The Gadfly - E. L. Voynich (Ruồi Trâu)

CHAPTER VII.
ONE day in the first week of January Martini,
who had sent round the forms of invitation to the
monthly group-meeting of the literary committee,
received from the Gadfly a laconic, pencil-scrawled
"Very sorry: can''t come." He was a
little annoyed, as a notice of "important business"
had been put into the invitation; this cavalier
treatment seemed to him almost insolent.
Moreover, three separate letters containing bad
news arrived during the day, and the wind was in
the east, so that Martini felt out of sorts and out
of temper; and when, at the group meeting, Dr.
Riccardo asked, "Isn''t Rivarez here?" he answered
rather sulkily: "No; he seems to have
got something more interesting on hand, and
can''t come, or doesn''t want to."
"Really, Martini," said Galli irritably, "you
are about the most prejudiced person in Florence.
Once you object to a man, everything he does is
wrong. How could Rivarez come when he''s ill?"
"Who told you he was ill?"
"Didn''t you know? He''s been laid up for the
last four days."
"What''s the matter with him?"
"I don''t know. He had to put off an appointment
with me on Thursday on account of illness;
and last night, when I went round, I heard that
he was too ill to see anyone. I thought Riccardo
would be looking after him."
"I knew nothing about it. I''ll go round to-night
and see if he wants anything."
The next morning Riccardo, looking very pale
and tired, came into Gemma''s little study. She
was sitting at the table, reading out monotonous
strings of figures to Martini, who, with a magnifying
glass in one hand and a finely pointed pencil
in the other, was making tiny marks in the pages
of a book. She made with one hand a gesture requesting
silence. Riccardo, knowing that a person who is writing
in cipher must not be interrupted, sat down on the sofa
behind her and yawned like a man who can hardly keep awake.
"2, 4; 3, 7; 6, 1; 3, 5; 4> 1;" Gemma''s voice
went on with machine-like evenness. "8, 4; 7, 2;
5, 1; that finishes the sentence, Cesare."
She stuck a pin into the paper to mark the
exact place, and turned round.
"Good-morning, doctor; how fagged you look!
Are you well?"
"Oh, I''m well enough--only tired out. I''ve
had an awful night with Rivarez."
"With Rivarez?"
"Yes; I''ve been up with him all night, and now
I must go off to my hospital patients. I just
came round to know whether you can think of
anyone that could look after him a bit for the
next few days. He''s in a devil of a state. I''ll do
my best, of course; but I really haven''t the time;
and he won''t hear of my sending in a nurse."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Well, rather a complication of things. First
of all----"
"First of all, have you had any breakfast?"
"Yes, thank you. About Rivarez--no doubt,
it''s complicated with a lot of nerve trouble; but
the main cause of disturbance is an old injury
that seems to have been disgracefully neglected.
Altogether, he''s in a frightfully knocked-about
state; I suppose it was that war in South America
--and he certainly didn''t get proper care when
the mischief was done. Probably things were
managed in a very rough-and-ready fashion out
there; he''s lucky to be alive at all. However,
there''s a chronic tendency to inflammation, and
any trifle may bring on an attack----"
"Is that dangerous?"
"N-no; the chief danger in a case of that kind
is of the patient getting desperate and taking a
dose of arsenic."
"It is very painful, of course?"
"It''s simply horrible; I don''t know how he
manages to bear it. I was obliged to stupefy him
with opium in the night--a thing I hate to do
with a nervous patient; but I had to stop it
somehow."
"He is nervous, I should think."
"Very, but splendidly plucky. As long as he
was not actually light-headed with the pain last
night, his coolness was quite wonderful. But I
had an awful job with him towards the end. How
long do you suppose this thing has been going
on? Just five nights; and not a soul within call
except that stupid landlady, who wouldn''t wake
if the house tumbled down, and would be no use
if she did."
"But what about the ballet-girl?"
"Yes; isn''t that a curious thing? He won''t
let her come near him. He has a morbid horror of
her. Altogether, he''s one of the most incomprehensible
creatures I ever met--a perfect mass of contradictions."
He took out his watch and looked at it with a
preoccupied face. "I shall be late at the hospital;
but it can''t be helped. The junior will have to
begin without me for once. I wish I had known
of all this before--it ought not to have been let
go on that way night after night."
"But why on earth didn''t he send to say he
was ill?" Martini interrupted. "He might have
guessed we shouldn''t have left him stranded in
that fashion."
"I wish, doctor," said Gemma, "that you had
sent for one of us last night, instead of wearing
yourself out like this."
"My dear lady, I wanted to send round to
Galli; but Rivarez got so frantic at the suggestion
that I didn''t dare attempt it. When I asked
him whether there was anyone else he would like
fetched, he looked at me for a minute, as if he
were scared out of his wits, and then put up both
hands to his eyes and said: ''Don''t tell them;
they will laugh!'' He seemed quite possessed
with some fancy about people laughing at something.
I couldn''t make out what; he kept talking Spanish;
but patients do say the oddest things sometimes."
"Who is with him now?" asked Gemma.
"No one except the landlady and her maid."
"I''ll go to him at once," said Martini.
"Thank you. I''ll look round again in the
evening. You''ll find a paper of written directions
in the table-drawer by the large window, and the
opium is on the shelf in the next room. If the
pain comes on again, give him another dose--not
more than one; but don''t leave the bottle where
he can get at it, whatever you do; he might be
tempted to take too much."
When Martini entered the darkened room, the
Gadfly turned his head round quickly, and, holding
out to him a burning hand, began, in a bad
imitation of his usual flippant manner:
"Ah, Martini! You have come to rout me out
about those proofs. It''s no use swearing at me
for missing the committee last night; the fact is,
I have not been quite well, and----"
"Never mind the committee. I have just seen
Riccardo, and have come to know if I can be of
any use."
The Gadfly set his face like a flint.
"Oh, really! that is very kind of you; but it
wasn''t worth the trouble. I''m only a little out
of sorts."
"So I understood from Riccardo. He was up
with you all night, I believe."
The Gadfly bit his lip savagely.
"I am quite comfortable, thank you, and don''t
want anything."
"Very well; then I will sit in the other room;
perhaps you would rather be alone. I will leave
the door ajar, in case you call me."
"Please don''t trouble about it; I really shan''t
want anything. I should be wasting your time for
nothing."
"Nonsense, man!" Martini broke in roughly.
"What''s the use of trying to fool me that way?
Do you think I have no eyes? Lie still and go to
sleep, if you can."
He went into the adjoining room, and, leaving
the door open, sat down with a book. Presently
he heard the Gadfly move restlessly two or three
times. He put down his book and listened.
There was a short silence, then another restless
movement; then the quick, heavy, panting breath
of a man clenching his teeth *****ppress a groan.
He went back into the room.
"Can I do anything for you, Rivarez?"
There was no answer, and he crossed the room
to the bed-side. The Gadfly, with a ghastly, livid
face, looked at him for a moment, and silently
shook his head.
"Shall I give you some more opium? Riccardo
said you were to have it if the pain got very bad."
"No, thank you; I can bear it a bit longer.
It may be worse later on."
Martini shrugged his shoulders and sat down
beside the bed. For an interminable hour he
watched in silence; then he rose and fetched the
opium.
"Rivarez, I won''t let this go on any longer; if
you can stand it, I can''t. You must have the stuff."
The Gadfly took it without speaking. Then he
turned away and closed his eyes. Martini sat
down again, and listened as the breathing became
gradually deep and even.
The Gadfly was too much exhausted to wake
easily when once asleep. Hour after hour he lay
absolutely motionless. Martini approached him
several times during the day and evening, and
looked at the still figure; but, except the breathing,
there was no sign of life. The face was so
wan and colourless that at last a sudden fear seized
upon him; what if he had given too much opium?
The injured left arm lay on the coverlet, and he
shook it gently to rouse the sleeper. As he did
so, the unfastened sleeve fell back, showing a
series of deep and fearful scars covering the arm
from wrist to elbow.
"That arm must have been in a pleasant con***ion
when those marks were fresh," said Riccardo''s voice
behind him.
"Ah, there you are at last! Look here,
Riccardo; ought this man to sleep forever? I
gave him a dose about ten hours ago, and he
hasn''t moved a muscle since."
Riccardo stooped down and listened for a moment.
"No; he is breathing quite properly; it''s nothing
but sheer exhaustion--what you might expect
after such a night. There may be another
paroxysm before morning. Someone will sit up,
I hope?"
"Galli will; he has sent to say he will be here
by ten."
"It''s nearly that now. Ah, he''s waking! Just
see the maidservant gets that broth hot. Gently
--gently, Rivarez! There, there, you needn''t
fight, man; I''m not a bishop!"
The Gadfly started up with a shrinking, scared
look. "Is it my turn?" he said hurriedly in
Spanish. "Keep the people amused a minute;
I---- Ah! I didn''t see you, Riccardo."
He looked round the room and drew one hand
across his forehead as if bewildered. "Martini!
Why, I thought you had gone away. I must have
been asleep."
"You have been sleeping like the beauty in the
fairy story for the last ten hours; and now you are
to have some broth and go to sleep again."
"Ten hours! Martini, surely you haven''t been
here all that time?"
"Yes; I was beginning to wonder whether I
hadn''t given you an overdose of opium."
The Gadfly shot a sly glance at him.
"No such luck! Wouldn''t you have nice quiet
committee-meetings? What the devil do you
want, Riccardo? Do for mercy''s sake leave me in
peace, can''t you? I hate being mauled about by
doctors."
"Well then, drink this and I''ll leave you in
peace. I shall come round in a day or two,
though, and give you a thorough overhauling. I
think you have pulled through the worst of this
business now; you don''t look quite so much like
a death''s head at a feast."
"Oh, I shall be all right soon, thanks. Who''s
that--Galli? I seem to have a collection of all
the graces here to-night."
"I have come to stop the night with you."
"Nonsense! I don''t want anyone. Go home,
all the lot of you. Even if the thing should come
on again, you can''t help me; I won''t keep taking
opium. It''s all very well once in a way."
"I''m afraid you''re right," Riccardo said.
"But that''s not always an easy resolution to stick
to."
The Gadfly looked up, smiling. "No fear!
If I''d been going in for that sort of thing, I should
have done it long ago."
"Anyway, you are not going to be left alone,"
Riccardo answered drily. "Come into the other
room a minute, Galli; I want to speak to you.
Good-night, Rivarez; I''ll look in to-morrow."
Martini was following them out of the room
when he heard his name softly called. The Gadfly
was holding out a hand to him.
"Thank you!"
"Oh, stuff! Go to sleep."
When Riccardo had gone, Martini remained a
few minutes in the outer room, talking with Galli.
As he opened the front door of the house he heard
a carriage stop at the garden gate and saw a
woman''s figure get out and come up the path. It
was Zita, returning, evidently, from some evening
entertainment. He lifted his hat and stood aside
to let her pass, then went out into the dark lane
leading from the house to the Poggio Imperiale.
Presently the gate clicked and rapid footsteps
came down the lane.
"Wait a minute!" she said.
When he turned back to meet her she stopped
short, and then came slowly towards him, dragging
one hand after her along the hedge. There
was a single street-lamp at the corner, and he saw
by its light that she was hanging her head down
as though embarrassed or ashamed.
"How is he?" she asked without looking up.
"Much better than he was this morning. He
has been asleep most of the day and seems less
exhausted. I think the attack is passing over."
She still kept her eyes on the ground.
"Has it been very bad this time?"
"About as bad as it can well be, I should
think."
"I thought so. When he won''t let me come
into the room, that always means it''s bad."
"Does he often have attacks like this?"
"That depends---- It''s so irregular. Last
summer, in Switzerland, he was quite well; but
the winter before, when we were in Vienna, it was
awful. He wouldn''t let me come near him for
days together. He hates to have me about when
he''s ill."
