Arthur  turned  away  in  silence. On  the  wall  hung  a large  wooden
crucifix; and his eyes  wandered slowly to its  face; but  with no appeal in
them,  only  a  dim wonder  at  this  supine  and patient God  that  had  no
thunderbolt for a priest who betrayed the confessional.
     "Will you kindly sign  this  receipt for your papers?" said the colonel
blandly;  "and then I need not keep you any longer. I am sure you must be in
a hurry to get home; and my time  is  very much taken up just  now with  the
affairs  of  that  foolish  young  man,  Bolla,  who  tried  your  Christian
forbearance so  hard. I am  afraid  he will  get  a  rather heavy  sentence.
Good-afternoon!"
     Arthur signed  the  receipt, took  his papers,  and  went out  in  dead
silence.  He followed  Enrico  to the massive gate; and,  without  a word of
farewell,  descended to the  water's  edge, where  a ferryman was waiting to
take him  across  the moat. As he  mounted  the stone  steps  leading to the
street,  a girl  in  a  cotton  dress  and  straw  hat  ran  up to him  with
outstretched hands.
     "Arthur! Oh, I'm so glad--I'm so glad!"
     He drew his hands away, shivering.
     "Jim!" he said at last, in a voice that did not seem  to belong to him.
"Jim!"
     "I've been waiting here for half an hour.  They said you would come out
at four. Arthur, why do you look at me  like that?  Something has  happened!
Arthur, what has come to you? Stop!"
     He  had turned away, and was walking slowly  down the street,  as if he
had forgotten  her  presence. Thoroughly frightened  at his manner,  she ran
after him and caught him by the arm.
     "Arthur!"
     He  stopped and  looked up with  bewildered eyes. She slipped  her  arm
through his, and they walked on again for a moment in silence.
     "Listen, dear," she began softly;  "you  mustn't get so upset over this
wretched business.  I  know  it's  dreadfully  hard on  you,  but  everybody
understands."
     "What business?" he asked in the same dull voice.
     "I mean, about Bolla's letter."
     Arthur's face contracted painfully at the name.
     "I  thought  you wouldn't  have  heard  of it,"  Gemma went on; "but  I
suppose they've told you. Bolla must be perfectly mad to  have imagined such
a thing."
     "Such a thing----?"
     "You don't  know  about  it,  then?  He has  written a horrible letter,
saying  that  you have  told about the steamers, and got him  arrested. It's
perfectly absurd, of course; everyone  that  knows you sees that;  it's only
the  people who  don't know  you that have been upset by it. Really,  that's
what I came here  for--to tell you that no one  in our group believes a word
of it."
     "Gemma! But it's--it's true!"
     She  shrank slowly  away from him, and stood quite still, her eyes wide
and dark with horror, her face as white as the kerchief at her neck. A great
icy wave of silence seemed to have swept round them both, shutting them out,
in a world apart, from the life and movement of the street.
     "Yes,"  he whispered  at last; "the  steamers-- I spoke of that; and  I
said his name--oh, my God! my God! What shall I do?"
     He came  to  himself  suddenly,  realizing her presence and  the mortal
terror in her face. Yes, of course, she must think------
     "Gemma,  you don't  understand!"  he burst out, moving nearer;  but she
recoiled with a sharp cry:
     "Don't touch me!"
     Arthur seized her right hand with sudden violence.
     "Listen, for God's sake! It was not my fault; I----"
     "Let go; let my hand go! Let go!"
     The next instant she wrenched her fingers away from his, and struck him
across the cheek with her open hand.
     A kind of mist came over his eyes.  For a little while he was conscious
of nothing but  Gemma's white  and desperate  face, and the right hand which
she had fiercely rubbed on the skirt of her  cotton dress. Then the daylight
crept back again, and he looked round and saw that he was alone.
        PART I: CHAPTER VII.
     IT  had  long been dark when Arthur rang at the front door of the great
house in the Via  Borra. He remembered that he  had been wandering about the
streets; but  where, or  why,  or for how long, he had no idea. Julia's page
opened the door,  yawning, and grinned  significantly at the haggard,  stony
face. It seemed to him a  prodigious joke to have the young master come home
from jail like a "drunk and disorderly" beggar. Arthur went upstairs. On the
first  floor  he met  Gibbons  coming  down with an air of  lofty and solemn
disapproval. He  tried to  pass with  a muttered "Good evening"; but Gibbons
was no easy person to get past against his will.
     "The gentlemen  are out, sir,"  he said, looking critically at Arthur's
rather  neglected  dress and hair.  "They have gone with  the mistress to an
evening party, and will not be back till nearly twelve."
     Arthur looked at his watch; it was nine o'clock. Oh, yes! he would have
time--plenty of time------
     "My mistress desired me to ask whether you would like any  supper, sir;
and to say that  she hopes you will sit  up  for  her, as  she  particularly
wishes to speak to you this evening."
     "I don't want anything, thank you; you can tell her  I have not gone to
bed."
     He went  up  to  his room. Nothing  in it  had  been changed  since his
arrest; Montanelli's portrait was  on the table  where he had placed it, and
the crucifix stood  in  the  alcove  as before.  He  paused a moment  on the
threshold, listening;  but the house was  quite still; evidently no one  was
coming to disturb him. He stepped softly into the room and locked the door.
     And so he  had come to the end. There was  nothing to think or  trouble
about; an importunate and useless  consciousness to get rid of--and  nothing
more. It seemed a stupid, aimless kind of thing, somehow.
     He  had  not formed any resolve to  commit suicide, nor  indeed  had he
thought much about it;  the thing was quite obvious  and inevitable.  He had
even  no definite idea  as  to  what  manner of  death to  choose;  all that
mattered was to be done with  it quickly--to have it over and forget. He had
no  weapon  in  the  room,  not  even a  pocketknife;  but  that  was of  no
consequence--a towel would do, or a sheet torn into strips.
     There was a large nail just over the window. That would do; but it must
be firm to bear his weight. He got up on a chair  to feel the nail;  it  was
not quite firm,  and he stepped down again and took a hammer from  a drawer.
He  knocked in the nail, and was about to pull  a sheet off his bed, when he
suddenly  remembered that he had not said his prayers. Of course,  one  must
pray before dying; every Christian does that. There are even special prayers
for a departing soul.
     He went into the  alcove and  knelt down before the crucifix. "Almighty
and merciful God----"  he began aloud; and with  that  broke off and said no
more. Indeed, the world was  grown  so dull that  there was nothing  left to
pray for--or against. And then, what did Christ know about a trouble of this
kind--Christ,  who had  never suffered  it? He had only  been betrayed, like
Bolla; He had never been tricked into betraying.
     Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit. Approaching the table, he
saw lying upon it a letter addressed to him, in Montanelli's handwriting. It
was in pencil:
     "My Dear Boy: It  is a great disappointment to me that I cannot see you
on the day of your release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying man. I
shall not get back till late at night.  Come to me early to-morrow  morning.
In great haste,
     "L. M."
     He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem hard on the Padre.
     How  the  people  had laughed and  gossiped in the streets! Nothing was
altered since the days  when he had  been alive. Not the least little one of
all the daily trifles round him  was changed  because a human soul, a living
human soul, had been  struck down dead. It was all just the same  as before.
The water had plashed in the fountains; the sparrows had twittered under the
eaves; just as they had done yesterday, just as they would do to-morrow. And
as for him, he was dead--quite dead.
     He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, crossed  his arms along the
foot-rail, and rested his forehead upon them. There was  plenty of time; and
his head ached so--the very middle  of the brain seemed  to ache; it was all
so dull and stupid--so utterly meaningless----
     . . . . .
     The front-door bell  rang  sharply, and he started  up  in a breathless
agony of terror, with both  hands at his throat. They had come  back--he had
sat there dreaming, and let the precious time slip away--and now he must see
their  faces and hear their  cruel tongues--their  sneers and  comments-- If
only he had a knife------
     He looked desperately round the room. His mother's work-basket stood in
a little cupboard; surely there would be scissors; he might sever an artery.
No; the sheet and nail were safer, if he had timeHe dragged  the counterpane
from his bed, and with frantic haste began tearing off a strip. The sound of
footsteps came up the  stairs. No; the strip was too  wide; it would not tie
firmly; and  there must  be a noose. He worked  faster as the footsteps drew
nearer;  and the  blood  throbbed in  his  temples and  roared  in his ears.
Quicker-- quicker! Oh, God! five minutes more!
     There was a knock at the door. The strip of torn stuff dropped from his
hands, and he sat  quite still, holding his breath to listen.  The handle of
the door was tried; then Julia's voice called:
     "Arthur!"
     He stood up, panting.
     "Arthur, open the door, please; we are waiting."
     He  gathered up the  torn  counterpane, threw  it  into  a  drawer, and
hastily smoothed down the bed.
     "Arthur!" This time it  was James who  called, and the  door-handle was
shaken impatiently. "Are you asleep?"
     Arthur  looked  round  the  room, saw  that everything was  hidden, and
unlocked the door.
     "I should think you might at least have obeyed  my express request that
you should sit up for us, Arthur," said  Julia, sweeping into the  room in a
towering passion. "You appear to think  it the proper  thing for us to dance
attendance for half an hour at your door----"
     "Four minutes, my dear," James mildly corrected, stepping into the room
at the end of his wife's pink satin  train. "I certainly think, Arthur, that
it would have been more--becoming if----"
     "What do you want?" Arthur  interrupted. He was standing with  his hand
upon  the door,  glancing  furtively from one  to  the other like  a trapped
animal. But James was too obtuse and Julia too angry to notice the look.
