sodden bread from the plate and putting it down again. All the conspirator
awoke in the Gadfly; he had guessed at once that there was something hidden
in the bread.
"You can leave it; I'll eat a bit by and by," he said carelessly. The
door was open, and he knew that the sergeant on the stairs could hear every
word spoken between them.
When the door was locked on him again, and he had satisfied himself
that no one was watching at the spy-hole, he took up the piece of bread and
carefully crumbled it away. In the middle was the thing he had expected, a
bundle of small files. It was wrapped in a bit of paper, on which a few
words were written. He smoothed the paper out carefully and carried it to
what little light there was. The writing was crowded into so narrow a space,
and on such thin paper, that it was very difficult to read.
"The door is unlocked, and there is no moon. Get the filing done as
fast as possible, and come by the passage between two and three. We are
quite ready and may not have another chance."
He crushed the paper feverishly in his hand. All the preparations were
ready, then, and he had only to file the window bars; how lucky it was that
the chains were off! He need not stop about filing them. How many bars were
there? Two, four; and each must be filed in two places: eight. Oh, he could
manage that in the course of the night if he made haste---- How had Gemma
and Martini contrived to get everything ready so quickly--disguises,
passports, hiding-places? They must have worked like cart-horses to do
it---- And it was her plan that had been adopted after all. He laughed a
little to himself at his own foolishness; as if it mattered whether the plan
was hers or not, once it was a good one! And yet he could not help being
glad that it was she who had struck on the idea of his utilizing the
subterranean passage, instead of letting himself down by a rope-ladder, as
the smugglers had at first suggested. Hers was the more complex and
difficult plan, but did not involve, as the other did, a risk to the life of
the sentinel on duty outside the east wall. Therefore, when the two schemes
had been laid before him, he had unhesitatingly chosen Gemma's.
The arrangement was that the friendly guard who went by the nickname of
"The Cricket" should seize the first opportunity of unlocking, without the
knowledge of his fellows, the iron gate leading from the courtyard into the
subterranean passage underneath the ramparts, and should then replace the
key on its nail in the guard-room. The Gadfly, on receiving information of
this, was to file through the bars of his window, tear his shirt into strips
and plait them into a rope, by means of which he could let himself down on
to the broad east wall of the courtyard. Along this wall he was to creep on
hands and knees while the sentinel was looking in the opposite direction,
lying flat upon the masonry whenever the man turned towards him. At the
southeast corner was a half-ruined turret. It was upheld, to some extent, by
a thick growth of ivy; but great masses of crumbling stone had fallen inward
and lay in the courtyard, heaped against the wall. From this turret he was
to climb down by the ivy and the heaps of stone into the courtyard; and,
softly opening the unlocked gate, to make his way along the passage to a
subterranean tunnel communicating with it. Centuries ago this tunnel had
formed a secret corridor between the fortress and a tower on the
neighbouring hill; now it was quite disused and blocked in many places by
the falling in of the rocks. No one but the smugglers knew of a certain
carefully-hidden hole in the mountain-side which they had bored through to
the tunnel; no one suspected that stores of forbidden merchandise were often
kept, for weeks together, under the very ramparts of the fortress itself,
while the customs-officers were vainly searching the houses of the sullen,
wrathful-eyed mountaineers. At this hole the Gadfly was to creep out on to
the hillside, and make his way in the dark to a lonely spot where Martini
and a smuggler would be waiting for him. The one great difficulty was that
opportunities to unlock the gate after the evening patrol did not occur
every night, and the descent from the window could not be made in very clear
weather without too great a risk of being observed by the sentinel. Now that
there was really a fair chance of success, it must not be missed.
He sat down and began to eat some of the bread. It at least did not
disgust him like the rest of the prison food, and he must eat something to
keep up his strength.
He had better lie down a bit, too, and try to get a little sleep; it
would not be safe to begin filing before ten o'clock, and he would have a
hard night's work.
And so, after all, the Padre had been thinking of letting him escape!
That was like the Padre. But he, for his part, would never consent to it.
Anything rather than that! If he escaped, it should be his own doing and
that of his comrades; he would have no favours from priests.
How hot it was! Surely it must be going to thunder; the air was so
close and oppressive. He moved restlessly on the pallet and put the bandaged
right hand behind his head for a pillow; then drew it away again. How it
burned and throbbed! And all the old wounds were beginning to ache, with a
dull, faint persistence. What was the matter with them? Oh, absurd! It was
only the thundery weather. He would go to sleep and get a little rest before
beginning his filing.
Eight bars, and all so thick and strong! How many more were there left
to file? Surely not many. He must have been filing for hours,-- interminable
hours--yes, of course, that was what made his arm ache---- And how it ached;
right through to the very bone! But it could hardly be the filing that made
his side ache so; and the throbbing, burning pain in the lame leg--was that
from filing?
He started up. No, he had not been asleep; he had been dreaming with
open eyes--dreaming of filing, and it was all still to do. There stood the
window-bars, untouched, strong and firm as ever. And there was ten striking
from the clock-tower in the distance. He must get to work.
He looked through the spy-hole, and, seeing that no one was watching,
took one of the files from his breast.
. . . . .
No, there was nothing the matter with him-- nothing! It was all
imagination. The pain in his side was indigestion, or a chill, or some such
thing; not much wonder, after three weeks of this insufferable prison food
and air. As for the aching and throbbing all over, it was partly nervous
trouble and partly want of exercise. Yes, that was it, no doubt; want of
exercise. How absurd not to have thought of that before!
He would sit down a little bit, though, and let it pass before he got
to work. It would be sure to go over in a minute or two.
To sit still was worse than all. When he sat still he was at its mercy,
and his face grew gray with fear. No, he must get up and set to work, and
shake it off. It should depend upon his will to feel or not to feel; and he
would not feel, he would force it back.
He stood up again and spoke to himself, aloud and distinctly:
"I am not ill; I have no time to be ill. I have those bars to file, and
I am not going to be ill."
Then he began to file.
A quarter-past ten--half-past ten--a quarter to eleven---- He filed and
filed, and every grating scrape of the iron was as though someone were
filing on his body and brain. "I wonder which will be filed through first,"
he said to himself with a little laugh; "I or the bars?" And he set his
teeth and went on filing.
Half-past eleven. He was still filing, though the hand was stiff and
swollen and would hardly grasp the tool. No, he dared not stop to rest; if
he once put the horrible thing down he should never have the courage to
begin again.
The sentinel moved outside the door, and the butt end of his carbine
scratched against the lintel. The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the file
still in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?
A little round pellet had been shot through the spy-hole and was lying
on the floor. He laid down the file and stooped to pick up the round thing.
It was a bit of rolled paper.
. . . . .
It was a long way to go down and down, with the black waves rushing
about him--how they roared----!
Ah, yes! He was only stooping down to pick up the paper. He was a bit
giddy; many people are when they stoop. There was nothing the matter with
him--nothing.
He picked it up, carried it to the light, and unfolded it steadily.
"Come to-night, whatever happens; the Cricket will be transferred
to-morrow to another service. This is our only chance."
He destroyed the paper as he had done the former one, picked up his
file again, and went back to work, dogged and mute and desperate.
One o'clock. He had been working for three hours now, and six of the
eight bars were filed. Two more, and then, to climb------
He began to recall the former occasions when these terrible attacks had
come on. The last had been the one at New Year; and he shuddered as he
remembered those five nights. But that time it had not come on so suddenly;
he had never known it so sudden.
He dropped the file and flung out both hands blindly, praying, in his
utter desperation, for the first time since he had been an atheist; praying
to anything--to nothing--to everything.
"Not to-night! Oh, let me be ill to-morrow! I will bear anything
to-morrow--only not to-night!"
He stood still for a moment, with both hands up to his temples; then he
took up the file once more, and once more went back to his work.
Half-past one. He had begun on the last bar. His shirt-sleeve was
bitten to rags; there was blood on his lips and a red mist before his eyes,
and the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed, and filed, and filed----
. . . . .
After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was utterly worn out with the
restless misery of the night and slept for a little while quietly; then he
began to dream.
At first he dreamed vaguely, confusedly; broken fragments of images and
fancies followed each other, fleeting and incoherent, but all filled with
the same dim sense of struggle and pain, the same shadow of indefinable
dread. Presently he began to dream of sleeplessness; the old, frightful,
familiar dream that had been a terror to him for years. And even as he
dreamed he recognized that he had been through it all before.
He was wandering about in a great empty place, trying to find some
quiet spot where he could lie down and sleep. Everywhere there were people,
walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting; praying, ringing bells,
and clashing metal instruments together. Sometimes he would get away to a
little distance from the noise, and would lie down, now on the grass, now on
a wooden bench, now on some slab of stone. He would shut his eyes and cover
them with both hands to keep out the light; and would say to himself: "Now I
will get to sleep." Then the crowds would come sweeping up to him, shouting,
yelling, calling him by name, begging him: "Wake up! Wake up, quick; we want
you!"
Again: he was in a great palace, full of gorgeous rooms, with beds and
couches and low soft lounges. It was night, and he said to himself: "Here,
at last, I shall find a quiet place to sleep." But when he chose a dark room
and lay down, someone came in with a lamp, flashing the merciless light into
his eyes, and said: "Get up; you are wanted."
