Christian virtues! D-d-do you th-th-think I d-d-don't know how hard the
Governor has been trying to g-get your consent to a court-martial? You had
b-better by half g-give it, Your Eminence; it's only w-what all your
b-brother prelates would do in your place. 'Cosi fan tutti;' and then you
would be doing s-such a lot of good, and so l-little harm! Really, it's
n-not worth all the sleepless nights you have been spending over it!"
"Please stop laughing a minute," Montanelli interrupted, "and tell me
how you heard all this. Who has been talking to you about it?"
"H-hasn't the colonel e-e-ever told you I am a d-d-devil--not a man?
No? He has t-told me so often enough! Well, I am devil enough to f-find out
a little bit what p-people are thinking about. Your E-eminence is thinking
that I'm a conf-founded nuisance, and you wish s-somebody else had to settle
what's to be done with me, without disturbing your s-sensitive conscience.
That's a p-pretty fair guess, isn't it?"
"Listen to me," the Cardinal said, sitting down again beside him, with
a very grave face. "However you found out all this, it is quite true.
Colonel Ferrari fears another rescue attempt on the part of your friends,
and wishes to forestall it in--the way you speak of. You see, I am quite
frank with you."
"Your E-eminence was always f-f-famous for truthfulness," the Gadfly
put in bitterly.
"You know, of course," Montanelli went on, "that legally I have no
jurisdiction in temporal matters; I am a bishop, not a legate. But I have a
good deal of influence in this district; and the colonel will not, I think,
venture to take so extreme a course unless he can get, at least, my tacit
consent to it. Up till now I have unconditionally opposed the scheme; and he
has been trying very hard to conquer my objection by assuring me that there
is great danger of an armed attempt on Thursday when the crowd collects for
the procession --an attempt which probably would end in bloodshed. Do you
follow me?"
The Gadfly was staring absently out of the window. He looked round and
answered in a weary voice:
"Yes, I am listening."
"Perhaps you are really not well enough to stand this conversation
to-night. Shall I come back in the morning? It is a very serious matter, and
I want your whole attention."
"I would rather get it over now," the Gadfly answered in the same tone.
"I follow everything you say."
"Now, if it be true," Montanelli went on, "that there is any real
danger of riots and bloodshed on account of you, I am taking upon myself a
tremendous responsibility in opposing the colonel; and I believe there is at
least some truth in what he says. On the other hand, I am inclined to think
that his judgment is warped, to a certain extent, by his personal animosity
against you, and that he probably exaggerates the danger. That seems to me
the more likely since I have seen this shameful brutality." He glanced at
the straps and chains lying on the floor, and went on:
"If I consent, I kill you; if I refuse, I run the risk of killing
innocent persons. I have considered the matter earnestly, and have sought
with all my heart for a way out of this dreadful alternative. And now at
last I have made up my mind."
"To kill me and s-save the innocent persons, of course--the only
decision a Christian man could possibly come to. 'If thy r-right hand offend
thee,' etc. I have n-not the honour to be the right hand of Your Eminence,
and I have offended you; the c-c-conclusion is plain. Couldn't you tell me
that without so much preamble?"
The Gadfly spoke with languid indifference and contempt, like a man
weary of the whole subject.
"Well?" he added after a little pause. "Was that the decision, Your
Eminence?"
"No."
The Gadfly shifted his position, putting both hands behind his head,
and looked at Montanelli with half-shut eyes. The Cardinal, with his head
sunk down as in deep thought, was softly beating one hand on the arm of his
chair. Ah, that old, familiar gesture!
"I have decided," he said, raising his head at last, "to do, I suppose,
an utterly unprecedented thing. When I heard that you had asked to see me, I
resolved to come here and tell you everything, as I have done, and to place
the matter in your own hands."
"In--my hands?"
"Signor Rivarez, I have not come to you as cardinal, or as bishop, or
as judge; I have come to you as one man to another. I do not ask you to tell
me whether you know of any such scheme as the colonel apprehends. I
understand quite well that, if you do, it is your secret and you will not
tell it. But I do ask you to put yourself in my place. I am old, and, no
doubt, have not much longer to live. I would go down to my grave without
blood on my hands."
"Is there none on them as yet, Your Eminence?"
Montanelli grew a shade paler, but went on quietly: "All my life I have
opposed repressive measures and cruelty wherever I have met with them. I
have always disapproved of capital punishment in all its forms; I have
protested earnestly and repeatedly against the military commissions in the
last reign, and have been out of favour on account of doing so. Up till now
such influence and power as I have possessed have always been employed on
the side of mercy. I ask you to believe me, at least, that I am speaking the
truth. Now, I am placed in this dilemma. By refusing, I am exposing the town
to the danger of riots and all their consequences; and this to save the life
of a man who blasphemes against my religion, who has slandered and wronged
and insulted me personally (though that is comparatively a trifle), and who,
as I firmly believe, will put that life to a bad use when it is given to
him. But--it is to save a man's life."
He paused a moment, and went on again:
"Signor Rivarez, everything that I know of your career seems to me bad
and mischievous; and I have long believed you to be reckless and violent and
unscrupulous. To some extent I hold that opinion of you still. But during
this last fortnight you have shown me that you are a brave man and that you
can be faithful to your friends. You have made the soldiers love and admire
you, too; and not every man could have done that. I think that perhaps I
have misjudged you, and that there is in you something better than what you
show outside. To that better self in you I appeal, and solemnly entreat you,
on your conscience, to tell me truthfully--in my place, what would you do?"
A long silence followed; then the Gadfly looked up.
"At least, I would decide my own actions for myself, and take the
consequences of them. I would not come sneaking to other people, in the
cowardly Christian way, asking them to solve my problems for me!"
The onslaught was so sudden, and its extraordinary vehemence and
passion were in such startling contrast to the languid affectation of a
moment before, that it was as though he had thrown off a mask.
"We atheists," he went on fiercely, "understand that if a man has a
thing to bear, he must bear it as best he can; and if he sinks under it--
why, so much the worse for him. But a Christian comes whining to his God, or
his saints; or, if they won't help him, to his enemies--he can always find a
back to shift his burdens on to. Isn't there a rule to go by in your Bible,
or your Missal, or any of your canting theology books, that you must come to
me to tell you what to do? Heavens and earth, man! Haven't I enough as it
is, without your laying your responsibilities on my shoulders? Go back to
your Jesus; he exacted the uttermost farthing, and you'd better do the same.
After all, you'll only be killing an atheist--a man who boggles over
'shibboleth'; and that's no great crime, surely!"
He broke off, panting for breath, and then burst out again:
"And YOU to talk of cruelty! Why, that p-p-pudding-headed ass couldn't
hurt me as much as you do if he tried for a year; he hasn't got the brains.
All he can think of is to pull a strap tight, and when he can't get it any
tighter he's at the end of his resources. Any fool can do that! But you----
'Sign your own death sentence, please; I'm too tender-hearted to do it
myself.' Oh! it would take a Christian to hit on that--a gentle,
compassionate Christian, that turns pale at the sight of a strap pulled too
tight! I might have known when you came in, like an angel of mercy-- so
shocked at the colonel's 'barbarity'--that the real thing was going to
begin! Why do you look at me that way? Consent, man, of course, and go home
to your dinner; the thing's not worth all this fuss. Tell your colonel he
can have me shot, or hanged, or whatever comes handiest--roasted alive, if
it's any amusement to him--and be done with it!"
The Gadfly was hardly recognizable; he was beside himself with rage and
desperation, panting and quivering, his eyes glittering with green
reflections like the eyes of an angry cat.
Montanelli had risen, and was looking down at him silently. He did not
understand the drift of the frenzied reproaches, but he understood out of
what extremity they were uttered; and, understanding that, forgave all past
insults.
"Hush!" he said. "I did not want to hurt you so. Indeed, I never meant
to shift my burden on to you, who have too much already. I have never
consciously done that to any living creature----"
"It's a lie!" the Gadfly cried out with blazing eyes. "And the
bishopric?"
"The--bishopric?"
"Ah! you've forgotten that? It's so easy to forget! 'If you wish it,
Arthur, I will say I cannot go. I was to decide your life for you--I, at
nineteen! If it weren't so hideous, it would be funny."
"Stop!" Montanelli put up both hands to his head with a desperate cry.
He let them fall again, and walked slowly away to the window. There he sat
down on the sill, resting one arm on the bars, and pressing his forehead
against it. The Gadfly lay and watched him, trembling.
Presently Montanelli rose and came back, with lips as pale as ashes.
"I am very sorry," he said, struggling piteously to keep up his usual
quiet manner, "but I must go home. I--am not quite well."
He was shivering as if with ague. All the Gadfly's fury broke down.
"Padre, can't you see----"
Montanelli shrank away, and stood still.
"Only not that!" he whispered at last. "My God, anything but that! If I
am going mad----"
The Gadfly raised himself on one arm, and took the shaking hands in
his.
"Padre, will you never understand that I am not really drowned?"
The hands grew suddenly cold and stiff. For a moment everything was
dead with silence, and then Montanelli knelt down and hid his face on the
Gadfly's breast.
. . . . .
When he raised his head the sun had set, and the red glow was dying in
the west. They had forgotten time and place, and life and death; they had
forgotten, even, that they were enemies.
"Arthur," Montanelli whispered, "are you real? Have you come back to me
from the dead?"