     Mr.  Burton placed a chair for his wife and sat down, carefully pulling
up his new trousers at the knees. "Julia and  I,"  he began, "feel it to  be
our duty to speak to you seriously about----"
     "I  can't  listen to-night; I--I'm  not well. My  head aches--you  must
wait."
     Arthur spoke  in  a strange,  indistinct  voice,  with  a confused  and
rambling manner. James looked round in surprise.
     "Is there anything the  matter with you?" he asked anxiously,  suddenly
remembering that  Arthur  had  come from a very hotbed of infection. "I hope
you're not sickening for anything. You look quite feverish."
     "Nonsense!"   Julia   interrupted  sharply.   "It's   only   the  usual
theatricals,  because he's  ashamed  to  face us.  Come  here and  sit down,
Arthur." Arthur slowly crossed the room  and sat down on the bed.  "Yes?" he
said wearily.
     Mr. Burton coughed, cleared his throat, smoothed his already immaculate
beard, and began the carefully prepared speech over again:
     "I feel it to be my  duty--my painful duty--to speak very  seriously to
you  about your  extraordinary behaviour  in  connecting  yourself with--a--
law-breakers  and incendiaries and--a--persons of disreputable character.  I
believe you to have been, perhaps, more foolish than depraved--a----"
     He paused.
     "Yes?" Arthur said again.
     "Now,  I do not wish to  be hard  on  you," James went  on, softening a
little in spite of himself before the weary hopelessness of Arthur's manner.
"I  am quite  willing  to  believe  that  you  have  been  led  away  by bad
companions, and  to  take into  account  your  youth  and  inexperience  and
the--a--  a--imprudent  and--a--impulsive character which you have, I  fear,
inherited from your mother."
     Arthur's eyes wandered  slowly to his mother's portrait and back again,
but he did not speak.
     "But you  will, I feel sure, understand," James  continued, "that it is
quite  impossible  for me to keep any longer in my  house a person  who  has
brought public disgrace upon a name so highly respected as ours."
     "Yes?" Arthur repeated once more.
     "Well?" said Julia sharply, closing  her fan with  a snap and laying it
across her knee.  "Are  you going  to have the goodness to  say anything but
'Yes,' Arthur?"
     "You will do as you think best, of course," he answered slowly, without
moving. "It doesn't matter much either way."
     "Doesn't--matter?"  James repeated,  aghast;  and his wife rose  with a
laugh.
     "Oh, it doesn't matter,  doesn't it? Well, James, I hope you understand
now how much gratitude you may expect in that quarter. I told you what would
come of showing charity to Papist adventuresses and their----"
     "Hush, hush! Never mind that, my dear!"
     "It's  all  nonsense,  James;  we've  had  more  than  enough  of  this
sentimentality!  A  love-child  setting  himself  up  as  a  member  of  the
family--it's quite time  he did know what his mother was! Why  should  we be
saddled with the child of a Popish priest's amourettes? There, then-- look!"
     She pulled  a crumpled sheet of paper out  of her  pocket and tossed it
across  the  table to Arthur. He opened it;  the writing was in his mother's
hand, and was dated four months  before  his birth.  It  was  a  confession,
addressed to her husband, and with two signatures.
     Arthur's eyes travelled slowly down the page, past the unsteady letters
in which her name was written, to the  strong, familiar  signature: "Lorenzo
Montanelli."  For a moment he  stared at  the writing; then, without a word,
refolded  the paper and  laid it down. James rose and  took his  wife by the
arm.
     "There, Julia, that will do. Just go downstairs  now; it's late,  and I
want to talk a little business with Arthur. It won't interest you."
     She glanced up at her husband; then  back at Arthur, who  was  silently
staring at the floor.
     "He seems half stupid," she whispered.
     When she had gathered up her train and left the room,  James  carefully
shut  the door and went back to his  chair beside the  table.  Arthur sat as
before, perfectly motionless and silent.
     "Arthur,"  James  began in a  milder  tone, now Julia was not there  to
hear, "I am very sorry that  this  has come out. You might just as well  not
have known  it. However,  all that's over;  and I am pleased to see that you
can behave with  such self-control.  Julia is a--a  little  excited;  ladies
often--anyhow, I don't want to be too hard on you."
     He stopped to see what effect the kindly words had produced; but Arthur
was quite motionless.
     "Of  course,  my dear boy,"  James went on  after a  moment, "this is a
distressing story altogether, and the best thing we can do is  to  hold  our
tongues about it. My father was generous  enough not to  divorce your mother
when she confessed  her fall to him; he only demanded  that the man who  had
led her astray should leave the country at once;  and, as you  know, he went
to China as a missionary. For  my part, I was very  much against your having
anything to do with him when he came back; but my  father, just at the last,
consented to let him teach you,  on condition that he never attempted to see
your  mother.  I must,  in justice,  acknowledge  that I  believe they  both
observed  that condition  faithfully to  the end.  It is a  very  deplorable
business; but----"
     Arthur looked up. All the life and expression had gone out of his face;
it was like a waxen mask.
     "D-don't  you  think,"  he  said  softly,  with  a  curious  stammering
hesitation on the words, "th-that--all this--is--v-very--funny?"
     "FUNNY?" James pushed his chair away from the table, and sat staring at
him, too much petrified for anger. "Funny! Arthur, are you mad?"
     Arthur suddenly threw  back his head, and burst  into a frantic  fit of
laughing.
     "Arthur!" exclaimed the shipowner, rising with dignity, "I am amazed at
your levity!"
     There was  no answer but  peal  after peal  of  laughter,  so  loud and
boisterous  that even James  began to doubt whether there was not  something
more the matter here than levity.
     "Just  like   a  hysterical  woman,"  he  muttered,  turning,  with   a
contemptuous  shrug of his  shoulders, to tramp  impatiently up and down the
room.  "Really, Arthur, you're  worse than  Julia;  there, stop laughing!  I
can't wait about here all night."
     He  might  as  well  have  asked the  crucifix to  come down  from  its
pedestal.  Arthur was past caring for remonstrances or exhortations; he only
laughed, and laughed, and laughed without end.
     "This is absurd!" said James, stopping at last in  his irritated pacing
to and fro. "You are evidently too much excited to be reasonable to-night. I
can't  talk business  with you  if you're  going  on that  way.  Come  to me
to-morrow  morning after  breakfast.  And  now you  had  better  go to  bed.
Good-night."
     He  went out, slamming the door. "Now for the hysterics downstairs," he
muttered as he tramped noisily away. "I suppose it'll be tears there!"
     . . . . .
     The frenzied  laughter died on Arthur's lips. He snatched up the hammer
from the table and flung himself upon the crucifix.
     With the crash  that followed he came suddenly to his senses,  standing
before the  empty pedestal, the hammer still in his  hand, and the fragments
of the broken image scattered on the floor about his feet.
     He threw down the  hammer. "So easy!"  he said, and  turned away.  "And
what an idiot I am!"
     He sat  down by the  table, panting heavily for breath,  and rested his
forehead on  both hands. Presently he  rose, and, going  to  the wash-stand,
poured a jugful  of  cold water over his  head and face. He  came back quite
composed, and sat down to think.
     And  it  was for such things  as these--for  these  false  and  slavish
people,  these  dumb  and  soulless gods--that  he  had  suffered  all these
tortures of shame and  passion and despair; had made a rope to hang himself,
forsooth, because one priest  was a  liar.  As if they  were not  all liars!
Well, all that was done with; he was wiser now. He need only shake off these
vermin and begin life afresh.
     There were  plenty  of goods vessels in the docks; it would be an  easy
matter to  stow himself away in one  of them,  and  get  across  to  Canada,
Australia, Cape Colony--anywhere. It was no  matter for the country, if only
it was far enough; and, as  for the life out  there, he could see, and if it
did not suit him he could try some other place.
     He  took out his  purse. Only thirty-three paoli; but  his watch  was a
good one. That would  help him along a  bit; and  in  any  case it was of no
consequence--he should pull through somehow. But they  would search for him,
all these people; they would be  sure to make inquiries at the docks. No; he
must put them on a false scent--make  them believe him dead; then  he should
be  quite  free-- quite free. He laughed softly to himself at the thought of
the Burtons searching for his corpse. What a farce the whole thing was!
     Taking a sheet of paper, he wrote the first words that occurred to him:
     "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."
     He folded up  the paper, directed it to Montanelli, and, taking another
sheet, wrote across it: "Look for  my body in  Darsena." Then he  put on his
hat and went out  of  the room. Passing his mother's portrait,  he looked up
with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders. She, too, had lied to him.
     He crept softly along the corridor, and, slipping  back the door-bolts,
went out on to the great, dark, echoing marble staircase.  It seemed to yawn
beneath him like a black pit as he descended.
     He crossed the  courtyard, treading  cautiously for fear of waking Gian
Battista, who slept on the ground floor. In the wood-cellar  at the back was
a  little  grated window, opening  on  the canal and not more than four feet
from the ground. He remembered that the rusty grating had broken away on one
side; by pushing a little he could make an aperture wide enough to climb out
by.
     The grating was  strong, and he grazed his  hands  badly and  tore  the
sleeve  of  his coat; but that  was  no matter. He  looked up  and down  the
street;  there was no one in sight,  and the  canal lay black and silent, an
ugly trench between two straight and slimy walls. The untried universe might
prove a  dismal hole, but it  could hardly be more  flat and sordid than the
corner which he was leaving behind him. There was nothing to regret; nothing
to look back upon. It  had been a  pestilent little stagnant  world, full of
squalid lies and clumsy cheats and foul-smelling ditches  that were not even
deep enough to drown a man.
