CHAPTER II.
"Is the mistress in, Katie?"
"Yes, sir; she is dressing. If you'll just step into the parlour shewill be down in a few minutes."
Katie ushered the visitor in with the cheerful friendliness of a trueDevonshire girl. Martini was a special favourite of hers. He spokeEnglish, like a foreigner, of course, but still quite respectably; andhe never sat discussing politics at the top of his voice till one inthe morning, when the mistress was tired, as some visitors had a way ofdoing. Moreover, he had come to Devonshire to help the mistress in hertrouble, when her baby was dead and her husband dying there; and eversince that time the big, awkward, silent man had been to Katie as much"one of the family" as was the lazy black cat which now ensconced itselfupon his knee. Pasht, for his part, regarded Martini as a useful pieceof household furniture. This visitor never trod upon his tail, orpuffed tobacco smoke into his eyes, or in any way obtruded upon hisconsciousness an aggressive biped personality. He behaved as a mere manshould: provided a comfortable knee to lie upon and purr, and attable never forgot that to look on while human beings eat fish is notinteresting for a cat. The friendship between them was of old date.Once, when Pasht was a kitten and his mistress too ill to think abouthim, he had come from England under Martini's care, tucked away in abasket. Since then, long experience had convinced him that this clumsyhuman bear was no fair-weather friend.
"How snug you look, you two!" said Gemma, coming into the room. "Onewould think you had settled yourselves for the evening."
Martini carefully lifted the cat off his knee. "I came early," he said,"in the hope that you will give me some tea before we start. There willprobably be a frightful crush, and Grassini won't give us any sensiblesupper--they never do in those fashionable houses."
"Come now!" she said, laughing; "that's as bad as Galli! Poor Grassinihas quite enough sins of his own to answer for without having his wife'simperfect housekeeping visited upon his head. As for the tea, it will beready in a minute. Katie has been making some Devonshire cakes speciallyfor you."
"Katie is a good soul, isn't she, Pasht? By the way, so are you to haveput on that pretty dress. I was afraid you would forget."
"I promised you I would wear it, though it is rather warm for a hotevening like this."
"It will be much cooler up at Fiesole; and nothing else ever suits youso well as white cashmere. I have brought you some flowers to wear withit."
"Oh, those lovely cluster roses; I am so fond of them! But they had muchbetter go into water. I hate to wear flowers."
"Now that's one of your superstitious fancies."
"No, it isn't; only I think they must get so bored, spending all theevening pinned to such a dull companion."
"I am afraid we shall all be bored to-night. The conversazione will bedull beyond endurance."
"Why?"
"Partly because everything Grassini touches becomes as dull as himself."
"Now don't be spiteful. It is not fair when we are going to be a man'sguests."
"You are always right, Madonna. Well then, it will be dull because halfthe interesting people are not coming."
"How is that?"
"I don't know. Out of town, or ill, or something. Anyway, there willbe two or three ambassadors and some learned Germans, and the usualnondescript crowd of tourists and Russian princes and literary clubpeople, and a few French officers; nobody else that I know of--except,of course, the new satirist, who is to be the attraction of theevening."
"The new satirist? What, Rivarez? But I thought Grassini disapproved ofhim so strongly."
"Yes; but once the man is here and is sure to be talked about, of courseGrassini wants his house to be the first place where the new lion willbe on show. You may be sure Rivarez has heard nothing of Grassini'sdisapproval. He may have guessed it, though; he's sharp enough."
"I did not even know he had come."
"He only arrived yesterday. Here comes the tea. No, don't get up; let mefetch the kettle."
He was never so happy as in this little study. Gemma's friendship, hergrave unconsciousness of the charm she exercised over him, her frank andsimple comradeship were the brightest things for him in a life thatwas none too bright; and whenever he began to feel more than usuallydepressed he would come in here after business hours and sit with her,generally in silence, watching her as she bent over her needlework orpoured out tea. She never questioned him about his troubles or expressedany sympathy in words; but he always went away stronger and calmer,feeling, as he put it to himself, that he could "trudge through anotherfortnight quite respectably." She possessed, without knowing it, therare gift of consolation; and when, two years ago, his dearest friendshad been betrayed in Calabria and shot down like wolves, her steadyfaith had been perhaps the thing which had saved him from despair.
On Sunday mornings he sometimes came in to "talk business," thatexpression standing for anything connected with the practical work ofthe Mazzinian party, of which they both were active and devoted members.She was quite a different creature then; keen, cool, and logical,perfectly accurate and perfectly neutral. Those who saw her only at herpolitical work regarded her as a trained and disciplined conspirator,trustworthy, courageous, in every way a valuable member of theparty, but somehow lacking in life and individuality. "She's a bornconspirator, worth any dozen of us; and she is nothing more," Galli hadsaid of her. The "Madonna Gemma" whom Martini knew was very difficult toget at.