He rose and wandered on, staggering and stumbling like a creature
wounded to death; and heard the clocks strike one, and knew that half the
night was gone already--the precious night that was so short. Two, three,
four, five--by six o'clock the whole town would wake up and there would be
no more silence.
He went into another room and would have lain down on a bed, but
someone started up from the pillows, crying out: "This bed is mine!" and he
shrank away with despair in his heart.
Hour after hour struck, and still he wandered on and on, from room to
room, from house to house, from corridor to corridor. The horrible gray dawn
was creeping near and nearer; the clocks were striking five; the night was
gone and he had found no rest. Oh, misery! Another day --another day!
He was in a long, subterranean corridor, a low, vaulted passage that
seemed to have no end. It was lighted with glaring lamps and chandeliers;
and through its grated roof came the sounds of dancing and laughter and
merry music. Up there, in the world of the live people overhead, there was
some festival, no doubt. Oh, for a place to hide and sleep; some little
place, were it even a grave! And as he spoke he stumbled over an open grave.
An open grave, smelling of death and rottenness---- Ah, what matter, so he
could but sleep!
"This grave is mine!" It was Gladys; and she raised her head and stared
at him over the rotting shroud. Then he knelt down and stretched out his
arms to her.
"Gladys! Gladys! Have a little pity on me; let me creep into this
narrow space and sleep. I do not ask you for your love; I will not touch
you, will not speak to you; only let me lie down beside you and sleep! Oh,
love, it is so long since I have slept! I cannot bear another day. The light
glares in upon my soul; the noise is beating my brain to dust. Gladys, let
me come in here and sleep!"
And he would have drawn her shroud across his eyes. But she shrank
away, screaming:
"It is sacrilege; you are a priest!"
On and on he wandered, and came out upon the sea-shore, on the barren
rocks where the fierce light struck down, and the water moaned its low,
perpetual wail of unrest. "Ah!" he said; "the sea will be more merciful; it,
too, is wearied unto death and cannot sleep."
Then Arthur rose up from the deep, and cried aloud:
"This sea is mine!"
. . . . .
"Your Eminence! Your Eminence!"
Montanelli awoke with a start. His servant was knocking at the door. He
rose mechanically and opened it, and the man saw how wild and scared he
looked.
"Your Eminence--are you ill?"
He drew both hands across his forehead.
"No; I was asleep, and you startled me."
"I am very sorry; I thought I had heard you moving early this morning,
and I supposed------"
"Is it late now?"
"It is nine o'clock, and the Governor has called. He says he has very
important business, and knowing Your Eminence to be an early riser------"
"Is he downstairs? I will come presently."
He dressed and went downstairs.
"I am afraid this is an unceremonious way to call upon Your Eminence,"
the Governor began.
"I hope there is nothing the matter?"
"There is very much the matter. Rivarez has all but succeeded in
escaping."
"Well, so long as he has not quite succeeded there is no harm done. How
was it?"
"He was found in the courtyard, right against the little iron gate.
When the patrol came in to inspect the courtyard at three o'clock this
morning one of the men stumbled over something on the ground; and when they
brought the light up they found Rivarez lying across the path unconscious.
They raised an alarm at once and called me up; and when I went to examine
his cell I found all the window-bars filed through and a rope made of torn
body-linen hanging from one of them. He had let himself down and climbed
along the wall. The iron gate, which leads into the subterranean tunnels,
was found to be unlocked. That looks as if the guards had been suborned."
"But how did he come to be lying across the path? Did he fall from the
rampart and hurt himself?"
"That is what I thought at first. Your Eminence; but the prison surgeon
can't find any trace of a fall. The soldier who was on duty yesterday says
that Rivarez looked very ill last night when he brought in the supper, and
did not eat anything. But that must be nonsense; a sick man couldn't file
those bars through and climb along that roof. It's not in reason."
"Does he give any account of himself?"
"He is unconscious, Your Eminence."
"Still?"
"He just half comes to himself from time to time and moans, and then
goes off again."
"That is very strange. What does the doctor think?"
"He doesn't know what to think. There is no trace of heart-disease that
he can find to account for the thing; but whatever is the matter with him,
it is something that must have come on suddenly, just when he had nearly
managed to escape. For my part, I believe he was struck down by the direct
intervention of a merciful Providence."
Montanelli frowned slightly.
"What are you going to do with him?" he asked.
"That is a question I shall settle in a very few days. In the meantime
I have had a good lesson. That is what comes of taking off the irons--with
all due respect to Your Eminence."
"I hope," Montanelli interrupted, "that you will at least not replace
the fetters while he is ill. A man in the condition you describe can hardly
make any more attempts to escape."
"I shall take good care he doesn't," the Governor muttered to himself
as he went out. "His Eminence can go hang with his sentimental scruples for
all I care. Rivarez is chained pretty tight now, and is going to stop so,
ill or not."
. . . . .
"But how can it have happened? To faint away at the last moment, when
everything was ready; when he was at the very gate! It's like some hideous
joke."
"I tell you," Martini answered, "the only thing I can think of is that
one of these attacks must have come on, and that he must have struggled
against it as long as his strength lasted and have fainted from sheer
exhaustion when he got down into the courtyard."
Marcone knocked the ashes savagely from his pipe.
"Well. anyhow, that's the end of it; we can't do anything for him now,
poor fellow."
"Poor fellow!" Martini echoed, under his breath. He was beginning to
realise that to him, too, the world would look empty and dismal without the
Gadfly.
"What does she think?" the smuggler asked, glancing towards the other
end of the room, where Gemma sat alone, her hands lying idly in her lap, her
eyes looking straight before her into blank nothingness.
"I have not asked her; she has not spoken since I brought her the news.
We had best not disturb her just yet."
She did not appear to be conscious of their presence, but they both
spoke with lowered voices, as though they were looking at a corpse. After a
dreary little pause, Marcone rose and put away his pipe.
"I will come back this evening," he said; but Martini stopped him with
a gesture.
"Don't go yet; I want to speak to you." He dropped his voice still
lower and continued in almost a whisper:
"Do you believe there is really no hope?"
"I don't see what hope there can be now. We can't attempt it again.
Even if he were well enough to manage his part of the thing, we couldn't do
our share. The sentinels are all being changed, on suspicion. The Cricket
won't get another chance, you may be sure."
"Don't you think," Martini asked suddenly; "that, when he recovers,
something might be done by calling off the sentinels?"
"Calling off the sentinels? What do you mean?"
"Well, it has occurred to me that if I were to get in the Governor's
way when the procession passes close by the fortress on Corpus Domini day
and fire in his face, all the sentinels would come rushing to get hold of
me, and some of you fellows could perhaps help Rivarez out in the confusion.
It really hardly amounts to a plan; it only came into my head."
"I doubt whether it could be managed," Marcone answered with a very
grave face. "Certainly it would want a lot of thinking out for anything to
come of it. But"--he stopped and looked at Martini--"if it should be
possible-- would you do it?"
Martini was a reserved man at ordinary times; but this was not an
ordinary time. He looked straight into the smuggler's face.
"Would I do it?" he repeated. "Look at her!"
There was no need for further explanations; in saying that he had said
all. Marcone turned and looked across the room.
She had not moved since their conversation began. There was no doubt,
no fear, even no grief in her face; there was nothing in it but the shadow
of death. The smuggler's eyes filled with tears as he looked at her.
"Make haste, Michele!" he said, throwing open the verandah door and
looking out. "Aren't you nearly done, you two? There are a hundred and fifty
things to do!"
Michele, followed by Gino, came in from the verandah.
"I am ready now," he said. "I only want to ask the signora----"
He was moving towards her when Martini caught him by the arm.
"Don't disturb her; she's better alone."
"Let her be!" Marcone added. "We shan't do any good by meddling. God
knows, it's hard enough on all of us; but it's worse for her, poor soul!"
FOR a week the Gadfly lay in a fearful state. The attack was a violent
one, and the Governor, rendered brutal by fear and perplexity, had not only
chained him hand and foot, but had insisted on his being bound to his pallet
with leather straps, drawn so tight that he could not move without their
cutting into the flesh. He endured everything with his dogged, bitter
stoicism till the end of the sixth day. Then his pride broke down, and he
piteously entreated the prison doctor for a dose of opium. The doctor was
quite willing to give it; but the Governor, hearing of the request, sharply
forbade "any such foolery."
"How do you know what he wants it for?" he said. "It's just as likely
as not that he's shamming all the time and wants to drug the sentinel, or
some such devilry. Rivarez is cunning enough for anything."
"My giving him a dose would hardly help him to drug the sentinel,"
replied the doctor, unable to suppress a smile. "And as for shamming--
there's not much fear of that. He is as likely as not to die."
"Anyway, I won't have it given. If a man wants to be tenderly treated,
he should behave accordingly. He has thoroughly deserved a little sharp
discipline. Perhaps it will be a lesson to him not to play tricks with the
window-bars again."
"The law does not admit of torture, though," the doctor ventured to
say; "and this is coming perilously near it."
"The law says nothing about opium, I think," said the Governor
snappishly.
"It is for you to decide, of course, colonel; but I hope you will let
the straps be taken off at any rate. They are a needless aggravation of his
misery. There's no fear of his escaping now. He couldn't stand if you let
him go free."