"From the dead----" the Gadfly repeated, shivering. He was lying with
his head on Montanelli's arm, as a sick child might lie in its mother's
embrace.
"You have come back--you have come back at last!"
The Gadfly sighed heavily. "Yes," he said; "and you have to fight me,
or to kill me."
"Oh, hush, carino! What is all that now? We have been like two children
lost in the dark, mistaking one another for phantoms. Now we have found each
other, and have come out into the light. My poor boy, how changed you
are--how changed you are! You look as if all the ocean of the world's misery
had passed over your head-- you that used to be so full of the joy of life!
Arthur, is it really you? I have dreamed so often that you had come back to
me; and then have waked and seen the outer darkness staring in upon an empty
place. How can I know I shall not wake again and find it all a dream? Give
me something tangible--tell me how it all happened."
"It happened simply enough. I hid on a goods vessel, as stowaway, and
got out to South America."
"And there?"
"There I--lived, if you like to call it so, till-- oh, I have seen
something else besides theological seminaries since you used to teach me
philosophy! You say you have dreamed of me--yes, and much! You say you have
dreamed of me--yes, and I of you----"
He broke off, shuddering.
"Once," he began again abruptly, "I was working at a mine in
Ecuador----"
"Not as a miner?"
"No, as a miner's fag--odd-jobbing with the coolies. We had a barrack
to sleep in at the pit's mouth; and one night--I had been ill, the same as
lately, and carrying stones in the blazing sun--I must have got
light-headed, for I saw you come in at the door-way. You were holding a
crucifix like that one on the wall. You were praying, and brushed past me
without turning. I cried out to you to help me--to give me poison or a
knife--something to put an end to it all before I went mad. And
you--ah------!"
He drew one hand across his eyes. Montanelli was still clasping the
other.
"I saw in your face that you had heard, but you never looked round; you
went on with your prayers. When you had finished, and kissed the crucifix,
you glanced round and whispered: 'I am very sorry for you, Arthur; but I
daren't show it; He would be angry.' And I looked at Him, and the wooden
image was laughing.
"Then, when I came to my senses, and saw the barrack and the coolies
with their leprosy, I understood. I saw that you care more to curry favour
with that devilish God of yours than to save me from any hell. And I have
remembered that. I forgot just now when you touched me; I--have been ill,
and I used to love you once. But there can be nothing between us but war,
and war, and war. What do you want to hold my hand for? Can't you see that
while you believe in your Jesus we can't be anything but enemies?"
Montanelli bent his head and kissed the mutilated hand.
"Arthur, how can I help believing in Him? If I have kept my faith
through all these frightful years, how can I ever doubt Him any more, now
that He has given you back to me? Remember, I thought I had killed you."
"You have that still to do."
"Arthur!" It was a cry of actual terror; but the Gadfly went on,
unheeding:
"Let us be honest, whatever we do, and not shilly-shally. You and I
stand on two sides of a pit, and it's hopeless trying to join hands across
it. If you have decided that you can't, or won't, give up that thing"--he
glanced again at the crucifix on the wall--"you must consent to what the
colonel----"
"Consent! My God--consent--Arthur, but I love you!"
The Gadfly's face contracted fearfully. "Which do you love best, me or
that thing?"
Montanelli slowly rose. The very soul in him withered with dread, and
he seemed to shrivel up bodily, and to grow feeble, and old, and wilted,
like a leaf that the frost has touched. He had awaked out of his dream, and
the outer darkness was staring in upon an empty place.
"Arthur, have just a little mercy on me----"
"How much had you for me when your lies drove me out to be slave to the
blacks on the sugar-plantations? You shudder at that--ah, these
tender-hearted saints! This is the man after God's own heart--the man that
repents of his sin and lives. No one dies but his son. You say you love
me,--your love has cost me dear enough! Do you think I can blot out
everything, and turn back into Arthur at a few soft words--I, that have been
dish-washer in filthy half-caste brothels and stable-boy to Creole farmers
that were worse brutes than their own cattle? I, that have been zany in cap
and bells for a strolling variety show--drudge and Jack-of-all-trades to the
matadors in the bull-fighting ring; I, that have been slave to every black
beast who cared to set his foot on my neck; I, that have been starved and
spat upon and trampled under foot; I, that have begged for mouldy scraps and
been refused because the dogs had the first right? Oh, what is the use of
all this! How can I TELL you what you have brought on me? And now--you love
me! How much do you love me? Enough to give up your God for me? Oh, what has
He done for you, this everlasting Jesus, --what has He suffered for you,
that you should love Him more than me? Is it for the pierced hands He is so
dear to you? Look at mine! Look here, and here, and here----"
He tore open his shirt and showed the ghastly scars.
"Padre, this God of yours is an impostor, His wounds are sham wounds,
His pain is all a farce! It is I that have the right to your heart! Padre,
there is no torture you have not put me to; if you could only know what my
life has been! And yet I would not die! I have endured it all, and have
possessed my soul in patience, because I would come back and fight this God
of yours. I have held this purpose as a shield against my heart, and it has
saved me from madness, and from the second death. And now, when I come back,
I find Him still in my place--this sham victim that was crucified for six
hours, forsooth, and rose again from the dead! Padre, I have been crucified
for five years, and I, too, have risen from the dead. What are you going to
do with me? What are you going to do with me?"
He broke down. Montanelli sat like some stone image, or like a dead man
set upright. At first, under the fiery torrent of the Gadfly's despair, he
had quivered a little, with the automatic shrinking of the flesh, as under
the lash of a whip; but now he was quite still. After a long silence he
looked up and spoke, lifelessly, patiently:
"Arthur, will you explain to me more clearly? You confuse and terrify
me so, I can't understand. What is it you demand of me?"
The Gadfly turned to him a spectral face.
"I demand nothing. Who shall compel love? You are free to choose
between us two the one who is most dear to you. If you love Him best, choose
Him."
"I can't understand," Montanelli repeated wearily. "What is there I can
choose? I cannot undo the past."
"You have to choose between us. If you love me, take that cross off
your neck and come away with me. My friends are arranging another attempt,
and with your help they could manage it easily. Then, when we are safe over
the frontier, acknowledge me publicly. But if you don't love me enough for
that,--if this wooden idol is more to you than I,--then go to the colonel
and tell him you consent. And if you go, then go at once, and spare me the
misery of seeing you. I have enough without that."
Montanelli looked up, trembling faintly. He was beginning to
understand.
"I will communicate with your friends, of course. But--to go with
you--it is impossible-- I am a priest."
"And I accept no favours from priests. I will have no more compromises,
Padre; I have had enough of them, and of their consequences. You must give
up your priesthood, or you must give up me."
"How can I give you up? Arthur, how can I give you up?"
"Then give up Him. You have to choose between us. Would you offer me a
share of your love--half for me, half for your fiend of a God? I will not
take His leavings. If you are His, you are not mine."
"Would you have me tear my heart in two? Arthur! Arthur! Do you want to
drive me mad?"
The Gadfly struck his hand against the wall.
"You have to choose between us," he repeated once more.
Montanelli drew from his breast a little case containing a bit of
soiled and crumpled paper.
"Look!" he said.
"I believed in you, as I believed in God. God is a thing made of clay,
that I can smash with a hammer; and you have fooled me with a lie."
The Gadfly laughed and handed it back. "How d-d-delightfully young one
is at nineteen! To take a hammer and smash things seems so easy. It's that
now--only it's I that am under the hammer. As for you, there are plenty of
other people you can fool with lies--and they won't even find you out."
"As you will," Montanelli said. "Perhaps in your place I should be as
merciless as you--God knows. I can't do what you ask, Arthur; but I will do
what I can. I will arrange your escape, and when you are safe I will have an
accident in the mountains, or take the wrong sleeping-draught by
mistake--whatever you like to choose. Will that content you? It is all I can
do. It is a great sin; but I think He will forgive me. He is more
merciful------"
The Gadfly flung out both hands with a sharp cry.
"Oh, that is too much! That is too much! What have I done that you
should think of me that way? What right have you---- As if I wanted to be
revenged on you! Can't you see that I only want to save you? Will you never
understand that I love you?"
He caught hold of Montanelli's hands and covered them with burning
kisses and tears.
"Padre, come away with us! What have you to do with this dead world of
priests and idols? They are full of the dust of bygone ages; they are
rotten; they are pestilent and foul! Come out of this plague-stricken
Church--come away with us into the light! Padre, it is we that are life and
youth; it is we that are the everlasting springtime; it is we that are the
future! Padre, the dawn is close upon us--will you miss your part in the
sunrise? Wake up, and let us forget the horrible nightmares,--wake up, and
we will begin our life again! Padre, I have always loved you--always, even
when you killed me--will you kill me again?"
Montanelli tore his hands away. "Oh, God have mercy on me!" he cried
out. "YOU HAVE YOUR MOTHER'S EYES!"
A strange silence, long and deep and sudden, fell upon them both. In
the gray twilight they looked at each other, and their hearts stood still
with fear.
"Have you anything more to say?" Montanelli whispered. "Any--hope to
give me?"
"No. My life is of no use to me except to fight priests. I am not a
man; I am a knife. If you let me live, you sanction knives."
Montanelli turned to the crucifix. "God! Listen to this----"
His voice died away into the empty stillness without response. Only the
mocking devil awoke again in the Gadfly.