"Well, and what is your 'new satirist' like?" she asked, glancing backover her shoulder as she opened the sideboard. "There, Cesare, thereare barley-sugar and candied angelica for you. I wonder, by the way, whyrevolutionary men are always so fond of sweets."
"Other men are, too, only they think it beneath their dignity to confessit. The new satirist? Oh, the kind of man that ordinary women willrave over and you will dislike. A sort of professional dealer in sharpspeeches, that goes about the world with a lackadaisical manner and ahandsome ballet-girl dangling on to his coat-tails."
"Do you mean that there is really a ballet-girl, or simply that you feelcross and want to imitate the sharp speeches?"
"The Lord defend me! No; the ballet-girl is real enough and handsomeenough, too, for those who like shrewish beauty. Personally, I don't.She's a Hungarian gipsy, or something of that kind, so Riccardo says;from some provincial theatre in Galicia. He seems to be rather a coolhand; he has been introducing the girl to people just as if she were hismaiden aunt."
"Well, that's only fair if he has taken her away from her home."
"You may look at things that way, dear Madonna, but society won't. Ithink most people will very much resent being introduced to a woman whomthey know to be his mistress."
"How can they know it unless he tells them so?"
"It's plain enough; you'll see if you meet her. But I should think evenhe would not have the audacity to bring her to the Grassinis'."
"They wouldn't receive her. Signora Grassini is not the woman to dounconventional things of that kind. But I wanted to hear about SignorRivarez as a satirist, not as a man. Fabrizi told me he had been writtento and had consented to come and take up the campaign against theJesuits; and that is the last I have heard. There has been such a rushof work this week."
"I don't know that I can tell you much more. There doesn't seem to havebeen any difficulty over the money question, as we feared there wouldbe. He's well off, it appears, and willing to work for nothing."
"Has he a private fortune, then?" "Apparently he has; though it seemsrather odd--you heard that night at Fabrizi's about the state the Duprezexpedition found him in. But he has got shares in mines somewhere out inBrazil; and then he has been immensely successful as a feuilleton writerin Paris and Vienna and London. He seems to have half a dozen languagesat his finger-tips; and there's nothing to prevent his keeping up hisnewspaper connections from here. Slanging the Jesuits won't take all histime."
"That's true, of course. It's time to start, Cesare. Yes, I will wearthe roses. Wait just a minute."
<
br /> She ran upstairs, and came back with the roses in the bosom of herdress, and a long scarf of black Spanish lace thrown over her head.Martini surveyed her with artistic approval.
"You look like a queen, Madonna mia; like the great and wise Queen ofSheba."
"What an unkind speech!" she retorted, laughing; "when you know how hardI've been trying to mould myself into the image of the typical societylady! Who wants a conspirator to look like the Queen of Sheba? That'snot the way to keep clear of spies."
"You'll never be able to personate the stupid society woman if you tryfor ever. But it doesn't matter, after all; you're too fair to look uponfor spies to guess your opinions, even though you can't simper and hidebehind your fan like Signora Grassini."
"Now Cesare, let that poor woman alone! There, take some morebarley-sugar to sweeten your temper. Are you ready? Then we had betterstart."
Martini had been quite right in saying that the conversazione would beboth crowded and dull. The literary men talked polite small-talk andlooked hopelessly bored, while the "nondescript crowd of tourists andRussian princes" fluttered up and down the rooms, asking each otherwho were the various celebrities and trying to carry on intellectualconversation. Grassini was receiving his guests with a manner ascarefully polished as his boots; but his cold face lighted up at thesight of Gemma. He did not really like her and indeed was secretly alittle afraid of her; but he realized that without her his drawing roomwould lack a great attraction. He had risen high in his profession, andnow that he was rich and well known his chief ambition was to make ofhis house a centre of liberal and intellectual society. He was painfullyconscious that the insignificant, overdressed little woman whom in hisyouth he had made the mistake of marrying was not fit, with her vapidtalk and faded prettiness, to be the mistress of a great literary salon.When he could prevail upon Gemma to come he always felt that the eveningwould be a success. Her quiet graciousness of manner set the guests attheir ease, and her very presence seemed to lay the spectre of vulgaritywhich always, in his imagination, haunted the house.
