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Updated: June 4, 2025
It was said in the town that Montanelli, one day when the Archbishop of Florence was dining with him, had found in the room one of the Gadfly's bitter personal lampoons against himself, had read it through and handed the paper to the Archbishop, remarking: "That is rather cleverly put, is it not?" One day there appeared in the town a leaflet, headed: "The Mystery of the Annunciation."
She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of the man who loses first his horse, then his home, and then his sweetheart, and consoles himself with the reflection that "more was lost at Mohacz field." The song was one of the Gadfly's especial favourites; its fierce and tragic melody and the bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as no softer music ever did.
But Montanelli had no lack of supporters. Two days after the publication of the skit, the Churchman, a leading clerical paper, brought out a brilliant article, called: "An Answer to 'The Mystery of the Annunciation," and signed: "A Son of the Church." It was an impassioned defence of Montanelli against the Gadfly's slanderous imputations.
The Governor, his nephew, the lieutenant of carabineers who was to command, a doctor and a priest were already in the courtyard, and came forward with grave faces, half abashed under the radiant defiance of the Gadfly's laughing eyes. "G-good morning, gentlemen! Ah, and his reverence is up so early, too! How do you do, captain?
He was shivering as if with ague. All the Gadfly's fury broke down. "Padre, can't you see " Montanelli shrank away, and stood still. "Only not that!" he whispered at last. "My God, anything but that! If I am going mad " The Gadfly raised himself on one arm, and took the shaking hands in his. "Padre, will you never understand that I am not really drowned?" The hands grew suddenly cold and stiff.
The sense of oppression which Gemma had felt in the Gadfly's society was intensified by the gypsy's presence; and when, a moment later, the host came up to beg Signora Bolla to help him entertain some tourists in the other room, she consented with an odd feeling of relief. "Well, Madonna, and what do you think of the Gadfly?" Martini asked as they drove back to Florence late at night.
She was standing with one hand upon the window-sill, and suddenly felt the Gadfly's cold fingers press the hand with a passionate clasp. "Thank you!" he whispered softly; and then, closing the window, sat down again upon the sill. "I'm afraid," he said in his airy manner, "that I have interrupted you, gentlemen. I was l-looking at the variety show; it is s-such a p-pretty sight."
For a moment everything was dead with silence, and then Montanelli knelt down and hid his face on the Gadfly's breast. When he raised his head the sun had set, and the red glow was dying in the west. They had forgotten time and place, and life and death; they had forgotten, even, that they were enemies. "Arthur," Montanelli whispered, "are you real? Have you come back to me from the dead?"
"They will stop exactly as they are; and I will thank you, sir, not to talk about barbarity to me. If I do a thing, I have a reason for it." So the seventh night passed without any relief, and the soldier stationed on guard at the cell door crossed himself, shuddering, over and over again, as he listened all night long to heart-rending moans. The Gadfly's endurance was failing him at last.
She was sorry for the poor, silly little woman, and annoyed at the Gadfly's languid insolence. He was watching the retreating figures with an expression of face that angered her; it seemed ungenerous to mock at such pitiable creatures. "There go Italian and Russian patriotism," he said, turning to her with a smile; "arm in arm and mightily pleased with each other's company. Which do you prefer?"
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