"'C-c-call him louder; perchance he s-s-sleepeth'----"
Montanelli started up as if he had been struck. For a moment he stood
looking straight before him;--then he sat down on the edge of the pallet,
covered his face with both hands, and burst into tears. A long shudder
passed through the Gadfly, and the damp cold broke out on his body. He knew
what the tears meant.
He drew the blanket over his head that he might not hear. It was enough
that he had to die--he who was so vividly, magnificently alive. But he could
not shut out the sound; it rang in his ears, it beat in his brain, it
throbbed in all his pulses. And still Montanelli sobbed and sobbed, and the
tears dripped down between his fingers.
He left off sobbing at last, and dried his eyes with his handkerchief,
like a child that has been crying. As he stood up the handkerchief slipped
from his knee and fell to the floor.
"There is no use in talking any more," he said. "You understand?"
"I understand," the Gadfly answered, with dull submission. "It's not
your fault. Your God is hungry, and must be fed."
Montanelli turned towards him. The grave that was to be dug was not
more still than they were. Silent, they looked into each other's eyes, as
two lovers, torn apart, might gaze across the barrier they cannot pass.
It was the Gadfly whose eyes sank first. He shrank down, hiding his
face; and Montanelli understood that the gesture meant "Go!" He turned, and
went out of the cell. A moment later the Gadfly started up.
"Oh, I can't bear it! Padre, come back! Come back!"
The door was shut. He looked around him slowly, with a wide, still
gaze, and understood that all was over. The Galilean had conquered.
All night long the grass waved softly in the courtyard below--the grass
that was so soon to wither, uprooted by the spade; and all night long the
Gadfly lay alone in the darkness, and sobbed.
THE court-martial was held on Tuesday morning. It was a very short and
simple affair; a mere formality, occupying barely twenty minutes. There was,
indeed, nothing to spend much time over; no defence was allowed, and the
only witnesses were the wounded spy and officer and a few soldiers. The
sentence was drawn up beforehand; Montanelli had sent in the desired
informal consent; and the judges (Colonel Ferrari, the local major of
dragoons, and two officers of the Swiss guards) had little to do. The
indictment was read aloud, the witnesses gave their evidence, and the
signatures were affixed to the sentence, which was then read to the
condemned man with befitting solemnity. He listened in silence; and when
asked, according to the usual form, whether he had anything to say, merely
waved the question aside with an impatient movement of his hand. Hidden on
his breast was the handkerchief which Montanelli had let fall. It had been
kissed and wept over all night, as though it were a living thing. Now he
looked wan and spiritless, and the traces of tears were still about his
eyelids; but the words: "to be shot," did not seem to affect him much. When
they were uttered, the pupils of his eyes dilated, but that was all.
"Take him back to his cell," the Governor said. when all the
formalities were over; and the sergeant, who was evidently near to breaking
down, touched the motionless figure on the shoulder. The Gadfly looked round
him with a little start.
"Ah, yes!" he said. "I forgot."
There was something almost like pity in the Governor's face. He was not
a cruel man by nature, and was secretly a little ashamed of the part he had
been playing during the last month. Now that his main point was gained he
was willing to make every little concession in his power.
"You needn't put the irons on again," he said, glancing at the bruised
and swollen wrists. "And he can stay in his own cell. The condemned cell is
wretchedly dark and gloomy," he added, turning to his nephew; "and really
the thing's a mere formality."
He coughed and shifted his feet in evident embarrassment; then called
back the sergeant, who was leaving the room with his prisoner.
"Wait, sergeant; I want to speak to him."
The Gadfly did not move, and the Governor's voice seemed to fall on
unresponsive ears.
"If you have any message you would like conveyed to your friends or
relatives---- You have relatives, I suppose?"
There was no answer.
"Well, think it over and tell me, or the priest. I will see it is not
neglected. You had better give your messages to the priest; he shall come at
once, and stay the night with you. If there is any other wish----"
The Gadfly looked up.
"Tell the priest I would rather be alone. I have no friends and no
messages."
"But you will want to confess."
"I am an atheist. I want nothing but to be left in peace."
He said it in a dull, quiet voice, without defiance or irritation; and
turned slowly away. At the door he stopped again.
"I forgot, colonel; there is a favour I wanted to ask. Don't let them
tie me or bandage my eyes to-morrow, please. I will stand quite still."
. . . . .
At sunrise on Wednesday morning they brought him out into the
courtyard. His lameness was more than usually apparent, and he walked with
evident difficulty and pain, leaning heavily on the sergeant's arm; but all
the weary submission had gone out of his face. The spectral terrors that had
crushed him down in the empty silence, the visions and dreams of the world
of shadows, were gone with the night which gave them birth; and once the sun
was shining and his enemies were present to rouse the fighting spirit in
him, he was not afraid.
The six carabineers who had been told off for the execution were drawn
up in line against the ivied wall; the same crannied and crumbling wall down
which he had climbed on the night of his unlucky attempt. They could hardly
refrain from weeping as they stood together, each man with his carbine in
his hand. It seemed to them a horror beyond imagination that they should be
called out to kill the Gadfly. He and his stinging repartees, his perpetual
laughter, his bright, infectious courage, had come into their dull and
dreary lives like a wandering sunbeam; and that he should die, and at their
hands, was to them as the darkening of the clear lamps of heaven.
Under the great fig-tree in the courtyard, his grave was waiting for
him. It had been dug in the night by unwilling hands; and tears had fallen
on the spade. As he passed he looked down, smiling, at the black pit and the
withering grass beside it; and drew a long breath, to smell the scent of the
freshly turned earth.
Near the tree the sergeant stopped short, and the Gadfly looked round
with his brightest smile.
"Shall I stand here, sergeant?"
The man nodded silently; there was a lump in his throat, and he could
not have spoken to save his life. The Governor, his nephew, the lieutenant
of carabineers who was to command, a doctor and a priest were already in the
courtyard, and came forward with grave faces, half abashed under the radiant
defiance of the Gadfly's laughing eyes.
"G-good morning, gentlemen! Ah, and his reverence is up so early, too!
How do you do, captain? This is a pleasanter occasion for you than our
former meeting, isn't it? I see your arm is still in a sling; that's because
I bungled my work. These good fellows will do theirs better-- won't you,
lads?"
He glanced round at the gloomy faces of the carabineers.
"There'll be no need of slings this time, any way. There, there, you
needn't look so doleful over it! Put your heels together and show how
straight you can shoot. Before long there'll be more work cut out for you
than you'll know how to get through, and there's nothing like practice
beforehand." "My son," the priest interrupted, coming forward, while the
others drew back to leave them alone together; "in a few minutes you must
enter into the presence of your Maker. Have you no other use but this for
these last moments that are left you for repentance? Think, I entreat you,
how dreadful a thing it is to die without absolution, with all your sins
upon your head. When you stand before your Judge it will be too late to
repent. Will you approach His awful throne with a jest upon your lips?"
"A jest, your reverence? It is your side that needs that little homily,
I think. When our turn comes we shall use field-guns instead of half a dozen
second-hand carbines, and then you'll see how much we're in jest."
"YOU will use field-guns! Oh, unhappy man! Have you still not realized
on what frightful brink you stand?"
The Gadfly glanced back over his shoulder at the open grave.
"And s-s-so your reverence thinks that, when you have put me down
there, you will have done with me? Perhaps you will lay a stone on the top
to pre-v-vent a r-resurrection 'after three days'? No fear, your reverence!
I shan't poach on the monopoly in cheap theatricals; I shall lie as still as
a m-mouse, just where you put me. And all the same, WE shall use
field-guns."
"Oh, merciful God," the priest cried out; "forgive this wretched man!"
"Amen!" murmured the lieutenant of carabineers, in a deep bass growl,
while the colonel and his nephew crossed themselves devoutly.
As there was evidently no hope of further insistence producing any
effect, the priest gave up the fruitless attempt and moved aside, shaking
his head and murmuring a prayer. The short and simple preparations were made
without more delay, and the Gadfly placed himself in the required position,
only turning his head to glance up for a moment at the red and yellow
splendour of the sunrise. He had repeated the request that his eyes might
not be bandaged, and his defiant face had wrung from the colonel a reluctant
consent. They had both forgotten what they were inflicting on the soldiers.
He stood and faced them, smiling, and the carbines shook in their
hands.
"I am quite ready," he said.
The lieutenant stepped forward, trembling a little with excitement. He
had never given the word of command for an execution before.
"Ready--present--fire!"
The Gadfly staggered a little and recovered his balance. One unsteady
shot had grazed his cheek, and a little blood fell on to the white cravat.
Another ball had struck him above the knee. When the smoke cleared away the
soldiers looked and saw him smiling still and wiping the blood from his
cheek with the mutilated hand
"A bad shot, men!" he said; and his voice cut in, clear and articulate,
upon the dazed stupor of the wretched soldiers. "Have another try."
A general groan and shudder passed through the row of carabineers. Each
man had aimed aside, with a secret hope that the death-shot would come from
his neighbour's hand, not his; and there the Gadfly stood and smiled at
them; they had only turned the execution into a butchery, and the whole
ghastly business was to do again. They were seized with sudden terror, and,
lowering their carbines, listened hopelessly to the furious curses and
reproaches of the officers, staring in dull horror at the man whom they had
killed and who somehow was not dead.
The Governor shook his fist in their faces, savagely shouting to them
to stand in position, to present arms, to make haste and get the thing over.