She glanced up for a moment, and, dropping her
eyes again, went on:
"He always used to send me off to a ball, or
concert, or something, on one pretext or another,
when he felt it coming on. Then he would lock
himself into his room. I used to slip back and sit
outside the door--he would have been furious if
he''d known. He''d let the dog come in if it
whined, but not me. He cares more for it, I
think."
There was a curious, sullen defiance in her
manner.
"Well, I hope it won''t be so bad any more,"
said Martini kindly. "Dr. Riccardo is taking the
case seriously in hand. Perhaps he will be able to
make a permanent improvement. And, in any
case, the treatment gives relief at the moment.
But you had better send to us at once, another
time. He would have suffered very much less if
we had known of it earlier. Good-night!"
He held out his hand, but she drew back with
a quick gesture of refusal.
"I don''t see why you want to shake hands with
his mistress."
"As you like, of course," he began in embarrassment.
She stamped her foot on the ground. "I hate
you!" she cried, turning on him with eyes like
glowing coals. "I hate you all! You come here
talking politics to him; and he lets you sit up the
night with him and give him things to stop the
pain, and I daren''t so much as peep at him through
the door! What is he to you? What right have
you to come and steal him away from me? I hate
you! I hate you! I HATE you!"
She burst into a violent fit of sobbing, and, darting
back into the garden, slammed the gate in his face.
"Good Heavens!" said Martini to himself, as he
walked down the lane. "That girl is actually
in love with him! Of all the extraordinary
things----"

CHAPTER VIII.
THE Gadfly''s recovery was rapid. One afternoon
in the following week Riccardo found him
lying on the sofa in a Turkish dressing-gown,
chatting with Martini and Galli. He even talked
about going downstairs; but Riccardo merely
laughed at the suggestion and asked whether he
would like a tramp across the valley to Fiesole to
start with.
"You might go and call on the Grassinis for a
change," he added wickedly. "I''m sure madame
would be delighted to see you, especially now,
when you look so pale and interesting."
The Gadfly clasped his hands with a tragic
gesture.
"Bless my soul! I never thought of that!
She''d take me for one of Italy''s martyrs, and talk
patriotism to me. I should have to act up to the
part, and tell her I''ve been cut to pieces in an
underground dungeon and stuck together again
rather badly; and she''d want to know exactly what
the process felt like. You don''t think she''d believe
it, Riccardo? I''ll bet you my Indian dagger
against the bottled tape-worm in your den that
she''ll swallow the biggest lie I can invent. That''s
a generous offer, and you''d better jump at it."
"Thanks, I''m not so fond of murderous tools
as you are."
"Well, a tape-worm is as murderous as a dagger,
any day, and not half so pretty."
"But as it happens, my dear fellow, I don''t
want the dagger and I do want the tape-worm.
Martini, I must run off. Are you in charge of this
obstreperous patient?"
"Only till three o''clock. Galli and I have to go
to San Miniato, and Signora Bolla is coming till
I can get back."
"Signora Bolla!" the Gadfly repeated in a tone
of dismay. "Why, Martini, this will never do!
I can''t have a lady bothered over me and my ailments.
Besides, where is she to sit? She won''t
like to come in here."
"Since when have you gone in so fiercely for the
proprieties?" asked Riccardo, laughing. "My
good man, Signora Bolla is head nurse in general
to all of us. She has looked after sick people ever
since she was in short frocks, and does it better
than any sister of mercy I know. Won''t like to
come into your room! Why, you might be talking
of the Grassini woman! I needn''t leave any
directions if she''s coming, Martini. Heart alive,
it''s half-past two; I must be off!"
"Now, Rivarez, take your physic before she
comes," said Galli, approaching the sofa with a
medicine glass.
"Damn the physic!" The Gadfly had reached
the irritable stage of convalescence, and was
inclined to give his devoted nurses a bad time.
"W-what do you want to d-d-dose me with all
sorts of horrors for now the pain is gone?"
"Just because I don''t want it to come back.
You wouldn''t like it if you collapsed when Signora
Bolla is here and she had to give you opium."
"My g-good sir, if that pain is going to come
back it will come; it''s not a t-toothache to be
frightened away with your trashy mixtures. They
are about as much use as a t-toy squirt for a house
on fire. However, I suppose you must have your
way."
He took the glass with his left hand, and the
sight of the terrible scars recalled Galli to the
former subject of conversation.
"By the way," he asked; "how did you get so
much knocked about? In the war, was it?"
"Now, didn''t I just tell you it was a case of
secret dungeons and----"
"Yes, that version is for Signora Grassini''s
benefit. Really, I suppose it was in the war with
Brazil?"
"Yes, I got a bit hurt there; and then hunting
in the savage districts and one thing and another."
"Ah, yes; on the scientific expe***ion. You
can fasten your shirt; I have quite done. You
seem to have had an exciting time of it out there."
"Well, of course you can''t live in savage countries
without getting a few adventures once in a
way," said the Gadfly lightly; "and you can
hardly expect them all to be pleasant."
"Still, I don''t understand how you managed to
get so much knocked about unless in a bad adventure
with wild beasts--those scars on your left
arm, for instance."
"Ah, that was in a puma-hunt. You see, I had
fired----"
There was a knock at the door.
"Is the room tidy, Martini? Yes? Then please
open the door. This is really most kind, signora;
you must excuse my not getting up."
"Of course you mustn''t get up; I have not come
as a caller. I am a little early, Cesare. I thought
perhaps you were in a hurry to go."
"I can stop for a quarter of an hour. Let me
put your cloak in the other room. Shall I take
the basket, too?"
"Take care; those are new-laid eggs. Katie
brought them in from Monte Oliveto this morning.
There are some Christmas roses for you,
Signor Rivarez; I know you are fond of flowers."
She sat down beside the table and began clipping
the stalks of the flowers and arranging them
in a vase.
"Well, Rivarez," said Galli; "tell us the rest of
the puma-hunt story; you had just begun."
"Ah, yes! Galli was asking me about life in
South America, signora; and I was telling him
how I came to get my left arm spoiled. It was
in Peru. We had been wading a river on a puma-hunt,
and when I fired at the beast the powder
wouldn''t go off; it had got splashed with water.
Naturally the puma didn''t wait for me to rectify
that; and this is the result."
"That must have been a pleasant experience."
"Oh, not so bad! One must take the rough
with the smooth, of course; but it''s a splendid
life on the whole. Serpent-catching, for instance----"
He rattled on, telling anecdote after anecdote;
now of the Argentine war, now of the Brazilian
expe***ion, now of hunting feats and adventures
with savages or wild beasts. Galli, with the delight
of a child hearing a fairy story, kept interrupting
every moment to ask questions. He was
of the impressionable Neapolitan temperament
and loved everything sensational. Gemma took
some knitting from her basket and listened
silently, with busy fingers and downcast eyes.
Martini frowned and fidgeted. The manner in
which the anecdotes were told seemed to him
boastful and self-conscious; and, notwithstanding
his unwilling admiration for a man who could
endure physical pain with the amazing fortitude
which he had seen the week before, he genuinely
disliked the Gadfly and all his works and ways.
"It must have been a glorious life!" sighed
Galli with naive envy. "I wonder you ever made
up your mind to leave Brazil. Other countries
must seem so flat after it!"
"I think I was happiest in Peru and Ecuador,"
said the Gadfly. "That really is a magnificent
tract of country. Of course it is very hot, especially
the coast district of Ecuador, and one has to
rough it a bit; but the scenery is superb beyond
imagination."
"I believe," said Galli, "the perfect freedom of
life in a barbarous country would attract me more
than any scenery. A man must feel his personal,
human dignity as he can never feel it in our
crowded towns."
"Yes," the Gadfly answered; "that is----"
Gemma raised her eyes from her knitting and
looked at him. He flushed suddenly scarlet and
broke off. There was a little pause.
"Surely it is not come on again?" asked Galli
anxiously.
"Oh, nothing to speak of, thanks to your
s-s-soothing application that I b-b-blasphemed
against. Are you going already, Martini?"
"Yes. Come along, Galli; we shall be late."
Gemma followed the two men out of the room,
and presently returned with an egg beaten up in
milk.
"Take this, please," she said with mild authority;
and sat down again to her knitting. The
Gadfly obeyed meekly.
For half an hour, neither spoke. Then the Gadfly
said in a very low voice:
"Signora Bolla!"
She looked up. He was tearing the fringe of
the couch-rug, and kept his eyes lowered.
"You didn''t believe I was speaking the truth
just now," he began.
"I had not the smallest doubt that you were
telling falsehoods," she answered quietly.
"You were quite right. I was telling falsehoods
all the time."
"Do you mean about the war?"
"About everything. I was not in that war at
all; and as for the expe***ion, I had a few adventures,
of course, and most of those stories are true,
but it was not that way I got smashed. You have
detected me in one lie, so I may as well confess the
lot, I suppose."
"Does it not seem to you rather a waste of
energy to invent so many falsehoods?" she asked.
"I should have thought it was hardly worth the
trouble."
"What would you have? You know your own
English proverb: ''Ask no questions and you''ll be
told no lies.'' It''s no pleasure to me to fool people
that way, but I must answer them somehow when
they ask what made a cripple of me; and I may as
well invent something pretty while I''m about it.
You saw how pleased Galli was."
"Do you prefer pleasing Galli to speaking the truth?"
"The truth!" He looked up with the torn
fringe in his hand. "You wouldn''t have me tell
those people the truth? I''d cut my tongue out
first!" Then with an awkward, shy abruptness:
"I have never told it to anybody yet; but I''ll tell
you if you care to hear."
She silently laid down her knitting. To her
there was something grievously pathetic in this
hard, secret, unlovable creature, suddenly flinging
his personal confidence at the feet of a woman
whom he barely knew and whom he apparently
disliked.
A long silence followed, and she looked up.
He was leaning his left arm on the little table beside
him, and shading his eyes with the mutilated
hand, and she noticed the nervous tension of the
fingers and the throbbing of the scar on the wrist.
She came up to him and called him softly by name.
He started violently and raised his head.
"I f-forgot," he stammered apologetically. "I
was g-going to t-tell you about----"
"About the--accident or whatever it was that
caused your lameness. But if it worries you----"
"The accident? Oh, the smashing! Yes;
only it wasn''t an accident, it was a poker."
She stared at him in blank amazement. He
pushed back his hair with a hand that shook perceptibly,
and looked up at her, smiling.
"Won''t you sit down? Bring your chair close,
please. I''m so sorry I can''t get it for you.
R-really, now I come to think of it, the case would
have been a p-perfect t-treasure-trove for Riccardo
if he had had me to treat; he has the true surgeon''s
love for broken bones, and I believe everything
in me that was breakable was broken on that
occasion--except my neck."
"And your courage," she put in softly. "But
perhaps you count that among your unbreakable
possessions."
He shook his head. "No," he said; "my courage
has been mended up after a fashion, with the
rest of me; but it was fairly broken then, like a
smashed tea-cup; that''s the horrible part of it.
Ah---- Yes; well, I was telling you about the
poker.
"It was--let me see--nearly thirteen years ago,
in Lima. I told you Peru was a delightful country
to live in; but it''s not quite so nice for people that
happen to be at low water, as I was. I had been
down in the Argentine, and then in Chili, tramping
the country and starving, mostly; and had
come up from Valparaiso as odd-man on a cattle-boat.
I couldn''t get any work in Lima itself, so I
went down to the docks,--they''re at Callao, you
know,--to try there. Well of course in all those
shipping-ports there are low quarters where the
sea-faring people congregate; and after some time
I got taken on as servant in one of the gambling
hells there. I had to do the cooking and billiard-marking,
and fetch drink for the sailors and their
women, and all that sort of thing. Not very
pleasant work; still I was glad to get it; there was
at least food and the sight of human faces and
sound of human tongues--of a kind. You may
think that was no advantage; but I had just been
down with yellow fever, alone in the outhouse of a
wretched half-caste shanty, and the thing had
given me the horrors. Well, one night I was told
to put out a tipsy Lascar who was making himself
obnoxious; he had come ashore and lost all his
money and was in a bad temper. Of course I had
to obey if I didn''t want to lose my place and
starve; but the man was twice as strong as I--I
was not twenty-one and as weak as a cat after the
fever. Besides, he had the poker."
