"La vie est vaine,
Un peu d'amour,
Un peu de haine,
Et puis bon jour."
In the process of Arithelli's convalescence, comedy fought for place with
tragedy.
For the first time in her life she felt irritable, and inclined to
grumble, and her racked nerves made the lonely hours appear doubly long
and lonely.
Day after day, each one seemingly more unending than the last, the sun
poured into her room, and the dust and litter accumulated in all four
corners, and she lay and gazed at the hideous meandering pattern of the
stained wall-paper, and the cracks and blistering paint on the door. The
nights were less terrible, for the darkness veiled all sordid details,
and there was a star-lit patch of sky visible through the open window.
The attendance she received could only be described as casual. Neither
Emile nor Maria possessed one idea on the subject of hygiene between
them. The methods of the former were, as might be expected, a little
crude, and Maria combined a similar failing with a vast ignorance.
Moreover, she was not original. At the beginning of Arithelli's illness
pineapple juice had seemed to Maria a happy inspiration, and she
continued to provide it daily. What was good to drink on Sunday, she
argued, must also be good on Monday.
Arithelli's throat had healed quickly, but the depression and weakness
clung to her persistently. She fought it and was ashamed of it, true to
her Spartan traditions, but was forced to realise that it was not in her
own power to hurry her return to the world and work.
Michael Furness, who was much elated by the success of the Jewish
herbalist's remedy, continued his treatment on the same lines, giving her
various tisanes of leaves and flowers, which if they tasted unpleasant
were at least harmless. He had grown fond of his patient, and she always
looked for his visits with pleasure. He treated her with a genuine,
almost fatherly kindness, and they were drawn together by the kin feeling
of race, so strong among all Celts. In many respects Michael was not
ideal as a medical attendant.
He smoked vile tobacco,--he dropped some things and knocked over others,
he shaved apparently only on _festas_, and if he happened to arrive late
in the day his speech was thick and his manner excitable.
Upon one occasion Arithelli had complained that her mane of untended hair
made her uncomfortably hot, and Michael brought out a pocket knife,
clubbed it all together in his hand like a horse's tail, and obligingly
offered to relieve her by cutting it off. Emile had arrived only just in
time to prevent the holocaust, and the two men exchanged fiery words for
the next ten minutes.
Another day, prompted by a desire to amuse her, Michael introduced into
her room a fat mongrel puppy with disproportionate legs and an alarmed
expression. His wish to provide her with what he was pleased to call a
"divarsion" was, like many of his other good intentions, not entirely
successful. He had deposited the excited animal on the bed, and in the
course of its frantic gambols it overbalanced and fell sprawling to the
floor on its back. The ancient canopied bed was high, and the puppy was
frightened as well as hurt, and lifted up its voice in anguished yells.
When Michael had rescued it, and put it outside the door and finished
laughing, he came back to find Arithelli weeping helplessly with her face
buried in the pillow. His alarmed suggestion that he should fetch Emile
helped her to recover more quickly than any amount of sympathy could have
done.
Sometimes there were other visitors. The grooms and strappers from the
Hippodrome came often to enquire, and Estelle, forbidden by the Manager
to come at all on account of infection, sat on the stairs and showered
effusive speeches in a high-pitched voice through the open door.
Arithelli had sent no word of her illness to her parents in London. She
knew their views on the subject of complaints. They would consider the
whole thing due to imagination, there would be unpleasant letters, and it
was perfectly certain that they would send no assistance in the shape of
money. Emile had wished to write, but she had begged him not to do so,
and for once he had yielded to what he called her "whims."
From the scraps of information she had received from time to time it
appeared that the uncomfortable _ménage_ of her kindred had become even
more disorganised. Her father had turned for consolation to the whisky
of his country, her mother spent whole days in bed reading, and weaving
futile dreams of a recovered fortune, and Isobel and Valerie grew taller
and hungrier, and fought and wrangled after the manner of Hooligans.
Lazy and shiftless, they envied Arithelli the life she had chosen, but
had neither the pluck nor the brains necessary to emulate her example.