"My good sir, a doctor may make a mistake like other people, I suppose.
I have got him safe strapped now, and he's going to stop so."
"At least, then, have the straps a little loosened. It is downright
barbarity to keep them drawn so tight."
"They will stop exactly as they are; and I will thank you, sir, not to
talk about barbarity to me. If I do a thing, I have a reason for it."
So the seventh night passed without any relief, and the soldier
stationed on guard at the cell door crossed himself, shuddering, over and
over again, as he listened all night long to heart-rending moans. The
Gadfly's endurance was failing him at last.
At six in the morning the sentinel, just before going off duty,
unlocked the door softly and entered the cell. He knew that he was
committing a serious breach of discipline, but could not bear to go away
without offering the consolation of a friendly word.
He found the Gadfly lying still, with closed eyes and parted lips. He
stood silent for a moment; then stooped down and asked:
"Can I do anything for you, sir? I have only a minute."
The Gadfly opened his eyes. "Let me alone!" he moaned. "Let me
alone----"
He was asleep almost before the soldier had slipped back to his post.
Ten days afterwards the Governor called again at the palace, but found
that the Cardinal had gone to visit a sick man at Pieve d'Ottavo, and was
not expected home till the afternoon. That evening, just as he was sitting
down to dinner, his servant came in to announce:
"His Eminence would like to speak to you."
The Governor, with a hasty glance into the looking glass, to make sure
that his uniform was in order, put on his most dignified air, and went into
the reception room, where Montanelli was sitting, beating his hand gently on
the arm of the chair and looking out of the window with an anxious line
between his brows.
"I heard that you called to-day," he said, cutting short the Governor's
polite speeches with a slightly imperious manner which he never adopted in
speaking to the country folk. "It was probably on the business about which I
have been wishing to speak to you."
"It was about Rivarez, Your Eminence."
"So I supposed. I have been thinking the matter over these last few
days. But before we go into that, I should like to hear whether you have
anything new to tell me."
The Governor pulled his moustaches with an embarrassed air.
"The fact is, I came to know whether Your Eminence had anything to tell
me. If you still have an objection to the course I proposed taking, I should
be sincerely glad of your advice in the matter; for, honestly, I don't know
what to do."
"Is there any new difficulty?"
"Only that next Thursday is the 3d of June, --Corpus Domini,--and
somehow or other the matter must be settled before then."
"Thursday is Corpus Domini, certainly; but why must it be settled
especially before then?"
"I am exceedingly sorry, Your Eminence, if I seem to oppose you, but I
can't undertake to be responsible for the peace of the town if Rivarez is
not got rid of before then. All the roughest set in the hills collects here
for that day, as Your Eminence knows, and it is more than probable that they
may attempt to break open the fortress gates and take him out. They won't
succeed; I'll take care of that, if I have to sweep them from the gates with
powder and shot. But we are very likely to have something of that kind
before the day is over. Here in the Romagna there is bad blood in the
people, and when once they get out their knives----"
"I think with a little care we can prevent matters going as far as
knives. I have always found the people of this district easy to get on with,
if they are reasonably treated. Of course, if you once begin to threaten or
coerce a Romagnol he becomes unmanageable. But have you any reason for
supposing a new rescue scheme is intended?"
"I heard, both this morning and yesterday, from confidential agents of
mine, that a great many rumours are circulating all over the district and
that the people are evidently up to some mischief or other. But one can't
find out the details; if one could it would be easier to take precautions.
And for my part, after the fright we had the other day, I prefer to be on
the safe side. With such a cunning fox as Rivarez one can't be too careful."
"The last I heard about Rivarez was that he was too ill to move or
speak. Is he recovering, then?"
"He seems much better now, Your Eminence. He certainly has been very
ill--unless he was shamming all the time."
"Have you any reason for supposing that likely?"
"Well, the doctor seems convinced that it was all genuine; but it's a
very mysterious kind of illness. Any way, he is recovering, and more
intractable than ever."
"What has he done now?"
"There's not much he can do, fortunately," the Governor answered,
smiling as he remembered the straps. "But his behaviour is something
indescribable. Yesterday morning I went into the cell to ask him a few
questions; he is not well enough yet to come to me for interrogation--and
indeed, I thought it best not to run any risk of the people seeing him until
he recovers. Such absurd stories always get about at once."
"So you went there to interrogate him?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. I hoped he would be more amenable to reason now."
Montanelli looked him over deliberately, almost as if he had been
inspecting a new and disagreeable animal. Fortunately, however, the Governor
was fingering his sword-belt, and did not see the look. He went on placidly:
"I have not subjected him to any particular severities, but I have been
obliged to be rather strict with him--especially as it is a military
prison--and I thought that perhaps a little indulgence might have a good
effect. I offered to relax the discipline considerably if he would behave in
a reasonable manner; and how does Your Eminence suppose he answered me? He
lay looking at me a minute, like a wolf in a cage, and then said quite
softly: 'Colonel, I can't get up and strangle you; but my teeth are pretty
good; you had better take your throat a little further off.' He is as savage
as a wild-cat."
"I am not surprised to hear it," Montanelli answered quietly. "But I
came to ask you a question. Do you honestly believe that the presence of
Rivarez in the prison here constitutes a serious danger to the peace of the
district?"
"Most certainly I do, Your Eminence."
"You think that, to prevent the risk of bloodshed, it is absolutely
necessary that he should somehow be got rid of before Corpus Domini?"
"I can only repeat that if he is here on Thursday, I do not expect the
festival to pass over without a fight, and I think it likely to be a serious
one."
"And you think that if he were not here there would be no such danger?"
"In that case, there would either be no disturbance at all, or at most
a little shouting and stone-throwing. If Your Eminence can find some way of
getting rid of him, I will undertake that the peace shall be kept.
Otherwise, I expect most serious trouble. I am convinced that a new rescue
plot is on hand, and Thursday is the day when we may expect the attempt.
Now, if on that very morning they suddenly find that he is not in the
fortress at all, their plan fails of itself, and they have no occasion to
begin fighting. But if we have to repulse them, and the daggers once get
drawn among such throngs of people, we are likely to have the place burnt
down before nightfall."
"Then why do you not send him in to Ravenna?"
"Heaven knows, Your Eminence, I should be thankful to do it! But how am
I to prevent the people rescuing him on the way? I have not soldiers enough
to resist an armed attack; and all these mountaineers have got knives or
flint-locks or some such thing."
"You still persist, then, in wishing for a court-martial, and in asking
my consent to it?"
"Pardon me, Your Eminence; I ask you only one thing--to help me prevent
riots and bloodshed. I am quite willing to admit that the military
commissions, such as that of Colonel Freddi, were sometimes unnecessarily
severe, and irritated instead of subduing the people; but I think that in
this case a court-martial would be a wise measure and in the long run a
merciful one. It would prevent a riot, which in itself would be a terrible
disaster, and which very likely might cause a return of the military
commissions His Holiness has abolished."
The Governor finished his little speech with much solemnity, and waited
for the Cardinal's answer. It was a long time coming; and when it came was
startlingly unexpected.
"Colonel Ferrari, do you believe in God?"
"Your Eminence!" the colonel gasped in a voice full of
exclamation-stops.
"Do you believe in God?" Montanelli repeated, rising and looking down
at him with steady, searching eyes. The colonel rose too.
"Your Eminence, I am a Christian man, and have never yet been refused
absolution."
Montanelli lifted the cross from his breast.
"Then swear on the cross of the Redeemer Who died for you, that you
have been speaking the truth to me."
The colonel stood still and gazed at it blankly. He could not quite
make up his mind which was mad, he or the Cardinal.
"You have asked me," Montanelli went on, "to give my consent to a man's
death. Kiss the cross, if you dare, and tell me that you believe there is no
other way to prevent greater bloodshed. And remember that if you tell me a
lie you are imperilling your immortal soul."
After a little pause, the Governor bent down and put the cross to his
lips.
"I believe it," he said.
Montanelli turned slowly away.
"I will give you a definite answer to-morrow. But first I must see
Rivarez and speak to him alone."
"Your Eminence--if I might suggest--I am sure you will regret it. For
that matter, he sent me a message yesterday, by the guard, asking to see
Your Eminence; but I took no notice of it, because----"
"Took no notice!" Montanelli repeated. "A man in such circumstances
sent you a message, and you took no notice of it?"
"I am sorry if Your Eminence is displeased. I did not wish to trouble
you over a mere impertinence like that; I know Rivarez well enough by now to
feel sure that he only wanted to insult you. And, indeed, if you will allow
me to say so, it would be most imprudent to go near him alone; he is really
dangerous--so much so, in fact, that I have thought it necessary to use some
physical restraint of a mild kind------"
"And you really think there is much danger to be apprehended from one
sick and unarmed man, who is under physical restraint of a mild kind?"
Montanelli spoke quite gently, but the colonel felt the sting of his quiet
contempt, and flushed under it resentfully.
"Your Eminence will do as you think best," he said in his stiffest
manner. "I only wished to spare you the pain of hearing this man's awful
blasphemies."
"Which do you think the more grievous misfortune for a Christian man;
to hear a blasphemous word uttered, or to abandon a fellow-creature in
extremity?"
