the right man.”

  “We shall see. What have you done with the body?”

  “Ah, madame, I heard a patrol coming at that moment, and fearing to compromise Your Majesty, I left it to them to pick up the dead and care for the wounded.”

  “Then they will see he was a French officer.”

  “How, madame? Here is his mantle, here are his pistols and his sword which I picked up on the field of battle. Ah, he could use his weapons, I assure you. As to papers, there was nothing on him but this case, and a rag of paper which has stuck to it.”

  And Pasquale threw on the table a leather case stained with blood, to which was adhering a piece of paper which might have been a letter. The Queen put out her hand, but, as if disliking to touch these ensanguined relics, stopped half-way.

  “What have you done with the uniform?” she asked.

  “That’s another thing which nearly put me on the wrong track! He had no uniform, none at all! Under his cloak he had a great-coat of green velvet with black fastenings. As there was a tremendous storm, he must have borrowed it from some friend and left his uniform in exchange.”

  “It is very strange,” said the Queen, “the description given to me was very precise. However, the papers will show whether it was the right man or not.”

  And she opened the case, staining her gloves with red as she did so, and drew out a letter addressed:

  “To the Citizen Garat, Ambassador of the French Republic, at Naples.”

  The Queen broke the seals without ceremony, and uttered an exclamation of joy as she saw the first lines. Her pleasure evidently increased as she proceeded, and having come to the end:

  “You are a very valuable servant, Pasquale,” she said. “I will take care that your fortune is made.”

  “Your Majesty promised me that a long time ago, “replied the sbirro.

  “You can depend on me, I shall keep my word. Meanwhile, here is something on account.”

  She took a piece of paper and wrote a few lines. “Here is an order for a thousand ducats, five hundred for you, the rest for your men.”

  “Thank you, madame,” said Pasquale, blowing on the paper in order to dry the ink before pocketing it. “But I have not yet told Your Majesty all there is to tell.”

  “Neither have I asked all I have to ask, but, first, I must read this letter again.” The second reading appeared quite as satisfactory as the first had been. Having finished, “Well, my good Pasquale,” she said, “what more have you to relate?”

  “Only this, madame. This young man was in the palace of Queen Joanna from half-past eleven until one in the morning, and, as he changed his uniform for a civilian costume during that time, he cannot have been alone, and probably had letters from his General for others as well as for the French Ambassador.”

  “That is precisely what I was thinking,” replied the Queen. “Have you no idea who these other persons may be?”

  “Not yet, but I hope soon to have some information. I had ordered eight men for this night’s work and, supposing that six would be enough to dispose of our aide-de-camp — a miscalculation which nearly cost me dear — I detailed two of them to watch the road above Queen Joanna’s palace with orders to follow anyone who came out either before or after my man did, and try to ascertain who they were, or at least where they lived. They have orders to meet me at the Giant’s Statue, and with Your Majesty’s permission I will go and see if they are there now.”

  “Go, and if they are there bring them here, I will question them myself.”

  Left alone, the Queen glanced carelessly at the table and noticed the second paper which Pasquale had detached from the leather case, and thrown upon the table, where it had remained unobserved. It was a letter written on excellent paper and the fine, aristocratic handwriting was evidently that of a woman.

  It began, “Dear Nicolino,” and one glance sufficed to. tell the Queen that it was a love letter.

  Unfortunately for the gratification of her curiosity the whole page was soaked in blood. The date, Sept. 20th, was legible and a few words at the end, wherein the writer expressed her regret at being unable to come to the usual trysting-place because she would be in attendance on the Queen who was going to meet Admiral Nelson. The only signature was “E.”

