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

of my plan; it has something to do with propaganda and more with insurrection.”

“Yes?”

“As I tell you, a good many volunteers are going from the Romagna to join the Venetians. We do not know yet how soon the insurrection will break out. It may not be till the autumn or winter; but the volunteers in the Apennines must be armed and ready, so that they may be able to start for the plains directly they are sent for. I have undertaken to smuggle the firearms and ammunition on to Papal territory for them⁠—”

“Wait a minute. How do you come to be working with that set? The revolutionists in Lombardy and Venetia are all in favour of the new Pope. They are going in for liberal reforms, hand in hand with the progressive movement in the Church. How can a ‘no-compromise’ anti-clerical like you get on with them?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “What is it to me if they like to amuse themselves with a rag-doll, so long as they do their work? Of course they will take the Pope for a figurehead. What have I to do with that, if only the insurrection gets under way somehow? Any stick will do to beat a dog with, I suppose, and any cry to set the people on the Austrians.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Chiefly to help me get the firearms across.”

“But how could I do that?”

“You are just the person who could do it best. I think of buying the arms in England, and there is a good deal of difficulty about bringing them over. It’s impossible to get them through any of the Pontifical seaports; they must come by Tuscany, and go across the Apennines.”

“That makes two frontiers to cross instead of one.”

“Yes; but the other way is hopeless; you can’t smuggle a big transport in at a harbour where there is no trade, and you know the whole shipping of Civita Vecchia amounts to about three rowboats and a fishing smack. If we once get the things across Tuscany, I can manage the Papal frontier; my men know every path in the mountains, and we have plenty of hiding-places. The transport must come by sea to Leghorn, and that is my great difficulty; I am not in with the smugglers there, and I believe you are.”

“Give me five minutes to think.”

She leaned forward, resting one elbow on her knee, and supporting the chin on the raised hand. After a few moments’ silence she looked up.

“It is possible that I might be of some use in that part of the work,” she said; “but before we go any further, I want to ask you a question. Can you give me your word that this business is not connected with any stabbing or secret violence of any kind?”

“Certainly. It goes without saying that I should not have asked you to join in a thing of which I know you disapprove.”

“When do you want a definite answer from me?”

“There is not much time to lose; but I can give you a few days to decide in.”

“Are you free next Saturday evening?”

“Let me see⁠—today is Thursday; yes.”

“Then come here. I will think the matter over and give you a final answer.”

On the following Sunday Gemma sent in to the committee of the Florentine branch of the Mazzinian party a statement that she wished to undertake a special work of a political nature, which would for a few months prevent her from performing the functions for which she had up till now been responsible to the party.

Some surprise was felt at this announcement, but the committee raised no objection; she had been known in the party for several years as a person whose judgment might be trusted; and the members agreed that if Signora Bolla took an unexpected step, she probably had good reasons for it.

To Martini she said frankly that she had undertaken to help the Gadfly with some “frontier work.” She had stipulated for the right to tell her old friend this much, in order that there might be no misunderstanding or painful sense of doubt and mystery between them. It seemed to her that she owed him this proof of confidence. He made no comment when she told him; but she saw, without knowing why, that the news had wounded him deeply.

They were sitting on the terrace of her lodging, looking out over the red roofs to Fiesole. After a long silence, Martini rose and began tramping up and down with his hands in his pockets, whistling to himself⁠—a sure sign with him of mental agitation. She sat looking at him for a little while.

“Cesare, you are worried about this affair,” she said at last. “I am very sorry you feel so despondent over it; but I could decide only as seemed right to me.”

“It is not the affair,” he answered, sullenly; “I know nothing about it, and it probably is all right, once you have consented to go into it. It’s the man I distrust.”

“I think you misunderstand him; I did till I got to know him better. He is far from perfect, but there is much more good in him than you think.”

“Very likely.” For a moment he tramped to and fro in silence, then suddenly stopped beside her.

“Gemma, give it up! Give it up before it is too late! Don’t let that man drag you into things you will repent afterwards.”

“Cesare,” she said gently, “you are not thinking what you are saying. No one is dragging me into anything. I have made this decision of my own will, after thinking the matter well over alone. You have a personal dislike to Rivarez, I know; but we are talking of politics now, not of persons.”

“Madonna! Give it up! That man is dangerous; he is secret, and cruel, and unscrupulous⁠—and he is in love with you!”

She drew back.

“Cesare, how can you get such fancies into your head?”

“He is in love with you,” Martini repeated. “Keep clear of him, Madonna!”

“Dear