THE next five weeks were spent by Gemma and
the Gadfly in a whirl of excitement and overwork
which left them little time or energy for thinking
about their personal affairs. When the arms had
been safely smuggled into Papal territory there
remained a still more difficult and dangerous task:
that of conveying them unobserved from the secret
stores in the mountain caverns and ravines to the
various local centres and thence to the separate
villages. The whole district was swarming with
spies; and Domenichino, to whom the Gadfly had
intrusted the ammunition, sent into Florence a
messenger with an urgent appeal for either help
or extra time. The Gadfly had insisted that the
work should be finished by the middle of June;
and what with the difficulty of conveying heavy
transports over bad roads, and the endless hindrances
and delays caused by the necessity of continually
evading observation, Domenichino was
growing desperate. "I am between Scylla and
Charybdis," he wrote. "I dare not work quickly,
for fear of detection, and I must not work slowly
if we are to be ready in time. Either send me
efficient help at once, or let the Venetians know
that we shall not be ready till the first week in
July."
The Gadfly carried the letter to Gemma and,
while she read it, sat frowning at the floor and
stroking the cat's fur the wrong way.
"This is bad," she said. "We can hardly keep
the Venetians waiting for three weeks."
"Of course we can't; the thing is absurd.
Domenichino m-might unders-s-stand that. We
must follow the lead of the Venetians, not they
ours."
"I don't see that Domenichino is to blame; he
has evidently done his best, and he can't do
impossibilities."
"It's not in Domenichino that the fault lies; it's
in the fact of his being one person instead of two.
We ought to have at least one responsible man
to guard the store and another to see the transports
off. He is quite right; he must have efficient help."
"But what help are we going to give him? We
have no one in Florence to send."
"Then I m-must go myself."
She leaned back in her chair and looked at him
with a little frown.
"No, that won't do; it's too risky."
"It will have to do if we can't f-f-find any other
way out of the difficulty."
"Then we must find another way, that's all.
It's out of the question for you to go again just
now."
An obstinate line appeared at the corners of his
under lip.
"I d-don't see that it's out of the question."
"You will see if you think about the thing
calmly for a minute. It is only five weeks since
you got back; the police are on the scent about
that pilgrim business, and scouring the country
to find a clue. Yes, I know you are clever at disguises;
but remember what a lot of people saw you, both as
Diego and as the countryman; and you can't disguise
your lameness or the scar on your face."
"There are p-plenty of lame people in the world."
"Yes, but there are not plenty of people in the
Romagna with a lame foot and a sabre-cut across
the cheek and a left arm injured like yours, and
the combination of blue eyes with such dark
colouring."
"The eyes don't matter; I can alter them with
belladonna."
"You can't alter the other things. No, it won't
do. For you to go there just now, with all your
identification-marks, would be to walk into a trap
with your eyes open. You would certainly be
taken."
"But s-s-someone must help Domenichino."
"It will be no help to him to have you caught
at a critical moment like this. Your arrest would
mean the failure of the whole thing."
But the Gadfly was difficult to convince, and
the discussion went on and on without coming
nearer to any settlement. Gemma was beginning
to realize how nearly inexhaustible was the fund
of quiet obstinacy in his character; and, had the
matter not been one about which she felt strongly,
she would probably have yielded for the sake of
peace. This, however, was a case in which she
could not conscientiously give way; the practical
advantage to be gained from the proposed journey
seemed to her not sufficiently important to be
worth the risk, and she could not help suspecting
that his desire to go was prompted less by a conviction
of grave political necessity than by a morbid
craving for the excitement of danger. He had
got into the habit of risking his neck, and his tendency
to run into unnecessary peril seemed to her
a form of intemperance which should be quietly
but steadily resisted. Finding all her arguments
unavailing against his dogged resolve to go his
own way, she fired her last shot.
"Let us be honest about it, anyway," she said;
"and call things by their true names. It is not
Domenichino's difficulty that makes you so determined
to go. It is your own personal passion for----"
"It's not true!" he interrupted vehemently.
"He is nothing to me; I don't care if I never see
him again."
He broke off, seeing in her face that he had
betrayed himself. Their eyes met for an instant,
and dropped; and neither of them uttered the
name that was in both their minds.
"It--it is not Domenichino I want to save," he
stammered at last, with his face half buried in the
cat's fur; "it is that I--I understand the danger
of the work failing if he has no help."
She passed over the feeble little subterfuge, and
went on as if there had been no interruption:
"It is your passion for running into danger
which makes you want to go there. You have
the same craving for danger when you are worried
that you had for opium when you were ill."