The Governor stood erect and stiff, with his official face, like a face
of wood. He was deeply offended at Montanelli's treatment of him, and showed
it by unusual ceremoniousness.
"At what time does Your Eminence wish to visit the prisoner?" he asked.
"I will go to him at once."
"As Your Eminence pleases. If you will kindly wait a few moments, I
will send someone to prepare him."
The Governor had come down from his official pedestal in a great hurry.
He did not want Montanelli to see the straps.
"Thank you; I would rather see him as he is, without preparation. I
will go straight up to the fortress. Good-evening, colonel; you may expect
my answer to-morrow morning."PART III: CHAPTER VI.
HEARING the cell-door unlocked, the Gadfly turned away his eyes with
languid indifference. He supposed that it was only the Governor, coming to
worry him with another interrogation. Several soldiers mounted the narrow
stair, their carbines clanking against the wall; then a deferential voice
said: "It is rather steep here, Your Eminence."
He started convulsively, and then shrank down, catching his breath
under the stinging pressure of the straps.
Montanelli came in with the sergeant and three guards.
"If Your Eminence will kindly wait a moment," the sergeant began
nervously, "one of my men will bring a chair. He has just gone to fetch it.
Your Eminence will excuse us--if we had been expecting you, we should have
been prepared."
"There is no need for any preparation. Will you kindly leave us alone,
sergeant; and wait at the foot of the stairs with your men?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. Here is the chair; shall I put it beside him?"
The Gadfly was lying with closed eyes; but he felt that Montanelli was
looking at him.
"I think he is asleep, Your Eminence," the sergeant was beginning, but
the Gadfly opened his eyes.
"No," he said.
As the soldiers were leaving the cell they were stopped by a sudden
exclamation from Montanelli; and, turning back, saw that he was bending down
to examine the straps.
"Who has been doing this?" he asked. The sergeant fumbled with his cap.
"It was by the Governor's express orders, Your Eminence."
"I had no idea of this, Signer Rivarez," Montanelli said in a voice of
great distress.
"I told Your Eminence," the Gadfly answered, with his hard smile, "that
I n-n-never expected to be patted on the head."
"Sergeant, how long has this been going on?"
"Since he tried to escape, Your Eminence."
"That is, nearly a week? Bring a knife and cut these off at once."
"May it please Your Eminence, the doctor wanted to take them off, but
Colonel Ferrari wouldn't allow it."
"Bring a knife at once." Montanelli had not raised his voice, but the
soldiers could see that he was white with anger. The sergeant took a
clasp-knife from his pocket, and bent down to cut the arm-strap. He was not
a skilful-fingered man; and he jerked the strap tighter with an awkward
movement, so that the Gadfly winced and bit his lip in spite of all his
self-control. Montanelli came forward at once.
"You don't know how to do it; give me the knife."
"Ah-h-h!" The Gadfly stretched out his arms with a long, rapturous sigh
as the strap fell off. The next instant Montanelli had cut the other one,
which bound his ankles.
"Take off the irons, too, sergeant; and then come here. I want to speak
to you."
He stood by the window, looking on, till the sergeant threw down the
fetters and approached him.
"Now," he said, "tell me everything that has been happening."
The sergeant, nothing loath, related all that he knew of the Gadfly's
illness, of the "disciplinary measures," and of the doctor's unsuccessful
attempt to interfere.
"But I think, Your Eminence," he added, "that the colonel wanted the
straps kept on as a means of getting evidence."
"Evidence?"
"Yes, Your Eminence; the day before yesterday I heard him offer to have
them taken off if he"--with a glance at the Gadfly--"would answer a question
he had asked."
Montanelli clenched his hand on the window-sill, and the soldiers
glanced at one another: they had never seen the gentle Cardinal angry
before. As for the Gadfly, he had forgotten their existence; he had
forgotten everything except the physical sensation of freedom. He was
cramped in every limb; and now stretched, and turned, and twisted about in a
positive ecstasy of relief.
"You can go now, sergeant," the Cardinal said. "You need not feel
anxious about having committed a breach of discipline; it was your duty to
tell me when I asked you. See that no one disturbs us. I will come out when
I am ready."
When the door had closed behind the soldiers, he leaned on the
window-sill and looked for a while at the sinking sun, so as to leave the
Gadfly a little more breathing time.
"I have heard," he said presently, leaving the window, and sitting down
beside the pallet, "that you wish to speak to me alone. If you feel well
enough to tell me what you wanted to say, I am at your service."
He spoke very coldly, with a stiff, imperious manner that was not
natural to him. Until the straps were off, the Gadfly was to him simply a
grievously wronged and tortured human being; but now he recalled their last
interview, and the deadly insult with which it had closed. The Gadfly looked
up, resting his head lazily on one arm. He possessed the gift of slipping
into graceful attitudes; and when his face was in shadow no one would have
guessed through what deep waters he had been passing. But, as he looked up,
the clear evening light showed how haggard and colourless he was, and how
plainly the trace of the last few days was stamped on him. Montanelli's
anger died away.
"I am afraid you have been terribly ill," he said. "I am sincerely
sorry that I did not know of all this. I would have put a stop to it
before."
The Gadfly shrugged his shoulders. "All's fair in war," he said coolly.
"Your Eminence objects to straps theoretically, from the Christian
standpoint; but it is hardly fair to expect the colonel to see that. He, no
doubt, would prefer not to try them on his own skin--which is j-j-just my
case. But that is a matter of p-p-personal convenience. At this moment I am
undermost-- w-w-what would you have? It is very kind of Your Eminence,
though, to call here; but perhaps that was done from the C-c-christian
standpoint, too. Visiting prisoners--ah, yes! I forgot. 'Inasmuch as ye did
it unto one of the l-least of these'--it's not very complimentary, but one
of the least is duly grateful."
"Signor Rivarez," the Cardinal interrupted, "I have come here on your
account--not on my own. If you had not been 'undermost,' as you call it, I
should never have spoken to you again after what you said to me last week;
but you have the double privilege of a prisoner and a sick man, and I could
not refuse to come. Have you anything to say to me, now I am here; or have
you sent for me merely to amuse yourself by insulting an old man?"
There was no answer. The Gadfly had turned. away, and was lying with
one hand across his eyes.
"I am--very sorry to trouble you," he said at last, huskily; "but could
I have a little water?"
There was a jug of water standing by the window, and Montanelli rose
and fetched it. As he slipped his arm round the Gadfly to lift him, he
suddenly felt the damp, cold fingers close over his wrist like a vice.
"Give me your hand--quick--just a moment," the Gadfly whispered. "Oh,
what difference does it make to you? Only one minute!"
He sank down, hiding his face on Montanelli's arm, and quivering from
head to foot.
"Drink a little water," Montanelli said after a moment. The Gadfly
obeyed silently; then lay back on the pallet with closed eyes. He himself
could have given no explanation of what had happened to him when
Montanelli's hand had touched his cheek; he only knew that in all his life
there had been nothing more terrible.
Montanelli drew his chair closer to the pallet and sat down. The Gadfly
was lying quite motionless, like a corpse, and his face was livid and drawn.
After a long silence, he opened his eyes, and fixed their haunting, spectral
gaze on the Cardinal.
"Thank you," he said. "I--am sorry. I think --you asked me something?"
"You are not fit to talk. If there is anything you want to say to me, I
will try to come again to-morrow."
"Please don't go, Your Eminence--indeed, there is nothing the matter
with me. I--I have been a little upset these few days; it was half of it
malingering, though--the colonel will tell you so if you ask him."
"I prefer to form my own conclusions," Montanelli answered quietly.
"S-so does the colonel. And occasionally, do you know, they are rather
witty. You w-w-wouldn't think it to look at him; but s-s-sometimes he gets
hold of an or-r-riginal idea. On Friday night, for instance--I think it was
Friday, but I got a l-little mixed as to time towards the end--anyhow, I
asked for a d-dose of opium--I remember that quite distinctly; and he came
in here and said I m-might h-h-have it if I would tell him who un-l-l-locked
the gate. I remember his saying: 'If it's real, you'll consent; if you
don't, I shall look upon it as a p-proof that you are shamming.' It
n-n-never oc-c-curred to me before how comic that is; it's one of the
f-f-funniest things----"
He burst into a sudden fit of harsh, discordant laughter; then, turning
sharply on the silent Cardinal, went on, more and more hurriedly, and
stammering so that the words were hardly intelligible:
"You d-d-don't see that it's f-f-funny? Of c-course not; you
r-religious people n-n-never have any s-sense of humour--you t-take
everything t-t-tragically. F-for instance, that night in the
Cath-thedral--how solemn you were! By the way --w-what a path-thetic figure
I must have c-cut as the pilgrim! I d-don't believe you e-even see anything
c-c-comic in the b-business you have c-come about this evening."
Montanelli rose.
"I came to hear what you have to say; but I think you are too much
excited to say it to-night. The doctor had better give you a sedative, and
we will talk to-morrow, when you have had a night's sleep."
"S-sleep? Oh, I shall s-sleep well enough, Your Eminence, when you
g-give your c-consent to the colonel's plan--an ounce of l-lead is a
s-splendid sedative."
"I don't understand you," Montanelli said, turning to him with a
startled look.
The Gadfly burst out laughing again.