     He walked along the  canal bank, and came  out  upon the tiny square by
the Medici palace. It was here that  Gemma had run up to him with her  vivid
face, her  outstretched hands. Here was the little flight of wet stone steps
leading down to the moat; and there  the  fortress scowling across the strip
of dirty water. He had never noticed before how squat and mean it looked.
     Passing   through  the   narrow  streets   he   reached   the   Darsena
shipping-basin, where he  took off his hat and  flung it into  the water. It
would be found, of course, when they dragged for his body. Then he walked on
along  the water's  edge, considering perplexedly  what to do next.  He must
contrive to hide on some  ship; but it was a difficult thing to do. His only
chance would be to get on to the  huge old Medici breakwater  and walk along
to  the further  end of it.  There  was a  low-class tavern  on  the  point;
probably he should find some sailor there who could be bribed.
     But  the dock gates  were closed. How should he get past them, and past
the customs  officials? His stock of money would not  furnish the high bribe
that  they  would  demand  for  letting him through  at  night and without a
passport. Besides they might recognize him.
     As  he passed  the  bronze  statue of  the "Four Moors," a man's figure
emerged  from  an old  house on  the opposite side of the shipping basin and
approached the  bridge. Arthur slipped at once into  the  deep shadow behind
the group of statuary and crouched down in  the darkness, peeping cautiously
round the corner of the pedestal.
     It was a soft spring night, warm and starlit. The  water lapped against
the stone walls of the  basin and swirled  in gentle eddies round the  steps
with a sound  as of  low  laughter. Somewhere near a chain creaked, swinging
slowly to and fro. A huge iron crane towered up, tall and  melancholy in the
dimness.  Black  on   a  shimmering  expanse   of  starry  sky  and   pearly
cloud-wreaths,  the figures of  the fettered, struggling slaves stood out in
vain and vehement protest against a merciless doom.
     The man approached unsteadily along the water side, shouting an English
street song. He  was evidently  a  sailor returning  from a carouse  at some
tavern. No one else was within  sight.  As he drew near, Arthur stood up and
stepped  into the middle of the  roadway. The sailor broke off  in his  song
with an oath, and stopped short.
     "I want  to  speak to you," Arthur said in Italian. "Do you  understand
me?"
     The man shook his head. "It's  no use  talking  that patter to  me," he
said; then, plunging into bad French, asked sullenly: "What do you want? Why
can't you let me pass?"
     "Just come out of the light here a minute; I want to speak to you."
     "Ah! wouldn't you like it? Out of the light! Got a knife anywhere about
you?"
     "No, no, man!  Can't  you see  I only want  your help? I'll pay you for
it?" "Eh? What? And dressed like a swell, too------" The sailor had relapsed
into English. He now moved into the shadow and leaned against the railing of
the pedestal.
     "Well," he said, returning to his atrocious French; "and what is it you
want?"
     "I want to get away from here----"
     "Aha! Stowaway! Want  me to  hide you? Been up to something, I suppose.
Stuck a knife into somebody, eh? Just like these foreigners! And where might
you be wanting to go? Not to the police station, I fancy?"
     He laughed in his tipsy way, and winked one eye.
     "What vessel do you belong to?"
     "Carlotta--Leghorn  to Buenos Ayres; shipping oil one way and hides the
other.  She's  over there"--pointing in the direction of the  breakwater  --
"beastly old hulk!"
     "Buenos Ayres--yes! Can you hide me anywhere on board?"
     "How much can you give?"
     "Not very much; I have only a few paoli."
     "No. Can't  do  it under  fifty--and cheap  at  that, too--a swell like
you."
     "What  do you mean  by a swell? If you like my  clothes you  may change
with me, but I can't give you more money than I have got."
     "You have a watch there. Hand it over."
     Arthur took out  a lady's gold watch, delicately  chased and enamelled,
with the  initials "G.  B." on the back. It had been  his mother's--but what
did that matter now?
     "Ah!"  remarked the sailor  with  a quick glance  at  it.  "Stolen,  of
course! Let me look!"
     Arthur drew  his hand away. "No," he  said. "I  will give you the watch
when we are on board; not before."
     "You're not such  a  fool as you look,  after all! I'll  bet it's  your
first scrape, though, eh?"
     "That is my business. Ah! there comes the watchman."
     They  crouched down behind the  group  of statuary and  waited till the
watchman had  passed. Then the sailor  rose, and, telling Arthur  to  follow
him, walked on, laughing foolishly to himself. Arthur followed in silence.
     The  sailor led him back to the  little irregular square by  the Medici
palace; and,  stopping  in a dark corner, mumbled in what was intended for a
cautious whisper:
     "Wait here; those soldier fellows will see you if you come further."
     "What are you going to do?"
     "Get  you some clothes. I'm not going  to take you  on  board with that
bloody coatsleeve."
     Arthur  glanced  down  at the sleeve which had been  torn by the window
grating. A little blood from the grazed hand  had fallen upon it.  Evidently
the man thought  him a murderer. Well,  it was of no consequence what people
thought.
     After some time the sailor  came back, triumphant, with  a bundle under
his arm.
     "Change," he whispered; "and make haste about it. I must  get back, and
that old Jew has kept me bargaining and haggling for half an hour."
     Arthur obeyed, shrinking with instinctive disgust at the first touch of
second-hand clothes. Fortunately these, though rough and coarse, were fairly
clean. When he stepped into the light in his new attire,  the  sailor looked
at him with tipsy solemnity and gravely nodded his approval.
     "You'll do,"  he  said.  "This  way,  and don't make a noise."  Arthur,
carrying his discarded  clothes, followed him through a labyrinth of winding
canals  and dark narrow alleys; the mediaeval slum quarter which  the people
of Leghorn call "New Venice." Here and  there a gloomy old palace,  solitary
among  the squalid  houses  and filthy  courts,  stood  between  two noisome
ditches,  with  a forlorn air of trying to preserve its ancient dignity  and
yet of knowing the effort to be a hopeless one. Some of the alleys, he knew,
were  notorious  dens of thieves, cut-throats,  and smugglers;  others  were
merely wretched and poverty-stricken.
     Beside one of the little bridges the sailor stopped, and, looking round
to see  that they were not  observed, descended a flight of stone steps to a
narrow landing stage. Under the bridge was a  dirty, crazy old boat. Sharply
ordering Arthur to jump in and lie  down, he seated himself in  the boat and
began  rowing towards  the harbour's mouth. Arthur lay still on the wet  and
leaky planks, hidden  by the clothes which the man had thrown  over him, and
peeping out from under them at the familiar streets and houses.
     Presently they passed under a bridge and entered that part of the canal
which  forms a  moat  for the fortress.  The massive  walls rose out of  the
water, broad at the base and narrowing upward  to the frowning  turrets. How
strong, how threatening they had seemed to him a few hours ago! And now----
     He laughed softly as he lay in the bottom of the boat.
     "Hold  your noise," the sailor whispered, "and keep your head  covered!
We're close to the custom house."
     Arthur drew the clothes over his head. A  few yards further on the boat
stopped before a row of masts chained together, which lay across the surface
of the canal, blocking the narrow waterway between the  custom house and the
fortress wall. A sleepy official came out yawning and bent over  the water's
edge with a lantern in his hand.
     "Passports, please."
     The sailor  handed up his official papers.  Arthur, half stifled  under
the clothes, held his breath, listening.
     "A nice time of night to come back  to your ship!" grumbled the customs
official. "Been out on the spree, I suppose. What's in your boat?"
     "Old clothes. Got them cheap." He held up the waistcoat for inspection.
The official, lowering his lantern, bent over, straining his eyes to see.
     "It's all right, I suppose. You can pass."
     He lifted the  barrier and  the boat moved slowly out  into  the  dark,
heaving water. At a little distance Arthur sat up and threw off the clothes.
     "Here  she  is,"  the sailor whispered,  after rowing for  some time in
silence. "Keep close behind me and hold your tongue."
     He clambered  up the side of a huge  black monster, swearing  under his
breath at the clumsiness  of the landsman,  though  Arthur's natural agility
rendered  him less awkward than most  people would  have  been in his place.
Once safely on board, they crept cautiously  between  dark masses of rigging
and  machinery,  and  came at last  to  a hatchway,  which the sailor softly
raised.
     "Down here!" he whispered. "I'll be back in a minute."
     The hold was  not  only damp and  dark,  but intolerably foul. At first
Arthur  instinctively drew back, half  choked by the stench of raw hides and
rancid  oil. Then he  remembered  the "punishment cell," and  descended  the
ladder, shrugging his shoulders. Life is pretty much the same everywhere, it
seemed; ugly, putrid, infested  with vermin,  full of  shameful  secrets and
dark corners. Still, life is life, and he must make the best of it.
     In a few minutes the sailor came back with something in his hands which
Arthur could not distinctly see for the darkness.
     "Now, give me the watch and money. Make haste!"
     Taking  advantage of the darkness, Arthur succeeded  in  keeping back a
few coins.
     "You must get me something to eat," he said; "I am half starved."
