"Ninon, Ninon, que fais-tu de la vie!"
DE MUSSET.
Arithelli awoke next day in her comfortless room, and lay wondering
over the waking nightmare of the past hours. Everything seemed so
different in the morning. There was no thrill of excitement now,
nothing to make her blood run quickly. She only felt flat, dull,
stupid, and disinclined to move. How strange and unlike himself Emile
had been. She had lost her nerve, raved, and threatened to run away,
and he had neither sneered nor abused her. Her hand, still wrapped in
stained linen, had now begun to burn and smart considerably, and was
proof sufficient of the reality of her experience. Her spine and the
soles of her feet tingled as she lived again through the horror of the
descent from the window. She could never endure a repetition of that
ordeal. Next time she would refuse and they could add one more murder
to the list of their crimes.
She dragged herself up and dressed slowly. She remembered that there
was to be a gala performance at the Hippodrome that night in honour of
the presence of one of the Infantas, her husband and suite, who were
passing through the town, and had announced their intention of being
present. For all the performers it meant more work and an extra
rehearsal.
When Emile came in they shared their coffee and rolls together. She
was thankful that he made no reference to her passionate outburst of
the night before. He was outwardly as curt and dictatorial as ever,
and neither of them discussed the affairs of the Brotherhood.
"I must go down to practise," Arithelli said after a while. "Shall you
be there to-night? You know there is to be a grand performance in
honour of the loyalties?"
"No," answered Emile, "I shall be busy. Besides, the Royalties will be
safer if I'm _not_ there! We don't trouble ourselves about these
particular ones though. They're not important enough."
"I'm sorry you're not coming," Arithelli answered.
Emile ungratefully disregarded the implied compliment, and threw out a
blunt, "Why?"
"I don't quite know. I think there is going to be something unlucky."
"You're going to tumble off, you mean? Better not! You don't want to
get turned out, do you?"
Arithelli turned to a mirror on the wall.
"Do I look very ghastly?" she asked.
"Not much more than usual. None of us look very fresh out here, do we?
Do you think your hat is on straight, you untidy little trollop? Well,
it isn't! Hurry up,--it's late. No, I'm not going down there with
you. I'll stay here, and do some writing."
The rehearsal that morning seemed interminable. For the first time
since she had ridden in public Arithelli bungled over her tricks. She
jumped short, miscalculated distances, and once barely saved herself
from a severe fall.
The ring-master, with whom she was a great favourite, shook his head
reproachfully at her, as he paused to rest and wipe his heated
countenance. He was a greasy and affable personage, whose temper was
as easy as his morals. He was more soft-hearted than most of his
compatriots, and he honestly liked Arithelli and admired her riding.
"What have you there, Mademoiselle?" he enquired pathetically. "Never
have I seen you like this before. You fear the grand people, is it not
so? You have no heart, no courage! But again! Again!"
In the midst of his exhortation the Manager descended suddenly upon the
scene. As a matter of fact he had been watching for the last ten
minutes from one of the entrances, and he had seen her failure to
accomplish her jumps successfully.
"This won't do for to-night," he said angrily. "We want your best
work, not your worst. Do you suppose I'm going to stand your laziness?"
Arithelli was sitting at ease upon Don Juan's back as he paced slowly
round the ring. She did not look up or answer, which enraged the
Manager still further. Her silence was one of the things about her
that always annoyed him most? She was the only woman he had never been
able to bully into a state of collapse.
He turned on the ring-master, who was grinning to himself.
"_Allez-vous en_! I'll see to this."
Señor Valdez looked uncomfortable. For an instant he felt almost
inclined to expostulate on Arithelli's behalf, but the Manager's rages
were well known to his employes, and the little man had no intention of
losing his present position. He flung down his long whip, and retired
muttering vengeance.
The Manager strode into the centre of the ring, picked up the lash and
drew it through his fingers.
He swore at Arithelli, he swore at Don Juan, and he started the
rehearsal all over again.
