LITMIR.BIZ

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[horrified] You brought your hand to use a knife!

      GEMMA. No. I struck him in the face with my open hand; that was all. We were very young. I had been his friend; and I suppose he loved me. He went away and drowned himself.

      MARTINI. Do you call that killing a man?

      GEMMA. What do you call it?

      MARTINI. Serve the young traitor right!

      GEMMA. But you have not heard the end of the story. He was innocent.

      MARTINI. Then why did he not clear himself?

      GEMMA. He could not. He had betrayed us in the confessional. The priest was a spy.

      MARTINI. The fellow must have been a fool to be caught in such a trap as that.

      GEMMA. No, only a boy. He was pious and credulous, full of faith and enthusiasm, incapable of realizing the cruelty and treachery of our enemies. I killed him; there is no getting away from that. And Bolla escaped after all, and married me, and died in his bed in England.

      MARTINI [sympathetically] You mustn’t let your mind dwell on any remorseful notions.

      GEMMA. Oh, I quite understand all that. You need not be afraid of my making any morbid fuss over so old a story. But I will have nothing to do with assassins. If your Gadfly attempts to bring the knife into our propaganda, I shall withdraw at once.

      MARTINI. Never fear. It is his tongue and pen we want; they are both sharper than most men’s daggers.

      GEMMA. What need have we of him at all?

      MARTINI. To destroy Cardinal Montanelli.

      GEMMA. Destroy?

      MARTINI. Oh don’t be alarmed. We had better cut our own throats than scratch the skin of the good Cardinal. It would be a martyrdom; the people think him a saint.

      GEMMA. What will you do to him, then?

      MARTINI. Make him ridiculous. That’s what the Gadfly is for; the Cardinal’s saintliness will wither up into the dotage of an old fool when the Gadfly begins to sting. The creature is all venom — ouf! I wish we could do without him; I am not sure that the dagger is not a manlier weapon after all.

      GEMMA. No; for with the dagger the lowest wretch can end the highest life; but if Montanelli is really a saint, your Gadfly will get the worst of it. [She passes her hand over her brow] Strange! that we should get talking of Montanelli now!

      MARTINI. Why?

      GEMMA. He was the Confessor of the boy I killed.

      MARTINI [indignantly] What! Was he the spy?

      GEMMA. Oh, no, no, no. He was away when that happened; otherwise Arthur would have been alive today.

      MARTINI. The boy’s name was Arthur?

      GEMMA. Yes. Montanelli loved him as if he were his own son. He had known Arthur’s mother.

      MARTINI [significantly] Oh, indeed!

      GEMMA. What do you mean by that?

      MARTINI. Oh, nothing, nothing. Montanelli knew Arthur’s mother: Montanelli loved Arthur as if he were his own son. That seems to me extremely natural.

      GEMMA. Are you as cynical as the rest of them?

      MARTINI. Do you really think that it is cynical to give a priest credit for being a human being? At all events, Signora, you are sufficiently a woman of the world to understand that if the Gadfly gets hold of this story it will put a little extra venom into his sting.

      GEMMA [revolted] Dr Martini, what I have told you is sacred. [Martini bows] Even if Arthur were not dead, a calumny that cannot be proved — martini. — Is better than a dagger that cannot be driven home; but you are right: it is a blackguard’s weapon. At the same time — gemma [quickly] At the same time?

      MARTINI. I wish Arthur were not dead.

      GEMMA [with deep feeling] So do I. But what difference would it make to you?

      MARTINI. I think that possibly, if he were alive, your influence with him, and his influence with the Cardinal, might help us: that’s all. [A burst of applause heard within the house] Ah, that’s the end of the tenor’s song.

      GEMMA. No matter; he will sing another: at least he will be very much offended if they don’t insist on it.

      MARTINI. But won’t you come in and hear him? I’ve been selfishly keeping you out here.

      GEMMA. I am on duty here; all our friends stroll out to look at the moon.

      The centre window opens just enough to allow a man to slip through. The Gadfly appears and closes the window softly behind him.

      MARTINI. Here comes one of them. Yes: he’s looking at the moon as hard as he can.

      GEMMA. Hush, no. I don’t know him. The Gadfly, who has thrust his hands in his pockets and stopped to stare listlessly at the moon, comes down the steps from the terrace, kicking them discontentedly with his heels. He is as swarthy as a mulatto, and, notwithstanding his lameness, as agile as a cat. His whole personality is oddly suggestive of a black jaguar. The forehead and left cheek are terribly disfigured by the long crooked scar of an old sabre cut. He is handsome in a restless, uncomfortable way: with a tendency to foppishness in dress and a veiled insolence of expression and manner.

      Gemma moves quietly out into the light.

      He starts violently on seeing her, and puts up his hand as if to ward off a blow.

      GADFLY [hastily] You needn’t strike me again: blows don’t hurt me now.

      MARTINI [puzzled] Signore — gadfly [recovering himself] Eh? Oh, I beg your pardon. I suppose the lady is not a ghost then; I thought she was.

      MARTINI. I am happy to say that the lady is alive and in excellent health.

      GADFLY. Ah yes; that must be a curious sensation. To be in excellent health; to walk straight; to have your full allowance of fingers; and to have no bullet-holes in your lungs. I congratulate you, Signora. By the way, are you a conspirator? There are only two sorts of people in Florence at present; conspirators and spies, mostly spies; some of the latter, attractive ladies. I am a conspirator myself. Pray, which are you?

      GEMMA. I can tell you one thing more about the people of Florence at present, Signore; and that is that the gentleman who announces himself frankly as a conspirator is invariably a spy.

      GADFLY. Good. That speech is unmistakeable; you’re a conspirator. I am Felice Rivarez, alias The Gadfly, at your service. Which of us is your friend? Is he Martini?

      MARTINI. At your service.

      GEMMA. I am — gadfly. Of course you are; I know. Well, here I am to take the field against the pious Montanelli. What are the lines of battle to be, Signora? Shall I attack his theology or his personal character?

      GEMMA. His personal character is above attack.

      GADFLY. Oho! How did he take in so clever a woman as you are? But you are right: only, what you mean, I suppose, is that all these fellows, from the Sacristans to the Cardinals, are such notorious rascals that their bad characters are taken for granted. You can’t collect a crowd to see a river running down hill.

      GEMMA. Vulgar prejudice, Signor Rivarez. They say the same thing of us. Don’t make the foolish mistake of underrating your enemy.

      GADFLY. Ah, well, if Monsignor Montanelli is all you say he is, so much too good for this world that he ought to be politely escorted into the next. I am sure he would cause as great a sensation there as he has done here; there are probably many old-established ghosts who have never seen such a thing as an honest Cardinal.

      GEMMA [impatiently] Signor Rivarez, if you have only come here to talk the usual scandal about priests, and to hint at daggers and stuff of that kind, you will be of no use to us; we have only too many people of that sort. Doctor Martini, we may as well go in and listen to the

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