     "I've  brought it. Here you are." The sailor handed him a pitcher, some
hard biscuit,  and  a piece of salt pork.  "Now mind, you must hide  in this
empty barrel,  here, when  the  customs officers  come to  examine to-morrow
morning. Keep as still as a mouse till we're right out at sea. I'll  let you
know  when to come out. And won't  you  just catch it when the  captain sees
you--that's all! Got the drink safe? Good-night!"
     The hatchway closed, and Arthur, setting the precious "drink" in a safe
place, climbed  on to an oil barrel  to  eat his  pork and biscuit. Then  he
curled himself up  on the  dirty floor;  and, for the first time  since  his
babyhood, settled himself to sleep without a prayer. The rats scurried round
him in the darkness;  but neither their persistent noise  nor the swaying of
the ship, nor  the nauseating stench of oil, nor the prospect of to-morrow's
sea-sickness, could keep him awake.  He cared no more for them all  than for
the broken and dishonoured idols that  only yesterday had been  the  gods of
his adoration.

        PART II: CHAPTER I.
     ONE evening  in  July,  1846,  a  few  acquaintances  met  at Professor
Fabrizi's house in Florence to discuss plans for future political work.
     Several of them belonged  to  the  Mazzinian party and  would have been
satisfied with  nothing  less than a democratic Republic and a United Italy.
Others  were Constitutional Monarchists and Liberals  of  various shades. On
one point, however, they  were all agreed; that of dissatisfaction with  the
Tuscan censorship; and  the popular professor had called the  meeting in the
hope  that,  on  this  one  subject  at least,  the  representatives of  the
dissentient  parties  would  be able  to get  through an  hour's  discussion
without quarrelling.
     Only  a  fortnight had elapsed since the  famous amnesty which Pius IX.
had granted, on  his accession, to political offenders in  the Papal States;
but  the wave of liberal enthusiasm  caused by it was already spreading over
Italy. In Tuscany even the government appeared  to have been affected by the
astounding event. It  had occurred  to  Fabrizi  and  a  few  other  leading
Florentines  that this was a propitious  moment  for a bold effort to reform
the press-laws.
     "Of  course," the dramatist Lega had said, when the  subject was  first
broached to  him; "it would  be impossible to start a newspaper till we  can
get the press-law changed; we should not bring out the first  number. But we
may  be able to run some pamphlets  through the censorship already; and  the
sooner we begin the sooner we shall get the law changed."
     He was now explaining in Fabrizi's library his theory of the line which
should be taken by liberal writers at the moment.
     "There is  no doubt,"  interposed  one  of  the  company, a gray-haired
barrister with a rather drawling manner of speech, "that in some way we must
take advantage of  the  moment. We shall not see such a favourable one again
for  bringing forward serious reforms. But I doubt  the pamphlets  doing any
good. They will only irritate and frighten the government instead of winning
it  over to  our  side,  which  is what we  really want to  do. If  once the
authorities  begin  to  think of  us  as dangerous agitators our  chance  of
getting their help is gone."
     "Then what would you have us do?"
     "Petition."
     "To the Grand Duke?"
     "Yes; for an augmentation of the liberty of the press."
     A  keen-looking, dark man  sitting by the window  turned his head round
with a laugh.
     "You'll get a lot out of petitioning!" he said. "I should have  thought
the  result of the Renzi case  was enough to  cure anybody  of going to work
that way."
     "My  dear sir, I am as much grieved as  you are that we did not succeed
in preventing the  extradition of Renzi. But really--I do  not wish to  hurt
the sensibilities of anyone, but I  cannot help thinking that our failure in
that  case was largely due to  the  impatience and vehemence of some persons
among our number. I should certainly hesitate----"
     "As  every Piedmontese always does,"  the dark man interrupted sharply.
"I don't know where  the vehemence and impatience lay, unless you found them
in the strings  of meek  petitions we  sent  in. That may be  vehemence  for
Tuscany or Piedmont,  but we should not  call  it particularly  vehement  in
Naples."
     "Fortunately,"  remarked  the  Piedmontese,  "Neapolitan  vehemence  is
peculiar to Naples."
     "There,  there,  gentlemen,  that  will  do!"  the  professor  put  in.
"Neapolitan  customs  are  very  good things  in  their way and  Piedmontese
customs in theirs; but just now we are  in Tuscany, and the Tuscan custom is
to stick  to  the matter in  hand. Grassini  votes  for petitions and  Galli
against them. What do you think, Dr. Riccardo?"
     "I see no harm  in petitions, and if  Grassini gets one up I'll sign it
with  all  the  pleasure  in  life.  But I don't think mere  petitioning and
nothing else  will accomplish  much.  Why  can't we have  both petitions and
pamphlets?"
     "Simply because the  pamphlets will put the government into a  state of
mind in which it won't grant the petitions," said Grassini.
     "It won't do that anyhow." The Neapolitan  rose and came  across to the
table.  "Gentlemen,  you're on the wrong  tack. Conciliating the  government
will do no good. What we must do is to rouse the people."
     "That's easier said than done; how are you going to start?"
     "Fancy asking Galli that!  Of course he'd start by  knocking the censor
on the head."
     "No, indeed, I shouldn't," said  Galli stoutly. "You always think if  a
man comes from down south he must believe in no argument but cold steel."
     "Well, what do you propose, then? Sh! Attention, gentlemen! Galli has a
proposal to make."
     The whole  company,  which had broken up into little  knots of twos and
threes,  carrying on  separate  discussions,  collected  round the table  to
listen. Galli raised his hands in expostulation.
     "No, gentlemen,  it  is  not a  proposal; it is merely a suggestion. It
appears to me that  there is a great  practical danger in all this rejoicing
over the new Pope. People seem to think  that,  because he  has struck out a
new line and granted this amnesty, we have only to throw ourselves-- all  of
us, the whole of Italy--into his arms and he will carry  us to the  promised
land. Now, I am second to no one in admiration of the Pope's behaviour;  the
amnesty was a splendid action."
     "I am  sure His  Holiness ought to feel  flattered----"  Grassini began
contemptuously.
     "There, Grassini, do  let the  man speak!" Riccardo interrupted in  his
turn. "It's a most extraordinary  thing  that  you  two never can keep  from
sparring like a cat and dog. Get on, Galli!"
     "What I wanted to say  is  this," continued  the  Neapolitan. "The Holy
Father, undoubtedly, is acting with the best intentions; but how far he will
succeed in  carrying his  reforms is another question.  Just now it's smooth
enough and, of course, the reactionists all over Italy will lie quiet  for a
month or two till the excitement about the amnesty blows over;  but they are
not likely to let the power be taken out of their hands without a fight, and
my own belief is that before the  winter is half  over we shall have Jesuits
and  Gregorians and  Sanfedists and all the rest of the crew about our ears,
plotting and intriguing, and poisoning off everybody they can't bribe."
     "That's likely enough."
     "Very well, then; shall we wait here, meekly sending in petitions, till
Lambruschini and his pack have persuaded  the  Grand Duke to  put  us bodily
under Jesuit rule, with perhaps a few Austrian hussars to patrol the streets
and keep us in order; or shall we forestall them and take advantage of their
momentary discomfiture to strike the first blow?"
     "Tell us first what blow you propose?"
     "I would suggest  that we start an  organized propaganda and  agitation
against the Jesuits."
     "A pamphleteering declaration of war, in fact?"
     "Yes;  exposing  their  intrigues,  ferreting  out their  secrets,  and
calling upon the people to make common cause against them."
     "But there are no Jesuits here to expose."
     "Aren't there? Wait three months and see how many we shall  have. It'll
be too late to keep them out then."
     "But  really  to rouse  the town against  the  Jesuits  one must  speak
plainly; and if you do that how will you evade the censorship?"
     "I wouldn't evade it; I would defy it."
     "You would print the  pamphlets anonymously? That's all very well,  but
the fact is, we have all seen enough of the clandestine press to know----"
     "I  did not mean  that. I would  print the  pamphlets openly, with  our
names and addresses, and let them prosecute us if they dare."
     "The project is a perfectly mad one," Grassini exclaimed. "It is simply
putting one's head into the lion's mouth out of sheer wantonness."
     "Oh, you  needn't be afraid!"  Galli cut in  sharply; "we shouldn't ask
you to go to prison for our pamphlets."
     "Hold your tongue, Galli!" said Riccardo. "It's not a question of being
afraid; we're all as ready as you are to go to prison if there's any good to
be  got by  it,  but it is childish to  run  into danger for nothing. For my
part, I have an amendment to the proposal to suggest."
     "Well, what is it?"
     "I  think we might  contrive,  with care,  to fight the Jesuits without
coming into collision with the censorship."
     "I don't see how you are going to manage it."
     "I think  that  it is possible to clothe what  one  has  to say  in  so
roundabout a form that----"
     "That the censorship won't understand it? And then you'll  expect every
poor artisan  and labourer to find out  the  meaning  by the  light  of  the
ignorance  and  stupidity  that  are  in  him!  That   doesn't  sound   very
practicable."
     "Martini,  what do  you  think?" asked  the  professor,  turning  to  a
broad-shouldered man with a great brown beard, who was sitting beside him.
     "I think that I  will reserve my opinion till I have  more  facts to go
upon. It's a question of trying experiments and seeing what comes of them."
     "And you, Sacconi?"
     "I  should  like to hear what Signora Bolla has to say. Her suggestions
are always valuable."
     Everyone turned to the only woman in the room, who  had been sitting on
the  sofa,  resting her chin on  one  hand  and listening in silence  to the
discussion. She had  deep, serious black eyes, but  as  she raised  them now
there was an unmistakable gleam of amusement in them.