He had become as thoroughly demoralized as they were, and dared not look at
the terrible figure that stood, and stood, and would not fall. When the
Gadfly spoke to him he started and shuddered at the sound of the mocking
voice.
"You have brought out the awkward squad this morning, colonel! Let me
see if I can manage them better. Now, men! Hold your tool higher there, you
to the left. Bless your heart, man, it's a carbine you've got in your hand,
not a frying-pan! Are you all straight? Now then! Ready--present----"
"Fire!" the colonel interrupted, starting forward. It was intolerable
that this man should give the command for his own death.
There was another confused, disorganized volley, and the line broke up
into a knot of shivering figures, staring before them with wild eyes. One of
the soldiers had not even discharged his carbine; he had flung it away, and
crouched down, moaning under his breath: "I can't--I can't!"
The smoke cleared slowly away, floating up into the glimmer of the
early sunlight; and they saw that the Gadfly had fallen; and saw, too, that
he was still not dead. For the first moment soldiers and officials stood as
if they had been turned to stone, and watched the ghastly thing that writhed
and struggled on the ground; then both doctor and colonel rushed forward
with a cry, for he had dragged himself up on one knee and was still facing
the soldiers, and still laughing.
"Another miss! Try--again, lads--see--if you can't----"
He suddenly swayed and fell over sideways on the grass.
"Is he dead?" the colonel asked under his breath; and the doctor,
kneeling down, with a hand on the bloody shirt, answered softly:
"I think so--God be praised!"
"God be praised!" the colonel repeated. "At last!"
His nephew was touching him on the arm.
"Uncle! It's the Cardinal! He's at the gate and wants to come in."
"What? He can't come in--I won't have it! What are the guards about?
Your Eminence----"
The gate had opened and shut, and Montanelli was standing in the
courtyard, looking before him with still and awful eyes.
"Your Eminence! I must beg of you--this is not a fit sight for you! The
execution is only just over; the body is not yet----"
"I have come to look at him," Montanelli said. Even at the moment it
struck the Governor that his voice and bearing were those of a sleep-walker.
"Oh, my God!" one of the soldiers cried out suddenly; and the Governor
glanced hastily back. Surely------
The blood-stained heap on the grass had once more begun to struggle and
moan. The doctor flung himself down and lifted the head upon his knee.
"Make haste!" he cried in desperation. "You savages, make haste! Get it
over, for God's sake! There's no bearing this!"
Great jets of blood poured over his hands, and the convulsions of the
figure that he held in his arms shook him, too, from head to foot. As he
looked frantically round for help, the priest bent over his shoulder and put
a crucifix to the lips of the dying man.
"In the name of the Father and of the Son----"
The Gadfly raised himself against the doctor's knee, and, with
wide-open eyes, looked straight upon the crucifix.
Slowly, amid hushed and frozen stillness, he lifted the broken right
hand and pushed away the image. There was a red smear across its face.
"Padre--is your--God--satisfied?"
His head fell back on the doctor's arm.
. . . . .
"Your Eminence!"
As the Cardinal did not awake from his stupor, Colonel Ferrari
repeated, louder:
"Your Eminence!"
Montanelli looked up.
"He is dead."
"Quite dead, your Eminence. Will you not come away? This is a horrible
sight."
"He is dead," Montanelli repeated, and looked down again at the face.
"I touched him; and he is dead."
"What does he expect a man to be with half a dozen bullets in him?" the
lieutenant whispered contemptuously; and the doctor whispered back. "I think
the sight of the blood has upset him."
The Governor put his hand firmly on Montanelli's arm.
"Your Eminence--you had better not look at him any longer. Will you
allow the chaplain to escort you home?"
"Yes--I will go."
He turned slowly from the blood-stained spot and walked away, the
priest and sergeant following. At the gate he paused and looked back, with a
ghostlike, still surprise.
"He is dead."
. . . . .
A few hours later Marcone went up to a cottage on the hillside to tell
Martini that there was no longer any need for him to throw away his life.
All the preparations for a second attempt at rescue were ready, as the
plot was much more simple than the former one. It had been arranged that on
the following morning, as the Corpus Domini procession passed along the
fortress hill, Martini should step forward out of the crowd, draw a pistol
from his breast, and fire in the Governor's face. In the moment of wild
confusion which would follow twenty armed men were to make a sudden rush at
the gate, break into the tower, and, taking the turnkey with them by force,
to enter the prisoner's cell and carry him bodily away, killing or
overpowering everyone who interfered with them. From the gate they were to
retire fighting, and cover the retreat of a second band of armed and mounted
smugglers, who would carry him off into a safe hiding-place in the hills.
The only person in the little group who knew nothing of the plan was Gemma;
it had been kept from her at Martini's special desire. "She will break her
heart over it soon enough," he had said.
As the smuggler came in at the garden gate Martini opened the glass
door and stepped out on to the verandah to meet him.
"Any news, Marcone? Ah!"
The smuggler had pushed back his broad-brimmed straw hat.
They sat down together on the verandah. Not a word was spoken on either
side. From the instant when Martini had caught sight of the face under the
hat-brim he had understood.
"When was it?" he asked after a long pause; and his own voice, in his
ears, was as dull and wearisome as everything else.
"This morning, at sunrise. The sergeant told me. He was there and saw
it."
Martini looked down and flicked a stray thread from his coat-sleeve.
Vanity of vanities; this also is vanity. He was to have died to-morrow.
And now the land of his heart's desire had vanished, like the fairyland of
golden sunset dreams that fades away when the darkness comes; and he was
driven back into the world of every day and every night--the world of
Grassini and Galli, of ciphering and pamphleteering, of party squabbles
between comrades and dreary intrigues among Austrian spies--of the old
revolutionary mill-round that maketh the heart sick. And somewhere down at
the bottom of his consciousness there was a great empty place; a place that
nothing and no one would fill any more, now that the Gadfly was dead.
Someone was asking him a question, and he raised his head, wondering
what could be left that was worth the trouble of talking about.
"What did you say?"
"I was saying that of course you will break the news to her."
Life, and all the horror of life, came back into Martini's face.
"How can I tell her?" he cried out. "You might as well ask me to go and
stab her. Oh, how can I tell her--how can I!"
He had clasped both hands over his eyes; but, without seeing, he felt
the smuggler start beside him, and looked up. Gemma was standing in the
doorway.
"Have you heard, Cesare?" she said. "It is all over. They have shot
him."PART III: CHAPTER VIII.
"INTROIBO ad altare Dei." Montanelli stood before the high altar among
his ministers and acolytes and read the Introit aloud in steady tones. All
the Cathedral was a blaze of light and colour; from the holiday dresses of
the congregation to the pillars with their flaming draperies and wreaths of
flowers there was no dull spot in it. Over the open spaces of the doorway
fell great scarlet curtains, through whose folds the hot June sunlight
glowed, as through the petals of red poppies in a corn-field. The religious
orders with their candles and torches, the companies of the parishes with
their crosses and flags, lighted up the dim side-chapels; and in the aisles
the silken folds of the processional banners drooped, their gilded staves
and tassels glinting under the arches. The surplices of the choristers
gleamed, rainbow-tinted, beneath the coloured windows; the sunlight lay on
the chancel floor in chequered stains of orange and purple and green. Behind
the altar hung a shimmering veil of silver tissue; and against the veil and
the decorations and the altar-lights the Cardinal's figure stood out in its
trailing white robes like a marble statue that had come to life.
As was customary on processional days, he was only to preside at the
Mass, not to celebrate, so at the end of the Indulgentiam he turned from the
altar and walked slowly to the episcopal throne, celebrant and ministers
bowing low as he passed.
"I'm afraid His Eminence is not well," one of the canons whispered to
his neighbour; "he seems so strange."
Montanelli bent his head to receive the jewelled mitre. The priest who
was acting as deacon of honour put it on, looked at him for an instant, then
leaned forward and whispered softly:
"Your Eminence, are you ill?"
Montanelli turned slightly towards him. There was no recognition in his
eyes.
"Pardon, Your Eminence!" the priest whispered, as he made a genuflexion
and went back to his place, reproaching himself for having interrupted the
Cardinal's devotions.
The familiar ceremony went on; and Montanelli sat erect and still, his
glittering mitre and gold-brocaded vestments flashing back the sunlight, and
the heavy folds of his white festival mantle sweeping down over the red
carpet. The light of a hundred candles sparkled among the sapphires on his
breast, and shone into the deep, still eyes that had no answering gleam; and
when, at the words: "Benedicite, pater eminentissime," he stooped to bless
the incense, and the sunbeams played among the diamonds, he might have
recalled some splendid and fearful ice-spirit of the mountains, crowned with
rainbows and robed in drifted snow, scattering, with extended hands, a
shower of blessings or of curses.
At the elevation of the Host he descended from his throne and knelt
before the altar. There was a strange, still evenness about all his
movements; and as he rose and went back to his place the major of dragoons,
who was sitting in gala uniform behind the Governor, whispered to the
wounded captain: "The old Cardinal's breaking, not a doubt of it. He goes
through his work like a machine."
"So much the better!" the captain whispered back. "He's been nothing
but a mill-stone round all our necks ever since that confounded amnesty."
"He did give in, though, about the court-martial."
"Yes, at last; but he was a precious time making up his mind to.
Heavens, how close it is! We shall all get sun-stroke in the procession.
It's a pity we're not Cardinals, to have a canopy held over our heads all
the way---- Sh-sh-sh! There's my uncle looking at us!"