"It was not I that asked for the opium," he said
defiantly; "it was the others who insisted on giving
it to me."
"I dare say. You plume yourself a little on
your stoicism, and to ask for physical relief would
have hurt your pride; but it is rather flattered than
otherwise when you risk your life to relieve the
irritation of your nerves. And yet, after all, the
distinction is a merely conventional one."
He drew the cat's head back and looked down
into the round, green eyes. "Is it true, Pasht?"
he said. "Are all these unkind things true that
your mistress is s-saying about me? Is it a case
of mea culpa; mea m-maxima culpa? You wise
beast, you never ask for opium, do you? Your
ancestors were gods in Egypt, and no man t-trod
on their tails. I wonder, though, what would become
of your calm superiority to earthly ills if I
were to take this paw of yours and hold it in the
c-candle. Would you ask me for opium then?
Would you? Or perhaps--for death? No,
pussy, we have no right to die for our personal
convenience. We may spit and s-swear a bit, if
it consoles us; but we mustn't pull the paw away."
"Hush!" She took the cat off his knee and
put it down on a footstool. "You and I will
have time for thinking about those things later
on. What we have to think of now is how to get
Domenichino out of his difficulty. What is it,
Katie; a visitor? I am busy."
"Miss Wright has sent you this, ma'am, by
hand."
The packet, which was carefully sealed, contained
a letter, addressed to Miss Wright, but
unopened and with a Papal stamp. Gemma's
old school friends still lived in Florence, and
her more important letters were often received,
for safety, at their address.
"It is Michele's mark," she said, glancing
quickly over the letter, which seemed to be about
the summer-terms at a boarding house in the
Apennines, and pointing to two little blots on a
corner of the page. "It is in chemical ink; the
reagent is in the third drawer of the writing-table.
Yes; that is it."
He laid the letter open on the desk and passed
a little brush over its pages. When the real message
stood out on the paper in a brilliant blue line,
he leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.
"What is it?" she asked hurriedly. He
handed her the paper.
"DOMENICHINO HAS BEEN ARRESTED. COME AT ONCE."
She sat down with the paper in her hand and
stared hopelessly at the Gadfly.
"W-well?" he said at last, with his soft, ironical
drawl; "are you satisfied now that I must go?"
"Yes, I suppose you must," she answered, sighing.
"And I too."
He looked up with a little start. "You too? But----"
"Of course. It will be very awkward, I know,
to be left without anyone here in Florence; but
everything must go to the wall now except the
providing of an extra pair of hands."
"There are plenty of hands to be got there."
"They don't belong to people whom you can
trust thoroughly, though. You said yourself just
now that there must be two responsible persons
in charge; and if Domenichino couldn't manage
alone it is evidently impossible for you to do so.
A person as desperately compromised as you are
is very much handicapped, remember, in work of
that kind, and more dependent on help than anyone
else would be. Instead of you and Domenichino,
it must be you and I."
He considered for a moment, frowning.
"Yes, you are quite right," he said; "and the
sooner we go the better. But we must not start
together. If I go off to-night, you can take, say,
the afternoon coach to-morrow."
"Where to?"
"That we must discuss. I think I had b-b-better
go straight in to Faenza. If I start late to-night
and ride to Borgo San Lorenzo I can get
my disguise arranged there and go straight on."
"I don't see what else we can do," she said, with
an anxious little frown; "but it is very risky, your
going off in such a hurry and trusting to the smugglers
finding you a disguise at Borgo. You ought
to have at least three clear days to double on your
trace before you cross the frontier."
"You needn't be afraid," he answered, smiling;
"I may get taken further on, but not at the frontier.
Once in the hills I am as safe as here; there's
not a smuggler in the Apennines that would betray me.
What I am not quite sure about is how you are to get across."
"Oh, that is very simple! I shall take Louisa
Wright's passport and go for a holiday. No one
knows me in the Romagna, but every spy knows you."
"F-fortunately, so does every smuggler."
She took out her watch.
"Half-past two. We have the afternoon and
evening, then, if you are to start to-night."
"Then the best thing will be for me to go home
and settle everything now, and arrange about
a good horse. I shall ride in to San Lorenzo; it
will be safer."
"But it won't be safe at all to hire a horse. The
owner will-----"
"I shan't hire one. I know a man that will lend
me a horse, and that can be trusted. He has done
things for me before. One of the shepherds will
bring it back in a fortnight. I shall be here again
by five or half-past, then; and while I am gone,
I w-want you to go and find Martini and exp-plain
everything to him."
"Martini!" She turned round and looked at
him in astonishment.