     "I am afraid," she said; "that I disagree with everybody."
     "You  always do, and the worst of  it  is that  you are  always right,"
Riccardo put in.
     "I think it  is quite true that we must fight  the Jesuits somehow; and
if we can't do it with one weapon we must with another. But mere defiance is
a feeble weapon and evasion  a cumbersome one. As for petitioning, that is a
child's toy."
     "I hope, signora," Grassini  interposed, with a solemn face;  "that you
are not suggesting such methods as--assassination?"
     Martini tugged at his big moustache and Galli sniggered outright.  Even
the grave young woman could not repress a smile.
     "Believe  me," she  said, "that if I were ferocious  enough to think of
such things  I should not be  childish  enough to  talk about them.  But the
deadliest  weapon I know is ridicule.  If you can once  succeed in rendering
the Jesuits ludicrous, in making  people laugh at them and their claims, you
have conquered them without bloodshed."
     "I believe you  are right, as far  as that goes,"  Fabrizi said; "but I
don't see how you are going to carry the thing through."
     "Why  should we not be able to  carry  it  through?" asked Martini.  "A
satirical  thing  has  a  better  chance  of  getting  over  the  censorship
difficulty  than a  serious  one;  and,  if  it must be cloaked, the average
reader is more likely  to find out the double meaning of an apparently silly
joke than of a scientific or economic treatise."
     "Then  is your  suggestion, signora,  that  we  should issue  satirical
pamphlets, or  attempt  to  run a  comic paper? That  last, I am  sure,  the
censorship would never allow."
     "I don't  mean  exactly either. I believe a series  of  small satirical
leaflets, in verse or prose, to be sold cheap or distributed  free about the
streets, would be very useful.  If we  could find a  clever artist who would
enter into the spirit of the thing, we might have them illustrated."
     "It's a  capital idea, if only one could carry it out; but if the thing
is  to be done at all it must  be  well done. We  should want a  first-class
satirist; and where are we to get him?"
     "You see," added Lega,  "most  of us are serious writers; and, with all
respect  to the company, I am afraid that a general  attempt to be  humorous
would present the spectacle of an elephant trying to dance the tarantella."
     "I never suggested that we  should all  rush into work for which we are
unfitted. My  idea was that we should try to find a really gifted satirist--
there must be one to be got somewhere in Italy, surely--and offer to provide
the necessary funds. Of course we should have  to know something of  the man
and make sure that he would work on lines with which we could agree."
     "But where are you going to find him? I can count up  the satirists  of
any real  talent on the fingers of one hand; and none of them are available.
Giusti wouldn't accept; he is  fully occupied as it is. There are one or two
good men in Lombardy, but they write only in the Milanese dialect----"
     "And moreover,"  said Grassini, "the Tuscan people can be influenced in
better ways than this. I am sure that it would be felt as, to say the least,
a want of political savoir faire if we were to treat this solemn question of
civil and  religious  liberty  as a subject for trifling. Florence is not  a
mere  wilderness of factories  and money-getting like London, nor a haunt of
idle luxury like Paris. It is a city with a great history------"
     "So was Athens," she interrupted, smiling; "but it was 'rather sluggish
from its size and needed a gadfly to rouse it'----"
     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 Ayres. 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
company. He actually got Spinola's search-party to give him a lift, and rode
the whole day in one of their waggons, telling them harrowing stories of how
he had been taken captive by the rebels and dragged off into their haunts in
the mountains,  and of the fearful tortures that he  had suffered  at  their
hands. They showed him  the description paper,  and  he  told  them all  the
rubbish he could  think  of about 'the fiend they call the Gadfly.'  Then at
night, when  they were asleep,  he poured a  bucketful of water  into  their
powder   and  decamped,   with   his   pockets  full   of   provisions   and
ammunition------"
     "Ah, here's the paper," Fabrizi broke in: "'Felice Rivarez, called: The
Gadfly.  Age,  about  30; birthplace and parentage, unknown, probably  South
American; profession, journalist. Short; black hair; black beard; dark skin;
eyes, blue; forehead, broad  and square; nose, mouth, chin------' Yes,  here
it  is:  'Special  marks: right foot  lame;  left arm  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."
        PART II: 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 Sheba? That's not
the way to keep clear of spies."
     "You'll never be able to personate the stupid  society woman if you try
for ever. But it doesn't matter, after all; you're too fair to look upon for
spies to guess your opinions, even though  you can't simper  and hide behind
your fan like Signora Grassini."
     "Now  Cesare,  let  that  poor  woman  alone!  There,  take  some  more
barley-sugar to  sweeten  your temper. Are  you  ready? Then  we  had better
start."
     Martini had been quite right in saying  that the conversazione would be
both crowded and dull. The literary men talked polite  small-talk and looked
hopelessly  bored,  while  the "nondescript crowd  of tourists  and  Russian
princes"  fluttered up and down the rooms, asking each other  who  were  the
various  celebrities and  trying  to  carry  on  intellectual  conversation.
Grassini was receiving his guests with a manner as carefully polished as his
boots; but his cold face lighted up at the sight of Gemma. He did not really
like her  and indeed  was secretly a little afraid of  her; but  he realized
that without  her his drawing room would  lack  a  great attraction. He  had
risen high in his profession,  and  now that he was rich and  well known his
chief ambition was to make of his house a centre of liberal and intellectual
society.  He  was painfully  conscious  that  the insignificant, overdressed
little  woman whom in his youth he had made  the mistake of marrying was not
fit, with her vapid talk and faded prettiness, to be the mistress of a great
literary salon. When he could prevail upon Gemma to come he always felt that
the evening would be a success.  Her  quiet graciousness of  manner set  the
guests at their ease,  and her very  presence seemed to  lay  the spectre of
vulgarity which always, in his imagination, haunted the house.
     Signora  Grassini greeted  Gemma affectionately, exclaiming in  a  loud
whisper: "How charming you look to-night!" and examining the white  cashmere
with  viciously critical  eyes. She hated her visitor  rancourously, for the
very things  for  which  Martini  loved  her;  for  her  quiet  strength  of
character;  for her grave, sincere directness; for the steady balance of her
mind; for the very expression of her face. And when Signora Grassini hated a
woman, she showed  it by effusive tenderness. Gemma took the compliments and
endearments for what they  were worth, and troubled  her  head no more about
them.  What  is called  "going  into society" was  in her  eyes  one  of the
wearisome and rather  unpleasant tasks which a conspirator who wishes not to
attract the notice  of  spies must conscientiously fulfil.  She  classed  it
together  with the laborious work of  writing  in cipher; and,  knowing  how
valuable a practical safeguard against suspicion is  the reputation of being
a well-dressed woman, studied the fashion-plates as carefully as she did the
keys of her ciphers.
     The bored and melancholy  literary  lions brightened up a little at the
sound  of Gemma's name;  she was very  popular  among them;  and the radical
journalists, especially, gravitated at once to her end of the long room. But
she was far too practised a conspirator to let them monopolize her. Radicals
could be had any day; and now, when they came crowding round her, she gently
sent  them about their business,  reminding them with a smile that they need
not  waste their time on converting her when there were so  many tourists in
need  of instruction. For her part, she devoted herself to  an English M. P.
whose sympathies the republican party was anxious  to gain; and, knowing him
to be  a specialist on finance, she first won  his  attention  by asking his
opinion  on  a technical  point concerning the  Austrian  currency, and then
deftly turned  the  conversation to the  condition of the  Lombardo-Venetian
revenue.  The  Englishman,  who  had  expected to  be bored with small-talk,
looked  askance  at  her,  evidently fearing that  he  had  fallen into  the
clutches of a blue-stocking; but finding  that she was both pleasant to look
at and interesting to talk  to,  surrendered completely and  plunged into as
grave a discussion of Italian finance  as if she  had  been Metternich. When
Grassini  brought up  a Frenchman "who wishes to ask Signora Bolla something
about  the history of Young Italy," the M. P. rose  with a  bewildered sense
that  perhaps  there was  more ground for  Italian discontent  than  he  had
supposed.
     Later  in the evening Gemma  slipped out  on to  the terrace under  the
drawing-room  windows  to  sit  alone  for  a  few  moments among the  great
camellias and oleanders. The close air and continually shifting crowd in the
rooms  were  beginning  to  give her  a headache. At  the further end of the
terrace  stood  a row of  palms and tree-ferns, planted in large  tubs which
were hidden by a bank of lilies and other flowering plants. The whole formed
a  complete screen,  behind which  was a little nook commanding a  beautiful
view  out across the valley. The branches of  a pomegranate  tree, clustered
with late blossoms, hung beside the narrow opening between the plants.
     In  this  nook  Gemma took refuge,  hoping  that no one would guess her
whereabouts until she  had secured herself  against the threatening headache
by a little rest and silence. The  night was warm and beautifully still; but
coming out  from the  hot, close  rooms she felt it cool, and drew her  lace
scarf about her head.
     Presently  the  sounds of voices and footsteps  approaching  along  the
terrace roused her from the dreamy state into which she had fallen. She drew
back into  the  shadow, hoping to escape notice and get a few more  precious
minutes of  silence  before  again  having  to  rack  her  tired  brain  for
conversation. To her  great  annoyance  the  footsteps paused  near  to  the
screen; then  Signora Grassini's  thin, piping little voice broke off for  a
moment in its stream of chatter.
     The other voice,  a  man's,  was  remarkably soft and musical; but  its
sweetness of  tone was  marred  by a  peculiar,  purring drawl, perhaps mere
affectation, more probably the  result  of a habitual effort to conquer some
impediment of speech, but in any case very unpleasant.
