The Gadfly by E. L. Voynich (latest novels to read .txt) 📖

twisted; two ringers missing on left hand;

recent sabre-cut across face; stammers.’ Then

there’s a note put: ‘Very expert shot; care should

be taken in arresting.’”

 

“It’s an extraordinary thing that he can have

managed to deceive the search-party with such a

formidable list of identification marks.”

 

“It was nothing but sheer audacity that carried

him through, of course. If it had once occurred

to them to suspect him he would have been lost.

But the air of confiding innocence that he can put

on when he chooses would bring a man through

anything. Well, gentlemen, what do you think of

the proposal? Rivarez seems to be pretty well

known to several of the company. Shall we suggest

to him that we should be glad of his help

here or not?”

 

“I think,” said Fabrizi, “that he might be

sounded upon the subject, just to find out whether

he would be inclined to think of the plan.”

 

“Oh, he’ll be inclined, you may be sure, once

it’s a case of fighting the Jesuits; he is the most

savage anti-clerical I ever met; in fact, he’s rather

rabid on the point.”

 

“Then will you write, Riccardo?”

 

“Certainly. Let me see, where is he now? In

Switzerland, I think. He’s the most restless

being; always flitting about. But as for the pamphlet

question–-”

 

They plunged into a long and animated discussion.

When at last the company began to disperse Martini

went up to the quiet young woman.

 

“I will see you home, Gemma.”

 

“Thanks; I want to have a business talk with

you.”

 

“Anything wrong with the addresses?” he

asked softly.

 

“Nothing serious; but I think it is time to make

a few alterations. Two letters have been stopped

in the post this week. They were both quite unimportant,

and it may have been accidental; but

we cannot afford to have any risks. If once the

police have begun to suspect any of our addresses,

they must be changed immediately.”

 

“I will come in about that to-morrow. I am

not going to talk business with you to-night;

you look tired.”

 

“I am not tired.”

 

“Then you are depressed again.”

 

“Oh, no; not particularly.”

 

CHAPTER II.

 

“Is the mistress in, Katie?”

 

“Yes, sir; she is dressing. If you’ll just step

into the parlour she will be down in a few

minutes.”

 

Katie ushered the visitor in with the cheerful

friendliness of a true Devonshire girl. Martini

was a special favourite of hers. He spoke English,

like a foreigner, of course, but still quite respectably;

and he never sat discussing politics at the top

of his voice till one in the morning, when the mistress

was tired, as some visitors had a way of

doing. Moreover, he had come to Devonshire to

help the mistress in her trouble, when her baby

was dead and her husband dying there; and ever

since that time the big, awkward, silent man had

been to Katie as much “one of the family” as was

the lazy black cat which now ensconced itself upon

his knee. Pasht, for his part, regarded Martini

as a useful piece of household furniture. This

visitor never trod upon his tail, or puffed tobacco

smoke into his eyes, or in any way obtruded upon

his consciousness an aggressive biped personality.

He behaved as a mere man should: provided a

comfortable knee to lie upon and purr, and at table

never forgot that to look on while human beings

eat fish is not interesting for a cat. The friendship

between them was of old date. Once, when

Pasht was a kitten and his mistress too ill to think

about him, he had come from England under Martini’s

care, tucked away in a basket. Since then,

long experience had convinced him that this

clumsy human bear was no fair-weather friend.

 

“How snug you look, you two!” said Gemma,

coming into the room. “One would think you

had settled yourselves for the evening.”

 

Martini carefully lifted the cat off his knee. “I

came early,” he said, “in the hope that you will

give me some tea before we start. There will

probably be a frightful crush, and Grassini won’t

give us any sensible supper—they never do in

those fashionable houses.”

 

“Come now!” she said, laughing; “that’s as

bad as Galli! Poor Grassini has quite enough sins

of his own to answer for without having his wife’s

imperfect housekeeping visited upon his head.

As for the tea, it will be ready in a minute. Katie

has been making some Devonshire cakes specially

for you.”

 

“Katie is a good soul, isn’t she, Pasht? By the

way, so are you to have put on that pretty dress.

I was afraid you would forget.”

 

“I promised you I would wear it, though it is

rather warm for a hot evening like this.”

 

“It will be much cooler up at Fiesole; and

nothing else ever suits you so well as white cashmere.

I have brought you some flowers to wear with it.”

 

“Oh, those lovely cluster roses; I am so fond

of them! But they had much better go into water.

I hate to wear flowers.”

 

“Now that’s one of your superstitious fancies.”

 

“No, it isn’t; only I think they must get so

bored, spending all the evening pinned to such a

dull companion.”

 

“I am afraid we shall all be bored to-night. The

conversazione will be dull beyond endurance.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Partly because everything Grassini touches

becomes as dull as himself.”

 

“Now don’t be spiteful. It is not fair when we

are going to be a man’s guests.”

 

“You are always right, Madonna. Well then,

it will be dull because half the interesting people

are not coming.”

 

“How is that?”

 

“I don’t know. Out of town, or ill, or something.