  For some moments the Queen was hopelessly puzzled. A letter of this sort, dated Sept. 20th, written by a lady who excused her absence because she was in attendance on the Queen, could not possibly be meant for the French aide-de-camp, who at that date, moreover, would have been fifty leagues from Naples. The only explanation, which the Queen soon arrived at, was that the letter must have been already in the coat pocket when lent to the officer, who had put his case in the same pocket without noticing it, and the blood from his wound had fastened the two together. She rose from her seat, went to the chair on which Pasquale had thrown his bundle, and unfolding it, found the sabre and pistols. Both mantle and sabre were evidently part of a cavalry officer’s regulation equipment. But the pistols were quite different. They were mounted in silver and bore the stamp of the Royal Neapolitan manufactory, and had the letter “N,” engraved on a small silver plate, no doubt standing for the “Nicolino “to whom the letter had been written. The Queen put them aside with the letter, just as di Simone returned with his two satellites.

  They brought no news of importance. Five or six minutes after the officer had come out they thought they saw a boat with three persons in it seemingly rowing towards the town. As they could not follow it they paid no further attention to it. Presently three persons appeared at the gate opening on the road from Pausilippo, who looked cautiously to see that the road was clear and then proceeded upwards in the opposite direction to that taken by the aide-de-camp. The two spies followed. Presently one of the three turned to the right and calling out “Au devoir” to his friends, disappeared among the aloes and cactus. By his voice and activity he must have been quite young. The other two, soon perceiving that they were followed, turned sharply round and presenting their pistols at the two men, said sternly, “A step further and you are dead men!” The two spies, who had no orders to fight, and were only armed with knives, stood still, and watched until the others disappeared from sight.

  The Queen intimated that Pasquale and his subordinates might now go. She then threw the cloak and sabre into a cupboard and took with her the letter case, pistols and letter. She carefully locked up the two first, retaining the blood-stained note, with which she entered the saloon where Acton was still awaiting her.

  He arose and bowed, showing no signs of impatience at her long delay. The Queen went straight towards him.

  “You are a chemist, are you not?” she asked.

  “Not in the usual acceptation of the word, madame,” replied Acton, “but I have some knowledge of chemistry.”

  “Would it be possible to efface the blood stains from this letter without also obliterating the writing?”

  Acton surveyed the letter doubtfully.

  “Madame,” he said, “providence has ordained, that for the just punishment of those who shed blood, it should be extremely difficult to efface the traces left by it. In this case it is entirely a question of the composition of the ink; if it be only ordinary writing-ink the words will disappear, but if, which is unlikely, it should contain nitrate of silver or animal charcoal they will probably remain.”

  “Well, do your best, it is important that I should know the contents of that letter.”

  Acton bowed. The Queen continued:

  “You said you had two facts of importance to communicate. I await them.”

  “General Mack arrived this evening during the entertainment. As I had invited him, he came to my house, where I found him on my return.”

  “He is welcome. I think Providence must be on our side. And your second piece of news, sir?”

  “Is no less important than the first. I have had a few words with Admiral Nelson, and, in the matter of money, he is disposed to do all Your Majesty wishes.”

  “Thank you, that completes a satisfactory chain of events.” Caroline then went to the window, put the curtains aside and looked across at the King’s apartments. They were still lighted.

  “Fortunately the King is still up,” she remarked. “I will send him word that we have an Extraordinary Council this morning, at which his presence will be necessary.”

  “I believe he has planned a hunt for this morning,” said the Minister.

  “Indeed,” said the Queen contemptuously, “then he must put it off.” And taking a pen she wrote her note and desired the usher to take it to the King* And seeing Acton still standing as if waiting for final instructions:

  “Good-night, my dear General,” she said, with a gracious smile, “I am sorry to have kept you so late, but when you know all that has happened you will acknowledge that my time has not been wasted.”

  She held out her hand to Acton, who kissed it respectfully, then bowed, and was retiring.

  “By-the-way,” said the Queen, “the King will be in a very bad temper at the Council.”

  “I imagine so,” said Acton, smiling.

  “Warn your colleagues to give no information and merely to answer direct questions. The King and myself must be the only actors in this performance.”

  “I am sure Your Majesty will have the better part,” said the Minister.

  “I think so,” said the Queen. “We shall see.”

  Acton bowed again, and finally took his leave.