     "English,  did  you  say?"  it asked.  "But  surely the  name is  quite
Italian. What was it-- Bolla?"
     "Yes; she is  the  widow of  poor Giovanni  Bolla, who  died in England
about four  years ago,-- don't you remember?  Ah,  I forgot--you lead such a
wandering  life;  we can't expect  you to know of all our  unhappy country's
martyrs--they are so many!"
     Signora Grassini  sighed. She always talked in this style to strangers;
the role of a patriotic mourner for the sorrows of Italy formed an effective
combination with her boarding-school manner and pretty infantine pout.
     "Died in England!" repeated the other voice. "Was he a refugee, then? I
seem to recognize the name,  somehow; was  he not connected with Young Italy
in its early days?"
     "Yes; he was  one  of the unfortunate young  men who were  arrested  in
'33--you  remember that sad affair? He was released in a  few  months; then,
two or three years later, when there was a warrant out against him again, he
escaped to England. The next we heard was that he was  married there. It was
a most romantic affair altogether, but poor Bolla always was romantic."
     "And then he died in England, you say?"
     "Yes, of consumption; he could not stand that terrible English climate.
And she lost  her only child just before his death; it caught scarlet fever.
Very sad, is it not? And we are all so fond of dear Gemma! She is  a  little
stiff, poor  thing; the  English always  are,  you know;  but  I  think  her
troubles have made her melancholy, and----"
     Gemma stood up and pushed back the boughs of the pomegranate tree. This
retailing  of  her  private sorrows for  purposes of  small-talk was  almost
unbearable  to  her, and  there  was visible  annoyance in  her  face as she
stepped into the light.
     "Ah!  here  she is!" exclaimed  the  hostess,  with admirable coolness.
"Gemma, dear, I was  wondering  where you could  have disappeared to. Signor
Felice Rivarez wishes to make your acquaintance."
     "So  it's  the  Gadfly,"  thought  Gemma,  looking  at  him  with  some
curiosity. He bowed to her decorously enough,  but his eyes glanced over her
face  and  figure with  a  look  which  seemed  to  her insolently keen  and
inquisitorial.
     "You  have  found  a  d-d-delightful little  nook  here," he  remarked,
looking at the thick screen; "and w-w-what a charming view!"
     "Yes; it's a pretty corner. I came out here to get some air."
     "It seems almost ungrateful to the good God to  stay indoors on  such a
lovely night,"  said the  hostess, raising  her eyes to  the stars. (She had
good eyelashes  and liked to show them.) "Look, signore! Would not our sweet
Italy be heaven on earth if only  she were free? To think that she should be
a bond-slave, with such flowers and such skies!"
     "And such patriotic  women!" the  Gadfly murmured  in his soft, languid
drawl.
     Gemma  glanced round at  him in some trepidation; his impudence was too
glaring,   surely,  to  deceive  anyone.  But  she  had  underrated  Signora
Grassini's  appetite  for compliments; the poor woman  cast  down her lashes
with a sigh.
     "Ah,  signore, it is so little that a woman can do!  Perhaps some day I
may prove my  right to the name of an Italian--who  knows? And now I must go
back  to my social duties;  the French ambassador has begged me to introduce
his ward to all the notabilities;  you  must come  in presently and see her.
She  is  a most charming girl. Gemma, dear, I brought  Signor Rivarez out to
show  him  our beautiful view; I must leave him under  your care. I know you
will look  after  him  and  introduce him  to everyone.  Ah! there  is  that
delightful  Russian prince!  Have  you  met  him?  They say he  is  a  great
favourite of the Emperor Nicholas. He  is military commander of  some Polish
town  with  a  name  that nobody  can  pronounce.  Quelle  nuit  magnifique!
N'est-ce-pas, mon prince?"
     She  fluttered  away, chattering volubly  to  a bull-necked  man with a
heavy jaw  and a coat  glittering with orders; and her  plaintive dirges for
"notre  malheureuse patrie," interpolated  with "charmant" and "mon prince,"
died away along the terrace.
     Gemma stood  quite still beside the pomegranate tree. She was sorry for
the poor, silly little woman, and annoyed at the Gadfly's languid insolence.
He  was  watching  the retreating figures with  an  expression of face  that
angered her; it seemed ungenerous to mock at such pitiable creatures.
     "There  go Italian and--Russian patriotism,"  he said, turning  to  her
with a  smile; "arm in arm and  mightily  pleased with each other's company.
Which do you prefer?"
     She frowned slightly and made no answer.
     "Of c-course,"  he went on; "it's all  a question of p-personal  taste;
but I think, of the two, I like  the Russian variety best--it's so thorough.
If Russia had to depend on flowers and skies for her supremacy instead of on
powder and shot, how long do you think 'mon prince' would k-keep that Polish
fortress?"
     "I think," she answered coldly, "that we can hold our personal opinions
without ridiculing a woman whose guests we are."
     "Ah, yes! I f-forgot the obligations of hospitality here in Italy; they
are a wonderfully hospitable people, these Italians. I'm sure the  Austrians
find them so. Won't you sit down?"
     He  limped across  the  terrace  to  fetch  a chair for her, and placed
himself opposite  to  her, leaning against the balustrade. The light  from a
window was  shining full on his  face; and she  was able to  study it at her
leisure.
     She was disappointed.  She had expected to see a striking and powerful,
if not pleasant face;  but the most salient points of  his appearance were a
tendency to  foppishness  in  dress and  rather more  than  a tendency to  a
certain veiled insolence  of expression and  manner. For the rest, he was as
swarthy as a mulatto,  and, notwithstanding his lameness, as agile as a cat.
His whole personality was oddly  suggestive of a black jaguar. The  forehead
and left cheek were terribly disfigured by the long  crooked scar of the old
sabre-cut; and  she had already noticed that,  when  he began to  stammer in
speaking, that side of his face was  affected with a nervous twitch. But for
these defects he  would have been,  in a certain restless  and uncomfortable
way, rather handsome; but it was not an attractive face.
     Presently he began again in his soft, murmuring purr ("Just the voice a
jaguar would talk in, if it could speak  and  were in a  good humour," Gemma
said to herself with rising irritation).
     "I hear," he said, "that you are interested in the  radical press,  and
write for the papers."
     "I write a little; I have not time to do much."
     "Ah,  of course! I understood from Signora Grassini  that you undertake
other important work as well."
     Gemma  raised her eyebrows slightly. Signora Grassini,  like the  silly
little  woman she  was, had  evidently been chattering imprudently  to  this
slippery  creature, whom  Gemma,  for  her  part, was beginning  actually to
dislike.
     "My time is a  good  deal  taken  up," she  said  rather stiffly;  "but
Signora Grassini overrates the importance of my occupations. They are mostly
of a very trivial character."
     "Well, the world would be in a bad way if  we ALL of us spent  our time
in  chanting dirges for Italy. I should think the  neighbourhood of our host
of this evening and his wife would make anybody  frivolous, in self-defence.
Oh, yes, I know what you're going to say;  you are perfectly right, but they
are both so  deliciously  funny  with  their patriotism.--Are  you going  in
already? It is so nice out here!"
     "I think I will go in now. Is that my scarf? Thank you."
     He  had picked it up, and now stood looking at  her with  wide  eyes as
blue and innocent as forget-me-nots in a brook.
     "I  know you are offended  with  me," he said penitently, "for  fooling
that painted-up wax doll; but what can a fellow do?"
     "Since you ask  me,  I do  think  it  an ungenerous and--well--cowardly
thing to hold one's intellectual inferiors up to ridicule in that way; it is
like laughing at a cripple, or------"
     He caught his  breath suddenly, painfully; and shrank back, glancing at
his lame  foot and  mutilated  hand.  In another instant  he  recovered  his
self-possession and burst out laughing.
     "That's hardly a fair comparison, signora; we cripples don't flaunt our
deformities in people's  faces as she  does her stupidity. At least  give us
credit  for  recognizing that  crooked backs are no pleasanter than  crooked
ways. There is a step here; will you take my arm?"
     She  re-entered  the  house  in  embarrassed  silence;  his  unexpected
sensitiveness had completely disconcerted her.
     Directly he opened the  door of the  great reception room  she realized
that something unusual  had happened  in  her absence. Most of the gentlemen
looked  both  angry  and  uncomfortable; the  ladies, with  hot  cheeks  and
carefully feigned  unconsciousness, were  all  collected at  one end  of the
room;   the  host   was  fingering  his  eye-glasses  with  suppressed   but
unmistakable fury, and a little group of  tourists stood in a corner casting
amused glances at the further end of the room. Evidently something was going
on there  which appeared to them in the light of a joke, and  to most of the
guests in that of an  insult. Signora  Grassini alone did not appear to have
noticed  anything; she was fluttering her fan coquettishly and chattering to
the secretary of the Dutch embassy, who  listened with  a  broad grin on his
face.
     Gemma paused  an instant  in the doorway, turning to see if the Gadfly,
too,  had noticed the  disturbed appearance of  the  company. There  was  no
mistaking the malicious triumph in  his eyes as he glanced from the  face of
the blissfully unconscious hostess to a sofa at  the  end  of the room.  She
understood  at once;  he  had  brought  his mistress  here  under some false
colour, which had deceived no one but Signora Grassini.