Arithelli clenched her teeth and rode doggedly forward. The arena swam
before her, and her limbs felt weak and heavy as those of one who is
drugged, and her lacerated hand added to her difficulties. That she
should presume to be ill, had not entered into the Manager's
calculations. If he had realised the fact he would have said that
people who were ill were of no use in a circus, and the sooner she left
it the better.
The treadmill continued until Arithelli would have welcomed an accident
as a break in the grinding monotony. The exercise instead of making
her hot, had made her shiver as if with great cold. She felt as if she
had been practising for days instead of hours. It was of no use! She
could not go on any longer. She slipped from her standing position on
the broad pad saddle to Don Juan's back, and without waiting for the
word of command, reined him to a standstill in front of the Manager.
"You must let me go," she said. "I can't do any better now."
The Manager stepped back a pace, and dropped his whip with sheer
astonishment. For an instant he stared with open mouth, then he found
speech.
"You sit there, do you, and tell me you refuse to work! You with your
insolence! When you fall and that long neck of yours goes _crack_" (he
snapped a finger and thumb together in expressive pantomime), "then I
shall laugh--_nom d'un chien_!--how I shall laugh."
Arithelli waited in silence, a faint smile curling her lips. One hand,
laden with rings, moved caressingly up and down Don Juan's silky mane.
She had hitherto answered abuse with maddening indifference. Now she
flung back her head and mocked him.
"So you hope I'll fall," she said. "Perhaps I hope so too. Do you
think I care, that I'm afraid of breaking my neck?"
Her voice was not raised a tone from its ordinary level, but passion
and contempt vibrated in every accent. An unwilling admiration stirred
the man's dull brutality. He could dismiss her to-morrow, but he would
never find another woman who would be her match for physique and
endurance. Besides, others would know their value and demand a larger
salary.
He pointed to the performers' exit. "_Allez_!"
As she rode past, Arithelli made him a little bow. It was the salute
of a courteous duellist to his adversary. To his profound surprise the
Manager found himself acknowledging it, with like dignity.
At eight o'clock that evening she sat before the glass in her
dressing-room and awaited the shouted summons of the impish call-boy,
who respected no one on earth, and to whom she was never "Mamzelle" or
"Señora," but only Arithelli. The dresser had gone out for an instant,
leaving the door ajar, and a noisy burst of applause swept along the
passage.
The audience was in a particularly good temper, and ready to be amused
at anything. In view of the royal guests the Manager had provided
several exciting novelties. There was a wonderful troupe of performing
horses who did everything that a horse is popularly supposed to be
incapable of doing; there was a gypsy girl from Seville with a
marvellous bear, whose intelligence appeared to be of a superior
quality to that of the average human being; there were new jokes, new
tricks, fresh costumes.
As Arithelli rode in she heard her name called, and her state of frozen
misery suddenly gave way to a hot thrill of excitement.
Her head went up like a stag, and her nostrils dilated. She inhaled
again the familiar warm scent of freshly strewn tan and hay and
animals. It had intoxicated her as a child of twelve, when she had
been taken to see a travelling circus in Ireland, and it intoxicated
her now.
The seats were a packed mass of people, and in the upper places and
from the royal box, bright colours flamed, and jewels and restless fans
glittered and moved. In honour of the occasion every woman had draped
herself in the graceful mantilla, either black or white, and even the
poorest wore a scarlet or orange silk-fringed _crêpe_ shawl.
The usual precautions as to detectives and a guard of soldiers had been
taken, but the buxom and amiable Infanta was popular among the lower
orders, so that no revolutionist outbreak was feared.
Her charities were famous, her diamonds and Paris toilettes equally so.
She smiled graciously at Arithelli as horse and rider bowed before her,
and pulling out a few blossoms from the bouquet that rested on the
ledge, threw them into the arena. As the girl looked up and the level
unsmiling gaze met hers, the older woman started back.
"_Santa Vierge_!" she muttered, hastily crossing herself. "She looks
in Purgatory already, with those strange eyes!"