"Yes; we must take him into confidence--unless
you can think of anyone else."
"I don't quite understand what you mean."
"We must have someone here whom we can
trust, in case of any special difficulty; and of all
the set here Martini is the man in whom I have
most confidence. Riccardo would do anything he
could for us, of course; but I think Martini has
a steadier head. Still, you know him better than
I do; it is as you think."
"I have not the slightest doubt as to Martini's
trustworthiness and efficiency in every respect; and
I think he would probably consent to give us any
help he could. But----"
He understood at once.
"Gemma, what would you feel if you found out
that a comrade in bitter need had not asked you
for help you might have given, for fear of hurting
or distressing you? Would you say there was any
true kindness in that?"
"Very well," she said, after a little pause; "I
will send Katie round at once and ask him to
come; and while she is gone I will go to Louisa
for her passport; she promised to lend it whenever
I want one. What about money? Shall I draw
some out of the bank?"
"No; don't waste time on that; I can draw
enough from my account to last us for a bit. We
will fall back on yours later on if my balance runs
short. Till half-past five, then; I shall be sure to
find you here, of course?"
"Oh, yes! I shall be back long before then."
Half an hour after the appointed time he returned,
and found Gemma and Martini sitting on
the terrace together. He saw at once that their
conversation had been a distressing one; the traces
of agitation were visible in both of them, and Martini
was unusually silent and glum.
"Have you arranged everything?" she asked,
looking up.
"Yes; and I have brought you some money for
the journey. The horse will be ready for me at
the Ponte Rosso barrier at one in the night."
"Is not that rather late? You ought to get
into San Lorenzo before the people are up in the
morning."
"So I shall; it's a very fast horse; and I don't
want to leave here when there's a chance of anyone
noticing me. I shan't go home any more;
there's a spy watching at the door, and he thinks
me in."
"How did you get out without his seeing
you?"
"Out of the kitchen window into the back garden
and over the neighbour's orchard wall; that's
what makes me so late; I had to dodge him. I
left the owner of the horse to sit in the study all
the evening with the lamp lighted. When the spy
sees the light in the window and a shadow on the
blind he will be quite satisfied that I am writing
at home this evening."
"Then you will stay here till it is time to go to
the barrier?"
"Yes; I don't want to be seen in the street any
more to-night. Have a cigar, Martini? I know
Signora Bolla doesn't mind smoke."
"I shan't be here to mind; I must go downstairs
and help Katie with the dinner."
When she had gone Martini got up and began
to pace to and fro with his hands behind his back.
The Gadfly sat smoking and looking silently out
at the drizzling rain.
"Rivarez!" Martini began, stopping in front of
him, but keeping his eyes on the ground; "what
sort of thing are you going to drag her into?"
The Gadfly took the cigar from his mouth and
blew away a long trail of smoke.
"She has chosen for herself," he said, "without
compulsion on anyone's part."
"Yes, yes--I know. But tell me----"
He stopped.
"I will tell you anything I can."
"Well, then--I don't know much about the
details of these affairs in the hills,--are you going
to take her into any very serious danger?"
"Do you want the truth?"
"Yes."
"Then--yes."
Martini turned away and went on pacing up and
down. Presently he stopped again.
"I want to ask you another question. If you
don't choose to answer it, you needn't, of course;
but if you do answer, then answer honestly. Are
you in love with her?"
The Gadfly deliberately knocked the ash from
his cigar and went on smoking in silence.
"That means--that you don't choose to
answer?"
"No; only that I think I have a right to know
why you ask me that."
"Why? Good God, man, can't you see why?"
"Ah!" He laid down his cigar and looked
steadily at Martini. "Yes," he said at last,
slowly and softly. "I am in love with her. But
you needn't think I am going to make love to
her, or worry about it. I am only going
to----"
His voice died away in a strange, faint whisper.
Martini came a step nearer.
"Only going--to----"
"To die."
He was staring straight before him with a cold,
fixed look, as if he were dead already. When he
spoke again his voice was curiously lifeless and even.
"You needn't worry her about it beforehand,"
he said; "but there's not the ghost of a chance for
me. It's dangerous for everyone; that she knows
as well as I do; but the smugglers will do their
best to prevent her getting taken. They are good
fellows, though they are a bit rough. As for me,
the rope is round my neck, and when I cross the
frontier I pull the noose."
"Rivarez, what do you mean? Of course it's
dangerous, and particularly so for you; I understand
that; but you have often crossed the frontier
before and always been successful."
"Yes, and this time I shall fail."
"But why? How can you know?"
