“Signor Rivarez,” the Cardinal interrupted, “I have come here on your account—not on my own. If you had not been ‘undermost,’ as you call it, I should never have spoken to you again after what you said to me last week; but you have the double privilege of a prisoner and a sick man, and I could not refuse to come. Have you anything to say to me, now I am here; or have you sent for me merely to amuse yourself by insulting an old man?”
There was no answer. The Gadfly had turned away, and was lying with one hand across his eyes.
“I am—very sorry to trouble you,” he said at last, huskily; “but could I have a little water?”
There was a jug of water standing by the window, and Montanelli rose and fetched it. As he slipped his arm round the Gadfly to lift him, he suddenly felt the damp, cold fingers close over his wrist like a vice.
“Give me your hand—quick—just a moment,” the Gadfly whispered. “Oh, what difference does it make to you? Only one minute!”
He sank down, hiding his face on Montanelli’s arm, and quivering from head to foot.
“Drink a little water,” Montanelli said after a moment. The Gadfly obeyed silently; then lay back on the pallet with closed eyes. He himself could have given no explanation of what had happened to him when Montanelli’s hand had touched his cheek; he only knew that in all his life there had been nothing more terrible.
Montanelli drew his chair closer to the pallet and sat down. The Gadfly was lying quite motionless, like a corpse, and his face was livid and drawn. After a long silence, he opened his eyes, and fixed their haunting, spectral gaze on the Cardinal.
“Thank you,” he said. “I—am sorry. I think—you asked me something?”
“You are not fit to talk. If there is anything you want to say to me, I will try to come again tomorrow.”
“Please don’t go, Your Eminence—indeed, there is nothing the matter with me. I—I have been a little upset these few days; it was half of it malingering, though—the colonel will tell you so if you ask him.”
“I prefer to form my own conclusions,” Montanelli answered quietly.
“S-so does the colonel. And occasionally, do you know, they are rather witty. You w-w-wouldn’t think it to look at him; but s-s-sometimes he gets hold of an or-r-riginal idea. On Friday night, for instance—I think it was Friday, but I got a l-little mixed as to time towards the end—anyhow, I asked for a d-dose of opium—I remember that quite distinctly; and he came in here and said I m-might h-h-have it if I would tell him who un-l-l-locked the gate. I remember his saying: ‘If it’s real, you’ll consent; if you don’t, I shall look upon it as a p-proof that you are shamming.’ It n-n-never oc-c-curred to me before how comic that is; it’s one of the f-f-funniest things—”
He burst into a sudden fit of harsh, discordant laughter; then, turning sharply on the silent Cardinal, went on, more and more hurriedly, and stammering so that the words were hardly intelligible:
“You d-d-don’t see that it’s f-f-funny? Of c-course not; you r-religious people n-n-never have any s-sense of humour—you t-take everything t-t-tragically. F-for instance, that night in the Cath-thedral—how solemn you were! By the way—w-what a path-thetic figure I must have c-cut as the pilgrim! I d-don’t believe you e-even see anything c-c-comic in the b-business you have c-come about this evening.”
Montanelli rose.
“I came to hear what you have to say; but I think you are too much excited to say it tonight. The doctor had better give you a sedative, and we will talk tomorrow, when you have had a night’s sleep.”
“S-sleep? Oh, I shall s-sleep well enough, Your Eminence, when you g-give your c-consent to the colonel’s plan—an ounce of l-lead is a s-splendid sedative.”
“I don’t understand you,” Montanelli said, turning to him with a startled look.
The Gadfly burst out laughing again.
“Your Eminence, Your Eminence, t-t-truth is the c-chief of the Christian virtues! D-d-do you th-th-think I d-d-don’t know how hard the Governor has been trying to g-get your consent to a court-martial? You had b-better by half g-give it, Your Eminence; it’s only w-what all your b-brother prelates would do in your place. ‘Cosi fan tutti;’ and then you would be doing s-such a lot of good, and so l-little harm! Really, it’s n-not worth all the sleepless nights you have been spending over it!”
“Please stop laughing a minute,” Montanelli interrupted, “and tell me how you heard all this. Who has been talking to you about it?”
“H-hasn’t the colonel e-e-ever told you I am a d-d-devil—not a man? No? He has t-told me so often enough! Well, I am devil enough to f-find out a little bit what p-people are thinking about. Your E-eminence is thinking that I’m a conf-founded nuisance, and you wish s-somebody else had to settle what’s to be done with me, without disturbing your s-sensitive conscience. That’s a p-pretty fair guess, isn’t it?”
“Listen to me,” the Cardinal said, sitting down again beside him, with a very grave face. “However you found out all this, it is quite true. Colonel Ferrari fears another rescue attempt on the part of your friends, and wishes to forestall it in—the way you speak of. You see, I am quite frank with you.”
“Your E-eminence was always f-f-famous for truthfulness,” the Gadfly put in bitterly.
“You know, of course,” Montanelli went on, “that legally I have no jurisdiction in temporal matters; I am a bishop, not a legate. But I have a good deal of influence in this district; and the colonel will not, I think, venture to take so extreme a course unless he can get, at least, my tacit consent to it. Up till now I have unconditionally opposed the scheme; and he has been trying very hard to conquer my objection by assuring me that there is great danger of an armed attempt on Thursday when