"Your Eminence, Your Eminence, t-t-truth is the c-chief of the
awoke in the Gadfly; he had guessed at once that there was something hidden
in the bread.
"You can leave it; I'll eat a bit by and by," he said carelessly. The
door was open, and he knew that the sergeant on the stairs could hear every
word spoken between them.
When the door was locked on him again, and he had satisfied himself
that no one was watching at the spy-hole, he took up the piece of bread and
carefully crumbled it away. In the middle was the thing he had expected, a
bundle of small files. It was wrapped in a bit of paper, on which a few
words were written. He smoothed the paper out carefully and carried it to
what little light there was. The writing was crowded into so narrow a space,
and on such thin paper, that it was very difficult to read.
"The door is unlocked, and there is no moon. Get the filing done as
fast as possible, and come by the passage between two and three. We are
quite ready and may not have another chance."
He crushed the paper feverishly in his hand. All the preparations were
ready, then, and he had only to file the window bars; how lucky it was that
the chains were off! He need not stop about filing them. How many bars were
there? Two, four; and each must be filed in two places: eight. Oh, he could
manage that in the course of the night if he made haste---- How had Gemma
and Martini contrived to get everything ready so quickly--disguises,
passports, hiding-places? They must have worked like cart-horses to do
it---- And it was her plan that had been adopted after all. He laughed a
little to himself at his own foolishness; as if it mattered whether the plan
was hers or not, once it was a good one! And yet he could not help being
glad that it was she who had struck on the idea of his utilizing the
subterranean passage, instead of letting himself down by a rope-ladder, as
the smugglers had at first suggested. Hers was the more complex and
difficult plan, but did not involve, as the other did, a risk to the life of
the sentinel on duty outside the east wall. Therefore, when the two schemes
had been laid before him, he had unhesitatingly chosen Gemma's.
The arrangement was that the friendly guard who went by the nickname of
"The Cricket" should seize the first opportunity of unlocking, without the
knowledge of his fellows, the iron gate leading from the courtyard into the
subterranean passage underneath the ramparts, and should then replace the
key on its nail in the guard-room. The Gadfly, on receiving information of
this, was to file through the bars of his window, tear his shirt into strips
and plait them into a rope, by means of which he could let himself down on
to the broad east wall of the courtyard. Along this wall he was to creep on
hands and knees while the sentinel was looking in the opposite direction,
lying flat upon the masonry whenever the man turned towards him. At the
southeast corner was a half-ruined turret. It was upheld, to some extent, by
a thick growth of ivy; but great masses of crumbling stone had fallen inward
and lay in the courtyard, heaped against the wall. From this turret he was
to climb down by the ivy and the heaps of stone into the courtyard; and,
softly opening the unlocked gate, to make his way along the passage to a
subterranean tunnel communicating with it. Centuries ago this tunnel had
formed a secret corridor between the fortress and a tower on the
neighbouring hill; now it was quite disused and blocked in many places by
the falling in of the rocks. No one but the smugglers knew of a certain
carefully-hidden hole in the mountain-side which they had bored through to
the tunnel; no one suspected that stores of forbidden merchandise were often
kept, for weeks together, under the very ramparts of the fortress itself,
while the customs-officers were vainly searching the houses of the sullen,
wrathful-eyed mountaineers. At this hole the Gadfly was to creep out on to
the hillside, and make his way in the dark to a lonely spot where Martini
and a smuggler would be waiting for him. The one great difficulty was that
opportunities to unlock the gate after the evening patrol did not occur
every night, and the descent from the window could not be made in very clear
weather without too great a risk of being observed by the sentinel. Now that
there was really a fair chance of success, it must not be missed.
He sat down and began to eat some of the bread. It at least did not
disgust him like the rest of the prison food, and he must eat something to
keep up his strength.
He had better lie down a bit, too, and try to get a little sleep; it
would not be safe to begin filing before ten o'clock, and he would have a
hard night's work.
And so, after all, the Padre had been thinking of letting him escape!
That was like the Padre. But he, for his part, would never consent to it.
Anything rather than that! If he escaped, it should be his own doing and
that of his comrades; he would have no favours from priests.
How hot it was! Surely it must be going to thunder; the air was so
close and oppressive. He moved restlessly on the pallet and put the bandaged
right hand behind his head for a pillow; then drew it away again. How it
burned and throbbed! And all the old wounds were beginning to ache, with a
dull, faint persistence. What was the matter with them? Oh, absurd! It was
only the thundery weather. He would go to sleep and get a little rest before
beginning his filing.
Eight bars, and all so thick and strong! How many more were there left
to file? Surely not many. He must have been filing for hours,-- interminable
hours--yes, of course, that was what made his arm ache---- And how it ached;
right through to the very bone! But it could hardly be the filing that made
his side ache so; and the throbbing, burning pain in the lame leg--was that
from filing?
He started up. No, he had not been asleep; he had been dreaming with
open eyes--dreaming of filing, and it was all still to do. There stood the
window-bars, untouched, strong and firm as ever. And there was ten striking
from the clock-tower in the distance. He must get to work.
He looked through the spy-hole, and, seeing that no one was watching,
took one of the files from his breast.
. . . . .
No, there was nothing the matter with him-- nothing! It was all
imagination. The pain in his side was indigestion, or a chill, or some such
thing; not much wonder, after three weeks of this insufferable prison food
and air. As for the aching and throbbing all over, it was partly nervous
trouble and partly want of exercise. Yes, that was it, no doubt; want of
exercise. How absurd not to have thought of that before!
He would sit down a little bit, though, and let it pass before he got
to work. It would be sure to go over in a minute or two.
To sit still was worse than all. When he sat still he was at its mercy,
and his face grew gray with fear. No, he must get up and set to work, and
shake it off. It should depend upon his will to feel or not to feel; and he
would not feel, he would force it back.
He stood up again and spoke to himself, aloud and distinctly:
"I am not ill; I have no time to be ill. I have those bars to file, and
I am not going to be ill."
Then he began to file.
A quarter-past ten--half-past ten--a quarter to eleven---- He filed and
filed, and every grating scrape of the iron was as though someone were
filing on his body and brain. "I wonder which will be filed through first,"
he said to himself with a little laugh; "I or the bars?" And he set his
teeth and went on filing.
Half-past eleven. He was still filing, though the hand was stiff and
swollen and would hardly grasp the tool. No, he dared not stop to rest; if
he once put the horrible thing down he should never have the courage to
begin again.
The sentinel moved outside the door, and the butt end of his carbine
scratched against the lintel. The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the file
still in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?
A little round pellet had been shot through the spy-hole and was lying
on the floor. He laid down the file and stooped to pick up the round thing.
It was a bit of rolled paper.
. . . . .
It was a long way to go down and down, with the black waves rushing
about him--how they roared----!
Ah, yes! He was only stooping down to pick up the paper. He was a bit
giddy; many people are when they stoop. There was nothing the matter with
him--nothing.
He picked it up, carried it to the light, and unfolded it steadily.
"Come to-night, whatever happens; the Cricket will be transferred
to-morrow to another service. This is our only chance."
He destroyed the paper as he had done the former one, picked up his
file again, and went back to work, dogged and mute and desperate.
One o'clock. He had been working for three hours now, and six of the
eight bars were filed. Two more, and then, to climb------
He began to recall the former occasions when these terrible attacks had
come on. The last had been the one at New Year; and he shuddered as he
remembered those five nights. But that time it had not come on so suddenly;
he had never known it so sudden.
He dropped the file and flung out both hands blindly, praying, in his
utter desperation, for the first time since he had been an atheist; praying
to anything--to nothing--to everything.
"Not to-night! Oh, let me be ill to-morrow! I will bear anything
to-morrow--only not to-night!"
He stood still for a moment, with both hands up to his temples; then he
took up the file once more, and once more went back to his work.
Half-past one. He had begun on the last bar. His shirt-sleeve was
bitten to rags; there was blood on his lips and a red mist before his eyes,
and the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed, and filed, and filed----
. . . . .
After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was utterly worn out with the
restless misery of the night and slept for a little while quietly; then he
began to dream.
At first he dreamed vaguely, confusedly; broken fragments of images and
fancies followed each other, fleeting and incoherent, but all filled with
the same dim sense of struggle and pain, the same shadow of indefinable
dread. Presently he began to dream of sleeplessness; the old, frightful,
familiar dream that had been a terror to him for years. And even as he
dreamed he recognized that he had been through it all before.
He was wandering about in a great empty place, trying to find some
quiet spot where he could lie down and sleep. Everywhere there were people,
walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting; praying, ringing bells,
and clashing metal instruments together. Sometimes he would get away to a
little distance from the noise, and would lie down, now on the grass, now on
a wooden bench, now on some slab of stone. He would shut his eyes and cover
them with both hands to keep out the light; and would say to himself: "Now I
will get to sleep." Then the crowds would come sweeping up to him, shouting,
yelling, calling him by name, begging him: "Wake up! Wake up, quick; we want
you!"
Again: he was in a great palace, full of gorgeous rooms, with beds and
couches and low soft lounges. It was night, and he said to himself: "Here,
at last, I shall find a quiet place to sleep." But when he chose a dark room
and lay down, someone came in with a lamp, flashing the merciless light into
his eyes, and said: "Get up; you are wanted."
