ONE day in the first week of January Martini,
who had sent round the forms of invitation to the
monthly group-meeting of the literary committee,
received from the Gadfly a laconic, pencil-scrawled
"Very sorry: can't come." He was a
little annoyed, as a notice of "important business"
had been put into the invitation; this cavalier
treatment seemed to him almost insolent.
Moreover, three separate letters containing bad
news arrived during the day, and the wind was in
the east, so that Martini felt out of sorts and out
of temper; and when, at the group meeting, Dr.
Riccardo asked, "Isn't Rivarez here?" he answered
rather sulkily: "No; he seems to have
got something more interesting on hand, and
can't come, or doesn't want to."
"Really, Martini," said Galli irritably, "you
are about the most prejudiced person in Florence.
Once you object to a man, everything he does is
wrong. How could Rivarez come when he's ill?"
"Who told you he was ill?"
"Didn't you know? He's been laid up for the
last four days."
"What's the matter with him?"
"I don't know. He had to put off an appointment
with me on Thursday on account of illness;
and last night, when I went round, I heard that
he was too ill to see anyone. I thought Riccardo
would be looking after him."
"I knew nothing about it. I'll go round to-night
and see if he wants anything."
The next morning Riccardo, looking very pale
and tired, came into Gemma's little study. She
was sitting at the table, reading out monotonous
strings of figures to Martini, who, with a magnifying
glass in one hand and a finely pointed pencil
in the other, was making tiny marks in the pages
of a book. She made with one hand a gesture requesting
silence. Riccardo, knowing that a person who is writing
in cipher must not be interrupted, sat down on the sofa
behind her and yawned like a man who can hardly keep awake.
"2, 4; 3, 7; 6, 1; 3, 5; 4> 1;" Gemma's voice
went on with machine-like evenness. "8, 4; 7, 2;
5, 1; that finishes the sentence, Cesare."
She stuck a pin into the paper to mark the
exact place, and turned round.
"Good-morning, doctor; how fagged you look!
Are you well?"
"Oh, I'm well enough--only tired out. I've
had an awful night with Rivarez."
"With Rivarez?"
"Yes; I've been up with him all night, and now
I must go off to my hospital patients. I just
came round to know whether you can think of
anyone that could look after him a bit for the
next few days. He's in a devil of a state. I'll do
my best, of course; but I really haven't the time;
and he won't hear of my sending in a nurse."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Well, rather a complication of things. First
of all----"
"First of all, have you had any breakfast?"
"Yes, thank you. About Rivarez--no doubt,
it's complicated with a lot of nerve trouble; but
the main cause of disturbance is an old injury
that seems to have been disgracefully neglected.
Altogether, he's in a frightfully knocked-about
state; I suppose it was that war in South America
--and he certainly didn't get proper care when
the mischief was done. Probably things were
managed in a very rough-and-ready fashion out
there; he's lucky to be alive at all. However,
there's a chronic tendency to inflammation, and
any trifle may bring on an attack----"
"Is that dangerous?"
"N-no; the chief danger in a case of that kind
is of the patient getting desperate and taking a
dose of arsenic."
"It is very painful, of course?"
"It's simply horrible; I don't know how he
manages to bear it. I was obliged to stupefy him
with opium in the night--a thing I hate to do
with a nervous patient; but I had to stop it
somehow."
"He is nervous, I should think."
"Very, but splendidly plucky. As long as he
was not actually light-headed with the pain last
night, his coolness was quite wonderful. But I
had an awful job with him towards the end. How
long do you suppose this thing has been going
on? Just five nights; and not a soul within call
except that stupid landlady, who wouldn't wake
if the house tumbled down, and would be no use
if she did."
"But what about the ballet-girl?"
"Yes; isn't that a curious thing? He won't
let her come near him. He has a morbid horror of
her. Altogether, he's one of the most incomprehensible
creatures I ever met--a perfect mass of contradictions."
He took out his watch and looked at it with a
preoccupied face. "I shall be late at the hospital;
but it can't be helped. The junior will have to
begin without me for once. I wish I had known
of all this before--it ought not to have been let
go on that way night after night."
"But why on earth didn't he send to say he
was ill?" Martini interrupted. "He might have
guessed we shouldn't have left him stranded in
that fashion."
"I wish, doctor," said Gemma, "that you had
sent for one of us last night, instead of wearing
yourself out like this."
