The Gadfly by Ethel Voynich (top fiction books of all time .txt) 📕

chatting in a languid, desultory way. They put on a stiff, business air as he came in, and the oldest of them, a foppish-looking man with gray whiskers and a colonel’s uniform, pointed to a chair on the other side of the table and began the preliminary interrogation.

Arthur had expected to be threatened, abused, and sworn at, and had prepared himself to answer with dignity and patience; but he was pleasantly disappointed. The colonel was stiff, cold and formal, but perfectly courteous. The usual questions as to his name, age, nationality, and social position were put and answered, and the replies written down in monotonous succession. He was beginning to feel bored and impatient, when the colonel asked:

“And now, Mr. Burton, what do you know about Young Italy?”

“I know that it is a society which publishes a newspaper in Marseilles and circulates it in Italy, with the object of inducing people to revolt and drive the Austrian army out of the country.”

“You have read this paper, I think?”

“Yes; I am interested in the subject.”

“When you read it you realized that you were committing an illegal action?”

“Certainly.”

“Where did you get the copies which were found in your room?”

“That I cannot tell you.”

“Mr. Burton, you must not say ‘I cannot tell’ here; you are bound to answer my questions.”

“I will not, then, if you object to ‘cannot.’ ”

“You will regret it if you permit yourself to use such expressions,” remarked the colonel. As Arthur made no reply, he went on:

“I may as well tell you that evidence has come into our hands proving your connection with this society to be much more intimate than is implied by the mere reading of forbidden literature. It will be to your advantage to confess frankly. In any case the truth will be sure to come out, and you will find it useless to screen yourself behind evasion and denials.”

“I have no desire to screen myself. What is it you want to know?”

“Firstly, how did you, a foreigner, come to be implicated in matters of this kind?”

“I thought about the subject and read everything I could get hold of, and formed my own conclusions.”

“Who persuaded you to join this society?”

“No one; I wished to join it.”

“You are shilly-shallying with me,” said the colonel, sharply; his patience was evidently beginning to give out. “No one can join a society by himself. To whom did you communicate your wish to join it?”

Silence.

“Will you have the kindness to answer me?”

“Not when you ask questions of that kind.”

Arthur spoke sullenly; a curious, nervous irritability was taking possession of him. He knew by this time that many arrests had been made in both Leghorn and Pisa; and, though still ignorant of the extent of the calamity, he had already heard enough to put him into a fever of anxiety for the safety of Gemma and his other friends. The studied politeness of the officers, the dull game of fencing and parrying, of insidious questions and evasive answers, worried and annoyed him, and the clumsy tramping backward and forward of the sentinel outside the door jarred detestably upon his ear.

“Oh, by the by, when did you last meet Giovanni Bolla?” asked the colonel, after a little more bandying of words. “Just before you left Pisa, was it?”

“I know no one of that name.”

“What! Giovanni Bolla? Surely you know him⁠—a tall young fellow, closely shaven. Why, he is one of your fellow-students.”

“There are many students in the university whom I don’t know.”

“Oh, but you must know Bolla, surely! Look, this is his handwriting. You see, he knows you well enough.”

The colonel carelessly handed him a paper headed: “Protocol,” and signed: “Giovanni Bolla.” Glancing down it Arthur came upon his own name. He looked up in surprise. “Am I to read it?”

“Yes, you may as well; it concerns you.”

He began to read, while the officers sat silently watching his face. The document appeared to consist of depositions in answer to a long string of questions. Evidently Bolla, too, must have been arrested. The first depositions were of the usual stereotyped character; then followed a short account of Bolla’s connection with the society, of the dissemination of prohibited literature in Leghorn, and of the students’ meetings. Next came “Among those who joined us was a young Englishman, Arthur Burton, who belongs to one of the rich shipowning families.”

The blood rushed into Arthur’s face. Bolla had betrayed him! Bolla, who had taken upon himself the solemn duties of an initiator⁠—Bolla, who had converted Gemma⁠—who was in love with her! He laid down the paper and stared at the floor.

“I hope that little document has refreshed your memory?” hinted the colonel politely.

Arthur shook his head. “I know no one of that name,” he repeated in a dull, hard voice. “There must be some mistake.”

“Mistake? Oh, nonsense! Come, Mr. Burton, chivalry and quixotism are very fine things in their way; but there’s no use in overdoing them. It’s an error all you young people fall into at first. Come, think! What good is it for you to compromise yourself and spoil your prospects in life over a simple formality about a man that has betrayed you? You see yourself, he wasn’t so particular as to what he said about you.”

A faint shade of something like mockery had crept into the colonel’s voice. Arthur looked up with a start; a sudden light flashed upon his mind.

“It’s a lie!” he cried out. “It’s a forgery! I can see it in your face, you cowardly⁠—You’ve got some prisoner there you want to compromise, or a trap you want to drag me into. You are a forger, and a liar, and a scoundrel⁠—”

“Silence!” shouted the colonel, starting up in a rage; his two colleagues were already on their feet. “Captain Tommasi,” he went on, turning to one of them, “ring for the guard, if you please, and have this young gentleman put in the punishment cell for a few days. He wants a lesson, I see, to bring him to reason.”

The punishment cell was a dark,