Signora Grassini greeted Gemma affectionately, exclaiming in a loudwhisper: "How charming you look to-night!" and examining thewhite cashmere with viciously critical eyes. She hated her visitorrancourously, for the very things for which Martini loved her; for herquiet strength of character; for her grave, sincere directness; for thesteady balance of her mind; for the very expression of her face.And when Signora Grassini hated a woman, she showed it by effusivetenderness. Gemma took the compliments and endearments for what theywere worth, and troubled her head no more about them. What is called"going into society" was in her eyes one of the wearisome and ratherunpleasant tasks which a conspirator who wishes not to attract thenotice of spies must conscientiously fulfil. She classed it togetherwith the laborious work of writing in cipher; and, knowing how valuablea practical safeguard against suspicion is the reputation of being awell-dressed woman, studied the fashion-plates as carefully as she didthe keys of her ciphers.
The bored and melancholy literary lions brightened up a little at thesound of Gemma's name; she was very popular among them; and the radicaljournalists, especially, gravitated at once to her end of the long room.But she was far too practised a conspirator to let them monopolize her.Radicals could be had any day; and now, when they came crowding roundher, she gently sent them about their business, reminding them with asmile that they need not waste their time on converting her when therewere so many tourists in need of instruction. For her part, she devotedherself to an English M.P. whose sympathies the republican party wasanxious to gain; and, knowing him to be a specialist on finance, shefirst won his attention by asking his opinion on a technicalpoint concerning the Austrian currency, and then deftly turned theconversation to the condition of the Lombardo-Venetian revenue. TheEnglishman, who had expected to be bored with small-talk, looked askanceat her, evidently fearing that he had fallen into the clutches of ablue-stocking; but finding that she was both pleasant to look at andinteresting to talk to, surrendered completely and plunged into as gravea discussion of Italian finance as if she had been Metternich. WhenGrassini brought up a Frenchman "who wishes to ask Signora Bollasomething about the history of Young Italy," the M. P. rose witha bewildered sense that perhaps there was more ground for Italiandiscontent than he had supposed.
Later in the evening Gemma slipped out on to the terrace under thedrawing-room windows to sit alone for a few moments among the greatcamellias and oleanders. The close air and continually shifting crowd inthe rooms were beginning to give her a headache. At the further end ofthe terrace stood a row of palms and tree-ferns, planted in large tubswhich were hidden by a bank of lilies and other flowering plants.The whole formed a complete screen, behind which was a little nookcommanding a beautiful view out across the valley. The branches of apomegranate tree, clustered with late blossoms, hung beside the narrowopening between the plants.
In this nook Gemma took refuge, hoping that no one would guess herwhereabouts until she had secured herself against the threateningheadache by a little rest and silence. The night was warm andbeautifully still; but coming out from the hot, close rooms she felt itcool, and drew her lace scarf about her head.
Presently the sounds of voices and footsteps approaching along theterrace roused her from the dreamy state into which she had fallen. Shedrew back into the shadow, hoping to escape notice and get a few moreprecious minutes of silence before again having to rack her tired brainfor conversation. To her great annoyance the footsteps paused near tothe screen; then Signora Grassini's thin, piping little voice broke offfor a moment in its stream of chatter.
The other voice, a man's, was remarkably soft and musical; but itssweetness of tone was marred by a peculiar, purring drawl, perhaps mereaffectation, more probably the result of a habitual effort to conquersome impediment of speech, but in any case very unpleasant.
"English, did you say?" it asked. "But surely the name is quite Italian.What was it--Bolla?"
"Yes; she is the widow of poor Giovanni Bolla, who died in Englandabout four years ago,--don't you remember? Ah, I forgot--you lead such awandering life; we can't expect you to know of all our unhappy country'smartyrs--they are so many!"
Signora Grassini sighed. She always talked in this style to strangers;the role of a patriotic mourner for the sorrows of Italy formed aneffective combination with her boarding-school manner and prettyinfantine pout.
"Died in England!" repeated the other voice. "Was he a refugee, then?I seem to recognize the name, somehow; was he not connected with YoungItaly in its early days?"
"Yes; he was one of the unfortunate young men who were arrested in'33--you remember that sad affair? He was released in a few months;then, two or three years later, when there was a warrant out against himagain, he escaped to England. The next we heard was that he was marriedthere. It was a most romantic affair altogether, but poor Bolla alwayswas romantic."
"And then he died in England, you say?"
"Yes, of consumption; he could not stand that terrible English climate.And she lost her only child just before his death; it caught scarletfever. Very sad, is it not? And we are all so fond of dear Gemma! Sheis a little stiff, poor thing; the English always are, you know; but Ithink her troubles have made her melancholy, and----"
Gemma stood up and pushed back the boughs of the pomegranate tree. Thisretailing of her private sorrows for purposes of small-talk was almostunbearable to her, and there was visible annoyance in her face as shestepped into the light.