"My dear lady, I wanted to send round to
Galli; but Rivarez got so frantic at the suggestion
that I didn't dare attempt it. When I asked
him whether there was anyone else he would like
fetched, he looked at me for a minute, as if he
were scared out of his wits, and then put up both
hands to his eyes and said: 'Don't tell them;
they will laugh!' He seemed quite possessed
with some fancy about people laughing at something.
I couldn't make out what; he kept talking Spanish;
but patients do say the oddest things sometimes."
"Who is with him now?" asked Gemma.
"No one except the landlady and her maid."
"I'll go to him at once," said Martini.
"Thank you. I'll look round again in the
evening. You'll find a paper of written directions
in the table-drawer by the large window, and the
opium is on the shelf in the next room. If the
pain comes on again, give him another dose--not
more than one; but don't leave the bottle where
he can get at it, whatever you do; he might be
tempted to take too much."
When Martini entered the darkened room, the
Gadfly turned his head round quickly, and, holding
out to him a burning hand, began, in a bad
imitation of his usual flippant manner:
"Ah, Martini! You have come to rout me out
about those proofs. It's no use swearing at me
for missing the committee last night; the fact is,
I have not been quite well, and----"
"Never mind the committee. I have just seen
Riccardo, and have come to know if I can be of
any use."
The Gadfly set his face like a flint.
"Oh, really! that is very kind of you; but it
wasn't worth the trouble. I'm only a little out
of sorts."
"So I understood from Riccardo. He was up
with you all night, I believe."
The Gadfly bit his lip savagely.
"I am quite comfortable, thank you, and don't
want anything."
"Very well; then I will sit in the other room;
perhaps you would rather be alone. I will leave
the door ajar, in case you call me."
"Please don't trouble about it; I really shan't
want anything. I should be wasting your time for
nothing."
"Nonsense, man!" Martini broke in roughly.
"What's the use of trying to fool me that way?
Do you think I have no eyes? Lie still and go to
sleep, if you can."
He went into the adjoining room, and, leaving
the door open, sat down with a book. Presently
he heard the Gadfly move restlessly two or three
times. He put down his book and listened.
There was a short silence, then another restless
movement; then the quick, heavy, panting breath
of a man clenching his teeth to suppress a groan.
He went back into the room.
"Can I do anything for you, Rivarez?"
There was no answer, and he crossed the room
to the bed-side. The Gadfly, with a ghastly, livid
face, looked at him for a moment, and silently
shook his head.
"Shall I give you some more opium? Riccardo
said you were to have it if the pain got very bad."
"No, thank you; I can bear it a bit longer.
It may be worse later on."
Martini shrugged his shoulders and sat down
beside the bed. For an interminable hour he
watched in silence; then he rose and fetched the
opium.
"Rivarez, I won't let this go on any longer; if
you can stand it, I can't. You must have the stuff."
The Gadfly took it without speaking. Then he
turned away and closed his eyes. Martini sat
down again, and listened as the breathing became
gradually deep and even.
The Gadfly was too much exhausted to wake
easily when once asleep. Hour after hour he lay
absolutely motionless. Martini approached him
several times during the day and evening, and
looked at the still figure; but, except the breathing,
there was no sign of life. The face was so
wan and colourless that at last a sudden fear seized
upon him; what if he had given too much opium?
The injured left arm lay on the coverlet, and he
shook it gently to rouse the sleeper. As he did
so, the unfastened sleeve fell back, showing a
series of deep and fearful scars covering the arm
from wrist to elbow.
"That arm must have been in a pleasant condition
when those marks were fresh," said Riccardo's voice
behind him.
"Ah, there you are at last! Look here,
Riccardo; ought this man to sleep forever? I
gave him a dose about ten hours ago, and he
hasn't moved a muscle since."
Riccardo stooped down and listened for a moment.
"No; he is breathing quite properly; it's nothing
but sheer exhaustion--what you might expect
after such a night. There may be another
paroxysm before morning. Someone will sit up,
I hope?"
"Galli will; he has sent to say he will be here
by ten."
"It's nearly that now. Ah, he's waking! Just
see the maidservant gets that broth hot. Gently
--gently, Rivarez! There, there, you needn't
fight, man; I'm not a bishop!"
The Gadfly started up with a shrinking, scared
look. "Is it my turn?" he said hurriedly in
Spanish. "Keep the people amused a minute;
I---- Ah! I didn't see you, Riccardo."
He looked round the room and drew one hand
across his forehead as if bewildered. "Martini!