He rose and wandered on, staggering and stumbling like a creature
wounded to death; and heard the clocks strike one, and knew that half the
night was gone already--the precious night that was so short. Two, three,
four, five--by six o'clock the whole town would wake up and there would be
no more silence.
He went into another room and would have lain down on a bed, but
someone started up from the pillows, crying out: "This bed is mine!" and he
shrank away with despair in his heart.
Hour after hour struck, and still he wandered on and on, from room to
room, from house to house, from corridor to corridor. The horrible gray dawn
was creeping near and nearer; the clocks were striking five; the night was
gone and he had found no rest. Oh, misery! Another day --another day!
He was in a long, subterranean corridor, a low, vaulted passage that
seemed to have no end. It was lighted with glaring lamps and chandeliers;
and through its grated roof came the sounds of dancing and laughter and
merry music. Up there, in the world of the live people overhead, there was
some festival, no doubt. Oh, for a place to hide and sleep; some little
place, were it even a grave! And as he spoke he stumbled over an open grave.
An open grave, smelling of death and rottenness---- Ah, what matter, so he
could but sleep!
"This grave is mine!" It was Gladys; and she raised her head and stared
at him over the rotting shroud. Then he knelt down and stretched out his
arms to her.
"Gladys! Gladys! Have a little pity on me; let me creep into this
narrow space and sleep. I do not ask you for your love; I will not touch
you, will not speak to you; only let me lie down beside you and sleep! Oh,
love, it is so long since I have slept! I cannot bear another day. The light
glares in upon my soul; the noise is beating my brain to dust. Gladys, let
me come in here and sleep!"
And he would have drawn her shroud across his eyes. But she shrank
away, screaming:
"It is sacrilege; you are a priest!"
On and on he wandered, and came out upon the sea-shore, on the barren
rocks where the fierce light struck down, and the water moaned its low,
perpetual wail of unrest. "Ah!" he said; "the sea will be more merciful; it,
too, is wearied unto death and cannot sleep."
Then Arthur rose up from the deep, and cried aloud:
"This sea is mine!"
. . . . .
"Your Eminence! Your Eminence!"
Montanelli awoke with a start. His servant was knocking at the door. He
rose mechanically and opened it, and the man saw how wild and scared he
looked.
"Your Eminence--are you ill?"
He drew both hands across his forehead.
"No; I was asleep, and you startled me."
"I am very sorry; I thought I had heard you moving early this morning,
and I supposed------"
"Is it late now?"
"It is nine o'clock, and the Governor has called. He says he has very
important business, and knowing Your Eminence to be an early riser------"
"Is he downstairs? I will come presently."
He dressed and went downstairs.
"I am afraid this is an unceremonious way to call upon Your Eminence,"
the Governor began.
"I hope there is nothing the matter?"
"There is very much the matter. Rivarez has all but succeeded in
escaping."
"Well, so long as he has not quite succeeded there is no harm done. How
was it?"
"He was found in the courtyard, right against the little iron gate.
When the patrol came in to inspect the courtyard at three o'clock this
morning one of the men stumbled over something on the ground; and when they
brought the light up they found Rivarez lying across the path unconscious.
They raised an alarm at once and called me up; and when I went to examine
his cell I found all the window-bars filed through and a rope made of torn
body-linen hanging from one of them. He had let himself down and climbed
along the wall. The iron gate, which leads into the subterranean tunnels,
was found to be unlocked. That looks as if the guards had been suborned."
"But how did he come to be lying across the path? Did he fall from the
rampart and hurt himself?"
"That is what I thought at first. Your Eminence; but the prison surgeon
can't find any trace of a fall. The soldier who was on duty yesterday says
that Rivarez looked very ill last night when he brought in the supper, and
did not eat anything. But that must be nonsense; a sick man couldn't file
those bars through and climb along that roof. It's not in reason."
"Does he give any account of himself?"
"He is unconscious, Your Eminence."
"Still?"
"He just half comes to himself from time to time and moans, and then
goes off again."
"That is very strange. What does the doctor think?"
"He doesn't know what to think. There is no trace of heart-disease that
he can find to account for the thing; but whatever is the matter with him,
it is something that must have come on suddenly, just when he had nearly
managed to escape. For my part, I believe he was struck down by the direct
intervention of a merciful Providence."
Montanelli frowned slightly.
"What are you going to do with him?" he asked.
"That is a question I shall settle in a very few days. In the meantime
I have had a good lesson. That is what comes of taking off the irons--with
all due respect to Your Eminence."
"I hope," Montanelli interrupted, "that you will at least not replace
the fetters while he is ill. A man in the condition you describe can hardly
make any more attempts to escape."
"I shall take good care he doesn't," the Governor muttered to himself
as he went out. "His Eminence can go hang with his sentimental scruples for
all I care. Rivarez is chained pretty tight now, and is going to stop so,
ill or not."
. . . . .
"But how can it have happened? To faint away at the last moment, when
everything was ready; when he was at the very gate! It's like some hideous
joke."
"I tell you," Martini answered, "the only thing I can think of is that
one of these attacks must have come on, and that he must have struggled
against it as long as his strength lasted and have fainted from sheer
exhaustion when he got down into the courtyard."
Marcone knocked the ashes savagely from his pipe.
"Well. anyhow, that's the end of it; we can't do anything for him now,
poor fellow."
"Poor fellow!" Martini echoed, under his breath. He was beginning to
realise that to him, too, the world would look empty and dismal without the
Gadfly.
"What does she think?" the smuggler asked, glancing towards the other
end of the room, where Gemma sat alone, her hands lying idly in her lap, her
eyes looking straight before her into blank nothingness.
"I have not asked her; she has not spoken since I brought her the news.
We had best not disturb her just yet."
She did not appear to be conscious of their presence, but they both
spoke with lowered voices, as though they were looking at a corpse. After a
dreary little pause, Marcone rose and put away his pipe.
"I will come back this evening," he said; but Martini stopped him with
a gesture.
"Don't go yet; I want to speak to you." He dropped his voice still
lower and continued in almost a whisper:
"Do you believe there is really no hope?"
"I don't see what hope there can be now. We can't attempt it again.
Even if he were well enough to manage his part of the thing, we couldn't do
our share. The sentinels are all being changed, on suspicion. The Cricket
won't get another chance, you may be sure."
"Don't you think," Martini asked suddenly; "that, when he recovers,
something might be done by calling off the sentinels?"
"Calling off the sentinels? What do you mean?"
"Well, it has occurred to me that if I were to get in the Governor's
way when the procession passes close by the fortress on Corpus Domini day
and fire in his face, all the sentinels would come rushing to get hold of
me, and some of you fellows could perhaps help Rivarez out in the confusion.
It really hardly amounts to a plan; it only came into my head."
"I doubt whether it could be managed," Marcone answered with a very
grave face. "Certainly it would want a lot of thinking out for anything to
come of it. But"--he stopped and looked at Martini--"if it should be
possible-- would you do it?"
Martini was a reserved man at ordinary times; but this was not an
ordinary time. He looked straight into the smuggler's face.
"Would I do it?" he repeated. "Look at her!"
There was no need for further explanations; in saying that he had said
all. Marcone turned and looked across the room.
She had not moved since their conversation began. There was no doubt,
no fear, even no grief in her face; there was nothing in it but the shadow
of death. The smuggler's eyes filled with tears as he looked at her.
"Make haste, Michele!" he said, throwing open the verandah door and
looking out. "Aren't you nearly done, you two? There are a hundred and fifty
things to do!"
Michele, followed by Gino, came in from the verandah.
"I am ready now," he said. "I only want to ask the signora----"
He was moving towards her when Martini caught him by the arm.
"Don't disturb her; she's better alone."
"Let her be!" Marcone added. "We shan't do any good by meddling. God
knows, it's hard enough on all of us; but it's worse for her, poor soul!"
FOR a week the Gadfly lay in a fearful state. The attack was a violent
one, and the Governor, rendered brutal by fear and perplexity, had not only
chained him hand and foot, but had insisted on his being bound to his pallet
with leather straps, drawn so tight that he could not move without their
cutting into the flesh. He endured everything with his dogged, bitter
stoicism till the end of the sixth day. Then his pride broke down, and he
piteously entreated the prison doctor for a dose of opium. The doctor was
quite willing to give it; but the Governor, hearing of the request, sharply
forbade "any such foolery."
"How do you know what he wants it for?" he said. "It's just as likely
as not that he's shamming all the time and wants to drug the sentinel, or
some such devilry. Rivarez is cunning enough for anything."
"My giving him a dose would hardly help him to drug the sentinel,"
replied the doctor, unable to suppress a smile. "And as for shamming--
there's not much fear of that. He is as likely as not to die."
"Anyway, I won't have it given. If a man wants to be tenderly treated,
he should behave accordingly. He has thoroughly deserved a little sharp
discipline. Perhaps it will be a lesson to him not to play tricks with the
window-bars again."
"The law does not admit of torture, though," the doctor ventured to
say; "and this is coming perilously near it."
"The law says nothing about opium, I think," said the Governor
snappishly.
"It is for you to decide, of course, colonel; but I hope you will let
the straps be taken off at any rate. They are a needless aggravation of his
misery. There's no fear of his escaping now. He couldn't stand if you let
him go free."