Governor has been trying to g-get your consent to a court-martial? You had
b-better by half g-give it, Your Eminence; it's only w-what all your
b-brother prelates would do in your place. 'Cosi fan tutti;' and then you
would be doing s-such a lot of good, and so l-little harm! Really, it's
n-not worth all the sleepless nights you have been spending over it!"
"Please stop laughing a minute," Montanelli interrupted, "and tell me
how you heard all this. Who has been talking to you about it?"
"H-hasn't the colonel e-e-ever told you I am a d-d-devil--not a man?
No? He has t-told me so often enough! Well, I am devil enough to f-find out
a little bit what p-people are thinking about. Your E-eminence is thinking
that I'm a conf-founded nuisance, and you wish s-somebody else had to settle
what's to be done with me, without disturbing your s-sensitive conscience.
That's a p-pretty fair guess, isn't it?"
"Listen to me," the Cardinal said, sitting down again beside him, with
a very grave face. "However you found out all this, it is quite true.
Colonel Ferrari fears another rescue attempt on the part of your friends,
and wishes to forestall it in--the way you speak of. You see, I am quite
frank with you."
"Your E-eminence was always f-f-famous for truthfulness," the Gadfly
put in bitterly.
"You know, of course," Montanelli went on, "that legally I have no
jurisdiction in temporal matters; I am a bishop, not a legate. But I have a
good deal of influence in this district; and the colonel will not, I think,
venture to take so extreme a course unless he can get, at least, my tacit
consent to it. Up till now I have unconditionally opposed the scheme; and he
has been trying very hard to conquer my objection by assuring me that there
is great danger of an armed attempt on Thursday when the crowd collects for
the procession --an attempt which probably would end in bloodshed. Do you
follow me?"
The Gadfly was staring absently out of the window. He looked round and
answered in a weary voice:
"Yes, I am listening."
"Perhaps you are really not well enough to stand this conversation
to-night. Shall I come back in the morning? It is a very serious matter, and
I want your whole attention."
"I would rather get it over now," the Gadfly answered in the same tone.
"I follow everything you say."
"Now, if it be true," Montanelli went on, "that there is any real
danger of riots and bloodshed on account of you, I am taking upon myself a
tremendous responsibility in opposing the colonel; and I believe there is at
least some truth in what he says. On the other hand, I am inclined to think
that his judgment is warped, to a certain extent, by his personal animosity
against you, and that he probably exaggerates the danger. That seems to me
the more likely since I have seen this shameful brutality." He glanced at
the straps and chains lying on the floor, and went on:
"If I consent, I kill you; if I refuse, I run the risk of killing
innocent persons. I have considered the matter earnestly, and have sought
with all my heart for a way out of this dreadful alternative. And now at
last I have made up my mind."
"To kill me and s-save the innocent persons, of course--the only
decision a Christian man could possibly come to. 'If thy r-right hand offend
thee,' etc. I have n-not the honour to be the right hand of Your Eminence,
and I have offended you; the c-c-conclusion is plain. Couldn't you tell me
that without so much preamble?"
The Gadfly spoke with languid indifference and contempt, like a man
weary of the whole subject.
"Well?" he added after a little pause. "Was that the decision, Your
Eminence?"
"No."
The Gadfly shifted his position, putting both hands behind his head,
and looked at Montanelli with half-shut eyes. The Cardinal, with his head
sunk down as in deep thought, was softly beating one hand on the arm of his
chair. Ah, that old, familiar gesture!
"I have decided," he said, raising his head at last, "to do, I suppose,
an utterly unprecedented thing. When I heard that you had asked to see me, I
resolved to come here and tell you everything, as I have done, and to place
the matter in your own hands."
"In--my hands?"
"Signor Rivarez, I have not come to you as cardinal, or as bishop, or
as judge; I have come to you as one man to another. I do not ask you to tell
me whether you know of any such scheme as the colonel apprehends. I
understand quite well that, if you do, it is your secret and you will not
tell it. But I do ask you to put yourself in my place. I am old, and, no
doubt, have not much longer to live. I would go down to my grave without
blood on my hands."
"Is there none on them as yet, Your Eminence?"
Montanelli grew a shade paler, but went on quietly: "All my life I have
opposed repressive measures and cruelty wherever I have met with them. I
have always disapproved of capital punishment in all its forms; I have
protested earnestly and repeatedly against the military commissions in the
last reign, and have been out of favour on account of doing so. Up till now
such influence and power as I have possessed have always been employed on
the side of mercy. I ask you to believe me, at least, that I am speaking the
truth. Now, I am placed in this dilemma. By refusing, I am exposing the town
to the danger of riots and all their consequences; and this to save the life
of a man who blasphemes against my religion, who has slandered and wronged
and insulted me personally (though that is comparatively a trifle), and who,
as I firmly believe, will put that life to a bad use when it is given to
him. But--it is to save a man's life."
He paused a moment, and went on again:
"Signor Rivarez, everything that I know of your career seems to me bad
and mischievous; and I have long believed you to be reckless and violent and
unscrupulous. To some extent I hold that opinion of you still. But during
this last fortnight you have shown me that you are a brave man and that you
can be faithful to your friends. You have made the soldiers love and admire
you, too; and not every man could have done that. I think that perhaps I
have misjudged you, and that there is in you something better than what you
show outside. To that better self in you I appeal, and solemnly entreat you,
on your conscience, to tell me truthfully--in my place, what would you do?"
A long silence followed; then the Gadfly looked up.
"At least, I would decide my own actions for myself, and take the
consequences of them. I would not come sneaking to other people, in the
cowardly Christian way, asking them to solve my problems for me!"
The onslaught was so sudden, and its extraordinary vehemence and
passion were in such startling contrast to the languid affectation of a
moment before, that it was as though he had thrown off a mask.
"We atheists," he went on fiercely, "understand that if a man has a
thing to bear, he must bear it as best he can; and if he sinks under it--
why, so much the worse for him. But a Christian comes whining to his God, or
his saints; or, if they won't help him, to his enemies--he can always find a
back to shift his burdens on to. Isn't there a rule to go by in your Bible,
or your Missal, or any of your canting theology books, that you must come to
me to tell you what to do? Heavens and earth, man! Haven't I enough as it
is, without your laying your responsibilities on my shoulders? Go back to
your Jesus; he exacted the uttermost farthing, and you'd better do the same.
After all, you'll only be killing an atheist--a man who boggles over
'shibboleth'; and that's no great crime, surely!"
He broke off, panting for breath, and then burst out again:
"And YOU to talk of cruelty! Why, that p-p-pudding-headed ass couldn't
hurt me as much as you do if he tried for a year; he hasn't got the brains.
All he can think of is to pull a strap tight, and when he can't get it any
tighter he's at the end of his resources. Any fool can do that! But you----
'Sign your own death sentence, please; I'm too tender-hearted to do it
myself.' Oh! it would take a Christian to hit on that--a gentle,
compassionate Christian, that turns pale at the sight of a strap pulled too
tight! I might have known when you came in, like an angel of mercy-- so
shocked at the colonel's 'barbarity'--that the real thing was going to
begin! Why do you look at me that way? Consent, man, of course, and go home
to your dinner; the thing's not worth all this fuss. Tell your colonel he
can have me shot, or hanged, or whatever comes handiest--roasted alive, if
it's any amusement to him--and be done with it!"
The Gadfly was hardly recognizable; he was beside himself with rage and
desperation, panting and quivering, his eyes glittering with green
reflections like the eyes of an angry cat.
Montanelli had risen, and was looking down at him silently. He did not
understand the drift of the frenzied reproaches, but he understood out of
what extremity they were uttered; and, understanding that, forgave all past
insults.
"Hush!" he said. "I did not want to hurt you so. Indeed, I never meant
to shift my burden on to you, who have too much already. I have never
consciously done that to any living creature----"
"It's a lie!" the Gadfly cried out with blazing eyes. "And the
bishopric?"
"The--bishopric?"
"Ah! you've forgotten that? It's so easy to forget! 'If you wish it,
Arthur, I will say I cannot go. I was to decide your life for you--I, at
nineteen! If it weren't so hideous, it would be funny."
"Stop!" Montanelli put up both hands to his head with a desperate cry.
He let them fall again, and walked slowly away to the window. There he sat
down on the sill, resting one arm on the bars, and pressing his forehead
against it. The Gadfly lay and watched him, trembling.
Presently Montanelli rose and came back, with lips as pale as ashes.
"I am very sorry," he said, struggling piteously to keep up his usual
quiet manner, "but I must go home. I--am not quite well."
He was shivering as if with ague. All the Gadfly's fury broke down.
"Padre, can't you see----"
Montanelli shrank away, and stood still.
"Only not that!" he whispered at last. "My God, anything but that! If I
am going mad----"
The Gadfly raised himself on one arm, and took the shaking hands in
his.
"Padre, will you never understand that I am not really drowned?"
The hands grew suddenly cold and stiff. For a moment everything was
dead with silence, and then Montanelli knelt down and hid his face on the
Gadfly's breast.
. . . . .
When he raised his head the sun had set, and the red glow was dying in
the west. They had forgotten time and place, and life and death; they had
forgotten, even, that they were enemies.
"Arthur," Montanelli whispered, "are you real? Have you come back to me
from the dead?"
"From the dead----" the Gadfly repeated, shivering. He was lying with
his head on Montanelli's arm, as a sick child might lie in its mother's
embrace.