The Gadfly smiled drearily.
"Do you remember the German legend of the
man that died when he met his own Double? No?
It appeared to him at night in a lonely place,
wringing its hands in despair. Well, I met mine
the last time I was in the hills; and when I cross
the frontier again I shan't come back."
Martini came up to him and put a hand on the
back of his chair.
"Listen, Rivarez; I don't understand a word
of all this metaphysical stuff, but I do understand
one thing: If you feel about it that way, you are
not in a fit state to go. The surest way to get
taken is to go with a conviction that you will be
taken. You must be ill, or out of sorts somehow,
to get maggots of that kind into your head. Suppose
I go instead of you? I can do any practical
work there is to be done, and you can send a
message to your men, explaining------"
"And let you get killed instead? That would
be very clever."
"Oh, I'm not likely to get killed! They don't
know me as they do you. And, besides, even if
I did------"
He stopped, and the Gadfly looked up with a
slow, inquiring gaze. Martini's hand dropped by
his side.
"She very likely wouldn't miss me as much as
she would you," he said in his most matter-of-fact
voice. "And then, besides, Rivarez, this is public
business, and we have to look at it from the point
of view of utility--the greatest good of the greatest
number. Your 'final value'---isn't that what
the economists call it?--is higher than mine; I
have brains enough to see that, though I haven't
any cause to be particularly fond of you. You
are a bigger man than I am; I'm not sure that
you are a better one, but there's more of you,
and your death would be a greater loss than mine."
From the way he spoke he might have been discussing
the value of shares on the Exchange. The
Gadfly looked up, shivering as if with cold.
"Would you have me wait till my grave opens
of itself to swallow me up?
"If I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride----
Look here, Martini, you and I are talking nonsense."
"You are, certainly," said Martini gruffly.
"Yes, and so are you. For Heaven's sake, don't
let's go in for romantic self-sacrifice, like Don
Carlos and Marquis Posa. This is the nineteenth
century; and if it's my business to die, I have got
to do it."
"And if it's my business to live, I have got to
do that, I suppose. You're the lucky one,
Rivarez."
"Yes," the Gadfly assented laconically; "I was
always lucky."
They smoked in silence for a few minutes, and
then began to talk of business details. When
Gemma came up to call them to dinner, neither
of them betrayed in face or manner that their
conversation had been in any way unusual.
After dinner they sat discussing plans and making
necessary arrangements till eleven o'clock, when
Martini rose and took his hat.
"I will go home and fetch that riding-cloak of
mine, Rivarez. I think you will be less recognizable
in it than in your light suit. I want to
reconnoitre a bit, too, and make sure there are no
spies about before we start."
"Are you coming with me to the barrier?"
"Yes; it's safer to have four eyes than two in
case of anyone following you. I'll be back by
twelve. Be sure you don't start without me. I
had better take the key, Gemma, so as not to wake
anyone by ringing."
She raised her eyes to his face as he took the
keys. She understood that he had invented a pretext
in order to leave her alone with the Gadfly.
"You and I will talk to-morrow," she said.
"We shall have time in the morning, when my
packing is finished."
"Oh, yes! Plenty of time. There are two or
three little things I want to ask you about, Rivarez;
but we can talk them over on our way to the
barrier. You had better send Katie to bed,
Gemma; and be as quiet as you can, both of you.
Good-bye till twelve, then."
He went away with a little nod and smile, banging
the door after him to let the neighbours hear
that Signora Bolla's visitor was gone.
Gemma went out into the kitchen to say good-night
to Katie, and came back with black coffee on a tray.
"Would you like to lie down a bit?" she said.
"You won't have any sleep the rest of the night."
"Oh, dear no! I shall sleep at San Lorenzo
while the men are getting my disguise ready."
"Then have some coffee. Wait a minute; I
will get you out the biscuits."
As she knelt down at the side-board he suddenly
stooped over her shoulder.
"Whatever have you got there? Chocolate
creams and English toffee! Why, this is l-luxury
for a king!"
She looked up, smiling faintly at his enthusiastic tone.
"Are you fond of sweets? I always keep them
for Cesare; he is a perfect baby over any kind of
lollipops."
"R-r-really? Well, you must get him s-some
more to-morrow and give me these to take with
me. No, let me p-p-put the toffee in my pocket;
it will console me for all the lost joys of life. I
d-do hope they'll give me a bit of toffee to suck
the day I'm hanged."
"Oh, do let me find a cardboard box for it, at
least, before you put it in your pocket! You
will be so sticky! Shall I put the chocolates in, too?"
