"Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse."
For some days Arithelli had not seen Emile, and she had wondered.
Since the night she had sat with Vardri in his room, he had scarcely
spoken to her except for a few moments on business matters.
She thought he looked haggard and worried, and there was a change that
she could not define in his manner towards her. She wondered if he
knew about Vardri, if he thought she was deceiving him.
She wanted to tell of this new, wonderful thing that had befallen her,
but he had given her no chance, and she had begun to think that he did
not even take sufficient interest in her to care what she thought or
felt as long as she performed her allotted tasks and did not worry him
with complaints or questions.
The feeling of a barrier between them troubled her vaguely, and she was
glad when she found him one night waiting for her outside the stage
door.
Half an hour later he was smoking a cigarette in her room while she
brushed her hair.
They had been silent for some time, and both started when the door was
assaulted by a sudden thump, and the scarecrow-like visage of the
depressed landlady appeared in the opening.
Having delivered herself of a small cardboard box, and a few grumbling
comments upon the indecent hours and ways of circus performers, she
withdrew, and Arithelli proceeded to cut the string and remove the lid.
"I can't see what it is in this light," she said; "Emile, may I have
the candle a little nearer? Flowers? No one sends me flowers now.
But these are--"
Her voice broke and stopped. Emile, who had been on the alert from the
moment of the landlady's entrance, sprang up and pulled the girl to one
side. A mysterious parcel at that hour of the night, too late for any
post. One might have guessed what it meant.
"What is it?" he asked sharply. The answer was an incoherent one, and
he could see that she was paralysed with terror.
The opening of the box had revealed a sinister-looking bouquet of
artificial black roses tied with blood-red ribbons.
In Barcelona there are many strange and ingenious ways of conveying
death by explosives. A clock, a painted casket which might contain
bon-bons; a coffee-pot, a _casserole_--any apparently harmless and
common utensil.
A bunch of flowers was one of the most common mediums for a bomb.
The Anarchist colours showed clearly that it must either have been sent
by an enemy who had been formerly one of the band, and who was now
revenging himself by an attempt to see his former associates "hoist
with their own petard," or else it was an affair of the police. In any
case, supposing the thing to be harmless, it was a warning of danger.
Emile's wits worked swiftly, and he was used to emergencies. He looked
round, and found a jug of water, and the floral tribute floated
harmlessly therein. As it did not sink at once he concluded that there
was no concealed bomb. Then he turned his attention to Arithelli, and
gave her a vigorous shaking, which was probably, under the
circumstances, the best possible restorative.
"You'll die more than once in imagination before your time comes,
Fatalité. Probably the next parcel you receive will not need as much
investigation."
She tried to smile. "I'm sorry! They looked so uncanny, and when I
saw red I thought--Emile, what does it all mean?"
"It means danger, my dear. It means that you are suspected. You
yourself best know whether the suspicion is deserved or not. Of course
it may be only one of the police tricks, but I don't think so. Anyway
whether it was charged or not it's safe enough now. Look in the box
and on the floor to see if there's any note or message. There isn't?
_Eh bien_! I suppose they thought this would speak with sufficient
eloquence."
He fished the bedraggled bouquet out of the water and hung it like a
trophy across Arithelli's mirror, which was a fetish of its owner and
the one valuable thing she now possessed. It had been the gift of
Michael Furness, who had bought it from the Jewish herbalist. It was
of antique silver gilt in oval shape, and rimmed with rough topaz set
in silver, and was alleged by its former owner to have been the
property of Agnès Sorél. Arithelli had often declared that in it she
could see visions as in a crystal.
Over it Emile carefully arranged the flowers so that the stained red
ribbons hung limply across the polished surface. Then he sat down
again and lighted another cigarette.
"You ought not to be afraid of this sort of thing, you know," he said.
"Sudden death is part of our business. In the oath we take we swear to
'Slay or be slain,' if by so doing we can advance the Cause one small
step forward."
She caught at her breast with a sudden gesture of passion.