"Ah! here she is!" exclaimed the hostess, with admirable coolness."Gemma, dear, I was wondering where you could have disappeared to.Signor Felice Rivarez wishes to make your acquaintance."
"So it's the Gadfly," thought Gemma, looking at him with some curiosity.He bowed to her decorously enough, but his eyes glanced over herface and figure with a look which seemed to her insolently keen andinquisitorial.
"You have found a d-d-delightful little nook here," he remarked, lookingat the thick screen; "and w-w-what a char
ming view!"
"Yes; it's a pretty corner. I came out here to get some air."
"It seems almost ungrateful to the good God to stay indoors on such alovely night," said the hostess, raising her eyes to the stars. (She hadgood eyelashes and liked to show them.) "Look, signore! Would not oursweet Italy be heaven on earth if only she were free? To think that sheshould be a bond-slave, with such flowers and such skies!"
"And such patriotic women!" the Gadfly murmured in his soft, languiddrawl.
Gemma glanced round at him in some trepidation; his impudence was tooglaring, surely, to deceive anyone. But she had underrated SignoraGrassini's appetite for compliments; the poor woman cast down her lasheswith a sigh.
"Ah, signore, it is so little that a woman can do! Perhaps some day Imay prove my right to the name of an Italian--who knows? And now I mustgo back to my social duties; the French ambassador has begged me tointroduce his ward to all the notabilities; you must come in presentlyand see her. She is a most charming girl. Gemma, dear, I brought SignorRivarez out to show him our beautiful view; I must leave him under yourcare. I know you will look after him and introduce him to everyone. Ah!there is that delightful Russian prince! Have you met him? They say heis a great favourite of the Emperor Nicholas. He is military commanderof some Polish town with a name that nobody can pronounce. Quelle nuitmagnifique! N'est-ce-pas, mon prince?"
She fluttered away, chattering volubly to a bull-necked man with a heavyjaw and a coat glittering with orders; and her plaintive dirges for"notre malheureuse patrie," interpolated with "charmant" and "monprince," died away along the terrace.
Gemma stood quite still beside the pomegranate tree. She was sorryfor the poor, silly little woman, and annoyed at the Gadfly's languidinsolence. He was watching the retreating figures with an expressionof face that angered her; it seemed ungenerous to mock at such pitiablecreatures.
"There go Italian and--Russian patriotism," he said, turning to her witha smile; "arm in arm and mightily pleased with each other's company.Which do you prefer?"
She frowned slightly and made no answer.
"Of c-course," he went on; "it's all a question of p-personal taste; butI think, of the two, I like the Russian variety best--it's so thorough.If Russia had to depend on flowers and skies for her supremacy insteadof on powder and shot, how long do you think 'mon prince' would k-keepthat Polish fortress?"
"I think," she answered coldly, "that we can hold our personal opinionswithout ridiculing a woman whose guests we are."
"Ah, yes! I f-forgot the obligations of hospitality here in Italy;they are a wonderfully hospitable people, these Italians. I'm sure theAustrians find them so. Won't you sit down?"
He limped across the terrace to fetch a chair for her, and placedhimself opposite to her, leaning against the balustrade. The light froma window was shining full on his face; and she was able to study it ather leisure.
She was disappointed. She had expected to see a striking and powerful,if not pleasant face; but the most salient points of his appearance werea tendency to foppishness in dress and rather more than a tendency to acertain veiled insolence of expression and manner. For the rest, he wasas swarthy as a mulatto, and, notwithstanding his lameness, as agile asa cat. His whole personality was oddly suggestive of a black jaguar.The forehead and left cheek were terribly disfigured by the long crookedscar of the old sabre-cut; and she had already noticed that, when hebegan to stammer in speaking, that side of his face was affected with anervous twitch. But for these defects he would have been, in a certainrestless and uncomfortable way, rather handsome; but it was not anattractive face.
Presently he began again in his soft, murmuring purr ("Just the voicea jaguar would talk in, if it could speak and were in a good humour,"Gemma said to herself with rising irritation).
"I hear," he said, "that you are interested in the radical press, andwrite for the papers."
"I write a little; I have not time to do much."
"Ah, of course! I understood from Signora Grassini that you undertakeother important work as well."
Gemma raised her eyebrows slightly. Signora Grassini, like the sillylittle woman she was, had evidently been chattering imprudently to thisslippery creature, whom Gemma, for her part, was beginning actually todislike.
"My time is a good deal taken up," she said rather stiffly; "but SignoraGrassini overrates the importance of my occupations. They are mostly ofa very trivial character."