"My good sir, a doctor may make a mistake like other people, I suppose.
I have got him safe strapped now, and he's going to stop so."
"At least, then, have the straps a little loosened. It is downright
barbarity to keep them drawn so tight."
"They will stop exactly as they are; and I will thank you, sir, not to
talk about barbarity to me. If I do a thing, I have a reason for it."
So the seventh night passed without any relief, and the soldier
stationed on guard at the cell door crossed himself, shuddering, over and
over again, as he listened all night long to heart-rending moans. The
Gadfly's endurance was failing him at last.
At six in the morning the sentinel, just before going off duty,
unlocked the door softly and entered the cell. He knew that he was
committing a serious breach of discipline, but could not bear to go away
without offering the consolation of a friendly word.
He found the Gadfly lying still, with closed eyes and parted lips. He
stood silent for a moment; then stooped down and asked:
"Can I do anything for you, sir? I have only a minute."
The Gadfly opened his eyes. "Let me alone!" he moaned. "Let me
alone----"
He was asleep almost before the soldier had slipped back to his post.
Ten days afterwards the Governor called again at the palace, but found
that the Cardinal had gone to visit a sick man at Pieve d'Ottavo, and was
not expected home till the afternoon. That evening, just as he was sitting
down to dinner, his servant came in to announce:
"His Eminence would like to speak to you."
The Governor, with a hasty glance into the looking glass, to make sure
that his uniform was in order, put on his most dignified air, and went into
the reception room, where Montanelli was sitting, beating his hand gently on
the arm of the chair and looking out of the window with an anxious line
between his brows.
"I heard that you called to-day," he said, cutting short the Governor's
polite speeches with a slightly imperious manner which he never adopted in
speaking to the country folk. "It was probably on the business about which I
have been wishing to speak to you."
"It was about Rivarez, Your Eminence."
"So I supposed. I have been thinking the matter over these last few
days. But before we go into that, I should like to hear whether you have
anything new to tell me."
The Governor pulled his moustaches with an embarrassed air.
"The fact is, I came to know whether Your Eminence had anything to tell
me. If you still have an objection to the course I proposed taking, I should
be sincerely glad of your advice in the matter; for, honestly, I don't know
what to do."
"Is there any new difficulty?"
"Only that next Thursday is the 3d of June, --Corpus Domini,--and
somehow or other the matter must be settled before then."
"Thursday is Corpus Domini, certainly; but why must it be settled
especially before then?"
"I am exceedingly sorry, Your Eminence, if I seem to oppose you, but I
can't undertake to be responsible for the peace of the town if Rivarez is
not got rid of before then. All the roughest set in the hills collects here
for that day, as Your Eminence knows, and it is more than probable that they
may attempt to break open the fortress gates and take him out. They won't
succeed; I'll take care of that, if I have to sweep them from the gates with
powder and shot. But we are very likely to have something of that kind
before the day is over. Here in the Romagna there is bad blood in the
people, and when once they get out their knives----"
"I think with a little care we can prevent matters going as far as
knives. I have always found the people of this district easy to get on with,
if they are reasonably treated. Of course, if you once begin to threaten or
coerce a Romagnol he becomes unmanageable. But have you any reason for
supposing a new rescue scheme is intended?"
"I heard, both this morning and yesterday, from confidential agents of
mine, that a great many rumours are circulating all over the district and
that the people are evidently up to some mischief or other. But one can't
find out the details; if one could it would be easier to take precautions.
And for my part, after the fright we had the other day, I prefer to be on
the safe side. With such a cunning fox as Rivarez one can't be too careful."
"The last I heard about Rivarez was that he was too ill to move or
speak. Is he recovering, then?"
"He seems much better now, Your Eminence. He certainly has been very
ill--unless he was shamming all the time."
"Have you any reason for supposing that likely?"
"Well, the doctor seems convinced that it was all genuine; but it's a
very mysterious kind of illness. Any way, he is recovering, and more
intractable than ever."
"What has he done now?"
"There's not much he can do, fortunately," the Governor answered,
smiling as he remembered the straps. "But his behaviour is something
indescribable. Yesterday morning I went into the cell to ask him a few
questions; he is not well enough yet to come to me for interrogation--and
indeed, I thought it best not to run any risk of the people seeing him until
he recovers. Such absurd stories always get about at once."
"So you went there to interrogate him?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. I hoped he would be more amenable to reason now."
Montanelli looked him over deliberately, almost as if he had been
inspecting a new and disagreeable animal. Fortunately, however, the Governor
was fingering his sword-belt, and did not see the look. He went on placidly:
"I have not subjected him to any particular severities, but I have been
obliged to be rather strict with him--especially as it is a military
prison--and I thought that perhaps a little indulgence might have a good
effect. I offered to relax the discipline considerably if he would behave in
a reasonable manner; and how does Your Eminence suppose he answered me? He
lay looking at me a minute, like a wolf in a cage, and then said quite
softly: 'Colonel, I can't get up and strangle you; but my teeth are pretty
good; you had better take your throat a little further off.' He is as savage
as a wild-cat."
"I am not surprised to hear it," Montanelli answered quietly. "But I
came to ask you a question. Do you honestly believe that the presence of
Rivarez in the prison here constitutes a serious danger to the peace of the
district?"
"Most certainly I do, Your Eminence."
"You think that, to prevent the risk of bloodshed, it is absolutely
necessary that he should somehow be got rid of before Corpus Domini?"
"I can only repeat that if he is here on Thursday, I do not expect the
festival to pass over without a fight, and I think it likely to be a serious
one."
"And you think that if he were not here there would be no such danger?"
"In that case, there would either be no disturbance at all, or at most
a little shouting and stone-throwing. If Your Eminence can find some way of
getting rid of him, I will undertake that the peace shall be kept.
Otherwise, I expect most serious trouble. I am convinced that a new rescue
plot is on hand, and Thursday is the day when we may expect the attempt.
Now, if on that very morning they suddenly find that he is not in the
fortress at all, their plan fails of itself, and they have no occasion to
begin fighting. But if we have to repulse them, and the daggers once get
drawn among such throngs of people, we are likely to have the place burnt
down before nightfall."
"Then why do you not send him in to Ravenna?"
"Heaven knows, Your Eminence, I should be thankful to do it! But how am
I to prevent the people rescuing him on the way? I have not soldiers enough
to resist an armed attack; and all these mountaineers have got knives or
flint-locks or some such thing."
"You still persist, then, in wishing for a court-martial, and in asking
my consent to it?"
"Pardon me, Your Eminence; I ask you only one thing--to help me prevent
riots and bloodshed. I am quite willing to admit that the military
commissions, such as that of Colonel Freddi, were sometimes unnecessarily
severe, and irritated instead of subduing the people; but I think that in
this case a court-martial would be a wise measure and in the long run a
merciful one. It would prevent a riot, which in itself would be a terrible
disaster, and which very likely might cause a return of the military
commissions His Holiness has abolished."
The Governor finished his little speech with much solemnity, and waited
for the Cardinal's answer. It was a long time coming; and when it came was
startlingly unexpected.
"Colonel Ferrari, do you believe in God?"
"Your Eminence!" the colonel gasped in a voice full of
exclamation-stops.
"Do you believe in God?" Montanelli repeated, rising and looking down
at him with steady, searching eyes. The colonel rose too.
"Your Eminence, I am a Christian man, and have never yet been refused
absolution."
Montanelli lifted the cross from his breast.
"Then swear on the cross of the Redeemer Who died for you, that you
have been speaking the truth to me."
The colonel stood still and gazed at it blankly. He could not quite
make up his mind which was mad, he or the Cardinal.
"You have asked me," Montanelli went on, "to give my consent to a man's
death. Kiss the cross, if you dare, and tell me that you believe there is no
other way to prevent greater bloodshed. And remember that if you tell me a
lie you are imperilling your immortal soul."
After a little pause, the Governor bent down and put the cross to his
lips.
"I believe it," he said.
Montanelli turned slowly away.
"I will give you a definite answer to-morrow. But first I must see
Rivarez and speak to him alone."
"Your Eminence--if I might suggest--I am sure you will regret it. For
that matter, he sent me a message yesterday, by the guard, asking to see
Your Eminence; but I took no notice of it, because----"
"Took no notice!" Montanelli repeated. "A man in such circumstances
sent you a message, and you took no notice of it?"
"I am sorry if Your Eminence is displeased. I did not wish to trouble
you over a mere impertinence like that; I know Rivarez well enough by now to
feel sure that he only wanted to insult you. And, indeed, if you will allow
me to say so, it would be most imprudent to go near him alone; he is really
dangerous--so much so, in fact, that I have thought it necessary to use some
physical restraint of a mild kind------"
"And you really think there is much danger to be apprehended from one
sick and unarmed man, who is under physical restraint of a mild kind?"
Montanelli spoke quite gently, but the colonel felt the sting of his quiet
contempt, and flushed under it resentfully.
"Your Eminence will do as you think best," he said in his stiffest
manner. "I only wished to spare you the pain of hearing this man's awful
blasphemies."
"Which do you think the more grievous misfortune for a Christian man;
to hear a blasphemous word uttered, or to abandon a fellow-creature in
extremity?"