"You have come back--you have come back at last!"
The Gadfly sighed heavily. "Yes," he said; "and you have to fight me,
or to kill me."
"Oh, hush, carino! What is all that now? We have been like two children
lost in the dark, mistaking one another for phantoms. Now we have found each
other, and have come out into the light. My poor boy, how changed you
are--how changed you are! You look as if all the ocean of the world's misery
had passed over your head-- you that used to be so full of the joy of life!
Arthur, is it really you? I have dreamed so often that you had come back to
me; and then have waked and seen the outer darkness staring in upon an empty
place. How can I know I shall not wake again and find it all a dream? Give
me something tangible--tell me how it all happened."
"It happened simply enough. I hid on a goods vessel, as stowaway, and
got out to South America."
"And there?"
"There I--lived, if you like to call it so, till-- oh, I have seen
something else besides theological seminaries since you used to teach me
philosophy! You say you have dreamed of me--yes, and much! You say you have
dreamed of me--yes, and I of you----"
He broke off, shuddering.
"Once," he began again abruptly, "I was working at a mine in
Ecuador----"
"Not as a miner?"
"No, as a miner's fag--odd-jobbing with the coolies. We had a barrack
to sleep in at the pit's mouth; and one night--I had been ill, the same as
lately, and carrying stones in the blazing sun--I must have got
light-headed, for I saw you come in at the door-way. You were holding a
crucifix like that one on the wall. You were praying, and brushed past me
without turning. I cried out to you to help me--to give me poison or a
knife--something to put an end to it all before I went mad. And
you--ah------!"
He drew one hand across his eyes. Montanelli was still clasping the
other.
"I saw in your face that you had heard, but you never looked round; you
went on with your prayers. When you had finished, and kissed the crucifix,
you glanced round and whispered: 'I am very sorry for you, Arthur; but I
daren't show it; He would be angry.' And I looked at Him, and the wooden
image was laughing.
"Then, when I came to my senses, and saw the barrack and the coolies
with their leprosy, I understood. I saw that you care more to curry favour
with that devilish God of yours than to save me from any hell. And I have
remembered that. I forgot just now when you touched me; I--have been ill,
and I used to love you once. But there can be nothing between us but war,
and war, and war. What do you want to hold my hand for? Can't you see that
while you believe in your Jesus we can't be anything but enemies?"
Montanelli bent his head and kissed the mutilated hand.
"Arthur, how can I help believing in Him? If I have kept my faith
through all these frightful years, how can I ever doubt Him any more, now
that He has given you back to me? Remember, I thought I had killed you."
"You have that still to do."
"Arthur!" It was a cry of actual terror; but the Gadfly went on,
unheeding:
"Let us be honest, whatever we do, and not shilly-shally. You and I
stand on two sides of a pit, and it's hopeless trying to join hands across
it. If you have decided that you can't, or won't, give up that thing"--he
glanced again at the crucifix on the wall--"you must consent to what the
colonel----"
"Consent! My God--consent--Arthur, but I love you!"
The Gadfly's face contracted fearfully. "Which do you love best, me or
that thing?"
Montanelli slowly rose. The very soul in him withered with dread, and
he seemed to shrivel up bodily, and to grow feeble, and old, and wilted,
like a leaf that the frost has touched. He had awaked out of his dream, and
the outer darkness was staring in upon an empty place.
"Arthur, have just a little mercy on me----"
"How much had you for me when your lies drove me out to be slave to the
blacks on the sugar-plantations? You shudder at that--ah, these
tender-hearted saints! This is the man after God's own heart--the man that
repents of his sin and lives. No one dies but his son. You say you love
me,--your love has cost me dear enough! Do you think I can blot out
everything, and turn back into Arthur at a few soft words--I, that have been
dish-washer in filthy half-caste brothels and stable-boy to Creole farmers
that were worse brutes than their own cattle? I, that have been zany in cap
and bells for a strolling variety show--drudge and Jack-of-all-trades to the
matadors in the bull-fighting ring; I, that have been slave to every black
beast who cared to set his foot on my neck; I, that have been starved and
spat upon and trampled under foot; I, that have begged for mouldy scraps and
been refused because the dogs had the first right? Oh, what is the use of
all this! How can I TELL you what you have brought on me? And now--you love
me! How much do you love me? Enough to give up your God for me? Oh, what has
He done for you, this everlasting Jesus, --what has He suffered for you,
that you should love Him more than me? Is it for the pierced hands He is so
dear to you? Look at mine! Look here, and here, and here----"
He tore open his shirt and showed the ghastly scars.
"Padre, this God of yours is an impostor, His wounds are sham wounds,
His pain is all a farce! It is I that have the right to your heart! Padre,
there is no torture you have not put me to; if you could only know what my
life has been! And yet I would not die! I have endured it all, and have
possessed my soul in patience, because I would come back and fight this God
of yours. I have held this purpose as a shield against my heart, and it has
saved me from madness, and from the second death. And now, when I come back,
I find Him still in my place--this sham victim that was crucified for six
hours, forsooth, and rose again from the dead! Padre, I have been crucified
for five years, and I, too, have risen from the dead. What are you going to
do with me? What are you going to do with me?"
He broke down. Montanelli sat like some stone image, or like a dead man
set upright. At first, under the fiery torrent of the Gadfly's despair, he
had quivered a little, with the automatic shrinking of the flesh, as under
the lash of a whip; but now he was quite still. After a long silence he
looked up and spoke, lifelessly, patiently:
"Arthur, will you explain to me more clearly? You confuse and terrify
me so, I can't understand. What is it you demand of me?"
The Gadfly turned to him a spectral face.
"I demand nothing. Who shall compel love? You are free to choose
between us two the one who is most dear to you. If you love Him best, choose
Him."
"I can't understand," Montanelli repeated wearily. "What is there I can
choose? I cannot undo the past."
"You have to choose between us. If you love me, take that cross off
your neck and come away with me. My friends are arranging another attempt,
and with your help they could manage it easily. Then, when we are safe over
the frontier, acknowledge me publicly. But if you don't love me enough for
that,--if this wooden idol is more to you than I,--then go to the colonel
and tell him you consent. And if you go, then go at once, and spare me the
misery of seeing you. I have enough without that."
Montanelli looked up, trembling faintly. He was beginning to
understand.
"I will communicate with your friends, of course. But--to go with
you--it is impossible-- I am a priest."
"And I accept no favours from priests. I will have no more compromises,
Padre; I have had enough of them, and of their consequences. You must give
up your priesthood, or you must give up me."
"How can I give you up? Arthur, how can I give you up?"
"Then give up Him. You have to choose between us. Would you offer me a
share of your love--half for me, half for your fiend of a God? I will not
take His leavings. If you are His, you are not mine."
"Would you have me tear my heart in two? Arthur! Arthur! Do you want to
drive me mad?"
The Gadfly struck his hand against the wall.
"You have to choose between us," he repeated once more.
Montanelli drew from his breast a little case containing a bit of
soiled and crumpled paper.
"Look!" he said.
"I believed in you, as I believed in God. God is a thing made of clay,
that I can smash with a hammer; and you have fooled me with a lie."
The Gadfly laughed and handed it back. "How d-d-delightfully young one
is at nineteen! To take a hammer and smash things seems so easy. It's that
now--only it's I that am under the hammer. As for you, there are plenty of
other people you can fool with lies--and they won't even find you out."
"As you will," Montanelli said. "Perhaps in your place I should be as
merciless as you--God knows. I can't do what you ask, Arthur; but I will do
what I can. I will arrange your escape, and when you are safe I will have an
accident in the mountains, or take the wrong sleeping-draught by
mistake--whatever you like to choose. Will that content you? It is all I can
do. It is a great sin; but I think He will forgive me. He is more
merciful------"
The Gadfly flung out both hands with a sharp cry.
"Oh, that is too much! That is too much! What have I done that you
should think of me that way? What right have you---- As if I wanted to be
revenged on you! Can't you see that I only want to save you? Will you never
understand that I love you?"
He caught hold of Montanelli's hands and covered them with burning
kisses and tears.
"Padre, come away with us! What have you to do with this dead world of
priests and idols? They are full of the dust of bygone ages; they are
rotten; they are pestilent and foul! Come out of this plague-stricken
Church--come away with us into the light! Padre, it is we that are life and
youth; it is we that are the everlasting springtime; it is we that are the
future! Padre, the dawn is close upon us--will you miss your part in the
sunrise? Wake up, and let us forget the horrible nightmares,--wake up, and
we will begin our life again! Padre, I have always loved you--always, even
when you killed me--will you kill me again?"
Montanelli tore his hands away. "Oh, God have mercy on me!" he cried
out. "YOU HAVE YOUR MOTHER'S EYES!"
A strange silence, long and deep and sudden, fell upon them both. In
the gray twilight they looked at each other, and their hearts stood still
with fear.
"Have you anything more to say?" Montanelli whispered. "Any--hope to
give me?"
"No. My life is of no use to me except to fight priests. I am not a
man; I am a knife. If you let me live, you sanction knives."
Montanelli turned to the crucifix. "God! Listen to this----"
His voice died away into the empty stillness without response. Only the
mocking devil awoke again in the Gadfly.
