"All women are good; good for something, or good for nothing."
CERVANTES.
The next morning Emile made his entrance with the same complete
disregard of ceremony. Arithelli was still in bed and only half awake.
She raised herself slightly and looked at him with sleepy eyes.
"Oh!" she said. "I didn't hear you knock."
There was the same entire lack of embarrassment in her manner that she
had shown on the previous night. Almost before she had finished her
sentence she shut her eyes again, and leant back yawning. It seemed a
matter of the greatest indifference to her whether he was there or not.
Emile's interest rose by several degrees as he sat down on the edge of
the bed.
"I didn't knock," he said, speaking English fluently enough, but with
the hard, clipped accents of the Slav. "I can't bother about all that
humbug. If you're straight with me I'll be straight with you, and we
may as well be friends. I dare say you think you're very good-looking
and all that, but it doesn't make any difference to me. You're here,
and I'm here, so we may as well be here together."
"I'm so sorry," Arithelli replied, "but I'm always so stupid and sleepy
in the mornings. Do you mind saying it all over again?"
And very much to his own surprise Emile Poleski repeated his remarks.
It struck him that there was something of the boy, the _gamin_, about
her in spite of her exotic appearance. That was so much the better and
would suit admirably with his schemes for her. It was better that she
should not be too much of a woman; for in the realms of anarchy there
is no sex, though comradeship is elevated to the dignity of a fine art.
For chivalry and love making there is neither the time nor the desire,
and those who are wedded to _La Liberté_ find her an all-sufficient
idol for purposes of worship. Human life is held of small account, to
join the Cause being equivalent to the signing of one's own death
warrant. One would probably have to die to-morrow if not to-day, and
whether it were sooner or later mattered little. Emile's fierce
devotion to the cause of his oppressed country had been the means of
leaving him stranded in Barcelona at the age of forty, without hopes,
illusions or ideals. His estates in Russia had been confiscated, his
parents were dead, the woman he had loved was married.
Now he lived in a dirty back street, in a single room, on two pounds a
week, morbid, suspicious, cynical, keeping his own counsel, owning no
friends, and occupying body and brain with plots, secret meetings,
ciphers and the usual accompaniments of intrigue. The Brotherhood
consisted of fifteen men, though occasionally the number varied. Two
or three would disappear, another one come. There was no feminine
element. An Anarchist seldom marries. To him a woman is either a
machine or the lightest of light episodes.
Emile had not the least desire to make love to the girl whom he had for
his own purposes befriended. He was a quick and subtle judge of
character, and had seen at a glance that in her he would find a study
of pronounced interest. Also she might prove of some utility. It was
one of the tenets of the fraternity to which he belonged never to waste
any material that might come to hand. In the finely-cut face before
him, with its Oriental modelling and impassivity, he read brains,
refinement and endurance. Her hair was plaited in two long braids, and
drawn down over her ears, showing the contour of a sleek, smooth little
head.
She had relapsed into silence after disposing of the slovenly meal he
had induced the landlady to provide. The only thing that seemed to
worry her was the superfluous dirt that adorned the cups.
At length she spoke:
"And what sort of a place is this Barcelona?"
"_L'entresol de l'enfer_," answered Emile curtly. "What are your
people doing to allow you to come here alone?"
"They don't know I am here. I ran away, you see. If I get on well,
I'll write and let them know, and if not--"
"_Alors_?"
"Oh, I don't know. But I will get on. Don't you think I ought to make
a success at the Hippodrome?"
Emile ignored the _naïve_ conceit of the last remark. "But what are
you doing at the Hippodrome at all?" he demanded.
"I am riding," she answered with an elfish smile in which her eyes took
no part.
"Obviously! What are you going to do about _déjeuner_? The landlady
won't bring you up all your meals."
"I don't know," was the unconcerned answer.
"You'll have to go to one of the _cafés_, and you had better let me
show you which are the most desirable ones. _Enfin_! have you any
intention of getting up this morning?"