"Well, the world would be in a bad way if we ALL of us spent our time inchanting dirges for Italy. I should think the neighbourhood of ourhost of this evening and his wife would make anybody frivolous,in self-defence. Oh, yes, I know what you're going to say; you areperfectly right, but they are both so deliciously funny with theirpatriotism.--Are you going in already? It is so nice out here!"
"I think I will go in now. Is that my scarf? Thank you."
He had picked it up, and now stood looking at her with wide eyes as blueand innocent as forget-me-nots in a brook.
"I know you are offended with me," he said penitently, "for fooling thatpainted-up wax doll; but what can a fellow do?"
"Since you ask me, I do think it an ungenerous and--well--cowardly thingto hold one's intellectual inferiors up to ridicule in that way; it islike laughing at a cripple, or------"
He caught his breath suddenly, painfully; and shrank back, glancing athis lame foot and mutilated hand. In another instant he recovered hisself-possession and burst out laughing.
"That's hardly a fair comparison, signora; we cripples don't flaunt ourdeformities in people's faces as she does her stupidity. At least giveus credit for recognizing that crooked backs are no pleasanter thancrooked ways. There is a step here; will you take my arm?"
She re-entered the house in embarrassed silence; his unexpectedsensitiveness had completely disconcerted her.
Directly he opened the door of the great reception room she realizedthat something unusual had happened in her absence. Most of thegentlemen looked both angry and uncomfortable; the ladies, with hotcheeks and carefully feigned unconsciousness, were all collected at oneend of the room; the host was fingering his eye-glasses with suppressedbut unmistakable fury, and a little group of tourists stood in acorner casting amused glances at the further end of the room. Evidentlysomething was going on there which appeared to them in the light of ajoke, and to most of the guests in that of an insult. Signora Grassinialone did not appear to have noticed anything; she was fluttering herfan coquettishly and chattering to the secretary of the Dutch embassy,who listened with a broad grin on his face.
Gemma paused an instant in the doorway, turning to see if the Gadfly,too, had noticed the disturbed appearance of the company. There was nomistaking the malicious triumph in his eyes as he glanced from the faceof the blissfully unconscious hostess to a sofa at the end of the room.She understood at once; he had brought his mistress here under somefalse colour, which had deceived no one but Signora Grassini.
The gipsy-girl was leaning back on the sofa, surrounded by a groupof simpering dandies and blandly ironical cavalry officers. She wasgorgeously dressed in amber and scarlet, with an Oriental brilliancyof tint and profusion of ornament as startling in a Florentineliterary salon as if she had been some tropical bird among sparrows andstarlings. She herself seemed to feel out of place, and looked at theoffended ladies with a fiercely contemptuous scowl. Catching sight ofthe Gadfly as he crossed the room with Gemma, she sprang up and cametowards him, with a voluble flood of painfully incorrect French.
"M. Rivarez, I have been looking for you everywhere! Count Saltykovwants to know whether you can go to his villa to-morrow night. Therewill be dancing."
"I am sorry I can't go; but then I couldn't dance if I did. SignoraBolla, allow me to introduce to you Mme. Zita Reni."
The gipsy glanced round at Gemma with a half defiant air and bowedstiffly. She was certainly handsome enough, as Martini had said, with avivid, animal, unintelligent beauty; and the perfect harmony and freedomof her movements were delightfu
l to see; but her forehead was low andnarrow, and the line of her delicate nostrils was unsympathetic, almostcruel. The sense of oppression which Gemma had felt in the Gadfly'ssociety was intensified by the gypsy's presence; and when, a momentlater, the host came up to beg Signora Bolla to help him entertain sometourists in the other room, she consented with an odd feeling of relief.
*****
"Well, Madonna, and what do you think of the Gadfly?" Martini asked asthey drove back to Florence late at night. "Did you ever see anythingquite so shameless as the way he fooled that poor little Grassiniwoman?"
"About the ballet-girl, you mean?"
"Yes, he persuaded her the girl was going to be the lion of the season.Signora Grassini would do anything for a celebrity."
"I thought it an unfair and unkind thing to do; it put the Grassinisinto a false position; and it was nothing less than cruel to the girlherself. I am sure she felt ill at ease."
"You had a talk with him, didn't you? What did you think of him?"
"Oh, Cesare, I didn't think anything except how glad I was to seethe last of him. I never met anyone so fearfully tiring. He gave me aheadache in ten minutes. He is like an incarnate demon of unrest."
"I thought you wouldn't like him; and, to tell the truth, no more do I.The man's as slippery as an eel; I don't trust him."
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