less you would rather go to my lodgings."
"No; come and dine with me at a restaurant. There's one on the
Signoria. Please don't refuse, now; you've promised!"
They went into a restaurant, where he ordered dinner, but hardly
touched his own share, and remained obstinately silent, crumbling the bread
over the cloth, and fidgeting with the fringe of his table napkin. Gemma
felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and began to wish she had refused to come;
the silence was growing awkward; yet she could not begin to make small-talk
with a person who seemed to have forgotten her presence. At last he looked
up and said abruptly:
"Would you like to see the variety show?"
She stared at him in astonishment. What had he got into his head about
variety shows?
"Have you ever seen one?" he asked before she had time to speak.
"No; I don't think so. I didn't suppose they were interesting."
"They are very interesting. I don't think anyone can study the life of
the people without seeing them. Let us go back to the Porta alla Croce."
When they arrived the mountebanks had set up their tent beside the town
gate, and an abominable scraping of fiddles and banging of drums announced
that the performance had begun.
The entertainment was of the roughest kind. A few clowns, harlequins,
and acrobats, a circus-rider jumping through hoops, the painted columbine,
and the hunchback performing various dull and foolish antics, represented
the entire force of the company. The jokes were not, on the whole, coarse or
offensive; but they were very tame and stale, and there was a depressing
flatness about the whole thing. The audience laughed and clapped from their
innate Tuscan courtesy; but the only part which they seemed really to enjoy
was the performance of the hunchback, in which Gemma could find nothing
either witty or skilful. It was merely a series of grotesque and hideous
contortions, which the spectators mimicked, holding up children on their
shoulders that the little ones might see the "ugly man."
"Signor Rivarez, do you really think this attractive?" said Gemma,
turning to the Gadfly, who was standing beside her, his arm round one of the
wooden posts of the tent. "It seems to me----"
She broke off and remained looking at him silently. Except when she had
stood with Montanelli at the garden gate in Leghorn, she had never seen a
human face express such fathomless, hopeless misery. She thought of Dante's
hell as she watched him.
Presently the hunchback, receiving a kick from one of the clowns,
turned a somersault and tumbled in a grotesque heap outside the ring. A
dialogue between two clowns began, and the Gadfly seemed to wake out of a
dream.
"Shall we go?" he asked; "or would you like to see more?"
"I would rather go."
They left the tent, and walked across the dark green to the river. For
a few moments neither spoke.
"What did you think of the show?" the Gadfly asked presently.
"I thought it rather a dreary business; and part of it seemed to me
positively unpleasant."
"Which part?"
"Well, all those grimaces and contortions. They are simply ugly; there
is nothing clever about them."
"Do you mean the hunchback's performance?"
Remembering his peculiar sensitiveness on the subject of his own
physical defects, she had avoided mentioning this particular bit of the
entertainment; but now that he had touched upon the subject himself, she
answered: "Yes; I did not like that part at all."
"That was the part the people enjoyed most."
"I dare say; and that is just the worst thing about it."
"Because it was inartistic?"
"N-no; it was all inartistic. I meant--because it was cruel."
He smiled.
"Cruel? Do you mean to the hunchback?"
"I mean---- Of course the man himself was quite indifferent; no doubt,
it is to him just a way of getting a living, like the circus-rider's way or
the columbine's. But the thing makes one feel unhappy. It is humiliating; it
is the degradation of a human being."
"He probably is not any more degraded than he was to start with. Most
of us are degraded in one way or another."
"Yes; but this--I dare say you will think it an absurd prejudice; but a
human body, to me, is a sacred thing; I don't like to see it treated
irreverently and made hideous."
"And a human soul?"
He had stopped short, and was standing with one hand on the stone
balustrade of the embankment, looking straight at her.
"A soul?" she repeated, stopping in her turn to look at him in wonder.
He flung out both hands with a sudden, passionate gesture.
"Has it never occurred to you that that miserable clown may have a
soul--a living, struggling, human soul, tied down into that crooked hulk of
a body and forced to slave for it? You that are so tender-hearted to
everything--you that pity the body in its fool's dress and bells--have you
never thought of the wretched soul that has not even motley to cover its
horrible nakedness? Think of it shivering with cold, stilled with shame and
misery, before all those people--feeling their jeers that cut like a
whip--their laughter, that burns like red-hot iron on the bare flesh! Think
of it looking round--so helpless before them all--for the mountains that
will not fall on it--for the rocks that have not the heart to cover
it--envying the rats that can creep into some hole in the earth and hide;
and remember that a soul is dumb--it has no voice to cry out--it must
endure, and endure, and endure. Oh! I'm talking nonsense! Why on earth don't
you laugh? You have no sense of humour!"