Emile's manner had troubled her of late, for he had been strangely
bad-tempered and variable in his moods. She had become more or less
accustomed to his eccentricities of behaviour and speech, but this was
something different, indefinable. One day he would be extraordinarily
kind and considerate, the next almost brutal, either hardly speaking at
all, or else finding fault with everything she said and did.
She often felt a presentiment that he had something important to tell
her, but he would come and go without imparting any news, and, as always,
she did not worry him with questions as many women would have done.
She wondered if he were feeling harassed over "_les affaires
politiques_," or whether he was afraid that the Manager's small stock of
patience would be exhausted before she was able to appear in the ring
again, and that he would cancel her contract. If that happened she felt
that the end of all things would have indeed arrived. She could not
struggle against the Fates any longer, obviously she could not return
home, and it was not fair that Emile should continue to keep her.
He came in one evening about eight o'clock to find her up for the first
time since her illness, and sitting on the edge of the bed draped in the
long blue cloak she used for covering her circus attire.
Her hair was parted over her ears, and divided into two long sleek braids
drawn forward and falling over her shoulders, the ends resting on her lap.
She looked up, as he entered, with the haunting sea-green eyes that
showed larger than ever in contrast to her hollowed cheeks. Something in
her pose, in the arrangement of her hair, reminded Emile vividly of her
first morning in Barcelona, when he had come in early in the morning to
find her dazed with sleep. He remembered also how she had asked him to
repeat his remarks, and how carelessly nonchalant had been her manner.
"You look like a witch sitting crouched up there, Fatalité," he snapped.
"What's the matter? You don't seem very cheerful."
"I don't feel very cheerful," the girl responded. She spoke with grave
deliberation, and without moving a muscle. Emile grunted and sat down.
"There has been another explosion of bombs on the Rambla," he said. "A
market woman killed and two work people injured--I believe one has since
died. Of course a got-up affair of the Government. They hope by doing
this sort of thing often enough to make the populace take vengeance on
us."
"Then the Anarchists didn't do it?"
"My dear Fatalité, we don't blow up harmless people simply _pour passer
le temps_. I've told you that before, and being inside the movement
yourself you ought to know. It is a favourite trick of the officials to
excite public feeling against us. They have been doing it now for the
last three years, letting off bombs in various parts of the city. They
take care always to choose the most frequented places and to kill someone
who doesn't matter, and then all the Republican journals have four
columns of indignation with large head-lines, 'LATEST ANARCHIST OUTRAGE.'
They like to get their exploits well talked about. Everything seems to
be against us now. Sobrenski will have it that there is treachery inside
our circle as well as outside. You know whom he suspects?"
"No."
"Vardri."
"That is my fault," Arithelli said quietly. "Sobrenski has felt like
that since the night Vardri made a scene about my being lowered down from
the window. He just stood up for me because I'm a woman. I'm only a
machine to the rest of you."
She spoke without a touch of resentment. It was purely a statement of
fact.
"Ah, that's just the point. The feminine side of you is exactly what we
don't want. One Félise Rivaz is enough, most of us think. Try and keep
the elfish boy you were when you arrived. It will be less trouble,
Fatalité, _ma chère_. With the other thing there are always
complications. No, I'm not accusing you of falling in love with Vardri.
I only say, be careful. Even an elf-child can develop suddenly into a
woman once she arrives at a knowledge of the fact that there is a man
ready to make love to her. Perhaps you do not know it yourself, but you
have changed lately. You are losing your fearlessness, your
indifference. I have watched you sometimes when you have not known, and
have seen your eyes soften, your face change. You started when I spoke
just now."
"How did you learn things about women? From books?"
"Books? _Ma foi_, no! I liked them well enough at one time, when I
hadn't studied _la vie_. Now they're _fâde_."
Arithelli was silent for a little while. She knew only too well that
Emile had spoken the truth, had put into blunt words what to herself was
only a vague, half-formed idea. Her illness had been Vardri's golden
harvest time, for it had given him the chance of being often alone with
her. He had read to her, waited upon her, served her with the utmost
chivalry and devotion. He had made of her a Madonna, a goddess, she who
was fair game for all other men in Barcelona.