He paused a moment, glancing furtively at her;
then went on:
"Apparently he intended to put an end to me
altogether; but somehow he managed to scamp
his work--Lascars always do if they have a
chance; and left just enough of me not smashed to
go on living with."

"Yes, but the other people, could they not
interfere? Were they all afraid of one Lascar?"
He looked up and burst out laughing.
"THE OTHER PEOPLE? The gamblers and the
people of the house? Why, you don''t understand!
They were negroes and Chinese and Heaven knows
what; and I was their servant--THEIR PROPERTY.
They stood round and enjoyed the fun, of course.
That sort of thing counts for a good joke out
there. So it is if you don''t happen to be the subject
practised on."
She shuddered.
"Then what was the end of it?"
"That I can''t tell you much about; a man
doesn''t remember the next few days after a thing
of that kind, as a rule. But there was a ship''s
surgeon near, and it seems that when they found I
was not dead, somebody called him in. He
patched me up after a fashion--Riccardo seems to
think it was rather badly done, but that may be
professional jealousy. Anyhow, when I came to
my senses, an old native woman had taken me in
for Christian charity--that sounds queer, doesn''t
it? She used to sit huddled up in the corner of
the hut, smoking a black pipe and spitting on the
floor and crooning to herself. However, she
meant well, and she told me I might die in peace
and nobody should disturb me. But the spirit of
contradiction was strong in me and I elected to
live. It was rather a difficult job scrambling back
to life, and sometimes I am inclined to think it
was a great deal of cry for very little wool. Anyway
that old woman''s patience was wonderful;
she kept me--how long was it?--nearly four
months lying in her hut, raving like a mad thing at
intervals, and as vicious as a bear with a sore ear
between-whiles. The pain was pretty bad, you
see, and my temper had been spoiled in childhood
with overmuch coddling."
"And then?"
"Oh, then--I got up somehow and crawled
away. No, don''t think it was any delicacy about
taking a poor woman''s charity--I was past caring
for that; it was only that I couldn''t bear the place
any longer. You talked just now about my courage;
if you had seen me then! The worst of the
pain used to come on every evening, about dusk;
and in the afternoon I used to lie alone, and watch
the sun get lower and lower---- Oh, you can''t
understand! It makes me sick to look at a sunset now!"
A long pause.
"Well, then I went up country, to see if I could
get work anywhere--it would have driven me mad
to stay in Lima. I got as far as Cuzco, and
there------ Really I don''t know why I''m inflicting
all this ancient history on you; it hasn''t even the
merit of being funny."
She raised her head and looked at him with deep
and serious eyes. "PLEASE don''t talk that way,"
she said.
He bit his lip and tore off another piece of the
rug-fringe.
"Shall I go on?" he asked after a moment.
"If--if you will. I am afraid it is horrible to
you to remember."
"Do you think I forget when I hold my tongue?
It''s worse then. But don''t imagine it''s the thing
itself that haunts me so. It is the fact of having
lost the power over myself."
"I--don''t think I quite understand."
"I mean, it is the fact of having come to the
end of my courage, to the point where I found
myself a coward."
"Surely there is a limit to what anyone can bear."
"Yes; and the man who has once reached
that limit never knows when he may reach it
again."
"Would you mind telling me," she asked, hesitating,
"how you came to be stranded out there alone at twenty?"
"Very simply: I had a good opening in life, at
home in the old country, and ran away from it."
"Why?"
He laughed again in his quick, harsh way.
"Why? Because I was a priggish young cub,
I suppose. I had been brought up in an over-luxurious
home, and coddled and faddled after till
I thought the world was made of pink cotton-wool
and sugared almonds. Then one fine day I found
out that someone I had trusted had deceived me.
Why, how you start! What is it?"
"Nothing. Go on, please."
"I found out that I had been tricked into believing
a lie; a common bit of experience, of course;
but, as I tell you, I was young and priggish, and
thought that liars go to hell. So I ran away from
home and plunged into South America to sink or
swim as I could, without a cent in my pocket or a
word of Spanish in my tongue, or anything but
white hands and expensive habits to get my bread
with. And the natural result was that I got a dip
into the real hell to cure me of imagining sham
ones. A pretty thorough dip, too--it was just
five years before the Duprez expe***ion came
along and pulled me out."
"Five years! Oh, that is terrible! And had
you no friends?"
"Friends! I"--he turned on her with sudden
fierceness--"I have NEVER had a friend!"
The next instant he seemed a little ashamed of
his vehemence, and went on quickly:
"You mustn''t take all this too seriously; I dare
say I made the worst of things, and really it wasn''t
so bad the first year and a half; I was young and
strong and I managed to scramble along fairly
well till the Lascar put his mark on me. But after
that I couldn''t get work. It''s wonderful what an
effectual tool a poker is if you handle it properly;
and nobody cares to employ a cripple."
"What sort of work did you do?"
"What I could get. For some time I lived by
odd-jobbing for the blacks on the sugar plantations,
fetching and carrying and so on. It''s one of
the curious things in life, by the way, that slaves
always contrive to have a slave of their own, and
there''s nothing a negro likes so much as a white
fag to bully. But it was no use; the overseers
always turned me off. I was too lame to be
quick; and I couldn''t manage the heavy loads.
And then I was always getting these attacks
of inflammation, or whatever the confounded
thing is.
"After some time I went down to the silver-mines
and tried to get work there; but it was all
no good. The managers laughed at the very
notion of taking me on, and as for the men, they
made a dead set at me."
"Why was that?"
"Oh, human nature, I suppose; they saw I had
only one hand that I could hit back with. They''re
a mangy, half-caste lot; negroes and Zambos
mostly. And then those horrible coolies! So at
last I got enough of that, and set off to tramp the
country at random; just wandering about, on the
chance of something turning up."
"To tramp? With that lame foot!"
He looked up with a sudden, piteous catching
of the breath.
"I--I was hungry," he said.
She turned her head a little away and rested her
chin on one hand. After a moment''s silence he
began again, his voice sinking lower and lower as
he spoke:
"Well, I tramped, and tramped, till I was nearly
mad with tramping, and nothing came of it. I
got down into Ecuador, and there it was worse
than ever. Sometimes I''d get a bit of tinkering
to do,--I''m a pretty fair tinker,--or an errand to
run, or a pigstye to clean out; sometimes I
did--oh, I hardly know what. And then at last,
one day------"
The slender, brown hand clenched itself suddenly
on the table, and Gemma, raising her head,
glanced at him anxiously. His side-face was
turned towards her, and she could see a vein on
the temple beating like a hammer, with quick,
irregular strokes. She bent forward and laid a
gentle hand on his arm.
"Never mind the rest; it''s almost too horrible
to talk about."
He stared doubtfully at the hand, shook his
head, and went on steadily:
"Then one day I met a travelling variety show.
You remember that one the other night; well, that
sort of thing, only coarser and more indecent.
The Zambos are not like these gentle Florentines;
they don''t care for anything that is not foul or
brutal. There was bull-fighting, too, of course.
They had camped out by the roadside for the
night; and I went up to their tent to beg. Well,
the weather was hot and I was half starved, and
so--I fainted at the door of the tent. I had a
trick of fainting suddenly at that time, like a
boarding-school girl with tight stays. So they
took me in and gave me brandy, and food, and so
on; and then--the next morning--they offered
me----"
Another pause.
"They wanted a hunchback, or monstrosity of
some kind; for the boys to pelt with orange-peel
and banana-skins--something to set the blacks
laughing------ You saw the clown that night--
well, I was that--for two years. I suppose you
have a humanitarian feeling about negroes and
Chinese. Wait till you''ve been at their mercy!
"Well, I learned to do the tricks. I was not
quite deformed enough; but they set that right
with an artificial hump and made the most of this
foot and arm---- And the Zambos are not critical;
they''re easily satisfied if only they can get
hold of some live thing to torture--the fool''s dress
makes a good deal of difference, too.
"The only difficulty was that I was so often ill
and unable to play. Sometimes, if the manager
was out of temper, he would insist on my coming
into the ring when I had these attacks on; and I
believe the people liked those evenings best.
Once, I remember, I fainted right off with the pain
in the middle of the performance---- When I
came to my senses again, the audience had got
round me--hooting and yelling and pelting me
with------"
"Don''t! I can''t hear any more! Stop, for
God''s sake!"
She was standing up with both hands over her
ears. He broke off, and, looking up, saw the
glitter of tears in her eyes.
"Damn it all, what an idiot I am!" he said
under his breath.
She crossed the room and stood for a little while
looking out of the window. When she turned
round, the Gadfly was again leaning on the table
and covering his eyes with one hand. He had evidently
forgotten her presence, and she sat down
beside him without speaking. After a long silence
she said slowly:
"I want to ask you a question."
"Yes?" without moving.
"Why did you not cut your throat?"
He looked up in grave surprise. "I did not expect
YOU to ask that," he said. "And what about
my work? Who would have done it for me?"
"Your work---- Ah, I see! You talked just
now about being a coward; well, if you have come
through that and kept to your purpose, you are
the very bravest man that I have ever met."
He covered his eyes again, and held her hand in
a close passionate clasp. A silence that seemed to
have no end fell around them.

Suddenly a clear and fresh soprano voice rang
out from the garden below, singing a verse of a
doggerel French song:
"Eh, Pierrot! Danse, Pierrot!
Danse un peu, mon pauvre Jeannot!
Vive la danse et l''allegresse!
Jouissons de notre bell'' jeunesse!
Si moi je pleure ou moi je soupire,
Si moi je fais la triste figure--
Monsieur, ce n''est que pour rire!
Ha! Ha, ha, ha!
Monsieur, ce n''est que pour rire!"
At the first words the Gadfly tore his hand from
Gemma''s and shrank away with a stifled groan.
She clasped both hands round his arm and pressed
it firmly, as she might have pressed that of a person
undergoing a surgical operation. When the
song broke off and a chorus of laughter and applause
came from the garden, he looked up with
the eyes of a tortured animal.
"Yes, it is Zita," he said slowly; "with her
officer friends. She tried to come in here the
other night, before Riccardo came. I should have
gone mad if she had touched me!"
"But she does not know," Gemma protested
softly. "She cannot guess that she is hurting
you."
"She is like a Creole," he answered, shuddering.
"Do you remember her face that night when we
brought in the beggar-child? That is how the
half-castes look when they laugh."
Another burst of laughter came from the garden.
Gemma rose and opened the window. Zita, with
a gold-embroidered scarf wound coquettishly
round her head, was standing in the garden path,
holding up a bunch of violets, for the possession
of which three young cavalry officers appeared
to be competing.
"Mme. Reni!" said Gemma.
Zita''s face darkened like a thunder-cloud.
"Madame?" she said, turning and raising her
eyes with a defiant look.
"Would your friends mind speaking a little
more softly? Signor Rivarez is very unwell."
The gipsy flung down her violets. "Allez-vous
en!" she said, turning sharply on the astonished
officers. "Vous m''embetez, messieurs!"
She went slowly out into the road. Gemma
closed the window.
"They have gone away," she said, turning to
him.
"Thank you. I--I am sorry to have troubled
you."
"It was no trouble." He at once detected the
hesitation in her voice.
"''But?''" he said. "That sentence was not
finished, signora; there was an unspoken ''but'' in
the back of your mind."
"If you look into the backs of people''s minds,
you mustn''t be offended at what you read there.
It is not my affair, of course, but I cannot understand----"
"My aversion to Mme. Reni? It is only when----"
"No, your caring to live with her when you feel
that aversion. It seems to me an insult to her as
a woman and as----"
"A woman!" He burst out laughing harshly.
"Is THAT what you call a woman? ''Madame, ce
n''est que pour rire!''"
"That is not fair!" she said. "You have no
right to speak of her in that way to anyone--
especially to another woman!"