     The gipsy-girl  was leaning  back on the sofa, surrounded by a group of
simpering dandies and blandly  ironical cavalry officers. She was gorgeously
dressed in amber  and  scarlet,  with an  Oriental brilliancy  of  tint  and
profusion of ornament as startling in a Florentine literary salon as  if she
had been some tropical bird among sparrows and starlings. She herself seemed
to  feel  out of place, and  looked  at the offended ladies  with a fiercely
contemptuous scowl. Catching sight of the Gadfly as he crossed the room with
Gemma, she sprang up and came towards him, with a voluble flood of painfully
incorrect French.
     "M. Rivarez, I have  been  looking  for you everywhere!  Count Saltykov
wants to know whether you can go to his villa to-morrow night. There will be
dancing."
     "I am sorry I can't go;  but then  I couldn't dance if I  did.  Signora
Bolla, allow me to introduce to you Mme. Zita Reni."
     The gipsy glanced  round at Gemma with  a  half  defiant air  and bowed
stiffly.  She was certainly handsome  enough, as  Martini  had said, with  a
vivid, animal, unintelligent beauty; and the perfect harmony and freedom  of
her  movements were delightful  to see; but her forehead was low and narrow,
and the  line of  her delicate nostrils was unsympathetic, almost cruel. The
sense  of  oppression  which Gemma  had  felt  in  the  Gadfly's society was
intensified by the gypsy's presence; and when, a moment later, the host came
up  to  beg Signora Bolla to help him entertain  some tourists  in the other
room, she consented with an odd feeling of relief.
     . . . . .
     "Well, Madonna, and what do you  think of the Gadfly?" Martini asked as
they drove back to Florence late at night. "Did you ever see  anything quite
so shameless as the way he fooled that poor little Grassini woman?"
     "About the ballet-girl, you mean?"
     "Yes, he persuaded her the girl was going to be the lion of the season.
Signora Grassini would do anything for a celebrity."
     "I  thought it an  unfair  and unkind thing to do; it put the Grassinis
into a false  position;  and  it  was nothing  less than cruel  to the  girl
herself. I am sure she felt ill at ease."
     "You had a talk with him, didn't you? What did you think of him?"
     "Oh, Cesare, I didn't  think anything except how  glad I was to see the
last of him. I never  met anyone so fearfully tiring. He gave  me a headache
in ten minutes. He is like an incarnate demon of unrest."
     "I thought you wouldn't like him; and, to tell the truth, no more do I.
The man's as slippery as an eel; I don't trust him."
        PART II: CHAPTER III.
     THE Gadfly took lodgings outside the Roman gate, near to which Zita was
boarding. He was evidently  somewhat of a  sybarite; and, though  nothing in
the  rooms  showed  any  serious  extravagance,  there  was  a  tendency  to
luxuriousness in  trifles and  to a  certain  fastidious daintiness  in  the
arrangement  of  everything which  surprised  Galli  and Riccardo. They  had
expected to  find  a man  who had lived among the wildernesses of the Amazon
more simple in  his tastes,  and wondered at his spotless  ties and  rows of
boots,  and  at  the masses of  flowers which always stood  upon his writing
table. On the  whole they  got on very well  with him. He was hospitable and
friendly to everyone,  especially  to  the local  members of  the  Mazzinian
party.  To  this rule Gemma, apparently,  formed an exception; he seemed  to
have taken a dislike to her from  the time  of their  first meeting, and  in
every way  avoided  her company. On  two or  three occasions he was actually
rude  to her, thus bringing upon himself Martini's most cordial detestation.
There had been no love lost  between  the  two men from the beginning; their
temperaments  appeared to be too incompatible for them  to feel anything but
repugnance for each  other. On Martini's part this  was fast developing into
hostility.
     "I don't care about his not liking me," he  said one day  to Gemma with
an aggrieved air.  "I don't like him, for  that  matter;  so there's no harm
done. But  I can't  stand  the way  he behaves to you. If it weren't for the
scandal it would make in the party first to  beg a man  to come  and then to
quarrel with him, I should call him to account for it."
     "Let him  alone, Cesare;  it  isn't of any consequence,  and after all,
it's as much my fault as his."
     "What is your fault?"
     "That  he dislikes  me so. I said  a brutal thing to him when we  first
met, that night at the Grassinis'."
     "YOU said a brutal thing? That's hard to believe, Madonna."
     "It  was  unintentional,  of  course,  and  I  was very sorry.  I  said
something about people  laughing at cripples,  and he took it personally. It
had never occurred to me to think of him as  a cripple; he  is  not so badly
deformed."
     "Of course not. He has one shoulder higher than the other, and his left
arm is pretty badly  disabled, but  he's neither hunchbacked nor clubfooted.
As for his lameness, it isn't worth talking about."
     "Anyway, he  shivered all  over  and changed colour.  Of  course it was
horribly tactless of me, but it's odd he should be so sensitive. I wonder if
he has ever suffered from any cruel jokes of that kind."
     "Much more likely to  have perpetrated them, I should  think. There's a
sort of internal brutality about that man, under all his fine  manners, that
is perfectly sickening to me."
     "Now, Cesare, that's downright unfair. I  don't like  him any more than
you do, but what  is the use of  making him out worse than he is? His manner
is  a  little  affected  and  irritating--I  expect  he has  been  too  much
lionized--and the everlasting smart speeches  are dreadfully  tiring; but  I
don't believe he means any harm."
     "I  don't know what he  means, but there's something not clean  about a
man  who  sneers at everything.  It fairly  disgusted me  the  other day  at
Fabrizi's debate  to hear the way he cried down the reforms in Rome, just as
if he wanted to find a foul motive for everything."
     Gemma sighed.  "I am afraid I agreed better  with  him than with you on
that  point,"  she  said.  "All you good people  are  so full  of  the  most
delightful hopes and expectations; you are always ready to think that if one
well-meaning  middle-aged gentleman happens to get elected  Pope, everything
else  will  come right of itself. He has only  got to throw open the  prison
doors and give  his  blessing to everybody all round, and we may  expect the
millennium within three months. You never seem able to see that he can't set
things right even if he would. It's the principle of the thing that's wrong,
not the behaviour of this man or that."
     "What principle? The temporal power of the Pope?"
     "Why that in particular? That's merely a part of the general wrong. The
bad principle is that any man should hold over another the power to bind and
loose. It's a false relationship to stand in towards one's fellows."
     Martini held up his hands. "That  will do, Madonna," he said, laughing.
"I  am  not  going  to  discuss  with  you,  once  you  begin  talking  rank
Antinomianism  in  that  fashion. I'm  sure  your ancestors must  have  been
English  Levellers in  the seventeenth century. Besides,  what I came  round
about is this MS."
     He pulled it out of his pocket.
     "Another new pamphlet?"
     "A stupid  thing  this  wretched  man Rivarez  sent  in  to yesterday's
committee. I knew we should come to loggerheads with him before long."
     "What is the matter with it? Honestly, Cesare, I think you are a little
prejudiced. Rivarez may be unpleasant, but he's not stupid."
     "Oh, I don't  deny that this is  clever enough in its way;  but you had
better read the thing yourself."
     The pamphlet was a  skit on the wild  enthusiasm over the new Pope with
which Italy was still ringing. Like all  the Gadfly's writing, it was bitter
and  vindictive;  but,  notwithstanding  her irritation at  the style, Gemma
could not help recognizing in her heart the justice of the criticism.
     "I quite agree with you  that  it  is  detestably malicious," she said,
laying  down the manuscript. "But the worst thing about it is that it's  all
true."
     "Gemma!"
     "Yes,  but it  is. The man's  a cold-blooded eel, if you like; but he's
got  the  truth  on his  side.  There  is  no  use in our trying to persuade
ourselves that this doesn't hit the mark--it does!"
     "Then do you suggest that we should print it?"
     "Ah! that's  quite another  matter. I certainly don't think we ought to
print it  as it stands; it would hurt and alienate everybody and do no good.
But  if he would rewrite it and  cut  out the  personal attacks, I think  it
might  be made into a really valuable piece of work. As  political criticism
it  is very fine. I had no idea he could write so well. He says things which
need saying and which none of  us have had the courage to say. This passage,
where  he compares Italy to a tipsy man weeping with  tenderness on the neck
of the thief who is picking his pocket, is splendidly written."
     "Gemma! The very worst bit in the whole  thing! I hate that ill-natured
yelping at everything and everybody!"
     "So do I; but that's not the point.  Rivarez  has  a very  disagreeable
style, and as a  human  being he is not attractive; but when he says that we
have made ourselves drunk  with processions and embracing and shouting about
love and reconciliation, and that the Jesuits and  Sanfedists are the people
who will profit by it all, he's right a thousand times.  I wish I could have
been at the committee yesterday. What decision did you finally arrive at?"
     "What I have come  here about: to ask you to go and talk  it over  with
him and persuade him to soften the thing."
     "Me?  But  I hardly know the man; and besides that,  he detests me. Why
should I go, of all people?"
     "Simply because there's no one else  to do it to-day. Besides,  you are
more reasonable than the rest of us, and  won't get into  useless  arguments
and quarrel with him, as we should."
     "I shan't do  that,  certainly. Well, I will go if you  like,  though I
have not much hope of success."
     "I am sure you will be able to manage him if you try. Yes, and tell him
that the committee all admired the thing from a literary point of view. That
will put him into a good humour, and it's perfectly true, too."
     . . . . .