Anyway, there will be two or three ambassadors

and some learned Germans, and the usual

nondescript crowd of tourists and Russian princes

and literary club people, and a few French officers;

nobody else that I know of—except, of course,

the new satirist, who is to be the attraction of the

evening.”

 

“The new satirist? What, Rivarez? But I

thought Grassini disapproved of him so strongly.”

 

“Yes; but once the man is here and is sure to

be talked about, of course Grassini wants his house

to be the first place where the new lion will be on

show. You may be sure Rivarez has heard nothing

of Grassini’s disapproval. He may have guessed

it, though; he’s sharp enough.”

 

“I did not even know he had come.”

 

“He only arrived yesterday. Here comes the

tea. No, don’t get up; let me fetch the kettle.”

 

He was never so happy as in this little study.

Gemma’s friendship, her grave unconsciousness of

the charm she exercised over him, her frank and

simple comradeship were the brightest things for

him in a life that was none too bright; and whenever

he began to feel more than usually depressed

he would come in here after business hours and

sit with her, generally in silence, watching her as

she bent over her needlework or poured out tea.

She never questioned him about his troubles or

expressed any sympathy in words; but he always

went away stronger and calmer, feeling, as he put

it to himself, that he could “trudge through

another fortnight quite respectably.” She possessed,

without knowing it, the rare gift of consolation;

and when, two years ago, his dearest

friends had been betrayed in Calabria and shot

down like wolves, her steady faith had been perhaps

the thing which had saved him from despair.

 

On Sunday mornings he sometimes came in to

“talk business,” that expression standing for anything

connected with the practical work of the

Mazzinian party, of which they both were active

and devoted members. She was quite a different

creature then; keen, cool, and logical, perfectly

accurate and perfectly neutral. Those who saw

her only at her political work regarded her as a

trained and disciplined conspirator, trustworthy,

courageous, in every way a valuable member of

the party, but somehow lacking in life and individuality.

“She’s a born conspirator, worth any

dozen of us; and she is nothing more,” Galli had

said of her. The “Madonna Gemma” whom

Martini knew was very difficult to get at.

 

“Well, and what is your ‘new satirist’ like?”

she asked, glancing back over her shoulder as she

opened the sideboard. “There, Cesare, there are

barley-sugar and candied angelica for you. I wonder,

by the way, why revolutionary men are always

so fond of sweets.”

 

“Other men are, too, only they think it beneath

their dignity to confess it. The new satirist? Oh,

the kind of man that ordinary women will rave

over and you will dislike. A sort of professional

dealer in sharp speeches, that goes about the world

with a lackadaisical manner and a handsome ballet-girl

dangling on to his coat-tails.”

 

“Do you mean that there is really a ballet-girl,

or simply that you feel cross and want to imitate

the sharp speeches?”

 

“The Lord defend me! No; the ballet-girl is

real enough and handsome enough, too, for those

who like shrewish beauty. Personally, I don’t.

She’s a Hungarian gipsy, or something of that

kind, so Riccardo says; from some provincial

theatre in Galicia. He seems to be rather a cool

hand; he has been introducing the girl to people

just as if she were his maiden aunt.”

 

“Well, that’s only fair if he has taken her away

from her home.”

 

“You may look at things that way, dear Madonna,

but society won’t. I think most people

will very much resent being introduced to a woman

whom they know to be his mistress.”

 

“How can they know it unless he tells them

so?”

 

“It’s plain enough; you’ll see if you meet her.

But I should think even he would not have the

audacity to bring her to the Grassinis’.”

 

“They wouldn’t receive her. Signora Grassini

is not the woman to do unconventional things of

that kind. But I wanted to hear about Signor

Rivarez as a satirist, not as a man. Fabrizi told

me he had been written to and had consented to

come and take up the campaign against the

Jesuits; and that is the last I have heard. There

has been such a rush of work this week.”

 

“I don’t know that I can tell you much more.

There doesn’t seem to have been any difficulty

over the money question, as we feared there would

be. He’s well off, it appears, and willing to work

for nothing.”

 

“Has he a private fortune, then?”

“Apparently he has; though it seems rather

odd—you heard that night at Fabrizi’s about

the state the Duprez expedition found him

in. But he has got shares in mines somewhere

out in Brazil; and then he has been immensely

successful as a feuilleton writer in Paris and

Vienna and London. He seems to have half a

dozen languages at his finger-tips; and there’s

nothing to prevent his keeping up his newspaper

connections from here. Slanging the Jesuits

won’t take all his time.”

 

“That’s true, of course. It’s time to start,

Cesare. Yes, I will wear the roses. Wait just a

minute.”

 

She ran upstairs, and came back with the roses

in the bosom of her dress, and a long scarf of black

Spanish lace thrown over her head. Martini surveyed

her with artistic approval.

 

“You look like a queen, Madonna mia; like

the great and wise Queen of Sheba.”

 

“What an unkind speech!” she retorted,

laughing; “when you know how hard I’ve been

trying to mould myself into the image of the typical

society lady! Who wants a conspirator to

look like the Queen of