He turned away, and lay with wide-open eyes,
looking out of the window at the sinking sun. She
lowered the blind and closed the shutters, that he
might not see it set; then sat down at the table
by the other window and took up her knitting
again.
"Would you like the lamp?" she asked after a moment.
He shook his head.
When it grew too dark to see, Gemma rolled up
her knitting and laid it in the basket. For some
time she sat with folded hands, silently watching
the Gadfly''s motionless figure. The dim evening
light, falling on his face, seemed to soften away its
hard, mocking, self-assertive look, and to deepen
the tragic lines about the mouth. By some fanciful
association of ideas her memory went vividly
back to the stone cross which her father had set
up in memory of Arthur, and to its inscription:
"All thy waves and billows have gone over me."
An hour passed in unbroken silence. At last
she rose and went softly out of the room. Coming
back with a lamp, she paused for a moment,
thinking that the Gadfly was asleep. As the light
fell on his face he turned round.
"I have made you a cup of coffee," she said,
setting clown the lamp.
"Put it down a minute. Will you come here,
please."
He took both her hands in his.
"I have been thinking," he said. "You are
quite right; it is an ugly tangle I have got my life
into. But remember, a man does not meet every
day a woman whom he can--love; and I--I have
been in deep waters. I am afraid----"
"Afraid----"
"Of the dark. Sometimes I DARE not be alone
at night. I must have something living--something
solid beside me. It is the outer darkness,
where shall be---- No, no! It''s not that; that''s
a sixpenny toy hell;--it''s the INNER darkness.
There''s no weeping or gnashing of teeth there;
only silence--silence----"
His eyes dilated. She was quite still, hardly
breathing till he spoke again.
"This is all mystification to you, isn''t it? You
can''t understand--luckily for you. What I mean
is that I have a pretty fair chance of going mad if
I try to live quite alone---- Don''t think too
hardly of me, if you can help it; I am not altogether
the vicious brute you perhaps imagine me to be."
"I cannot try to judge for you," she answered.
"I have not suffered as you have. But--I have
been in rather deep water too, in another way; and
I think--I am sure--that if you let the fear of anything
drive you to do a really cruel or unjust or
ungenerous thing, you will regret it afterwards.
For the rest--if you have failed in this one thing,
I know that I, in your place, should have failed
altogether,--should have cursed God and died."
He still kept her hands in his.
"Tell me," he said very softly; "have you ever
in your life done a really cruel thing?"
She did not answer, but her head sank down,
and two great tears fell on his hand.
"Tell me!" he whispered passionately, clasping
her hands tighter. "Tell me! I have told you
all my misery."
"Yes,--once,--long ago. And I did it to the
person I loved best in the world."
The hands that clasped hers were trembling violently;
but they did not loosen their hold.
"He was a comrade," she went on; "and I believed
a slander against him,--a common glaring
lie that the police had invented. I struck him in
the face for a traitor; and he went away and
drowned himself. Then, two days later, I found
out that he had been quite innocent. Perhaps
that is a worse memory than any of yours. I
would cut off my right hand to undo what it has done."
Something swift and dangerous--something
that she had not seen before,--flashed into his
eyes. He bent his head down with a furtive, sudden
gesture and kissed the hand.
She drew back with a startled face. "Don''t!"
she cried out piteously. "Please don''t ever do
that again! You hurt me!"
"Do you think you didn''t hurt the man you
killed?"
"The man I--killed---- Ah, there is Cesare
at the gate at last! I--I must go!"
. . . . .
When Martini came into the room he found the
Gadfly lying alone with the untouched coffee beside
him, swearing softly to himself in a languid,
spiritless way, as though he got no satisfaction
out of it.

CHAPTER IX.
A FEW days later, the Gadfly, still rather pale and
limping more than usual, entered the reading
room of the public library and asked for Cardinal
Montanelli''s sermons. Riccardo, who was reading
at a table near him, looked up. He liked the
Gadfly very much, but could not digest this one
trait in him--this curious personal maliciousness.
"Are you preparing another volley against that
unlucky Cardinal?" he asked half irritably.
"My dear fellow, why do you a-a-always attribute
evil m-m-motives to people? It''s m-most
unchristian. I am preparing an essay on contemporary
theology for the n-n-new paper."
"What new paper?" Riccardo frowned. It
was perhaps an open secret that a new press-law
was expected and that the Opposition was preparing
to astonish the town with a radical newspaper;
but still it was, formally, a secret.
"The Swindlers'' Gazette, of course, or the
Church Calendar."
"Sh-sh! Rivarez, we are disturbing the other
readers."
"Well then, stick to your surgery, if that''s
your subject, and l-l-leave me to th-theology--
that''s mine. I d-d-don''t interfere with your
treatment of broken bones, though I know a
p-p-precious lot more about them than you do."
He sat down to his volume of sermons with an
intent and preoccupied face. One of the librarians
came up to him.
"Signor Rivarez! I think you were in the
Duprez expe***ion, exploring the tributaries of the
Amazon? Perhaps you will kindly help us in a
difficulty. A lady has been inquiring for the
records of the expe***ion, and they are at the
binder''s."
"What does she want to know?"
"Only in what year the expe***ion started and
when it passed through Ecuador."
"It started from Paris in the autumn of 1837,
and passed through Quito in April, 1838. We
were three years in Brazil; then went down to Rio
and got back to Paris in the summer of 1841.
Does the lady want the dates of the separate
discoveries?"
"No, thank you; only these. I have written
them down. Beppo, take this paper to Signora
Bolla, please. Many thanks, Signor Rivarez. I
am sorry to have troubled you."
The Gadfly leaned back in his chair with a perplexed
frown. What did she want the dates for?
When they passed through Ecuador----
Gemma went home with the slip of paper in her
hand. April, 1838--and Arthur had died in May,
1833. Five years--
She began pacing up and down her room. She
had slept badly the last few nights, and there were
dark shadows under her eyes.
Five years;--and an "overluxurious home"--
and "someone he had trusted had deceived him"
--had deceived him--and he had found it out----
She stopped and put up both hands to her head.
Oh, this was utterly mad--it was not possible--it
was absurd----
And yet, how they had dragged that harbour!
Five years--and he was "not twenty-one"
when the Lascar---- Then he must have been
nineteen when he ran away from home. Had he
not said: "A year and a half----" Where did he
get those blue eyes from, and that nervous restlessness
of the fingers? And why was he so bitter
against Montanelli? Five years--five years------
If she could but know that he was drowned--if
she could but have seen the body; some day,
surely, the old wound would have left off aching,
the old memory would have lost its terrors. Perhaps
in another twenty years she would have
learned to look back without shrinking.
All her youth had been poisoned by the thought
of what she had done. Resolutely, day after day
and year after year, she had fought against the
demon of remorse. Always she had remembered
that her work lay in the future; always had shut
her eyes and ears to the haunting spectre of the
past. And day after day, year after year, the
image of the drowned body drifting out to sea had
never left her, and the bitter cry that she could not
silence had risen in her heart: "I have killed
Arthur! Arthur is dead!" Sometimes it had
seemed to her that her burden was too heavy to
be borne.
Now she would have given half her life to have
that burden back again. If she had killed him--
that was a familiar grief; she had endured it too
long to sink under it now. But if she had driven
him, not into the water but into------ She sat
down, covering her eyes with both hands. And
her life had been darkened for his sake, because he
was dead! If she had brought upon him nothing
worse than death----
Steadily, pitilessly she went back, step by step,
through the hell of his past life. It was as vivid
to her as though she had seen and felt it all; the
helpless shivering of the naked soul, the mockery
that was bitterer than death, the horror of
loneliness, the slow, grinding, relentless agony. It
was as vivid as if she had sat beside him in the
filthy Indian hut; as if she had suffered with him in
the silver-mines, the coffee fields, the horrible
variety show--
The variety show---- No, she must shut out
that image, at least; it was enough to drive one
mad to sit and think of it.
She opened a little drawer in her writing-desk.
It contained the few personal relics which she
could not bring herself to destroy. She was
not given to the hoarding up of sentimental
trifles; and the preservation of these keepsakes
was a concession to that weaker side of her
nature which she kept under with so steady a
hand. She very seldom allowed herself to look
at them.
Now she took them out, one after another:
Giovanni''s first letter to her, and the flowers that
had lain in his dead hand; a lock of her baby''s
hair and a withered leaf from her father''s grave.
At the back of the drawer was a miniature portrait
of Arthur at ten years old--the only existing
likeness of him.
She sat down with it in her hands and looked
at the beautiful childish head, till the face of the
real Arthur rose up afresh before her. How clear
it was in every detail! The sensitive lines of the
mouth, the wide, earnest eyes, the seraphic purity
of expression--they were graven in upon her
memory, as though he had died yesterday.
Slowly the blinding tears welled up and hid the
portrait.
Oh, how could she have thought such a thing!
It was like sacrilege even to dream of this bright,
far-off spirit, bound to the sordid miseries of life.
Surely the gods had loved him a little, and had let
him die young! Better a thousand times that he
should pass into utter nothingness than that he
should live and be the Gadfly--the Gadfly, with
his faultless neckties and his doubtful witticisms,
his bitter tongue and his ballet girl! No, no! It
was all a horrible, senseless fancy; and she had
vexed her heart with vain imaginings. Arthur
was dead.
"May I come in?" asked a soft voice at the
door.
She started so that the portrait fell from her
hand, and the Gadfly, limping across the room,
picked it up and handed it to her.
"How you startled me!" she said.
"I am s-so sorry. Perhaps I am disturbing
you?"
"No. I was only turning over some old
things."
She hesitated for a moment; then handed him
back the miniature.
"What do you think of that head?"
While he looked at it she watched his face as
though her life depended upon its expression; but
it was merely negative and critical.
"You have set me a difficult task," he said.
"The portrait is faded, and a child''s face is always
hard to read. But I should think that child would
grow into an unlucky man, and the wisest thing
he could do would be to abstain from growing into
a man at all."
"Why?"
"Look at the line of the under-lip. Th-th-that
is the sort of nature that feels pain as pain and
wrong as wrong; and the world has no r-r-room
for such people; it needs people who feel nothing
but their work."
"Is it at all like anyone you know?"
He looked at the portrait more closely.
"Yes. What a curious thing! Of course it
is; very like."
"Like whom?"
"C-c-cardinal Montan-nelli. I wonder whether
his irreproachable Eminence has any nephews, by
the way? Who is it, if I may ask?"
"It is a portrait, taken in childhood, of the
friend I told you about the other day----"
"Whom you killed?"
She winced in spite of herself. How lightly,
how cruelly he used that dreadful word!
"Yes, whom I killed--if he is really dead."
"If?"
She kept her eyes on his face.
"I have sometimes doubted," she said. "The
body was never found. He may have run away
from home, like you, and gone to South America."
"Let us hope not. That would be a bad memory
to carry about with you. I have d-d-done
some hard fighting in my t-time, and have sent
m-more than one man to Hades, perhaps; but if
I had it on my conscience that I had sent any l-living
thing to South America, I should sleep badly----"
"Then do you believe," she interrupted, coming
nearer to him with clasped hands, "that if he were
not drowned,--if he had been through your experience
instead,--he would never come back and
let the past go? Do you believe he would NEVER
forget? Remember, it has cost me something,
too. Look!"
She pushed back the heavy waves of hair from
her forehead. Through the black locks ran a
broad white streak.
There was a long silence.
"I think," the Gadfly said slowly, "that the
dead are better dead. Forgetting some things is
a difficult matter. And if I were in the place of
your dead friend, I would s-s-stay dead. The
REVENANT is an ugly spectre."
She put the portrait back into its drawer and
locked the desk.
"That is hard doctrine," she said. "And now
we will talk about something else."
"I came to have a little business talk with you,
if I may--a private one, about a plan that I have
in my head."
She drew a chair to the table and sat down.
"What do you think of the projected press-law?"
he began, without a trace of his usual stammer.
"What I think of it? I think it will not be of
much value, but half a loaf is better than no
bread."