Emile's voice broke in upon her meditations.
"You shouldn't worry, Fatalité. It's not becoming. Have a cigarette to
make yourself a little distraction."
She shook her head.
"No, thank you, Emile. I never wanted to smoke, and any way it would not
give me a distraction to-night."
"Then what are you worrying about?"
"I've only been wondering what will be the end of me."
"What has made you suddenly become so anxious about your end?" Emile
looked at her keenly.
The wide eyes raised to his were tragedy incarnate. The long nervous
fingers were tightly locked together.
"I'm a coward to-night," the soft hoarse voice went on. "I've never
grumbled before, have I, Emile? I seem to have suddenly realised how
hopeless everything looks for me in the future. I've had time enough to
think it all out since I've been lying in bed. When I first came here I
thought I was going to do all sorts of wonderful things, but now I see
that this life leads to nothing, and I may go on being just a circus
rider for years. When I get well and finish out this contract I shall
have to try and get another engagement in Paris or Vienna. The English
Consul and all the other men wait to see me come out, and throw me
flowers and rings, but when they see me driving with you in the Paséo de
Gracia, they look the other way, especially if they are with their wives
and families. They like 'ARITHELLI OF THE HIPPODROME' in her proper
place,--the ring. Gas and glare, paint and glitter! That is my life.
And they always hope that I shall fall off. I can feel it. It's the
Roman arena all over again. For a long time before I had that accident I
didn't know how to get through the rehearsals. I nearly fell off two or
three times, but there was no one there to see. The more I practised the
more cold I got, and I used to have horrible shivering fits. It's so
queer. I don't believe I'm made like other people. Estelle gets hot and
scarlet when she practises."
"Poor little child!"
"Why are you so nice to me? You've never said anything like that before."
"Because if when you first came here I had begun to pity you it would
have made you realise your position sooner than need be. You were like
one in a dream. It was not my place to awaken you. I left that for
Life, '_la vie_' that you were so anxious to experience. You made
yourself '_Chateaux en Espagne_.' We all do that at some time or other."
"Nobody really cares what becomes of me except--" she broke off the
sentence and continued steadily. "My people don't mind whether I am here
or not. They won't like it if I come back a failure."
In his heart Emile cursed the Fates. Her awakening had been a complete
one. At first novelty and excitement had served as merciful
anaesthetics, but they could not last for ever.
He was not in love with her, he still told himself, but he would miss
her. Women like the Roumanoff were the women to whom men made passionate
love, but Arithelli was unique. She had become part of his life in
Barcelona. Their lives had touched and mingled till it was impossible to
believe that he had only known her for a few short months. A future
without her would be one without interest. For her he could see no
future. She would have to go to the devil some way or another
eventually, and there would be plenty of people ready and willing to
provide her with an escort.
He threw away his cigarette, and came across the room to her, and his
hands fell heavily upon her shoulders.
"Look here, Fatalité," he said roughly; "we thought you were dying a
little while ago, and I helped to fight for your life, and all the time,
at the back of my brain I wished you were dead. Yes, you needn't look so
horrified." He gave her a fierce shake. "I hoped to see you in your
coffin. Can't you understand, Fatalité? No, of course you can't, and
you think me a brute. One of these days perhaps you will think
differently. Probably you imagine I don't care for you, but if I didn't
should I mind whether you were alive or dead? You've always been saying
that you feel something is going to happen. It seems you are right.
There have been several unexpected developments during the last few days.
It is most likely that I may be chosen to go back to Russia with
despatches to one of the secret societies there. Here I cannot be
arrested, there I can. Of course it means Siberia--eventually. That's
only what we all expect."
"Then I shall be here alone."
"Yes, and there's no future for a woman in this vile place. You know the
proverb they have, 'Can any good thing come out of Barcelona?' Your
looks are against you too."
"There's always the river."
"Then when the time comes choose that--if you still have the courage.
You've been _bonne camarade_ to me, Fatalité. The men you will meet
later on may not want that."