The Governor stood erect and stiff, with his official face, like a face
of wood. He was deeply offended at Montanelli's treatment of him, and showed
it by unusual ceremoniousness.
"At what time does Your Eminence wish to visit the prisoner?" he asked.
"I will go to him at once."
"As Your Eminence pleases. If you will kindly wait a few moments, I
will send someone to prepare him."
The Governor had come down from his official pedestal in a great hurry.
He did not want Montanelli to see the straps.
"Thank you; I would rather see him as he is, without preparation. I
will go straight up to the fortress. Good-evening, colonel; you may expect
my answer to-morrow morning."PART III: CHAPTER VI.
HEARING the cell-door unlocked, the Gadfly turned away his eyes with
languid indifference. He supposed that it was only the Governor, coming to
worry him with another interrogation. Several soldiers mounted the narrow
stair, their carbines clanking against the wall; then a deferential voice
said: "It is rather steep here, Your Eminence."
He started convulsively, and then shrank down, catching his breath
under the stinging pressure of the straps.
Montanelli came in with the sergeant and three guards.
"If Your Eminence will kindly wait a moment," the sergeant began
nervously, "one of my men will bring a chair. He has just gone to fetch it.
Your Eminence will excuse us--if we had been expecting you, we should have
been prepared."
"There is no need for any preparation. Will you kindly leave us alone,
sergeant; and wait at the foot of the stairs with your men?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. Here is the chair; shall I put it beside him?"
The Gadfly was lying with closed eyes; but he felt that Montanelli was
looking at him.
"I think he is asleep, Your Eminence," the sergeant was beginning, but
the Gadfly opened his eyes.
"No," he said.
As the soldiers were leaving the cell they were stopped by a sudden
exclamation from Montanelli; and, turning back, saw that he was bending down
to examine the straps.
"Who has been doing this?" he asked. The sergeant fumbled with his cap.
"It was by the Governor's express orders, Your Eminence."
"I had no idea of this, Signer Rivarez," Montanelli said in a voice of
great distress.
"I told Your Eminence," the Gadfly answered, with his hard smile, "that
I n-n-never expected to be patted on the head."
"Sergeant, how long has this been going on?"
"Since he tried to escape, Your Eminence."
"That is, nearly a week? Bring a knife and cut these off at once."
"May it please Your Eminence, the doctor wanted to take them off, but
Colonel Ferrari wouldn't allow it."
"Bring a knife at once." Montanelli had not raised his voice, but the
soldiers could see that he was white with anger. The sergeant took a
clasp-knife from his pocket, and bent down to cut the arm-strap. He was not
a skilful-fingered man; and he jerked the strap tighter with an awkward
movement, so that the Gadfly winced and bit his lip in spite of all his
self-control. Montanelli came forward at once.
"You don't know how to do it; give me the knife."
"Ah-h-h!" The Gadfly stretched out his arms with a long, rapturous sigh
as the strap fell off. The next instant Montanelli had cut the other one,
which bound his ankles.
"Take off the irons, too, sergeant; and then come here. I want to speak
to you."
He stood by the window, looking on, till the sergeant threw down the
fetters and approached him.
"Now," he said, "tell me everything that has been happening."
The sergeant, nothing loath, related all that he knew of the Gadfly's
illness, of the "disciplinary measures," and of the doctor's unsuccessful
attempt to interfere.
"But I think, Your Eminence," he added, "that the colonel wanted the
straps kept on as a means of getting evidence."
"Evidence?"
"Yes, Your Eminence; the day before yesterday I heard him offer to have
them taken off if he"--with a glance at the Gadfly--"would answer a question
he had asked."
Montanelli clenched his hand on the window-sill, and the soldiers
glanced at one another: they had never seen the gentle Cardinal angry
before. As for the Gadfly, he had forgotten their existence; he had
forgotten everything except the physical sensation of freedom. He was
cramped in every limb; and now stretched, and turned, and twisted about in a
positive ecstasy of relief.
"You can go now, sergeant," the Cardinal said. "You need not feel
anxious about having committed a breach of discipline; it was your duty to
tell me when I asked you. See that no one disturbs us. I will come out when
I am ready."
When the door had closed behind the soldiers, he leaned on the
window-sill and looked for a while at the sinking sun, so as to leave the
Gadfly a little more breathing time.
"I have heard," he said presently, leaving the window, and sitting down
beside the pallet, "that you wish to speak to me alone. If you feel well
enough to tell me what you wanted to say, I am at your service."
He spoke very coldly, with a stiff, imperious manner that was not
natural to him. Until the straps were off, the Gadfly was to him simply a
grievously wronged and tortured human being; but now he recalled their last
interview, and the deadly insult with which it had closed. The Gadfly looked
up, resting his head lazily on one arm. He possessed the gift of slipping
into graceful attitudes; and when his face was in shadow no one would have
guessed through what deep waters he had been passing. But, as he looked up,
the clear evening light showed how haggard and colourless he was, and how
plainly the trace of the last few days was stamped on him. Montanelli's
anger died away.
"I am afraid you have been terribly ill," he said. "I am sincerely
sorry that I did not know of all this. I would have put a stop to it
before."
The Gadfly shrugged his shoulders. "All's fair in war," he said coolly.
"Your Eminence objects to straps theoretically, from the Christian
standpoint; but it is hardly fair to expect the colonel to see that. He, no
doubt, would prefer not to try them on his own skin--which is j-j-just my
case. But that is a matter of p-p-personal convenience. At this moment I am
undermost-- w-w-what would you have? It is very kind of Your Eminence,
though, to call here; but perhaps that was done from the C-c-christian
standpoint, too. Visiting prisoners--ah, yes! I forgot. 'Inasmuch as ye did
it unto one of the l-least of these'--it's not very complimentary, but one
of the least is duly grateful."
"Signor Rivarez," the Cardinal interrupted, "I have come here on your
account--not on my own. If you had not been 'undermost,' as you call it, I
should never have spoken to you again after what you said to me last week;
but you have the double privilege of a prisoner and a sick man, and I could
not refuse to come. Have you anything to say to me, now I am here; or have
you sent for me merely to amuse yourself by insulting an old man?"
There was no answer. The Gadfly had turned. away, and was lying with
one hand across his eyes.
"I am--very sorry to trouble you," he said at last, huskily; "but could
I have a little water?"
There was a jug of water standing by the window, and Montanelli rose
and fetched it. As he slipped his arm round the Gadfly to lift him, he
suddenly felt the damp, cold fingers close over his wrist like a vice.
"Give me your hand--quick--just a moment," the Gadfly whispered. "Oh,
what difference does it make to you? Only one minute!"
He sank down, hiding his face on Montanelli's arm, and quivering from
head to foot.
"Drink a little water," Montanelli said after a moment. The Gadfly
obeyed silently; then lay back on the pallet with closed eyes. He himself
could have given no explanation of what had happened to him when
Montanelli's hand had touched his cheek; he only knew that in all his life
there had been nothing more terrible.
Montanelli drew his chair closer to the pallet and sat down. The Gadfly
was lying quite motionless, like a corpse, and his face was livid and drawn.
After a long silence, he opened his eyes, and fixed their haunting, spectral
gaze on the Cardinal.
"Thank you," he said. "I--am sorry. I think --you asked me something?"
"You are not fit to talk. If there is anything you want to say to me, I
will try to come again to-morrow."
"Please don't go, Your Eminence--indeed, there is nothing the matter
with me. I--I have been a little upset these few days; it was half of it
malingering, though--the colonel will tell you so if you ask him."
"I prefer to form my own conclusions," Montanelli answered quietly.
"S-so does the colonel. And occasionally, do you know, they are rather
witty. You w-w-wouldn't think it to look at him; but s-s-sometimes he gets
hold of an or-r-riginal idea. On Friday night, for instance--I think it was
Friday, but I got a l-little mixed as to time towards the end--anyhow, I
asked for a d-dose of opium--I remember that quite distinctly; and he came
in here and said I m-might h-h-have it if I would tell him who un-l-l-locked
the gate. I remember his saying: 'If it's real, you'll consent; if you
don't, I shall look upon it as a p-proof that you are shamming.' It
n-n-never oc-c-curred to me before how comic that is; it's one of the
f-f-funniest things----"
He burst into a sudden fit of harsh, discordant laughter; then, turning
sharply on the silent Cardinal, went on, more and more hurriedly, and
stammering so that the words were hardly intelligible:
"You d-d-don't see that it's f-f-funny? Of c-course not; you
r-religious people n-n-never have any s-sense of humour--you t-take
everything t-t-tragically. F-for instance, that night in the
Cath-thedral--how solemn you were! By the way --w-what a path-thetic figure
I must have c-cut as the pilgrim! I d-don't believe you e-even see anything
c-c-comic in the b-business you have c-come about this evening."
Montanelli rose.
"I came to hear what you have to say; but I think you are too much
excited to say it to-night. The doctor had better give you a sedative, and
we will talk to-morrow, when you have had a night's sleep."
"S-sleep? Oh, I shall s-sleep well enough, Your Eminence, when you
g-give your c-consent to the colonel's plan--an ounce of l-lead is a
s-splendid sedative."
"I don't understand you," Montanelli said, turning to him with a
startled look.
The Gadfly burst out laughing again.
"Your Eminence, Your Eminence, t-t-truth is the c-chief of the