"Undoubtedly. Then do you intend to work
on one of the new papers these good folk here are
preparing to start?"
"I thought of doing so. There is always a
great deal of practical work to be done in starting
any paper--printing and circulation arrangements
and----"
"How long are you going to waste your mental
gifts in that fashion?"
"Why ''waste''?"
"Because it is waste. You know quite well
that you have a far better head than most of the
men you are working with, and you let them make
a regular drudge and Johannes factotum of you.
Intellectually you are as far ahead of Grassini and
Galli as if they were schoolboys; yet you sit correcting
their proofs like a printer''s devil."
"In the first place, I don''t spend all my time
in correcting proofs; and moreover it seems to me
that you exaggerate my mental capacities. They
are by no means so brilliant as you think."
"I don''t think them brilliant at all," he answered
quietly; "but I do think them sound and
solid, which is of much more importance. At
those dreary committee meetings it is always you
who put your finger on the weak spot in everybody''s logic."
"You are not fair to the others. Martini, for
instance, has a very logical head, and there is no
doubt about the capacities of Fabrizi and Lega. Then
Grassini has a sounder knowledge of Italian economic
statistics than any official in the country, perhaps."
"Well, that''s not saying much; but let us lay
them and their capacities aside. The fact remains
that you, with such gifts as you possess, might do
more important work and fill a more responsible
post than at present."
"I am quite satisfied with my position. The
work I am doing is not of very much value, perhaps,
but we all do what we can."
"Signora Bolla, you and I have gone too far to
play at compliments and modest denials now.
Tell me honestly, do you recognize that you are
using up your brain on work which persons inferior
to you could do as well?"
"Since you press me for an answer--yes, to
some extent."
"Then why do you let that go on?"
No answer.

"Why do you let it go on?"
"Because--I can''t help it."
"Why?"
She looked up reproachfully. "That is unkind
--it''s not fair to press me so."
"But all the same you are going to tell me why."
"If you must have it, then--because my life has
been smashed into pieces, and I have not the
energy to start anything REAL, now. I am about
fit to be a revolutionary cab-horse, and do the
party''s drudge-work. At least I do it conscientiously,
and it must be done by somebody."
"Certainly it must be done by somebody; but
not always by the same person."
"It''s about all I''m fit for."
He looked at her with half-shut eyes, inscrutably.
Presently she raised her head.
"We are returning to the old subject; and this
was to be a business talk. It is quite useless, I
assure you, to tell me I might have done all sorts
of things. I shall never do them now. But I may
be able to help you in thinking out your plan.
What is it?"
"You begin by telling me that it is useless for
me *****ggest anything, and then ask what I want
*****ggest. My plan requires your help in action,
not only in thinking out."
"Let me hear it and then we will discuss."
"Tell me first whether you have heard anything
about schemes for a rising in Venetia."
"I have heard of nothing but schemes for risings
and Sanfedist plots ever since the amnesty,
and I fear I am as sceptical about the one as about
the other."
"So am I, in most cases; but I am speaking of
really serious preparations for a rising of the whole
province against the Austrians. A good many
young fellows in the Papal States--particularly in
the Four Legations--are secretly preparing to get
across there and join as volunteers. And I hear
from my friends in the Romagna----"
"Tell me," she interrupted, "are you quite sure
that these friends of yours can be trusted?"
"Quite sure. I know them personally, and
have worked with them."
"That is, they are members of the ''sect'' to
which you belong? Forgive my scepticism, but I
am always a little doubtful as to the accuracy of
information received from secret societies. It
seems to me that the habit----"
"Who told you I belonged to a ''sect''?" he interrupted sharply.
"No one; I guessed it."
"Ah!" He leaned back in his chair and looked
at her, frowning. "Do you always guess people''s
private affairs?" he said after a moment.
"Very often. I am rather observant, and have
a habit of putting things together. I tell you that
so that you may be careful when you don''t want
me to know a thing."
"I don''t mind your knowing anything so long as it
goes no further. I suppose this has not----"
She lifted her head with a gesture of half-offended
surprise. "Surely that is an unnecessary question!" she said.
"Of course I know you would not speak of anything
to outsiders; but I thought that perhaps, to
the members of your party----"
"The party''s business is with facts, not with
my personal conjectures and fancies. Of course
I have never mentioned the subject to anyone."
"Thank you. Do you happen to have guessed
which sect I belong to?"
"I hope--you must not take offence at my
frankness; it was you who started this talk, you
know---- I do hope it is not the ''Knifers.''"
"Why do you hope that?"
"Because you are fit for better things."
"We are all fit for better things than we ever
do. There is your own answer back again. However,
it is not the ''Knifers'' that I belong to, but
the ''Red Girdles.'' They are a steadier lot, and
take their work more seriously."
"Do you mean the work of knifing?"
"That, among other things. Knives are very
useful in their way; but only when you have a
good, organized propaganda behind them. That
is what I dislike in the other sect. They think a
knife can settle all the world''s difficulties; and
that''s a mistake. It can settle a good many, but
not all."
"Do you honestly believe that it settles any?"
He looked at her in surprise.
"Of course," she went on, "it eliminates, for
the moment, the practical difficulty caused by the
presence of a clever spy or objectionable official;
but whether it does not create worse difficulties in
place of the one removed is another question. It
seems to me like the parable of the swept and garnished
house and the seven devils. Every assassination only
makes the police more vicious and
the people more accustomed to violence and brutality,
and the last state of the community may be
worse than the first."
"What do you think will happen when the revolution
comes? Do you suppose the people won''t
have to get accustomed to violence then? War
is war."
"Yes, but open revolution is another matter.
It is one moment in the people''s life, and it is the
price we have to pay for all our progress. No
doubt fearful things will happen; they must in
every revolution. But they will be isolated
facts--exceptional features of an exceptional moment.
The horrible thing about this promiscuous
knifing is that it becomes a habit. The people get
to look upon it as an every-day occurrence, and
their sense of the sacredness of human life gets
blunted. I have not been much in the Romagna,
but what little I have seen of the people has given
me the impression that they have got, or are getting,
into a mechanical habit of violence."
"Surely even that is better than a mechanical
habit of obedience and submission."
"I don''t think so. All mechanical habits are
bad and slavish, and this one is ferocious as well.
Of course, if you look upon the work of the revolutionist
as the mere wresting of certain definite
concessions from the government, then the secret
sect and the knife must seem to you the best weapons,
for there is nothing else which all governments
so dread. But if you think, as I do, that to
force the government''s hand is not an end in itself,
but only a means to an end, and that what we
really need to reform is the relation between man
and man, then you must go differently to work.
Accustoming ignorant people to the sight of blood
is not the way to raise the value they put on human
life."
"And the value they put on religion?"
"I don''t understand."
He smiled.
"I think we differ as to where the root of the
mischief lies. You place it in a lack of appreciation
of the value of human life."
"Rather of the sacredness of human personality."
"Put it as you like. To me the great cause of
our muddles and mistakes seems to lie in the
mental disease called religion."
"Do you mean any religion in particular?"
"Oh, no! That is a mere question of external
symptoms. The disease itself is what is called a
religious attitude of mind. It is the morbid
desire to set up a fetich and adore it, to fall down
and worship something. It makes little difference
whether the something be Jesus or Buddha or a
tum-tum tree. You don''t agree with me, of
course. You may be atheist or agnostic or anything
you like, but I could feel the religious temperament
in you at five yards. However, it is of
no use for us to discuss that. But you are quite
mistaken in thinking that I, for one, look upon the
knifing as merely a means of removing objectionable
officials--it is, above all, a means, and I think
the best means, of undermining the prestige of the
Church and of accustoming people to look upon
clerical agents as upon any other vermin."
"And when you have accomplished that; when
you have roused the wild beast that sleeps in the
people and set it on the Church; then----"
"Then I shall have done the work that makes it
worth my while to live."
"Is THAT the work you spoke of the other day?"
"Yes, just that."
She shivered and turned away.
"You are disappointed in me?" he said, looking
up with a smile.
"No; not exactly that. I am--I think--a little
afraid of you."
She turned round after a moment and said in
her ordinary business voice:
"This is an unprofitable discussion. Our standpoints
are too different. For my part, I believe
in propaganda, propaganda, and propaganda; and
when you can get it, open insurrection."
"Then let us come back to the question of my
plan; it has something to do with propaganda and
more with insurrection."
"Yes?"
"As I tell you, a good many volunteers are going
from the Romagna to join the Venetians.
We do not know yet how soon the insurrection
will break out. It may not be till the autumn
or winter; but the volunteers in the Apennines
must be armed and ready, so that they may be
able to start for the plains directly they are
sent for. I have undertaken to smuggle the
firearms and ammunition on to Papal territory for
them----"
"Wait a minute. How do you come to be
working with that set? The revolutionists in
Lombardy and Venetia are all in favour of the new
Pope. They are going in for liberal reforms, hand
in hand with the progressive movement in the
Church. How can a ''no-compromise'' anti-clerical
like you get on with them?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "What is it to me
if they like to amuse themselves with a rag-doll,
so long as they do their work? Of course they
will take the Pope for a figurehead. What have
I to do with that, if only the insurrection gets
under way somehow? Any stick will do to beat
a dog with, I suppose, and any cry to set the people
on the Austrians."
"What is it you want me to do?"
"Chiefly to help me get the firearms across."
"But how could I do that?"
"You are just the person who could do it best.
I think of buying the arms in England, and there
is a good deal of difficulty about bringing them
over. It''s impossible to get them through any
of the Pontifical sea-ports; they must come by
Tuscany, and go across the Apennines."
"That makes two frontiers to cross instead of
one."
"Yes; but the other way is hopeless; you can''t
smuggle a big transport in at a harbour where there
is no trade, and you know the whole shipping of
Civita Vecchia amounts to about three row-boats
and a fishing smack. If we once get the things
across Tuscany, I can manage the Papal frontier;
my men know every path in the mountains, and we
have plenty of hiding-places. The transport must
come by sea to Leghorn, and that is my great difficulty;
I am not in with the smugglers there, and
I believe you are."
"Give me five minutes to think."
She leaned forward, resting one elbow on her
knee, and supporting the chin on the raised hand.
After a few moments'' silence she looked up.
"It is possible that I might be of some use in
that part of the work," she said; "but before we go
any further, I want to ask you a question. Can
you give me your word that this business is not
connected with any stabbing or secret violence of
any kind?"
"Certainly. It goes without saying that I
should not have asked you to join in a thing of
which I know you disapprove."
"When do you want a definite answer from
me?"
"There is not much time to lose; but I can give
you a few days to decide in."
"Are you free next Saturday evening?"
"Let me see--to-day is Thursday; yes."
"Then come here. I will think the matter over
and give you a final answer."
. . . . .
On the following Sunday Gemma sent in to the
committee of the Florentine branch of the Mazzinian
party a statement that she wished to undertake
a special work of a political nature, which
would for a few months prevent her from performing
the functions for which she had up till now
been responsible to the party.
Some surprise was felt at this announcement,
but the committee raised no objection; she had
been known in the party for several years as a person
whose judgment might be trusted; and the
members agreed that if Signora Bolla took an unexpected
step, she probably had good reasons for it.
To Martini she said frankly that she had undertaken
to help the Gadfly with some "frontier
work." She had stipulated for the right to tell her
old friend this much, in order that there might be
no misunderstanding or painful sense of doubt and
mystery between them. It seemed to her that she
owed him this proof of confidence. He made no
comment when she told him; but she saw, without
knowing why, that the news had wounded
him deeply.
They were sitting on the terrace of her lodging,
looking out over the red roofs to Fiesole. After
a long silence, Martini rose and began tramping
up and down with his hands in his pockets, whistling
to himself--a sure sign with him of mental agitation.
She sat looking at him for a little while.
"Cesare, you are worried about this affair," she
said at last. "I am very sorry you feel so despondent
over it; but I could decide only as seemed
right to me."