Why, I thought you had gone away. I must have
been asleep."
"You have been sleeping like the beauty in the
fairy story for the last ten hours; and now you are
to have some broth and go to sleep again."
"Ten hours! Martini, surely you haven't been
here all that time?"
"Yes; I was beginning to wonder whether I
hadn't given you an overdose of opium."
The Gadfly shot a sly glance at him.
"No such luck! Wouldn't you have nice quiet
committee-meetings? What the devil do you
want, Riccardo? Do for mercy's sake leave me in
peace, can't you? I hate being mauled about by
doctors."
"Well then, drink this and I'll leave you in
peace. I shall come round in a day or two,
though, and give you a thorough overhauling. I
think you have pulled through the worst of this
business now; you don't look quite so much like
a death's head at a feast."
"Oh, I shall be all right soon, thanks. Who's
that--Galli? I seem to have a collection of all
the graces here to-night."
"I have come to stop the night with you."
"Nonsense! I don't want anyone. Go home,
all the lot of you. Even if the thing should come
on again, you can't help me; I won't keep taking
opium. It's all very well once in a way."
"I'm afraid you're right," Riccardo said.
"But that's not always an easy resolution to stick
to."
The Gadfly looked up, smiling. "No fear!
If I'd been going in for that sort of thing, I should
have done it long ago."
"Anyway, you are not going to be left alone,"
Riccardo answered drily. "Come into the other
room a minute, Galli; I want to speak to you.
Good-night, Rivarez; I'll look in to-morrow."
Martini was following them out of the room
when he heard his name softly called. The Gadfly
was holding out a hand to him.
"Thank you!"
"Oh, stuff! Go to sleep."
When Riccardo had gone, Martini remained a
few minutes in the outer room, talking with Galli.
As he opened the front door of the house he heard
a carriage stop at the garden gate and saw a
woman's figure get out and come up the path. It
was Zita, returning, evidently, from some evening
entertainment. He lifted his hat and stood aside
to let her pass, then went out into the dark lane
leading from the house to the Poggio Imperiale.
Presently the gate clicked and rapid footsteps
came down the lane.
"Wait a minute!" she said.
When he turned back to meet her she stopped
short, and then came slowly towards him, dragging
one hand after her along the hedge. There
was a single street-lamp at the corner, and he saw
by its light that she was hanging her head down
as though embarrassed or ashamed.
"How is he?" she asked without looking up.
"Much better than he was this morning. He
has been asleep most of the day and seems less
exhausted. I think the attack is passing over."
She still kept her eyes on the ground.
"Has it been very bad this time?"
"About as bad as it can well be, I should
think."
"I thought so. When he won't let me come
into the room, that always means it's bad."
"Does he often have attacks like this?"
"That depends---- It's so irregular. Last
summer, in Switzerland, he was quite well; but
the winter before, when we were in Vienna, it was
awful. He wouldn't let me come near him for
days together. He hates to have me about when
he's ill."
She glanced up for a moment, and, dropping her
eyes again, went on:
"He always used to send me off to a ball, or
concert, or something, on one pretext or another,
when he felt it coming on. Then he would lock
himself into his room. I used to slip back and sit
outside the door--he would have been furious if
he'd known. He'd let the dog come in if it
whined, but not me. He cares more for it, I
think."
There was a curious, sullen defiance in her
manner.
"Well, I hope it won't be so bad any more,"
said Martini kindly. "Dr. Riccardo is taking the
case seriously in hand. Perhaps he will be able to
make a permanent improvement. And, in any
case, the treatment gives relief at the moment.
But you had better send to us at once, another
time. He would have suffered very much less if
we had known of it earlier. Good-night!"
He held out his hand, but she drew back with
a quick gesture of refusal.
"I don't see why you want to shake hands with
his mistress."
"As you like, of course," he began in embarrassment.
She stamped her foot on the ground. "I hate
you!" she cried, turning on him with eyes like
glowing coals. "I hate you all! You come here
talking politics to him; and he lets you sit up the
night with him and give him things to stop the
pain, and I daren't so much as peep at him through
the door! What is he to you? What right have
you to come and steal him away from me? I hate
you! I hate you! I HATE you!"
She burst into a violent fit of sobbing, and, darting
back into the garden, slammed the gate in his face.
"Good Heavens!" said Martini to himself, as he
walked down the lane. "That girl is actually
in love with him! Of all the extraordinary
things----"