     The Gadfly was sitting  beside a table covered with  flowers and ferns,
staring absently at the floor, with an open  letter  on his knee.  A  shaggy
collie dog, lying on a rug at his feet, raised its head and growled as Gemma
knocked at the open door, and the Gadfly rose hastily and  bowed in a stiff,
ceremonious way. His face had suddenly grown hard and expressionless.
     "You are too kind," he said in  his  most  chilling manner. "If you had
let me know that you wanted to speak to me I would have called on you."
     Seeing  that he  evidently wished  her  at the end of the earth,  Gemma
hastened to state her business. He bowed again and placed a chair for her.
     "The  committee wished me to  call upon you," she began, "because there
has been a certain difference of opinion about your pamphlet."
     "So I  expected." He smiled and sat  down opposite  to  her, drawing  a
large vase of chrysanthemums between his face and the light.
     "Most of the members agreed that,  however  much  they  may admire  the
pamphlet as a literary composition, they do  not think  that  in its present
form it  is quite suitable for publication. They fear  that the vehemence of
its tone may give offence, and alienate  persons whose help  and support are
valuable to the party."
     He  pulled a chrysanthemum from the vase and began  slowly plucking off
one white petal after another. As her eyes happened to catch the movement of
the  slim  right hand dropping  the  petals, one by  one,  an  uncomfortable
sensation  came over  Gemma, as  though she had somewhere seen that  gesture
before.
     "As a literary composition," he remarked in  his soft,  cold voice, "it
is utterly worthless, and could be admired only by persons  who know nothing
about  literature.  As  for  its giving offence,  that  is the very thing  I
intended it to do."
     "That I quite understand. The question is  whether you may not  succeed
in giving offence to the wrong people."
     He shrugged his shoulders and put a  torn-off  petal between his teeth.
"I think you are mistaken," he said. "The  question is: For what purpose did
your  committee invite me to come here? I understood, to expose and ridicule
the Jesuits. I fulfil my obligation to the best of my ability."
     "And  I can assure  you that  no one has  any doubt  as to  either  the
ability or the good-will. What the committee fears is that the liberal party
may take  offence,  and also that the town workmen may withdraw their  moral
support. You may  have meant the pamphlet for an attack upon the Sanfedists:
but many  readers will construe it as an attack upon the Church and  the new
Pope; and  this,  as a matter of political tactics,  the committee  does not
consider desirable."
     "I begin to understand. So  long as  I  keep to the  particular  set of
clerical gentlemen with whom the party is just now on bad terms, I may speak
sooth  if the fancy takes me;  but directly I touch upon the committee's own
pet priests--'truth's a  dog  must to kennel; he  must  be whipped out, when
the--Holy  Father may stand by the fire and-----' Yes,  the fool was  right;
I'd  rather be any kind of a thing than a  fool. Of course I must bow to the
committee's  decision, but I  continue to think that it has pared its wit o'
both sides and left--M-mon-signor M-m-montan-n-nelli in the middle."
     "Montanelli?" Gemma repeated. "I don't understand  you. Do you mean the
Bishop of Brisighella?"
     "Yes; the new Pope has just created him a Cardinal, you know.  I have a
letter about  him here. Would you care to hear it? The writer is a friend of
mine on the other side of the frontier."
     "The Papal frontier?"
     "Yes. This is what he writes----" He took up  the letter which had been
in his hand when she  entered, and read aloud, suddenly beginning to stammer
violently:
     "'Y-o-you will s-s-s-soon have the p-pleasure of m-m-meeting one of our
w-w-worst enemies,  C-cardinal  Lorenzo  M-montan-n-nelli, the B-b-bishop of
Brisig-g-hella. He int-t----'"
     He  broke  off,  paused  a  moment, and  began again,  very slowly  and
drawling insufferably, but no longer stammering:
     "'He intends to visit  Tuscany during the coming month on  a mission of
reconciliation. He will preach first  in  Florence, where he will  stay  for
about three weeks; then  will go  on  to  Siena and Pisa, and return to  the
Romagna  by  Pistoja.  He  ostensibly  belongs to  the liberal  party in the
Church, and is a  personal friend  of the Pope and  Cardinal  Feretti. Under
Gregory he was out  of favour, and was kept out of sight in a little hole in
the Apennines.  Now he has come suddenly to the front. Really, of course, he
is as  much pulled by Jesuit  wires as any Sanfedist  in  the country.  This
mission was suggested by some of the  Jesuit  fathers. He is one of the most
brilliant  preachers  in  the Church,  and  as  mischievous  in  his  way as
Lambruschini himself. His  business is to keep  the  popular enthusiasm over
the Pope from subsiding, and to occupy the public  attention until the Grand
Duke has signed a project which the agents of the  Jesuits  are preparing to
lay before him. What  this project is I have been unable to discover.' Then,
further on, it says:  'Whether Montanelli understands for what purpose he is
being  sent to Tuscany, or whether the Jesuits  are playing on him, I cannot
make out. He is  either an uncommonly clever knave, or  the biggest ass that
was ever foaled. The odd thing is that, so far as I can discover, he neither
takes  bribes nor keeps mistresses--the first time I ever came across such a
thing.'"
     He laid down  the letter and  sat looking at her with  half-shut  eyes,
waiting, apparently, for her to speak.
     "Are  you satisfied that your informant  is  correct in his facts?" she
asked after a moment.
     "As to the  irreproachable character  of Monsignor  M-mon-t-tan-nelli's
private life? No; but neither is he. As  you  will  observe, he  puts in the
s-s-saving clause: 'So far as I c-can discover----
     "I was not speaking of that,"  she interposed coldly, "but  of the part
about this mission."
     "I can fully  trust the writer. He is an old friend of mine--one  of my
comrades  of '43, and  he  is  in  a  position  which gives  him exceptional
opportunities for finding out things of that kind."
     "Some  official at the Vatican," thought Gemma quickly.  "So that's the
kind of connections you have? I guessed there was something of that sort."
     "This  letter is, of  course, a private one," the Gadfly  went on; "and
you understand that the information is to be kept strictly to the members of
your committee."
     "That hardly  needs saying. Then about  the pamphlet:  may  I  tell the
committee that you consent to make a few alterations and soften it a little,
or that----"
     "Don't you  think the alterations may succeed in spoiling the beauty of
the 'literary composition,' signora, as well as in reducing the vehemence of
the tone?"
     "You are asking my personal  opinion. What  I have come here to express
is that of the committee as a whole."
     "Does that imply that y-y-you disagree with  the committee as a whole?"
He  had  put  the  letter  into his  pocket and was now leaning forward  and
looking at  her  with an eager, concentrated  expression which quite changed
the  character  of his face.  "You think----" "If  you care to  know  what I
personally think --I disagree with the majority on both points.  I do not at
all  admire the pamphlet  from a literary  point of view, and  I do think it
true as a presentation of facts and wise as a matter of tactics."
     "That is------"
     "I  quite  agree  with  you  that  Italy   is  being   led  away  by  a
will-o'-the-wisp and  that all this  enthusiasm  and rejoicing will probably
land her in  a terrible bog; and I should be most heartily glad to have that
openly and  boldly said, even at the cost of offending or alienating some of
our  present supporters.  But  as a member of  a body the  large majority of
which holds the opposite view, I cannot insist upon my personal opinion; and
I  certainly think that if  things of that kind are  to be said at all, they
should  be said temperately and quietly; not in the  tone  adopted  in  this
pamphlet."
     "Will you wait a minute while I look through the manuscript?"
     He took it up and  glanced down the pages. A dissatisfied frown settled
on his face.
     "Yes,  of course, you are perfectly  right. The  thing's written like a
cafe chantant  skit, not  a political  satire. But what's  a man to do? If I
write decently the public won't understand it; they will say it's dull if it
isn't spiteful enough."
     "Don't you think spitefulness manages to be dull  when we get  too much
of it?"
     He threw a keen, rapid glance at her, and burst out laughing.
     "Apparently the signora belongs to the  dreadful category of people who
are always right! Then if I yield to  the temptation to be spiteful,  I  may
come  in  time to be as dull as  Signora Grassini? Heavens, what a fate! No,
you needn't  frown. I know  you don't  like me,  and  I am going  to keep to
business. What it comes to, then,  is  practically  this:  if I cut out  the
personalities  and leave  the  essential  part of the thing as  it  is,  the
committee will very much regret  that they  can't take the responsibility of
printing  it. If I cut out the political truth and  make all the  hard names
apply to no one but the party's enemies, the committee will praise the thing
up to the skies, and you and  I will know it's not worth printing.  Rather a
nice point of  metaphysics:  Which is the  more  desirable condition,  to be
printed  and  not  be worth it, or to  be worth it and not be printed? Well,
signora?"
     "I do not think you are tied to any such alternative. I believe that if
you were to cut out the personalities the  committee would  consent to print
the pamphlet, though the majority would, of course, not agree with it; and I
am convinced that it would be  very  useful. But you would have to lay aside
the spitefulness. If you are going to say a thing the  substance of which is
a big pill for your readers to swallow, there is no use in  frightening them
at the beginning by the form."
     He  sighed  and shrugged  his shoulders resignedly. "I submit, signora;
but on one condition. If you rob me of my laugh now, I must have it out next
time. When His Eminence, the irreproachable Cardinal, turns  up in Florence,
neither  you nor your committee  must object to  my being as  spiteful  as I
like. It's my due!"
     He spoke  in  his lightest,  coldest manner, pulling the chrysanthemums
out  of their  vase and  holding  them  up  to  watch the  light through the
translucent petals. "What an unsteady hand he has," she  thought, seeing how
the flowers shook and quivered. "Surely he do