"'C-c-call him louder; perchance he s-s-sleepeth'----"
Montanelli started up as if he had been struck. For a moment he stood
looking straight before him;--then he sat down on the edge of the pallet,
covered his face with both hands, and burst into tears. A long shudder
passed through the Gadfly, and the damp cold broke out on his body. He knew
what the tears meant.
He drew the blanket over his head that he might not hear. It was enough
that he had to die--he who was so vividly, magnificently alive. But he could
not shut out the sound; it rang in his ears, it beat in his brain, it
throbbed in all his pulses. And still Montanelli sobbed and sobbed, and the
tears dripped down between his fingers.
He left off sobbing at last, and dried his eyes with his handkerchief,
like a child that has been crying. As he stood up the handkerchief slipped
from his knee and fell to the floor.
"There is no use in talking any more," he said. "You understand?"
"I understand," the Gadfly answered, with dull submission. "It's not
your fault. Your God is hungry, and must be fed."
Montanelli turned towards him. The grave that was to be dug was not
more still than they were. Silent, they looked into each other's eyes, as
two lovers, torn apart, might gaze across the barrier they cannot pass.
It was the Gadfly whose eyes sank first. He shrank down, hiding his
face; and Montanelli understood that the gesture meant "Go!" He turned, and
went out of the cell. A moment later the Gadfly started up.
"Oh, I can't bear it! Padre, come back! Come back!"
The door was shut. He looked around him slowly, with a wide, still
gaze, and understood that all was over. The Galilean had conquered.
All night long the grass waved softly in the courtyard below--the grass
that was so soon to wither, uprooted by the spade; and all night long the
Gadfly lay alone in the darkness, and sobbed.
THE court-martial was held on Tuesday morning. It was a very short and
simple affair; a mere formality, occupying barely twenty minutes. There was,
indeed, nothing to spend much time over; no defence was allowed, and the
only witnesses were the wounded spy and officer and a few soldiers. The
sentence was drawn up beforehand; Montanelli had sent in the desired
informal consent; and the judges (Colonel Ferrari, the local major of
dragoons, and two officers of the Swiss guards) had little to do. The
indictment was read aloud, the witnesses gave their evidence, and the
signatures were affixed to the sentence, which was then read to the
condemned man with befitting solemnity. He listened in silence; and when
asked, according to the usual form, whether he had anything to say, merely
waved the question aside with an impatient movement of his hand. Hidden on
his breast was the handkerchief which Montanelli had let fall. It had been
kissed and wept over all night, as though it were a living thing. Now he
looked wan and spiritless, and the traces of tears were still about his
eyelids; but the words: "to be shot," did not seem to affect him much. When
they were uttered, the pupils of his eyes dilated, but that was all.
"Take him back to his cell," the Governor said. when all the
formalities were over; and the sergeant, who was evidently near to breaking
down, touched the motionless figure on the shoulder. The Gadfly looked round
him with a little start.
"Ah, yes!" he said. "I forgot."
There was something almost like pity in the Governor's face. He was not
a cruel man by nature, and was secretly a little ashamed of the part he had
been playing during the last month. Now that his main point was gained he
was willing to make every little concession in his power.
"You needn't put the irons on again," he said, glancing at the bruised
and swollen wrists. "And he can stay in his own cell. The condemned cell is
wretchedly dark and gloomy," he added, turning to his nephew; "and really
the thing's a mere formality."
He coughed and shifted his feet in evident embarrassment; then called
back the sergeant, who was leaving the room with his prisoner.
"Wait, sergeant; I want to speak to him."
The Gadfly did not move, and the Governor's voice seemed to fall on
unresponsive ears.
"If you have any message you would like conveyed to your friends or
relatives---- You have relatives, I suppose?"
There was no answer.
"Well, think it over and tell me, or the priest. I will see it is not
neglected. You had better give your messages to the priest; he shall come at
once, and stay the night with you. If there is any other wish----"
The Gadfly looked up.
"Tell the priest I would rather be alone. I have no friends and no
messages."
"But you will want to confess."
"I am an atheist. I want nothing but to be left in peace."
He said it in a dull, quiet voice, without defiance or irritation; and
turned slowly away. At the door he stopped again.
"I forgot, colonel; there is a favour I wanted to ask. Don't let them
tie me or bandage my eyes to-morrow, please. I will stand quite still."
. . . . .
At sunrise on Wednesday morning they brought him out into the
courtyard. His lameness was more than usually apparent, and he walked with
evident difficulty and pain, leaning heavily on the sergeant's arm; but all
the weary submission had gone out of his face. The spectral terrors that had
crushed him down in the empty silence, the visions and dreams of the world
of shadows, were gone with the night which gave them birth; and once the sun
was shining and his enemies were present to rouse the fighting spirit in
him, he was not afraid.
The six carabineers who had been told off for the execution were drawn
up in line against the ivied wall; the same crannied and crumbling wall down
which he had climbed on the night of his unlucky attempt. They could hardly
refrain from weeping as they stood together, each man with his carbine in
his hand. It seemed to them a horror beyond imagination that they should be
called out to kill the Gadfly. He and his stinging repartees, his perpetual
laughter, his bright, infectious courage, had come into their dull and
dreary lives like a wandering sunbeam; and that he should die, and at their
hands, was to them as the darkening of the clear lamps of heaven.
Under the great fig-tree in the courtyard, his grave was waiting for
him. It had been dug in the night by unwilling hands; and tears had fallen
on the spade. As he passed he looked down, smiling, at the black pit and the
withering grass beside it; and drew a long breath, to smell the scent of the
freshly turned earth.
Near the tree the sergeant stopped short, and the Gadfly looked round
with his brightest smile.
"Shall I stand here, sergeant?"
The man nodded silently; there was a lump in his throat, and he could
not have spoken to save his life. The Governor, his nephew, the lieutenant
of carabineers who was to command, a doctor and a priest were already in the
courtyard, and came forward with grave faces, half abashed under the radiant
defiance of the Gadfly's laughing eyes.
"G-good morning, gentlemen! Ah, and his reverence is up so early, too!
How do you do, captain? This is a pleasanter occasion for you than our
former meeting, isn't it? I see your arm is still in a sling; that's because
I bungled my work. These good fellows will do theirs better-- won't you,
lads?"
He glanced round at the gloomy faces of the carabineers.
"There'll be no need of slings this time, any way. There, there, you
needn't look so doleful over it! Put your heels together and show how
straight you can shoot. Before long there'll be more work cut out for you
than you'll know how to get through, and there's nothing like practice
beforehand." "My son," the priest interrupted, coming forward, while the
others drew back to leave them alone together; "in a few minutes you must
enter into the presence of your Maker. Have you no other use but this for
these last moments that are left you for repentance? Think, I entreat you,
how dreadful a thing it is to die without absolution, with all your sins
upon your head. When you stand before your Judge it will be too late to
repent. Will you approach His awful throne with a jest upon your lips?"
"A jest, your reverence? It is your side that needs that little homily,
I think. When our turn comes we shall use field-guns instead of half a dozen
second-hand carbines, and then you'll see how much we're in jest."
"YOU will use field-guns! Oh, unhappy man! Have you still not realized
on what frightful brink you stand?"
The Gadfly glanced back over his shoulder at the open grave.
"And s-s-so your reverence thinks that, when you have put me down
there, you will have done with me? Perhaps you will lay a stone on the top
to pre-v-vent a r-resurrection 'after three days'? No fear, your reverence!
I shan't poach on the monopoly in cheap theatricals; I shall lie as still as
a m-mouse, just where you put me. And all the same, WE shall use
field-guns."
"Oh, merciful God," the priest cried out; "forgive this wretched man!"
"Amen!" murmured the lieutenant of carabineers, in a deep bass growl,
while the colonel and his nephew crossed themselves devoutly.
As there was evidently no hope of further insistence producing any
effect, the priest gave up the fruitless attempt and moved aside, shaking
his head and murmuring a prayer. The short and simple preparations were made
without more delay, and the Gadfly placed himself in the required position,
only turning his head to glance up for a moment at the red and yellow
splendour of the sunrise. He had repeated the request that his eyes might
not be bandaged, and his defiant face had wrung from the colonel a reluctant
consent. They had both forgotten what they were inflicting on the soldiers.
He stood and faced them, smiling, and the carbines shook in their
hands.
"I am quite ready," he said.
The lieutenant stepped forward, trembling a little with excitement. He
had never given the word of command for an execution before.
"Ready--present--fire!"
The Gadfly staggered a little and recovered his balance. One unsteady
shot had grazed his cheek, and a little blood fell on to the white cravat.
Another ball had struck him above the knee. When the smoke cleared away the
soldiers looked and saw him smiling still and wiping the blood from his
cheek with the mutilated hand
"A bad shot, men!" he said; and his voice cut in, clear and articulate,
upon the dazed stupor of the wretched soldiers. "Have another try."
A general groan and shudder passed through the row of carabineers. Each
man had aimed aside, with a secret hope that the death-shot would come from
his neighbour's hand, not his; and there the Gadfly stood and smiled at
them; they had only turned the execution into a butchery, and the whole
ghastly business was to do again. They were seized with sudden terror, and,
lowering their carbines, listened hopelessly to the furious curses and
reproaches of the officers, staring in dull horror at the man whom they had
killed and who somehow was not dead.
The Governor shook his fist in their faces, savagely shouting to them
to stand in position, to present arms, to make haste and get the thing over.
