The Gadfly - E. L. Voynich (phonics readers .txt) 📗

Katie to set the

disordered room tidy again, sat down at the table.

 

“Signor Rivarez, you must take something

before you go home—you had hardly any dinner,

and it’s very late.”

 

“I should like a cup of tea in the English fashion,

if you have it. I’m sorry to keep you up so late.”

 

“Oh! that doesn’t matter. Put the child down

on the sofa; he will tire you. Wait a minute; I

will just lay a sheet over the cushions. What are

you going to do with him?”

 

“To-morrow? Find out whether he has any

other relations except that drunken brute; and

if not, I suppose I must follow Mme. Reni’s advice,

and take him to the Refuge. Perhaps the

kindest thing to do would be to put a stone round

his neck and pitch him into the river there; but

that would expose me to unpleasant consequences.

Fast asleep! What an odd little lump of ill-luck

you are, you mite—not half as capable of defending

yourself as a stray cat!”

 

When Katie brought in the tea-tray, the boy

opened his eyes and sat up with a bewildered air.

Recognizing the Gadfly, whom he already regarded

as his natural protector, he wriggled off

the sofa, and, much encumbered by the folds of

his blanket, came up to nestle against him. He

was by now sufficiently revived to be inquisitive;

and, pointing to the mutilated left hand, in which

the Gadfly was holding a piece of cake, asked:

 

“What’s that?”

 

“That? Cake; do you want some? I think

you’ve had enough for now. Wait till to-morrow,

little man.”

 

“No—that!” He stretched out his hand and

touched the stumps of the amputated fingers and

the great scar on the wrist. The Gadfly put down

his cake.

 

“Oh, that! It’s the same sort of thing as what

you have on your shoulder—a hit I got from

someone stronger than I was.”

 

“Didn’t it hurt awfully?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know—not more than other

things. There, now, go to sleep again; you have

no business asking questions at this time of night.”

 

When the carriage arrived the boy was again

asleep; and the Gadfly, without awaking him,

lifted him gently and carried him out on to the

stairs.

 

“You have been a sort of ministering angel to

me to-day,” he said to Gemma, pausing at the

door. “But I suppose that need not prevent us

from quarrelling to our heart’s content in future.”

 

“I have no desire to quarrel with anyone.”

 

“Ah! but I have. Life would be unendurable

without quarrels. A good quarrel is the salt of

the earth; it’s better than a variety show!”

 

And with that he went downstairs, laughing

softly to himself, with the sleeping child in his

arms.

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

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,