"No, I want to eat them now, with you."
"But I don't like chocolate, and I want you to
come and sit down like a reasonable human being.
We very likely shan't have another chance to talk
quietly before one or other of us is killed, and------"
"She d-d-doesn't like chocolate!" he murmured
under his breath. "Then I must be greedy
all by myself. This is a case of the hangman's
supper, isn't it? You are going to humour all my
whims to-night. First of all, I want you to sit
on this easy-chair, and, as you said I might lie
down, I shall lie here and be comfortable."
He threw himself down on the rug at her feet,
leaning his elbow on the chair and looking up into
her face.
"How pale you are!" he said. "That's because
you take life sadly, and don't like chocolate----"
"Do be serious for just five minutes! After all,
it is a matter of life and death."
"Not even for two minutes, dear; neither life
nor death is worth it."
He had taken hold of both her hands and was
stroking them with the tips of his fingers.
"Don't look so grave, Minerva! You'll make
me cry in a minute, and then you'll be sorry. I do
wish you'd smile again; you have such a d-delightfully
unexpected smile. There now, don't scold
me, dear! Let us eat our biscuits together, like
two good children, without quarrelling over them
--for to-morrow we die."
He took a sweet biscuit from the plate and
carefully halved it, breaking the sugar ornament
down the middle with scrupulous exactness.
"This is a kind of sacrament, like what the
goody-goody people have in church. 'Take, eat;
this is my body.' And we must d-drink the wine
out of the s-s-same glass, you know--yes, that is
right. 'Do this in remembrance----'"
She put down the glass.
"Don't!" she said, with almost a sob. He
looked up, and took her hands again.
"Hush, then! Let us be quiet for a little bit.
When one of us dies, the other will remember this.
We will forget this loud, insistent world that howls
about our ears; we will go away together, hand in
hand; we will go away into the secret halls of
death, and lie among the poppy-flowers. Hush!
We will be quite still."
He laid his head down against her knee and covered
his face. In the silence she bent over him,
her hand on the black head. So the time slipped
on and on; and they neither moved nor spoke.
"Dear, it is almost twelve," she said at last.
He raised his head.
"We have only a few minutes more; Martini
will be back presently. Perhaps we shall never
see each other again. Have you nothing to say
to me?"
He slowly rose and walked away to the other
side of the room. There was a moment's silence.
"I have one thing to say," he began in a hardly
audible voice; "one thing--to tell you----"
He stopped and sat down by the window, hiding
his face in both hands.
"You have been a long time deciding to be
merciful," she said softly.
"I have not seen much mercy in my life; and I
thought--at first--you wouldn't care----"
"You don't think that now."
She waited a moment for him to speak and then
crossed the room and stood beside him.
"Tell me the truth at last," she whispered.
"Think, if you are killed and I not--I should have
to go through all my life and never know--never
be quite sure----"
He took her hands and clasped them tightly.
"If I am killed---- You see, when I went to
South America---- Ah, Martini!"
He broke away with a violent start and threw
open the door of the room. Martini was rubbing
his boots on the mat.
"Punctual to the m-m-minute, as usual!
You're an an-n-nimated chronometer, Martini. Is
that the r-r-riding-cloak?"
"Yes; and two or three other things. I have
kept them as dry as I could, but it's pouring with
rain. You will have a most uncomfortable ride,
I'm afraid."
"Oh, that's no matter. Is the street clear?"
"Yes; all the spies seem to have gone to bed.
I don't much wonder either, on such a villainous
night. Is that coffee, Gemma? He ought to
have something hot before he goes out into the
wet, or he will catch cold."
"It is black coffee, and very strong. I will boil
some milk."
She went into the kitchen, passionately clenching
her teeth and hands to keep from breaking
down. When she returned with the milk the Gadfly
had put on the riding-cloak and was fastening
the leather gaiters which Martini had brought.
He drank a cup of coffee, standing, and took up
the broad-brimmed riding hat.
"I think it's time to start, Martini; we must
make a round before we go to the barrier, in case
of anything. Good-bye, for the present, signora;
I shall meet you at Forli on Friday, then, unless
anything special turns up. Wait a minute; th-this
is the address."
He tore a leaf out of his pocket-book and wrote
a few words in pencil.
"I have it already," she said in a dull, quiet
voice.
"H-have you? Well, there it is, anyway.
Come, Martini. Sh-sh-sh! Don't let the door creak!"
They crept softly downstairs. When the street
door clicked behind them she went back into the
room and mechanically unfolded the paper he had
put into her hand. Underneath the address was
written:
"I will tell you everything there."