"It is not the affair," he answered, sullenly;
"I know nothing about it, and it probably is all
right, once you have consented to go into it. It''s
the MAN I distrust."
"I think you misunderstand him; I did till I
got to know him better. He is far from perfect,
but there is much more good in him than you
think."
"Very likely." For a moment he tramped to
and fro in silence, then suddenly stopped beside
her.
"Gemma, give it up! Give it up before it is too
late! Don''t let that man drag you into things
you will repent afterwards."
"Cesare," she said gently, "you are not thinking
what you are saying. No one is dragging me
into anything. I have made this decision of my
own will, after thinking the matter well over alone.
You have a personal dislike to Rivarez, I know;
but we are talking of politics now, not of persons."
"Madonna! Give it up! That man is dangerous;
he is secret, and cruel, and unscrupulous--
and he is in love with you!"
She drew back.
"Cesare, how can you get such fancies into your
head?"
"He is in love with you," Martini repeated.
"Keep clear of him, Madonna!"
"Dear Cesare, I can''t keep clear of him; and I
can''t explain to you why. We are tied together--
not by any wish or doing of our own."
"If you are tied, there is nothing more to say,"
Martini answered wearily.
He went away, saying that he was busy, and
tramped for hours up and down the muddy streets.
The world looked very black to him that evening.
One poor ewe-lamb--and this slippery creature
had stepped in and stolen it away.

CHAPTER X.
TOWARDS the middle of February the Gadfly
went to Leghorn. Gemma had introduced him to
a young Englishman there, a shipping-agent of
liberal views, whom she and her husband had
known in England. He had on several occasions
performed little services for the Florentine radicals:
had lent money to meet an unforeseen emergency,
had allowed his business address to be used
for the party''s letters, etc.; but always through
Gemma''s mediumship, and as a private friend of
hers. She was, therefore, according to party
etiquette, free to make use of the connexion in
any way that might seem good to her. Whether
any use could be got out of it was quite another
question. To ask a friendly sympathizer to lend
his address for letters from Sicily or to keep a
few documents in a corner of his counting-house
safe was one thing; to ask him to smuggle over a
transport of firearms for an insurrection was
another; and she had very little hope of his
consenting.
"You can but try," she had said to the Gadfly;
"but I don''t think anything will come of it. If
you were to go to him with that recommendation
and ask for five hundred scudi, I dare say he''d give
them to you at once--he''s exceedingly generous,
--and perhaps at a pinch he would lend you
his passport or hide a fugitive in his cellar; but if
you mention such a thing as rifles he will stare at
you and think we''re both demented."
"Perhaps he may give me a few hints, though,
or introduce me to a friendly sailor or two," the
Gadfly had answered. "Anyway, it''s worth while
to try."
One day at the end of the month he came into
her study less carefully dressed than usual, and she
saw at once from his face that he had good news
to tell.
"Ah, at last! I was beginning to think something
must have happened to you!"
"I thought it safer not to write, and I couldn''t
get back sooner."
"You have just arrived?"
"Yes; I am straight from the diligence; I
looked in to tell you that the affair is all settled."
"Do you mean that Bailey has really consented
to help?"
"More than to help; he has undertaken the
whole thing,--packing, transports,--everything.
The rifles will be hidden in bales of merchandise
and will come straight through from England.
His partner, Williams, who is a great friend of his,
has consented to see the transport off from Southampton,
and Bailey will slip it through the
custom house at Leghorn. That is why I have
been such a long time; Williams was just starting
for Southampton, and I went with him as far as
Genoa."
"To talk over details on the way?"
"Yes, as long as I wasn''t too sea-sick to talk
about anything."
"Are you a bad sailor?" she asked quickly, remembering
how Arthur had suffered from sea-sickness one day when her
father had taken them both for a pleasure-trip.
"About as bad as is possible, in spite of having
been at sea so much. But we had a talk
while they were loading at Genoa. You know
Williams, I think? He''s a thoroughly good fellow,
trustworthy and sensible; so is Bailey, for
that matter; and they both know how to hold
their tongues."
"It seems to me, though, that Bailey is running
a serious risk in doing a thing like this."
"So I told him, and he only looked sulky and
said: ''What business is that of yours?'' Just the
sort of thing one would expect him to say. If I
met Bailey in Timbuctoo, I should go up to him
and say: ''Good-morning, Englishman.''"
"But I can''t conceive how you managed to get
their consent; Williams, too; the last man I
should have thought of."
"Yes, he objected strongly at first; not on the
ground of danger, though, but because the thing
is ''so unbusiness-like.'' But I managed to win
him over after a bit. And now we will go into
details."
. . . . .
When the Gadfly reached his lodgings the sun
had set, and the blossoming pyrus japonica that
hung over the garden wall looked dark in the fading
light. He gathered a few sprays and carried
them into the house. As he opened the study
door, Zita started up from a chair in the corner and
ran towards him.
"Oh, Felice; I thought you were never coming!"
His first impulse was to ask her sharply what
business she had in his study; but, remembering
that he had not seen her for three weeks, he held
out his hand and said, rather frigidly:
"Good-evening, Zita; how are you?"
She put up her face to be kissed, but he moved
past as though he had not seen the gesture, and
took up a vase to put the pyrus in. The next
instant the door was flung wide open, and the
collie, rushing into the room, performed an ecstatic
dance round him, barking and whining with delight.
He put down the flowers and stooped to pat the dog.
"Well, Shaitan, how are you, old man? Yes,
it''s really I. Shake hands, like a good dog!"
The hard, sullen look came into Zita''s face.
"Shall we go to dinner?" she asked coldly. "I
ordered it for you at my place, as you wrote that
you were coming this evening."
He turned round quickly.
"I am v-v-very sorry; you sh-should not have
waited for me! I will just get a bit tidy and
come round at once. P-perhaps you would not
mind putting these into water."
When he came into Zita''s dining room she was
standing before a mirror, fastening one of the
sprays into her dress. She had apparently made
up her mind to be good-humoured, and came up to
him with a little cluster of crimson buds tied
together.
"Here is a buttonhole for you; let me put it in
your coat."
All through dinner-time he did his best to be
amiable, and kept up a flow of small-talk, to which
she responded with radiant smiles. Her evident
joy at his return somewhat embarrassed him;
he had grown so accustomed to the idea that she
led her own life apart from his, among such friends
and companions as were congenial to her, that it
had never occurred to him to imagine her as missing
him. And yet she must have felt dull to be
so much excited now.
"Let us have coffee up on the terrace," she said;
"it is quite warm this evening."
"Very well. Shall I take your guitar? Perhaps
you will sing."
She flushed with delight; he was critical about
music and did not often ask her to sing.
On the terrace was a broad wooden bench running
round the walls. The Gadfly chose a corner
with a good view of the hills, and Zita, seating herself
on the low wall with her feet on the bench,
leaned back against a pillar of the roof. She did
not care much for scenery; she preferred to look at
the Gadfly.
"Give me a cigarette," she said. "I don''t believe
I have smoked once since you went away."
"Happy thought! It''s just s-s-smoke I want
to complete my bliss."
She leaned forward and looked at him earnestly.
"Are you really happy?"
The Gadfly''s mobile brows went up.
"Yes; why not? I have had a good dinner; I
am looking at one of the m-most beautiful views
in Europe; and now I''m going to have coffee and
hear a Hungarian folk-song. There is nothing the
matter with either my conscience or my digestion;
what more can man desire?"
"I know another thing you desire."
"What?"
"That!" She tossed a little cardboard box
into his hand.
"B-burnt almonds! Why d-didn''t you tell me
before I began to s-smoke?" he cried reproachfully.
"Why, you baby! you can eat them when you
have done smoking. There comes the coffee."
The Gadfly sipped his coffee and ate his burnt
almonds with the grave and concentrated enjoyment
of a cat drinking cream.
"How nice it is to come back to d-decent coffee,
after the s-s-stuff one gets at Leghorn!" he said
in his purring drawl.
"A very good reason for stopping at home now
you are here."
"Not much stopping for me; I''m off again
to-morrow."
The smile died on her face.

"To-morrow! What for? Where are you going to?"
"Oh! two or three p-p-places, on business."
It had been decided between him and Gemma
that he must go in person into the Apennines to
make arrangements with the smugglers of the
frontier region about the transporting of the firearms.
To cross the Papal frontier was for him a
matter of serious danger; but it had to be done if
the work was *****cceed.
"Always business!" Zita sighed under her
breath; and then asked aloud:
"Shall you be gone long?"
"No; only a fortnight or three weeks, p-p-probably."
"I suppose it''s some of THAT business?" she
asked abruptly.
"''That'' business?"
"The business you''re always trying to get your
neck broken over--the everlasting politics."
"It has something to do with p-p-politics."
Zita threw away her cigarette.
"You are fooling me," she said. "You are
going into some danger or other."
"I''m going s-s-straight into the inf-fernal regions,"
he answered languidly. "D-do you happen to have any friends
there you want to send that ivy to? You n-needn''t pull it
all down, though."
She had fiercely torn off a handful of the climber
from the pillar, and now flung it down with vehement anger.
"You are going into danger," she repeated;
"and you won''t even say so honestly! Do you
think I am fit for nothing but to be fooled and
joked with? You will get yourself hanged one of
these days, and never so much as say good-bye.
It''s always politics and politics--I''m sick of
politics!"
"S-so am I," said the Gadfly, yawning lazily;
"and therefore we''ll talk about something else--
unless you will sing."
"Well, give me the guitar, then. What shall I sing?"
"The ballad of the lost horse; it suits your voice
so well."
She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of
the man who loses first his horse, then his home,
and then his sweetheart, and consoles himself with
the reflection that "more was lost at Mohacz
field." The song was one of the Gadfly''s especial
favourites; its fierce and tragic melody and the
bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as
no softer music ever did.
Zita was in excellent voice; the notes came
from her lips strong and clear, full of the vehement
desire of life. She would have sung Italian or
Slavonic music badly, and German still worse; but
she sang the Magyar folk-songs splendidly.
The Gadfly listened with wide-open eyes and
parted lips; he had never heard her sing like this
before. As she came to the last line, her voice
began suddenly to shake.
"Ah, no matter! More was lost----"
She broke down with a sob and hid her face
among the ivy leaves.
"Zita!" The Gadfly rose and took the guitar
from her hand. "What is it?"
She only sobbed convulsively, hiding her face in
both hands. He touched her on the arm.
"Tell me what is the matter," he said caressingly.
"Let me alone!" she sobbed, shrinking away.
"Let me alone!"
He went quietly back to his seat and waited till the
sobs died away. Suddenly he felt her arms about his neck;
she was kneeling on the floor beside him.
"Felice--don''t go! Don''t go away!"
"We will talk about that afterwards," he said,
gently extricating himself from the clinging arms.
"Tell me first what has upset you so. Has anything
been frightening you?"
She silently shook her head.
"Have I done anything to hurt you?"
"No." She put a hand up against his throat.
"What, then?"
"You will get killed," she whispered at last.
"I heard one of those men that come here say the
other day that you will get into trouble--and
when I ask you about it you laugh at me!"
"My dear child," the Gadfly said, after a little
pause of astonishment, "you have got some exaggerated
notion into your head. Very likely I shall
get killed some day--that is the natural consequence
of being a revolutionist. But there is no
reason *****ppose I am g-g-going to get killed
just now. I am running no more risk than other
people."
"Other people--what are other people to me?
If you loved me you wouldn''t go off this way and
leave me to lie awake at night, wondering whether
you''re arrested, or dream you are dead whenever
I go to sleep. You don''t care as much for me as
for that dog there!"
The Gadfly rose and walked slowly to the other
end of the terrace. He was quite unprepared for
such a scene as this and at a loss how to answer
her. Yes, Gemma was right; he had got his life into
a tangle that he would have hard work to undo.
"Sit down and let us talk about it quietly," he
said, coming back after a moment. "I think we
have misunderstood each other; of course I should
not have laughed if I had thought you were serious.
