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

map, saying you had lost your way in the hills. Then, when you reach the town, you go with the rest of them into the marketplace, in front of the Cardinal’s palace.”

“Oh, he manages to live in a p-palace, then, in s-spite of being a saint?”

“He lives in one wing of it, and has turned the rest into a hospital. Well, you all wait there for him to come out and give his benediction, and Domenichino will come up with his basket and say: ‘Are you one of the pilgrims, father?’ and you answer: ‘I am a miserable sinner.’ Then he puts down his basket and wipes his face with his sleeve, and you offer him six soldi for a rosary.”

“Then, of course, he arranges where we can talk?”

“Yes; he will have plenty of time to give you the address of the meeting-place while the people are gaping at Montanelli. That was our plan; but if you don’t like it, we can let Domenichino know and arrange something else.”

“No; it will do; only see that the beard and wig look natural.”

“Are you one of the pilgrims, father?”

The Gadfly, sitting on the steps of the episcopal palace, looked up from under his ragged white locks, and gave the password in a husky, trembling voice, with a strong foreign accent. Domenichino slipped the leather strap from his shoulder, and set down his basket of pious gewgaws on the step. The crowd of peasants and pilgrims sitting on the steps and lounging about the marketplace was taking no notice of them, but for precaution’s sake they kept up a desultory conversation, Domenichino speaking in the local dialect and the Gadfly in broken Italian, intermixed with Spanish words.

“His Eminence! His Eminence is coming out!” shouted the people by the door. “Stand aside! His Eminence is coming!”

They both stood up.

“Here, father,” said Domenichino, putting into the Gadfly’s hand a little image wrapped in paper; “take this, too, and pray for me when you get to Rome.”

The Gadfly thrust it into his breast, and turned to look at the figure in the violet Lenten robe and scarlet cap that was standing on the upper step and blessing the people with outstretched arms.

Montanelli came slowly down the steps, the people crowding about him to kiss his hands. Many knelt down and put the hem of his cassock to their lips as he passed.

“Peace be with you, my children!”

At the sound of the clear, silvery voice, the Gadfly bent his head, so that the white hair fell across his face; and Domenichino, seeing the quivering of the pilgrim’s staff in his hand, said to himself with admiration: “What an actor!”

A woman standing near to them stooped down and lifted her child from the step. “Come, Cecco,” she said. “His Eminence will bless you as the dear Lord blessed the children.”

The Gadfly moved a step forward and stopped. Oh, it was hard! All these outsiders⁠—these pilgrims and mountaineers⁠—could go up and speak to him, and he would lay his hand on their children’s hair. Perhaps he would say “Carino” to that peasant boy, as he used to say⁠—

The Gadfly sank down again on the step, turning away that he might not see. If only he could shrink into some corner and stop his ears to shut out the sound! Indeed, it was more than any man should have to bear⁠—to be so close, so close that he could have put out his arm and touched the dear hand.

“Will you not come under shelter, my friend?” the soft voice said. “I am afraid you are chilled.”

The Gadfly’s heart stood still. For a moment he was conscious of nothing but the sickening pressure of the blood that seemed as if it would tear his breast asunder; then it rushed back, tingling and burning through all his body, and he looked up. The grave, deep eyes above him grew suddenly tender with divine compassion at the sight of his face.

“Stand back a little, friends,” Montanelli said, turning to the crowd; “I want to speak to him.”

The people fell slowly back, whispering to each other, and the Gadfly, sitting motionless, with teeth clenched and eyes on the ground, felt the gentle touch of Montanelli’s hand upon his shoulder.

“You have had some great trouble. Can I do anything to help you?”

The Gadfly shook his head in silence.

“Are you a pilgrim?”

“I am a miserable sinner.”

The accidental similarity of Montanelli’s question to the password came like a chance straw, that the Gadfly, in his desperation, caught at, answering automatically. He had begun to tremble under the soft pressure of the hand that seemed to burn upon his shoulder.

The Cardinal bent down closer to him.

“Perhaps you would care to speak to me alone? If I can be any help to you⁠—”

For the first time the Gadfly looked straight and steadily into Montanelli’s eyes; he was already recovering his self-command.

“It would be no use,” he said; “the thing is hopeless.”

A police official stepped forward out of the crowd.

“Forgive my intruding, Your Eminence. I think the old man is not quite sound in his mind. He is perfectly harmless, and his papers are in order, so we don’t interfere with him. He has been in penal servitude for a great crime, and is now doing penance.”

“A great crime,” the Gadfly repeated, shaking his head slowly.

“Thank you, captain; stand aside a little, please. My friend, nothing is hopeless if a man has sincerely repented. Will you not come to me this evening?”

“Would Your Eminence receive a man who is guilty of the death of his own son?”

The question had almost the tone of a challenge, and Montanelli shrank and shivered under it as under a cold wind.

“God forbid that I should condemn you, whatever you have done!” he said solemnly. “In His sight we are all guilty alike, and our righteousness is as filthy rags. If you will come to me I will receive you as I pray that He may one day receive me.”

The Gadfly stretched out