  “Ah!” said the Queen as she rang for her maids, “if Emma only keeps her word all will be well.”

  CHAPTER V.

  THE COUNCIL OF STATE.

  AT a quarter-past nine everyone had assembled except the King. Then the folding-doors in the Council room were flung open, and the ushers announced:

  “His Majesty the King.”

  Ferdinand’s air of sulky annoyance was a great contrast to the self-satisfied and cheerful countenance of the Queen. And Jupiter followed suit with hanging head and tail between his legs. By way of protest the King was in hunting attire, although the hunt had been postponed to another day. At his entrance every one rose, including the Queen. Ferdinand looked at her sideways, shook his head and sighed, as if recognizing in her an obstacle which continually interfered with his pleasures. He bowed right and left, giving a special recognition to the Cardinal, and then said in melancholy tones:

  “Gentlemen, I am indeed grieved at having had to disturb you on a day when, like myself, you probably hoped to be at liberty to attend to your own affairs. I assure you it is not my fault, but I am informed there are pressing matters of great importance to consider, which the Queen thinks can only be dealt with in my presence. Her Majesty will explain these matters; you must consider them and give me your advice. Be seated, gentlemen.”

  Then seating himself a little behind the rest and opposite the Queen, “Come here, my poor Jupiter!” he said. “It will be pleasant for you and me, will it not?”

  “Oh! gentlemen,” said the Queen, annoyed as usual by her husband’s mode of speaking, “the matter is quite simple, and if the King chose he could explain it in very few words.”

  And, as everybody listened with the utmost attention, she continued:

  “The French Ambassador, Citizen Garat, left Naples last night after having declared war upon us.”

  “And,” said the King, “let us add that we did not invite this declaration of war, and that it remains to be seen whether England will help us. But that is General Acton’s business.”

  “And Admiral Nelson’s,” said the Queen. “He has just shewn at Aboukir what can be done by genius and courage combined.”

  “None the less, madame,” replied the King, “I do not hesitate to tell you that war with France is a serious matter.”

  “But less serious,” said the Queen sharply, “since Bonaparte, conqueror, as he calls himself, of Dego, Montenotte, Areola, and Mantua, is now shut up in Egypt, where he will have to stay until France can build a new fleet to fetch him back, which I hope will give him time to see the radishes grow, which the Directory instructed him to sow on the banks of the Nile.”

  “Quite so,” replied the King with equal acidity, “but if Bonaparte is out of the way, who, indeed, is truly modest if he only calls himself the victor of Areola, etc., when he might very well add half-a-dozen more names to those you have cited, France still has Massena, Bernadotte, Moreau and a few other conquerors, quite enough for us here who have never conquered anything at all.

  I am forgetting Championnet, the victor of the Dunes, who, you may remember, is only thirty leagues distant — three days’ march.”

  The Queen shrugged her shoulders with a contemptuous smile intended for Championnet, whose unpleasant position she knew. The King thought it aimed at him. “If I am wrong by two or three leagues,” he said, “it is no more. Since the French have occupied Rome I have enquired the distance often enough.”

  “Oh! I do not question your geographical knowledge, sire,” replied the Queen, pouting her Austrian lip.

  “No, I am aware, you only doubt my political wisdom. Of one thing I am sure. If I were one of my own soldiers I should have deserted and turned brigand long ago. The brigands, at least, fight and get killed for themselves. My soldiers, who have not a cent’s worth of property, and are compelled to fight, have nothing to fight for, and they will run away at the first shot.”

  “Sire,” said Ariola, “I am compelled to own there is a good deal of truth in what you say.”

  “As to that,” replied the King, “I always do speak the truth — when I am not obliged to lie, that is! Now, let us see — I understand I have 65,000 men — there they are in battle array, in their new Austrian uniforms, musket on shoulder, sword at side, haversack on back. Who is going to lead them? Is it you, Ariola?”

  “Sire,” answered Ariola, “I cannot be both Minister of War and Commander-in-Chief.”

 

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