Try to tell me plainly what is troubling you;
and then, if there is any misunderstanding, we
may be able to clear it up."
"There''s nothing to clear up. I can see you
don''t care a brass farthing for me."
"My dear child, we had better be quite frank
with each other. I have always tried to be honest
about our relationship, and I think I have never
deceived you as to----"
"Oh, no! you have been honest enough; you
have never even pretended to think of me as anything
else but a prostitute,--a trumpery bit of
second-hand finery that plenty of other men have
had before you--"
"Hush, Zita! I have never thought that way
about any living thing."
"You have never loved me," she insisted sullenly.
"No, I have never loved you. Listen to me,
and try to think as little harm of me as you can."
"Who said I thought any harm of you? I----"
"Wait a minute. This is what I want to say:
I have no belief whatever in conventional moral
codes, and no respect for them. To me the relations
between men and women are simply questions of
personal likes and dislikes------"
"And of money," she interrupted with a harsh
little laugh. He winced and hesitated a moment.
"That, of course, is the ugly part of the matter.
But believe me, if I had thought that you disliked
me, or felt any repulsion to the thing, I would
never have suggested it, or taken advantage of
your position to persuade you to it. I have never
done that to any woman in my life, and I have
never told a woman a lie about my feeling for her.
You may trust me that I am speaking the truth----"
He paused a moment, but she did not answer.
"I thought," he went on; "that if a man is
alone in the world and feels the need of--of a
woman''s presence about him, and if he can find
a woman who is attractive to him and to whom he
is not repulsive, he has a right to accept, in a grateful
and friendly spirit, such pleasure as that woman
is willing to give him, without entering into any
closer bond. I saw no harm in the thing, provided
only there is no unfairness or insult or deceit
on either side. As for your having been in that
relation with other men before I met you, I did
not think about that. I merely thought that the
connexion would be a pleasant and harmless one
for both of us, and that either was free to break
it as soon as it became irksome. If I was mistaken
--if you have grown to look upon it differently--
then----"
He paused again.
"Then?" she whispered, without looking up.
"Then I have done you a wrong, and I am very
sorry. But I did not mean to do it."
"You ''did not mean'' and you ''thought''----
Felice, are you made of cast iron? Have you never
been in love with a woman in your life that you
can''t see I love you?"
A sudden thrill went through him; it was so
long since anyone had said to him: "I love you."
Instantly she started up and flung her arms round
him.
"Felice, come away with me! Come away from
this dreadful country and all these people and their
politics! What have we got to do with them?
Come away, and we will be happy together. Let
us go to South America, where you used to live."
The physical horror of association startled
him back into self-control; he unclasped her hands
from his neck and held them in a steady grasp.
"Zita! Try to understand what I am saying
to you. I do not love you; and if I did I would
not come away with you. I have my work in
Italy, and my comrades----"
"And someone else that you love better than
me!" she cried out fiercely. "Oh, I could kill
you! It is not your comrades you care about;
it''s---- I know who it is!"
"Hush!" he said quietly. "You are excited
and imagining things that are not true."
"You suppose I am thinking of Signora Bolla?
I''m not so easily duped! You only talk politics
with her; you care no more for her than you do for
me. It''s that Cardinal!"
The Gadfly started as if he had been shot.
"Cardinal?" he repeated mechanically.
"Cardinal Montanelli, that came here preaching
in the autumn. Do you think I didn''t see your
face when his carriage passed? You were as white
as my pocket-handkerchief! Why, you''re shaking
like a leaf now because I mentioned his name!"
He stood up.
"You don''t know what you are talking about,"
he said very slowly and softly. "I--hate the
Cardinal. He is the worst enemy I have."
"Enemy or no, you love him better than you
love anyone else in the world. Look me in the
face and say that is not true, if you can!"
He turned away, and looked out into the garden.
She watched him furtively, half-scared at
what she had done; there was something terrifying
in his silence. At last she stole up to him,
like a frightened child, and timidly pulled his
sleeve. He turned round.
"It is true," he said.

CHAPTER XI.
"BUT c-c-can''t I meet him somewhere in the
hills? Brisighella is a risky place for me."
"Every inch of ground in the Romagna is
risky for you; but just at this moment Brisighella
is safer for you than any other place."
"Why?"
"I''ll tell you in a minute. Don''t let that man
with the blue jacket see your face; he''s dangerous.
Yes; it was a terrible storm; I don''t remember to
have seen the vines so bad for a long time."
The Gadfly spread his arms on the table, and
laid his face upon them, like a man overcome with
fatigue or wine; and the dangerous new-comer in
the blue jacket, glancing swiftly round, saw only
two farmers discussing their crops over a flask of
wine and a sleepy mountaineer with his head on
the table. It was the usual sort of thing to see in
little places like Marradi; and the owner of the
blue jacket apparently made up his mind that
nothing could be gained by listening; for he drank
his wine at a gulp and sauntered into the outer
room. There he stood leaning on the counter and
gossiping lazily with the landlord, glancing every
now and then out of the corner of one eye through
the open door, beyond which sat the three figures
at the table. The two farmers went on sipping
their wine and discussing the weather in the local
dialect, and the Gadfly snored like a man whose
conscience is sound.
At last the spy seemed to make up his mind that
there was nothing in the wine-shop worth further
waste of his time. He paid his reckoning, and,
lounging out of the house, sauntered away down
the narrow street. The Gadfly, yawning and
stretching, lifted himself up and sleepily rubbed
the sleeve of his linen blouse across his eyes.
"Pretty sharp practice that," he said, pulling
a clasp-knife out of his pocket and cutting off a
chunk from the rye-loaf on the table. "Have
they been worrying you much lately, Michele?"
"They''ve been worse than mosquitos in August.
There''s no getting a minute''s peace; wherever
one goes, there''s always a spy hanging about.
Even right up in the hills, where they used to be
so shy about venturing, they have taken to coming
in bands of three or four--haven''t they, Gino?
That''s why we arranged for you to meet Domenichino
in the town."
"Yes; but why Brisighella? A frontier town
is always full of spies."
"Brisighella just now is a capital place. It''s
swarming with pilgrims from all parts of the country."
"But it''s not on the way to anywhere."
"It''s not far out of the way to Rome, and many
of the Easter Pilgrims are going round to hear
Mass there."
"I d-d-didn''t know there was anything special
in Brisighella."
"There''s the Cardinal. Don''t you remember
his going to Florence to preach last December?
It''s that same Cardinal Montanelli. They say he
made a great sensation."
"I dare say; I don''t go to hear sermons."
"Well, he has the reputation of being a saint,
you see."
"How does he manage that?"
"I don''t know. I suppose it''s because he gives
away all his income, and lives like a parish priest
with four or five hundred scudi a year."
"Ah!" interposed the man called Gino; "but
it''s more than that. He doesn''t only give away
money; he spends his whole life in looking after
the poor, and seeing the sick are properly treated,
and hearing complaints and grievances from morning
till night. I''m no fonder of priests than you
are, Michele, but Monsignor Montanelli is not like
other Cardinals."
"Oh, I dare say he''s more fool than knave!"
said Michele. "Anyhow, the people are mad after
him, and the last new freak is for the pilgrims to
go round that way to ask his blessing. Domenichino
thought of going as a pedlar, with a basket
of cheap crosses and rosaries. The people like to
buy those things and ask the Cardinal to touch
them; then they put them round their babies''
necks to keep off the evil eye."
"Wait a minute. How am I to go--as a pilgrim?
This make-up suits me p-pretty well, I think; but
it w-won''t do for me to show myself in Brisighella
in the same character that I had here; it would be
ev-v-vidence against you if I get taken."
"You won''t get taken; we have a splendid
disguise for you, with a passport and all complete."
"What is it?"
"An old Spanish pilgrim--a repentant brigand
from the Sierras. He fell ill in Ancona last year,
and one of our friends took him on board a trading-vessel
out of charity, and set him down in Venice, where he had
friends, and he left his papers with us to show his
gratitude. They will just do for you."
"A repentant b-b-brigand? But w-what about
the police?"
"Oh, that''s all right! He finished his term of
the galleys some years ago, and has been going
about to Jerusalem and all sorts of places saving
his soul ever since. He killed his son by mistake
for somebody else, and gave himself up to the
police in a fit of remorse."
"Was he quite old?"
"Yes; but a white beard and wig will set that
right, and the description suits you to perfection
in every other respect. He was an old soldier,
with a lame foot and a sabre-cut across the face
like yours; and then his being a Spaniard, too--
you see, if you meet any Spanish pilgrims, you can
talk to them all right."
"Where am I to meet Domenichino?"
"You join the pilgrims at the cross-road that
we will show you on the map, saying you had lost
your way in the hills. Then, when you reach the
town, you go with the rest of them into the marketplace,
in front of the Cardinal''s palace."
"Oh, he manages to live in a p-palace, then,
in s-spite of being a saint?"
"He lives in one wing of it, and has turned the
rest into a hospital. Well, you all wait there for
him to come out and give his benediction, and
Domenichino will come up with his basket and
say: "Are you one of the pilgrims, father?" and
you answer: ''I am a miserable sinner.'' Then he
puts down his basket and wipes his face with his
sleeve, and you offer him six soldi for a rosary."
"Then, of course, he arranges where we can talk?"
"Yes; he will have plenty of time to give you
the address of the meeting-place while the people
are gaping at Montanelli. That was our plan; but
if you don''t like it, we can let Domenichino know
and arrange something else."
"No; it will do; only see that the beard and
wig look natural."
. . . . .
"Are you one of the pilgrims, father?"
The Gadfly, sitting on the steps of the episcopal
palace, looked up from under his ragged white
locks, and gave the password in a husky, trembling
voice, with a strong foreign accent. Domenichino
slipped the leather strap from his shoulder,
and set down his basket of pious gewgaws on the
step. The crowd of peasants and pilgrims sitting
on the steps and lounging about the market-place
was taking no notice of them, but for precaution''s
sake they kept up a desultory conversation, Domenichino
speaking in the local dialect and the Gadfly in
broken Italian, intermixed with Spanish words.
"His Eminence! His Eminence is coming
out!" shouted the people by the door. "Stand
aside! His Eminence is coming!"
They both stood up.
"Here, father," said Domenichino, putting into
the Gadfly''s hand a little image wrapped in paper;
"take this, too, and pray for me when you get to
Rome."
The Gadfly thrust it into his breast, and turned
to look at the figure in the violet Lenten robe and
scarlet cap that was standing on the upper step
and blessing the people with outstretched arms.
Montanelli came slowly down the steps, the
people crowding about him to kiss his hands.
Many knelt down and put the hem of his cassock
to their lips as he passed.
"Peace be with you, my children!"
At the sound of the clear, silvery voice, the
Gadfly bent his head, so that the white hair fell
across his face; and Domenichino, seeing the
quivering of the pilgrim''s staff in his hand, said to
himself with admiration: "What an actor!"
A woman standing near to them stooped down
and lifted her child from the step. "Come,
Cecco," she said. "His Eminence will bless you
as the dear Lord blessed the children."
The Gadfly moved a step forward and stopped.
Oh, it was hard! All these outsiders--these pilgrims
and mountaineers--could go up and speak
to him, and he would lay his hand on their children''s
hair. Perhaps he would say "Carino" to
that peasant boy, as he used to say----
The Gadfly sank down again on the step, turning
away that he might not see. If only he could
shrink into some corner and stop his ears to shut
out the sound! Indeed, it was more than any man
should have to bear--to be so close, so close that
he could have put out his arm and touched the
dear hand.
"Will you not come under shelter, my friend?"
the soft voice said. "I am afraid you are chilled."
The Gadfly''s heart stood still. For a moment
he was conscious of nothing but the sickening
pressure of the blood that seemed as if it would
tear his breast asunder; then it rushed back, tingling
and burning through all his body, and he
looked up. The grave, deep eyes above him grew
suddenly tender with divine compassion at the
sight of his face.
"Stand bark a little, friends," Montanelli said,
turning to the crowd; "I want to speak to him."