Slowly and in dead silence she turned and walked on along the river
side. During the whole evening it had not once occurred to her to connect
his trouble, whatever it might be, with the variety show; and now that some
dim picture of his inner life had been revealed to her by this sudden
outburst, she could not find, in her overwhelming pity for him, one word to
say. He walked on beside her, with his head turned away, and looked into the
water.
"I want you, please, to understand," he began suddenly, turning to her
with a defiant air, "that everything I have just been saying to you is pure
imagination. I'm rather given to romancing, but I don't like people to take
it seriously."
She made no answer, and they walked on in silence. As they passed by
the gateway of the Uffizi, he crossed the road and stooped down over a dark
bundle that was lying against the railings.
"What is the matter, little one?" he asked, more gently than she had
ever heard him speak. "Why don't you go home?"
The bundle moved, and answered something in a low, moaning voice. Gemma
came across to look, and saw a child of about six years old, ragged and
dirty, crouching on the pavement like a frightened animal. The Gadfly was
bending down with his hand on the unkempt head.
"What is it?" he said, stooping lower to catch the unintelligible
answer. "You ought to go home to bed; little boys have no business out of
doors at night; you'll be quite frozen! Give me your hand and jump up like a
man! Where do you live?"
He took the child's arm to raise him. The result was a sharp scream and
a quick shrinking away.
"Why, what is it?" the Gadfly asked, kneeling down on the pavement.
"Ah! Signora, look here!"
The child's shoulder and jacket were covered with blood.
"Tell me what has happened?" the Gadfly went on caressingly. "It wasn't
a fall, was it? No? Someone's been beating you? I thought so! Who was it?"
"My uncle."
"Ah, yes! And when was it?"
"This morning. He was drunk, and I--I----"
"And you got in his way--was that it? You shouldn't get in people's way
when they are drunk, little man; they don't like it. What shall we do with
this poor mite, signora? Come here to the light, sonny, and let me look at
that shoulder. Put your arm round my neck; I won't hurt you. There we are!"
He lifted the boy in his arms, and, carrying him across the street, set
him down on the wide stone balustrade. Then, taking out a pocket-knife, he
deftly ripped up the torn sleeve, supporting the child's head against his
breast, while Gemma held the injured arm. The shoulder was badly bruised and
grazed, and there was a deep gash on the arm.
"That's an ugly cut to give a mite like you," said the Gadfly,
fastening his handkerchief round the wound to prevent the jacket from
rubbing against it. "What did he do it with?"
"The shovel. I went to ask him to give me a soldo to get some polenta
at the corner shop, and he hit me with the shovel."
The Gadfly shuddered. "Ah!" he said softly, "that hurts; doesn't it,
little one?"
"He hit me with the shovel--and I ran away-- I ran away--because he hit
me."
"And you've been wandering about ever since, without any dinner?"
Instead of answering, the child began to sob violently. The Gadfly
lifted him off the balustrade.
"There, there! We'll soon set all that straight. I wonder if we can get
a cab anywhere. I'm afraid they'll all be waiting by the theatre; there's a
grand performance going on to-night. I am sorry to drag you about so,
signora; but----"
"I would rather come with you. You may want help. Do you think you can
carry him so far? Isn't he very heavy?"
"Oh, I can manage, thank you."
At the theatre door they found only a few cabs waiting, and these were
all engaged. The performance was over, and most of the audience had gone.
Zita's name was printed in large letters on the wall-placards; she had been
dancing in the ballet. Asking Gemma to wait for him a moment, the Gadfly
went round to the performers' entrance, and spoke to an attendant.
"Has Mme. Reni gone yet?"
"No, sir," the man answered, staring blankly at the spectacle of a
well-dressed gentleman carrying a ragged street child in his arms, "Mme.
Reni is just coming out, I think; her carriage is waiting for her. Yes;
there she comes."
Zita descended the stairs, leaning on the arm of a young cavalry
officer. She looked superbly handsome, with an opera cloak of flame-coloured
velvet thrown over her evening dress, and a great fan of ostrich plumes
hanging from her waist. In the entry she stopped short, and, drawing her
hand away from the officer's arm, approached the Gadfly in amazement.
"Felice!" she exclaimed under her breath, "what HAVE you got there?"
"I have picked up this child in the street. It is hurt and starving;
and I want to get it home as quickly as possible. There is not a cab to be
got anywhere, so I want to have your carriage."