He had become as thoroughly demoralized as they were, and dared not look at
the terrible figure that stood, and stood, and would not fall. When the
Gadfly spoke to him he started and shuddered at the sound of the mocking
voice.
"You have brought out the awkward squad this morning, colonel! Let me
see if I can manage them better. Now, men! Hold your tool higher there, you
to the left. Bless your heart, man, it's a carbine you've got in your hand,
not a frying-pan! Are you all straight? Now then! Ready--present----"
"Fire!" the colonel interrupted, starting forward. It was intolerable
that this man should give the command for his own death.
There was another confused, disorganized volley, and the line broke up
into a knot of shivering figures, staring before them with wild eyes. One of
the soldiers had not even discharged his carbine; he had flung it away, and
crouched down, moaning under his breath: "I can't--I can't!"
The smoke cleared slowly away, floating up into the glimmer of the
early sunlight; and they saw that the Gadfly had fallen; and saw, too, that
he was still not dead. For the first moment soldiers and officials stood as
if they had been turned to stone, and watched the ghastly thing that writhed
and struggled on the ground; then both doctor and colonel rushed forward
with a cry, for he had dragged himself up on one knee and was still facing
the soldiers, and still laughing.
"Another miss! Try--again, lads--see--if you can't----"
He suddenly swayed and fell over sideways on the grass.
"Is he dead?" the colonel asked under his breath; and the doctor,
kneeling down, with a hand on the bloody shirt, answered softly:
"I think so--God be praised!"
"God be praised!" the colonel repeated. "At last!"
His nephew was touching him on the arm.
"Uncle! It's the Cardinal! He's at the gate and wants to come in."
"What? He can't come in--I won't have it! What are the guards about?
Your Eminence----"
The gate had opened and shut, and Montanelli was standing in the
courtyard, looking before him with still and awful eyes.
"Your Eminence! I must beg of you--this is not a fit sight for you! The
execution is only just over; the body is not yet----"
"I have come to look at him," Montanelli said. Even at the moment it
struck the Governor that his voice and bearing were those of a sleep-walker.
"Oh, my God!" one of the soldiers cried out suddenly; and the Governor
glanced hastily back. Surely------
The blood-stained heap on the grass had once more begun to struggle and
moan. The doctor flung himself down and lifted the head upon his knee.
"Make haste!" he cried in desperation. "You savages, make haste! Get it
over, for God's sake! There's no bearing this!"
Great jets of blood poured over his hands, and the convulsions of the
figure that he held in his arms shook him, too, from head to foot. As he
looked frantically round for help, the priest bent over his shoulder and put
a crucifix to the lips of the dying man.
"In the name of the Father and of the Son----"
The Gadfly raised himself against the doctor's knee, and, with
wide-open eyes, looked straight upon the crucifix.
Slowly, amid hushed and frozen stillness, he lifted the broken right
hand and pushed away the image. There was a red smear across its face.
"Padre--is your--God--satisfied?"
His head fell back on the doctor's arm.
. . . . .
"Your Eminence!"
As the Cardinal did not awake from his stupor, Colonel Ferrari
repeated, louder:
"Your Eminence!"
Montanelli looked up.
"He is dead."
"Quite dead, your Eminence. Will you not come away? This is a horrible
sight."
"He is dead," Montanelli repeated, and looked down again at the face.
"I touched him; and he is dead."
"What does he expect a man to be with half a dozen bullets in him?" the
lieutenant whispered contemptuously; and the doctor whispered back. "I think
the sight of the blood has upset him."
The Governor put his hand firmly on Montanelli's arm.
"Your Eminence--you had better not look at him any longer. Will you
allow the chaplain to escort you home?"
"Yes--I will go."
He turned slowly from the blood-stained spot and walked away, the
priest and sergeant following. At the gate he paused and looked back, with a
ghostlike, still surprise.
"He is dead."
. . . . .
A few hours later Marcone went up to a cottage on the hillside to tell
Martini that there was no longer any need for him to throw away his life.
All the preparations for a second attempt at rescue were ready, as the
plot was much more simple than the former one. It had been arranged that on
the following morning, as the Corpus Domini procession passed along the
fortress hill, Martini should step forward out of the crowd, draw a pistol
from his breast, and fire in the Governor's face. In the moment of wild
confusion which would follow twenty armed men were to make a sudden rush at
the gate, break into the tower, and, taking the turnkey with them by force,
to enter the prisoner's cell and carry him bodily away, killing or
overpowering everyone who interfered with them. From the gate they were to
retire fighting, and cover the retreat of a second band of armed and mounted
smugglers, who would carry him off into a safe hiding-place in the hills.
The only person in the little group who knew nothing of the plan was Gemma;
it had been kept from her at Martini's special desire. "She will break her
heart over it soon enough," he had said.
As the smuggler came in at the garden gate Martini opened the glass
door and stepped out on to the verandah to meet him.
"Any news, Marcone? Ah!"
The smuggler had pushed back his broad-brimmed straw hat.
They sat down together on the verandah. Not a word was spoken on either
side. From the instant when Martini had caught sight of the face under the
hat-brim he had understood.
"When was it?" he asked after a long pause; and his own voice, in his
ears, was as dull and wearisome as everything else.
"This morning, at sunrise. The sergeant told me. He was there and saw
it."
Martini looked down and flicked a stray thread from his coat-sleeve.
Vanity of vanities; this also is vanity. He was to have died to-morrow.
And now the land of his heart's desire had vanished, like the fairyland of
golden sunset dreams that fades away when the darkness comes; and he was
driven back into the world of every day and every night--the world of
Grassini and Galli, of ciphering and pamphleteering, of party squabbles
between comrades and dreary intrigues among Austrian spies--of the old
revolutionary mill-round that maketh the heart sick. And somewhere down at
the bottom of his consciousness there was a great empty place; a place that
nothing and no one would fill any more, now that the Gadfly was dead.
Someone was asking him a question, and he raised his head, wondering
what could be left that was worth the trouble of talking about.
"What did you say?"
"I was saying that of course you will break the news to her."
Life, and all the horror of life, came back into Martini's face.
"How can I tell her?" he cried out. "You might as well ask me to go and
stab her. Oh, how can I tell her--how can I!"
He had clasped both hands over his eyes; but, without seeing, he felt
the smuggler start beside him, and looked up. Gemma was standing in the
doorway.
"Have you heard, Cesare?" she said. "It is all over. They have shot
him."PART III: CHAPTER VIII.
"INTROIBO ad altare Dei." Montanelli stood before the high altar among
his ministers and acolytes and read the Introit aloud in steady tones. All
the Cathedral was a blaze of light and colour; from the holiday dresses of
the congregation to the pillars with their flaming draperies and wreaths of
flowers there was no dull spot in it. Over the open spaces of the doorway
fell great scarlet curtains, through whose folds the hot June sunlight
glowed, as through the petals of red poppies in a corn-field. The religious
orders with their candles and torches, the companies of the parishes with
their crosses and flags, lighted up the dim side-chapels; and in the aisles
the silken folds of the processional banners drooped, their gilded staves
and tassels glinting under the arches. The surplices of the choristers
gleamed, rainbow-tinted, beneath the coloured windows; the sunlight lay on
the chancel floor in chequered stains of orange and purple and green. Behind
the altar hung a shimmering veil of silver tissue; and against the veil and
the decorations and the altar-lights the Cardinal's figure stood out in its
trailing white robes like a marble statue that had come to life.
As was customary on processional days, he was only to preside at the
Mass, not to celebrate, so at the end of the Indulgentiam he turned from the
altar and walked slowly to the episcopal throne, celebrant and ministers
bowing low as he passed.
"I'm afraid His Eminence is not well," one of the canons whispered to
his neighbour; "he seems so strange."
Montanelli bent his head to receive the jewelled mitre. The priest who
was acting as deacon of honour put it on, looked at him for an instant, then
leaned forward and whispered softly:
"Your Eminence, are you ill?"
Montanelli turned slightly towards him. There was no recognition in his
eyes.
"Pardon, Your Eminence!" the priest whispered, as he made a genuflexion
and went back to his place, reproaching himself for having interrupted the
Cardinal's devotions.
The familiar ceremony went on; and Montanelli sat erect and still, his
glittering mitre and gold-brocaded vestments flashing back the sunlight, and
the heavy folds of his white festival mantle sweeping down over the red
carpet. The light of a hundred candles sparkled among the sapphires on his
breast, and shone into the deep, still eyes that had no answering gleam; and
when, at the words: "Benedicite, pater eminentissime," he stooped to bless
the incense, and the sunbeams played among the diamonds, he might have
recalled some splendid and fearful ice-spirit of the mountains, crowned with
rainbows and robed in drifted snow, scattering, with extended hands, a
shower of blessings or of curses.
At the elevation of the Host he descended from his throne and knelt
before the altar. There was a strange, still evenness about all his
movements; and as he rose and went back to his place the major of dragoons,
who was sitting in gala uniform behind the Governor, whispered to the
wounded captain: "The old Cardinal's breaking, not a doubt of it. He goes
through his work like a machine."
"So much the better!" the captain whispered back. "He's been nothing
but a mill-stone round all our necks ever since that confounded amnesty."
"He did give in, though, about the court-martial."
"Yes, at last; but he was a precious time making up his mind to.
Heavens, how close it is! We shall all get sun-stroke in the procession.
It's a pity we're not Cardinals, to have a canopy held over our heads all
the way---- Sh-sh-sh! There's my uncle looking at us!"