The people fell slowly back, whispering to each
other, and the Gadfly, sitting motionless, with
teeth clenched and eyes on the ground, felt the
gentle touch of Montanelli''s hand upon his
shoulder.
"You have had some great trouble. Can I do
anything to help you?"
The Gadfly shook his head in silence.
"Are you a pilgrim?"
"I am a miserable sinner."
The accidental similarity of Montanelli''s question
to the password came like a chance straw,
that the Gadfly, in his desperation, caught at, answering
automatically. He had begun to tremble
under the soft pressure of the hand that seemed
to burn upon his shoulder.
The Cardinal bent down closer to him.
"Perhaps you would care to speak to me alone?
If I can be any help to you----"
For the first time the Gadfly looked straight
and steadily into Montanelli''s eyes; he was already
recovering his self-command.
"It would be no use," he said; "the thing is
hopeless."
A police official stepped forward out of the
crowd.
"Forgive my intruding, Your Eminence. I
think the old man is not quite sound in his mind.
He is perfectly harmless, and his papers are in
order, so we don''t interfere with him. He has
been in penal servitude for a great crime, and is
now doing penance."
"A great crime," the Gadfly repeated, shaking
his head slowly.

"Thank you, captain; stand aside a little,
please. My friend, nothing is hopeless if a man
has sincerely repented. Will you not come to me
this evening?"
"Would Your Eminence receive a man who is
guilty of the death of his own son?"
The question had almost the tone of a challenge,
and Montanelli shrank and shivered under it as
under a cold wind.
"God forbid that I should condemn you, whatever
you have done!" he said solemnly. "In His
sight we are all guilty alike, and our righteousness
is as filthy rags. If you will come to me I will
receive you as I pray that He may one day receive me."
The Gadfly stretched out his hands with a sudden
gesture of passion.
"Listen!" he said; "and listen all of you,
Christians! If a man has killed his only son--his
son who loved and trusted him, who was flesh of
his flesh and bone of his bone; if he has led his son
into a death-trap with lies and deceit--is there
hope for that man in earth or heaven? I have
confessed my sin before God and man, and I have
suffered the punishment that men have laid on
me, and they have let me go; but when will God
say, ''It is enough''? What benediction will take
away His curse from my soul? What absolution
will undo this thing that I have done?"
In the dead silence that followed the people
looked at Montanelli, and saw the heaving of the
cross upon his breast.
He raised his eyes at last, and gave the benediction
with a hand that was not quite steady.
"God is merciful," he said. "Lay your burden
before His throne; for it is written: ''A
broken and contrite heart shalt thou not despise.''"
He turned away and walked through the market-place,
stopping everywhere to speak to the
people, and to take their children in his arms.
In the evening the Gadfly, following the directions
written on the wrapping of the image, made
his way to the appointed meeting-place. It was
the house of a local doctor, who was an active
member of the "sect." Most of the conspirators
were already assembled, and their delight at the
Gadfly''s arrival gave him a new proof, if he had
needed one, of his popularity as a leader.
"We''re glad enough to see you again," said the
doctor; "but we shall be gladder still to see you
go. It''s a fearfully risky business, and I, for one,
was against the plan. Are you quite sure none of
those police rats noticed you in the market-place
this morning?"
"Oh, they n-noticed me enough, but they
d-didn''t recognize me. Domenichino m-managed
the thing capitally. But where is he? I don''t see
him."
"He has not come yet. So you got on all
smoothly? Did the Cardinal give you his blessing?"
"His blessing? Oh, that''s nothing," said Domenichino,
coming in at the door. "Rivarez,
you''re as full of surprises as a Christmas cake.
How many more talents are you going to astonish
us with?"
"What is it now?" asked the Gadfly languidly.
He was leaning back on a sofa, smoking a cigar.
He still wore his pilgrim''s dress, but the white
beard and wig lay beside him.
"I had no idea you were such an actor. I never
saw a thing done so magnificently in my life. You
nearly moved His Eminence to tears."
"How was that? Let us hear, Rivarez."
The Gadfly shrugged his shoulders. He was in
a taciturn and laconic mood, and the others, seeing
that nothing was to be got out of him,
appealed to Domenichino to explain. When the
scene in the market-place had been related, one
young workman, who had not joined in the laughter
of the rest, remarked abruptly:
"It was very clever, of course; but I don''t see
what good all this play-acting business has done
to anybody."
"Just this much," the Gadfly put in; "that I
can go where I like and do what I like anywhere
in this district, and not a single man, woman, or
child will ever think of suspecting me. The story
will be all over the place by to-morrow, and when
I meet a spy he will only think: ''It''s mad Diego,
that confessed his sins in the market-place.'' That
is an advantage gained, surely."
"Yes, I see. Still, I wish the thing could have
been done without fooling the Cardinal. He''s
too good to have that sort of trick played on
him."
"I thought myself he seemed fairly decent,"
the Gadfly lazily assented.
"Nonsense, Sandro! We don''t want Cardinals
here!" said Domenichino. "And if Monsignor
Montanelli had taken that post in Rome when he
had the chance of getting it, Rivarez couldn''t have
fooled him."
"He wouldn''t take it because he didn''t want to
leave his work here."
"More likely because he didn''t want to get
poisoned off by Lambruschini''s agents. They''ve
got something against him, you may depend upon
it. When a Cardinal, especially such a popular
one, ''prefers to stay'' in a God-forsaken little hole
like this, we all know what that means--don''t we,
Rivarez?"
The Gadfly was making smoke-rings. "Perhaps
it is a c-c-case of a ''b-b-broken and contrite
heart,''" he remarked, leaning his head back to
watch them float away. "And now, men, let us
get to business."
They began to discuss in detail the various plans
which had been formed for the smuggling and concealment
of weapons. The Gadfly listened with
keen attention, interrupting every now and then
to correct sharply some inaccurate statement or
imprudent proposal. When everyone had finished
speaking, he made a few practical suggestions,
most of which were adopted without discussion.
The meeting then broke up. It had been resolved
that, at least until he was safely back in Tuscany,
very late meetings, which might attract the notice
of the police, should be avoided. By a little after
ten o''clock all had dispersed except the doctor, the
Gadfly, and Domenichino, who remained as
a sub-committee for the discussion of special
points. After a long and hot dispute, Domenichino
looked up at the clock.
"Half-past eleven; we mustn''t stop any longer
or the night-watchman may see us."
"When does he pass?" asked the Gadfly.
"About twelve o''clock; and I want to be home
before he comes. Good-night, Giordani. Rivarez,
shall we walk together?"
"No; I think we are safer apart. Then I shall
see you again?"
"Yes; at Castel Bolognese. I don''t know yet
what disguise I shall be in, but you have the passWord.
You leave here to-morrow, I think?"
The Gadfly was carefully putting on his beard
and wig before the looking-glass.
"To-morrow morning, with the pilgrims. On
the next day I fall ill and stop behind in a shepherd''s
hut, and then take a short cut across the hills. I shall
be down there before you will. Good-night!"
Twelve o''clock was striking from the Cathedral
bell-tower as the Gadfly looked in at the door of
the great empty barn which had been thrown open
as a lodging for the pilgrims. The floor was
covered with clumsy figures, most of which were
snoring lustily, and the air was insufferably close
and foul. He drew back with a little shudder of
repugnance; it would be useless to attempt to
sleep in there; he would take a walk, and then
find some shed or haystack which would, at least,
be clean and quiet.
It was a glorious night, with a great full moon
gleaming in a purple sky. He began to wander
through the streets in an aimless way, brooding
miserably over the scene of the morning, and wishing
that he had never consented to Domenichino''s
plan of holding the meeting in Brisighella. If at
the beginning he had declared the project too dangerous,
some other place would have been chosen;
and both he and Montanelli would have been
spared this ghastly, ridiculous farce.
How changed the Padre was! And yet his voice was
not changed at all; it was just the same as in the
old days, when he used to say: "Carino."
The lantern of the night-watchman appeared at
the other end of the street, and the Gadfly turned
down a narrow, crooked alley. After walking a
few yards he found himself in the Cathedral
Square, close to the left wing of the episcopal
palace. The square was flooded with moonlight,
and there was no one in sight; but he noticed that
a side door of the Cathedral was ajar. The sacristan
must have forgotten to shut it. Surely nothing
could be going on there so late at night. He
might as well go in and sleep on one of the benches
instead of in the stifling barn; he could slip out in
the morning before the sacristan came; and even
if anyone did find him, the natural supposition
would be that mad Diego had been saying his
prayers in some corner, and had got shut in.
He listened a moment at the door, and then
entered with the noiseless step that he had retained
notwithstanding his lameness. The moonlight
streamed through the windows, and lay in broad
bands on the marble floor. In the chancel, especially,
everything was as clearly visible as by daylight. At
the foot of the altar steps Cardinal Montanelli knelt
alone, bare-headed, with clasped hands.
The Gadfly drew back into the shadow. Should
he slip away before Montanelli saw him? That,
no doubt, would be the wisest thing to do--perhaps
the most merciful. And yet, what harm
could it do for him to go just a little nearer--to
look at the Padre''s face once more, now that the
crowd was gone, and there was no need to keep
up the hideous comedy of the morning? Perhaps
it would be his last chance--and the Padre need
not see him; he would steal up softly and look--
just this once. Then he would go back to his work.
Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept
softly up to the chancel rails, and paused at the
side entrance, close to the altar. The shadow of
the episcopal throne was broad enough to cover
him, and he crouched down in the darkness, holding
his breath.
"My poor boy! Oh, God; my poor boy!"
The broken whisper was full of such endless
despair that the Gadfly shuddered in spite of himself.
Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs; and
he saw Montanelli wring his hands together like
a man in bodily pain.
He had not thought it would be so bad as
this. How often had he said to himself with bitter
assurance: "I need not trouble about it; that
wound was healed long ago." Now, after all these
years, it was laid bare before him, and he saw it
bleeding still. And how easy it would be to heal
it now at last! He need only lift his hand--only
step forward and say: "Padre, it is I." There
was Gemma, too, with that white streak across her
hair. Oh, if he could but forgive! If he could
but cut out from his memory the past that
was burned into it so deep--the Lascar, and the
sugar-plantation, and the variety show! Surely
there was no other misery like this--to be willing
to forgive, to long to forgive; and to know that
it was hopeless--that he could not, dared not forgive.
Montanelli rose at last, made the sign of the
cross, and turned away from the altar. The Gadfly
shrank further back into the shadow, trembling
with fear lest he should be seen, lest the very
beating of his heart should betray him; then he
drew a long breath of relief. Montanelli had
passed him, so close that the violet robe had
brushed against his cheek,--had passed and had
not seen him.
Had not seen him---- Oh, what had he done?
This had been his last chance--this one precious
moment--and he had let it slip away. He started
up and stepped into the light.
"Padre!"
The sound of his own voice, ringing up and
dying away along the arches of the roof, filled him
with fantastic terror. He shrank back again into
the shadow. Montanelli stood beside the pillar,
motionless, listening with wide-open eyes, full
of the horror of death. How long the silence
lasted the Gadfly could not tell; it might have
been an instant, or an eternity. He came to his
senses with a sudden shock. Montanelli was beginning
to sway as though he would fall, and his
lips moved, at first silently.
"Arthur!" the low whisper came at last; "yes,
the water is deep----"
The Gadfly came forward.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence! I thought it
was one of the priests."
"Ah, it is the pilgrim?" Montanelli had at
once recovered his self-control, though the Gadfly
could see, from the restless glitter of the sapphire
on his hand, that he was still trembling. "Are
you in need of anything, my friend? It is late, and
the Cathedral is closed at night."
"I beg pardon, Your Eminence, if I have done
wrong. I saw the door open, and came in to pray,
and when I saw a priest, as I thought, in me***ation,
I waited to ask a blessing on this."
He held up the little tin cross that he had
bought from Domenichino. Montanelli took it
from his hand, and, re-entering the chancel, laid it
for a moment on the altar.