"Felice! you are not going to take a horrid beggar-child into your
rooms! Send for a policeman, and let him carry it to the Refuge or whatever
is the proper place for it. You can't have all the paupers in the town----"
"It is hurt," the Gadfly repeated; "it can go to the Refuge to-morrow,
if necessary, but I must see to the child first and give it some food."
Zita made a little grimace of disgust. "You've got its head right
against your shirt! How CAN you? It is dirty!"
The Gadfly looked up with a sudden flash of anger.
"It is hungry," he said fiercely. "You don't know what that means, do
you?"
"Signer Rivarez," interposed Gemma, coming forward, "my lodgings are
quite close. Let us take the child in there. Then, if you cannot find a
vettura, I will manage to put it up for the night."
He turned round quickly. "You don't mind?"
"Of course not. Good-night, Mme. Reni!"
The gipsy, with a stiff bow and an angry shrug of her shoulders, took
her officer's arm again, and, gathering up the train of her dress, swept
past them to the contested carriage.
"I will send it back to fetch you and the child, if you like, M.
Rivarez," she said, pausing on the doorstep.
"Very well; I will give the address." He came out on to the pavement,
gave the address to the driver, and walked back to Gemma with his burden.
Katie was waiting up for her mistress; and, on hearing what had
happened, ran for warm water and other necessaries. Placing the child on a
chair, the Gadfly knelt down beside him, and, deftly slipping off the ragged
clothing, bathed and bandaged the wound with tender, skilful hands. He had
just finished washing the boy, and was wrapping him in a warm blanket, when
Gemma came in with a tray in her hands.
"Is your patient ready for his supper?" she asked, smiling at the
strange little figure. "I have been cooking it for him."
The Gadfly stood up and rolled the dirty rags together. "I'm afraid we
have made a terrible mess in your room," he said. "As for these, they had
better go straight into the fire, and I will buy him some new clothes
to-morrow. Have you any brandy in the house, signora? I think he ought to
have a little. I will just wash my hands, if you will allow me."
When the child had finished his supper, he immediately went to sleep in
the Gadfly's arms, with his rough head against the white shirt-front. Gemma,
who had been helping Katie to set the disordered room tidy again, sat down
at the table.
"Signor Rivarez, you must take something before you go home--you had
hardly any dinner, and it's very late."
"I should like a cup of tea in the English fashion, if you have it. I'm
sorry to keep you up so late."
"Oh! that doesn't matter. Put the child down on the sofa; he will tire
you. Wait a minute; I will just lay a sheet over the cushions. What are you
going to do with him?"
"To-morrow? Find out whether he has any other relations except that
drunken brute; and if not, I suppose I must follow Mme. Reni's advice, and
take him to the Refuge. Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to put a
stone round his neck and pitch him into the river there; but that would
expose me to unpleasant consequences. Fast asleep! What an odd little lump
of ill-luck you are, you mite--not half as capable of defending yourself as
a stray cat!"
When Katie brought in the tea-tray, the boy opened his eyes and sat up
with a bewildered air. Recognizing the Gadfly, whom he already regarded as
his natural protector, he wriggled off the sofa, and, much encumbered by the
folds of his blanket, came up to nestle against him. He was by now
sufficiently revived to be inquisitive; and, pointing to the mutilated left
hand, in which the Gadfly was holding a piece of cake, asked:
"What's that?"
"That? Cake; do you want some? I think you've had enough for now. Wait
till to-morrow, little man."
"No--that!" He stretched out his hand and touched the stumps of the
amputated fingers and the great scar on the wrist. The Gadfly put down his
cake.
"Oh, that! It's the same sort of thing as what you have on your
shoulder--a hit I got from someone stronger than I was."
"Didn't it hurt awfully?"
"Oh, I don't know--not more than other things. There, now, go to sleep
again; you have no business asking questions at this time of night."
When the carriage arrived the boy was again asleep; and the Gadfly,
without awaking him, lifted him gently and carried him out on to the stairs.
"You have been a sort of ministering angel to me to-day," he said to
Gemma, pausing at the door. "But I suppose that need not prevent us from
quarrelling to our heart's content in future."
"I have no desire to quarrel with anyone."
"Ah! but I have. Life would be unendurable without quarrels. A good
quarrel is the salt of the earth; it's better than a variety show!"
And with that he went downstairs, laughing softly to himself, with the
sleeping child in his arms.
PART II: 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 to suppress 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 condition 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----"PART II: 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 expedition. 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 expedition, 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
expedition, 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: