The Gadfly Ethel Voynich (e reader manga TXT) 📖

Riccardo struck his hand upon the table. “Why, we never thought of the Gadfly! The very man!”

“Who is that?”

“The Gadfly⁠—Felice Rivarez. Don’t you remember him? One of Muratori’s band that came down from the Apennines three years ago?”

“Oh, you knew that set, didn’t you? I remember your travelling with them when they went on to Paris.”

“Yes; I went as far as Leghorn to see Rivarez off for Marseilles. He wouldn’t stop in Tuscany; he said there was nothing left to do but laugh, once the insurrection had failed, and so he had better go to Paris. No doubt he agreed with Signor Grassini that Tuscany is the wrong place to laugh in. But I am nearly sure he would come back if we asked him, now that there is a chance of doing something in Italy.”

“What name did you say?”

“Rivarez. He’s a Brazilian, I think. At any rate, I know he has lived out there. He is one of the wittiest men I ever came across. Heaven knows we had nothing to be merry over, that week in Leghorn; it was enough to break one’s heart to look at poor Lambertini; but there was no keeping one’s countenance when Rivarez was in the room; it was one perpetual fire of absurdities. He had a nasty sabre-cut across the face, too; I remember sewing it up. He’s an odd creature; but I believe he and his nonsense kept some of those poor lads from breaking down altogether.”

“Is that the man who writes political skits in the French papers under the name of ‘Le Taon’?”

“Yes; short paragraphs mostly, and comic feuilletons. The smugglers up in the Apennines called him ‘the Gadfly’ because of his tongue; and he took the nickname to sign his work with.”

“I know something about this gentleman,” said Grassini, breaking in upon the conversation in his slow and stately manner; “and I cannot say that what I have heard is much to his credit. He undoubtedly possesses a certain showy, superficial cleverness, though I think his abilities have been exaggerated; and possibly he is not lacking in physical courage; but his reputation in Paris and Vienna is, I believe, very far from spotless. He appears to be a gentleman of⁠—a⁠—a⁠—many adventures and unknown antecedents. It is said that he was picked up out of charity by Duprez’s expedition somewhere in the wilds of tropical South America, in a state of inconceivable savagery and degradation. I believe he has never satisfactorily explained how he came to be in such a condition. As for the rising in the Apennines, I fear it is no secret that persons of all characters took part in that unfortunate affair. The men who were executed in Bologna are known to have been nothing but common malefactors; and the character of many who escaped will hardly bear description. Without doubt, some of the participators were men of high character⁠—”

“Some of them were the intimate friends of several persons in this room!” Riccardo interrupted, with an angry ring in his voice. “It’s all very well to be particular and exclusive, Grassini; but these ‘common malefactors’ died for their belief, which is more than you or I have done as yet.”

“And another time when people tell you the stale gossip of Paris,” added Galli, “you can tell them from me that they are mistaken about the Duprez expedition. I know Duprez’s adjutant, Martel, personally, and have heard the whole story from him. It’s true that they found Rivarez stranded out there. He had been taken prisoner in the war, fighting for the Argentine Republic, and had escaped. He was wandering about the country in various disguises, trying to get back to Buenos Aires. But the story of their taking him on out of charity is a pure fabrication. Their interpreter had fallen ill and been obliged to turn back; and not one of the Frenchmen could speak the native languages; so they offered him the post, and he spent the whole three years with them, exploring the tributaries of the Amazon. Martel told me he believed they never would have got through the expedition at all if it had not been for Rivarez.”

“Whatever he may be,” said Fabrizi; “there must be something remarkable about a man who could lay his ‘come hither’ on two old campaigners like Martel and Duprez as he seems to have done. What do you think, signora?”

“I know nothing about the matter; I was in England when the fugitives passed through Tuscany. But I should think that if the companions who were with a man on a three years’ expedition in savage countries, and the comrades who were with him through an insurrection, think well of him, that is recommendation enough to counterbalance a good deal of boulevard gossip.”

“There is no question about the opinion his comrades had of him,” said Riccardo. “From Muratori and Zambeccari down to the roughest mountaineers they were all devoted to him. Moreover, he is a personal friend of Orsini. It’s quite true, on the other hand, that there are endless cock-and-bull stories of a not very pleasant kind going about concerning him in Paris; but if a man doesn’t want to make enemies he shouldn’t become a political satirist.”

“I’m not quite sure,” interposed Lega; “but it seems to me that I saw him once when the refugees were here. Was he not hunchbacked, or crooked, or something of that kind?”

The professor had opened a drawer in his writing-table and was turning over a heap of papers. “I think I have his police description somewhere here,” he said. “You remember when they escaped and hid in the mountain passes their personal appearance was posted up everywhere, and that Cardinal⁠—what’s the scoundrel’s name?⁠—Spinola, offered a reward for their heads.”

“There was a splendid story about Rivarez and that police paper, by the way. He put on a soldier’s old uniform and tramped across country as a carabineer wounded in the discharge of his duty and trying to find his