Arithelli yawned again. "I suppose I must go round and present myself
to the Manager. I'm to rehearse a fortnight before I make my
appearance in public."
"Then I had better come with you," Emile replied with decision. "As I
told you yesterday, I know the Manager fairly well."
An hour later they walked together through the streets on their way to
the Hippodrome. Emile was a bad advertisement for the secrecy of his
profession, for he looked a typical desperado. His velvet coat had the
air of having been slept in for weeks, and had certainly never been on
terms of acquaintanceship with a brush; and, besides the usual
Anarchist badge, a red tie, a blood red carnation flamed defiance in
his buttonhole.
Under a battered sombrero he scowled upon the world; a dark skin,
fierce moustache, and arching black eyebrows over hard, grey eyes.
There are few people who look their parts in life, but Emile might
without addition or alteration, have been transferred to the stage as
the typical villain of a melodrama.
Arithelli had arrayed herself in the cornflower blue frock, which she
carried with a negligent ease, and she still wore the Panama hat with
the flowing veil. As a matter of fact it was the only piece of
headgear she possessed; for she had been reckless over dresses and
boots in Paris and had found herself drawn up with a jerk in the midst
of her purchases by her small stock of money coming to an abrupt end.
Of her carriage and general deportment, which were noticeably good even
among Spanish women, Emile approved. The crude blue of her dress, the
tags and ends of tinselled braid set his teeth on edge. In his "Count
Poleski" days he had known the quiet and exquisite taste of the
_mondaines_ of Vienna and St. Petersburg, and like most men he
preferred dark clothes in the street. Later on he proposed to himself
the pleasure of supervising her wardrobe, except her boots, which met
with his fullest approbation.
He noticed that she did not talk much but observed in silence. He felt
that nothing escaped those heavy-lidded, curious eyes. "Is everything
dirty in Spain?" she said at last.
"How fussy you are about dirt!" retorted Emile disagreeably.
"Yes. My mother is a Jewess, you know. I expect we notice these
things more than the dirty Gentiles."
Her calm assertion of the superior cleanliness of the tribe of Israel,
amused Emile, who had been accustomed to hear the usual contempt of the
English-speaking races for anyone possessing a strain of Jewish blood.
So it was the Jewess in her that accounted for her haunting voice.
The Manager was a hatchet-faced and haggard man who looked as if he
went to bed about once a week, on an average, and existed principally
on cigarettes and _absinthe_. The simultaneous arrival of Emile and
Arithelli roused him from his normal condition of bored cynicism to
comparative animation.
Like the landlady he naturally made his own conclusions.
"When did you arrive?" he demanded of Arithelli. Emile, not being
afflicted with a sense of the necessity for elaborate explanation,
removed himself a few paces and began to roll a cigarette.
Arithelli stood her ground, listened to the comments on her appearance
which the Manager felt himself entitled to use, returned his cynical
survey with a level glance, and answered his questions with an
unruffled composure.
It was arranged that she should rehearse every day for two hours in the
morning, and another two hours between the afternoon and evening
performances. For the first act she could wear a habit of any colour
she cared to choose, and a smart hat; for the second act, which
included jumping over gates, and the presence of the inevitable clown,
she would have to wear short skirts.
"_They_ won't suit me," she said. "You see how long and thin I am, and
look at my long feet. I shall look a burlesque."
The Manager glared at her.
"I quite believe you will," he snapped. "I suppose you think you're
going to do the leaping act in a court train and feathers! Is there
anything more you would like to suggest?"
The intended sarcasm was not a success. Arithelli considered gravely.
"I don't think so, thank you," she said at last. "But if I _do_ think
of anything else I'll tell you. And I _should_ like to see the horses."
She was filled with a genuine delight by the four cream-coloured
pure-bred Andalusians, El Rey, Don Quixote, Cavaliero and Don Juan.
They turned intelligent eyes upon her as she entered their stalls,
neighing gently as if they recognised a friend. Both the men
experienced the same feeling of surprise at her evident knowledge and
understanding of animals. In five minutes she had shown that she knew
as much about their harness and food as a competent groom.
The astute Manager, upon whom no sign of intelligence was wasted, saw a
good opportunity for getting a little extra work out of his youthful
leading lady. He informed her that she must be down at the stables
every morning at eight o'clock to inspect the horses and see them fed
and watered. As a matter of fact the inspection should have been one
of his own duties, but the girl was not likely to cavil at any little
additional work that had not been exactly specified in her contract.
Besides, if she did, he could soon make it uncomfortable for her.
Arithelli made no objection. Though she hated getting up early she
would never have grudged a sacrifice of comfort made on behalf of any
animal. When all the business was completed, Emile took her to the
Café Colomb for lunch.
Before they left he knew the details of her history.
The big house in Ireland, with its stud of horses and unlimited
hospitality, and the rapidly vanishing fortune. Her mother, a Viennese
by birth, a cosmopolitan by travel and education, a fine horsewoman,
and extravagance incarnate. Her father, good-natured, careless, manly,
as sportsmanlike and unbusinesslike as most Irishmen. When his horses
died he bought more, keeping always open house for a colony of men as
shiftless and as easy-going as himself.
As the children grew up the money became less and less. They were sent
to Convent schools in France and Belgium, then to cheap schools in
England.
At length the final crash came, and the big, picturesque, rambling
house in Galway was sold, and they came to London with an infinitesimal
income partly derived from the grudging charity of relatives.
Arithelli cleaned the doorsteps and the kitchen stove, blackleaded the
grates and prepared the meals, which more often than not consisted only
of potatoes and tea.
Their mother, who hated all domestic work, and could never be induced
to see that their loss of money was due to her own extravagance,
retired to bed, where she spent her days in reading Plato in the
original, and writing charming French lyrics.
When Arithelli ran away she had gone straight to an old friend of her
mother's, the widow of an ambassador in Paris. She had made up her
mind to earn her own living. She would carve out for herself a career.
Having decided that riding was her most saleable accomplishment, she
had gone round to the riding school where the managers of the
Hippodromes of Vienna, Buda-Pesth and Barcelona waited to select
_equestriennes_.
Luck, youthful confidence, and her tragic, unyouthful beauty, had all
ranged themselves together to procure her the much desired engagement.
"I made up my mind to get taken on," she concluded. "_Et me voilà_! I
did all sorts of desperate jumps that day. I felt desperate. If I
hadn't got it, there was only the Morgue. I couldn't have gone home."
Emile listened in silence, and drank _absinthe_ and considered.
That night at a meeting of the Brotherhood he took the leader,
Sobrenski, aside and said:
"It was decided the other day that we wanted someone to take messages
and run errands. Someone who could go unnoticed into places where it
would be suspicious for us to be seen. You suggested a boy. Fate has
been so kind as to show me a woman who seems to be in every way
suitable--or at least with a little training she will become so."
"A woman!" echoed the other. "Are you mad?"
"I conclude her to be a woman because of her clothes. Otherwise she
seems to be a mixture of a boy and wood-elf. The combination appears
to me to be a fascinating one. She is of good family, half Irish,
speaks three languages, asks no questions, and seems to have an
extraordinary capacity for holding her tongue. It is on that account
that I questioned her sex. Her appearance is excessively feminine. Of
course I do not propose to enrol her among us at once. As I have said
before, there are many ways in which a woman would be useful."
Sobrenski pulled doubtfully at his reddish, pointed beard. "Does she
know anything about the Cause?"
"I fancy not, but she appears to have the right ideas, and after I have
judiciously fanned the flame!--girls of that age are always wildly
enthusiastic over something--so she may as well devote her enthusiasm
to us."