The Gadfly Part 52

No, there was nothing the matter with him--nothing! It was all imagination. The pain in his side was indigestion, or a chill, or some such thing; not much wonder, after three weeks of this insufferable prison food and air. As for the aching and throbbing all over, it was partly nervous trouble and partly want of exercise. Yes, that was it, no doubt; want of exercise. How absurd not to have thought of that before!

He would sit down a little bit, though, and let it pa.s.s before he got to work. It would be sure to go over in a minute or two.

To sit still was worse than all. When he sat still he was at its mercy, and his face grew gray with fear. No, he must get up and set to work, and shake it off. It should depend upon his will to feel or not to feel; and he would not feel, he would force it back.

He stood up again and spoke to himself, aloud and distinctly:

"I am not ill; I have no time to be ill. I have those bars to file, and I am not going to be ill."

Then he began to file.

A quarter-past ten--half-past ten--a quarter to eleven---- He filed and filed, and every grating sc.r.a.pe of the iron was as though someone were filing on his body and brain. "I wonder which will be filed through first," he said to himself with a little laugh; "I or the bars?" And he set his teeth and went on filing.

Half-past eleven. He was still filing, though the hand was stiff and swollen and would hardly grasp the tool. No, he dared not stop to rest; if he once put the horrible thing down he should never have the courage to begin again.

The sentinel moved outside the door, and the b.u.t.t end of his carbine scratched against the lintel. The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the file still in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?

A little round pellet had been shot through the spy-hole and was lying on the floor. He laid down the file and stooped to pick up the round thing. It was a bit of rolled paper.

It was a long way to go down and down, with the black waves rus.h.i.+ng about him--how they roared----!

Ah, yes! He was only stooping down to pick up the paper. He was a bit giddy; many people are when they stoop. There was nothing the matter with him--nothing.

He picked it up, carried it to the light, and unfolded it steadily.

"Come to-night, whatever happens; the Cricket will be transferred to-morrow to another service. This is our only chance."

He destroyed the paper as he had done the former one, picked up his file again, and went back to work, dogged and mute and desperate.

One o'clock. He had been working for three hours now, and six of the eight bars were filed. Two more, and then, to climb------

He began to recall the former occasions when these terrible attacks had come on. The last had been the one at New Year; and he shuddered as he remembered those five nights. But that time it had not come on so suddenly; he had never known it so sudden.

He dropped the file and flung out both hands blindly, praying, in his utter desperation, for the first time since he had been an atheist; praying to anything--to nothing--to everything.

"Not to-night! Oh, let me be ill to-morrow! I will bear anything to-morrow--only not to-night!"

He stood still for a moment, with both hands up to his temples; then he took up the file once more, and once more went back to his work.

Half-past one. He had begun on the last bar. His s.h.i.+rt-sleeve was bitten to rags; there was blood on his lips and a red mist before his eyes, and the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed, and filed, and filed----

After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was utterly worn out with the restless misery of the night and slept for a little while quietly; then he began to dream.

At first he dreamed vaguely, confusedly; broken fragments of images and fancies followed each other, fleeting and incoherent, but all filled with the same dim sense of struggle and pain, the same shadow of indefinable dread. Presently he began to dream of sleeplessness; the old, frightful, familiar dream that had been a terror to him for years.

And even as he dreamed he recognized that he had been through it all before.

He was wandering about in a great empty place, trying to find some quiet spot where he could lie down and sleep. Everywhere there were people, walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting; praying, ringing bells, and clas.h.i.+ng metal instruments together. Sometimes he would get away to a little distance from the noise, and would lie down, now on the gra.s.s, now on a wooden bench, now on some slab of stone. He would shut his eyes and cover them with both hands to keep out the light; and would say to himself: "Now I will get to sleep." Then the crowds would come sweeping up to him, shouting, yelling, calling him by name, begging him: "Wake up! Wake up, quick; we want you!"

Again: he was in a great palace, full of gorgeous rooms, with beds and couches and low soft lounges. It was night, and he said to himself: "Here, at last, I shall find a quiet place to sleep." But when he chose a dark room and lay down, someone came in with a lamp, flas.h.i.+ng the merciless light into his eyes, and said: "Get up; you are wanted."

He rose and wandered on, staggering and stumbling like a creature wounded to death; and heard the clocks strike one, and knew that half the night was gone already--the precious night that was so short. Two, three, four, five--by six o'clock the whole town would wake up and there would be no more silence.

He went into another room and would have lain down on a bed, but someone started up from the pillows, crying out: "This bed is mine!" and he shrank away with despair in his heart.

Hour after hour struck, and still he wandered on and on, from room to room, from house to house, from corridor to corridor. The horrible gray dawn was creeping near and nearer; the clocks were striking five; the night was gone and he had found no rest. Oh, misery! Another day--another day!

He was in a long, subterranean corridor, a low, vaulted pa.s.sage that seemed to have no end. It was lighted with glaring lamps and chandeliers; and through its grated roof came the sounds of dancing and laughter and merry music. Up there, in the world of the live people overhead, there was some festival, no doubt. Oh, for a place to hide and sleep; some little place, were it even a grave! And as he spoke he stumbled over an open grave. An open grave, smelling of death and rottenness---- Ah, what matter, so he could but sleep!

"This grave is mine!" It was Gladys; and she raised her head and stared at him over the rotting shroud. Then he knelt down and stretched out his arms to her.

"Gladys! Gladys! Have a little pity on me; let me creep into this narrow s.p.a.ce and sleep. I do not ask you for your love; I will not touch you, will not speak to you; only let me lie down beside you and sleep! Oh, love, it is so long since I have slept! I cannot bear another day. The light glares in upon my soul; the noise is beating my brain to dust.

Gladys, let me come in here and sleep!"

And he would have drawn her shroud across his eyes. But she shrank away, screaming:

"It is sacrilege; you are a priest!"

On and on he wandered, and came out upon the sea-sh.o.r.e, on the barren rocks where the fierce light struck down, and the water moaned its low, perpetual wail of unrest. "Ah!" he said; "the sea will be more merciful; it, too, is wearied unto death and cannot sleep."

Then Arthur rose up from the deep, and cried aloud:

"This sea is mine!"

"Your Eminence! Your Eminence!"

Montanelli awoke with a start. His servant was knocking at the door. He rose mechanically and opened it, and the man saw how wild and scared he looked.

"Your Eminence--are you ill?"

He drew both hands across his forehead.

"No; I was asleep, and you startled me."

"I am very sorry; I thought I had heard you moving early this morning, and I supposed------"

"Is it late now?"

"It is nine o'clock, and the Governor has called. He says he has very important business, and knowing Your Eminence to be an early riser------"