Death--could they talk and think of nothing else? And she was a woman
now, not a weapon, and she wanted life.
"You don't seem very enthusiastic," the cold voice continued. "A few
months ago the dangerous side of the game was rather an attraction to
you than otherwise. Now you shrink and shiver at everything. You do
your work, yes, because, you can't help doing that, but is there any
heart in what you do?"
"None! Every day I live, I loathe it more!"
"Take care!"
"I'm past caring. When I came out here first I was a child playing at
a new game."
Emile's back was turned to her, and if his answering speech was brutal,
it was because his conscience was awake and crying fiercely. He would
not be likely to make the mistake of interfering with people's lives a
second time. He had seen in her an instrument to be handled at will,
and had charged himself with the burden of her destiny, and now he
supposed she was about to reproach him.
"You are hysterical. That's the worst of women. They always are--more
or less. You had better go to bed, and not talk nonsense. If you were
a child only a few months ago you are not too old to be treated as one
now."
It hurt him more than it hurt her, but she would never know that. His
pulses hammered furiously as she dropped at his side with a soft rustle
of garments. Her clasped hands rested on his knee; the strong, slender
hands that had grown rough with work.
"Emile," she whispered, "can't you see that I've altered? I'm a woman
now. You said I should be one soon. I've wanted to tell you all
along, but I always hoped you had guessed."
"Perhaps I did, but I preferred that you should tell me yourself. And
since when have you become what you call 'a woman'? No, you needn't
answer. When I knew that you and Vardri had been together in my rooms,
I was certain I had not warned you without reason."
"You knew before I did myself."
"_Mon enfant_, I'm neither blind nor a fool. As they say in this
country, 'love and a cough cannot be hidden.' I was sure about Vardri,
but about you;--no, one couldn't say. When you came out here you were
a sexless creature with a brain. It did not seem likely that you would
develop into the ordinary girl with a lover."
It was the only way he could keep a hold upon himself, by keeping up a
pose of cynicism. The fragrance of her hair, the curved mouth so close
to his own, maddened him. He who could have been her lover had been
only her guardian, her taskmaster. And now she was ready to give
herself to a boy, who thought life was a romance, and who would
probably sit at her feet reading poetry while they both starved.
"You have been together often?"
Her head drooped. "Yes. I should have told you before."
"What plans have you made? I suppose it will be the usual mad scheme
of running away. I ought to betray you, of course, but--"
"We haven't arranged anything yet; there is plenty of time."
"Plenty of time--Mon Dieu!" the man rasped out. "How like you,
Fatalité! What a pair! Vardri always living _au clair de la lune_,
and you half asleep, and full of illusions. _Les illusions sont les
hirondelles_. How often have I told you that?"
"They make life possible," Arithelli answered softly.
Again the man stared and marvelled. Verily, here was another being who
was neither "Becky Sharp" nor "Fatalité." The exultation, the triumph
of one loved and desired, was hers for the moment. Who, seeing her
now, could have the heart to warn her of inevitable disillusion, the
doubts and fears, the clinging and the torments that are the heritage
of all womenkind.
He, too, had once dreamed foolish dreams.
He gripped her by the shoulder and forced her to look at him.
"Vardri is your lover? You shall answer me before I leave this room."
She did not flinch, or blush, or look away.
"I love him."
Joy shone in her widely open eyes. Love hovered about her mouth, and
the passion that had stirred in him momentarily shrank back ashamed.
He pushed back her hair with a rough caress.
"It's all right, _ma chère_. You needn't be afraid. I shall not be
here to advise you soon, and all I have to say now is, never imagine
yourself secure for an instant. Sobrenski is bound to discover this in
the course of time, and he has seen this sort of thing before, which
will not make him any more merciful. He has watched human nature long
enough to know that where there is what you would call love, people
want to create, they no longer want to destroy. If, as you say, you
have made no plans, then make them. And now you'd better go to bed,
unless you want to look more like a ghost than usual to-morrow."
As he went out into the moonlit street Emile knew that he had taken the
first step on his _Via Crucis_. He did not call it that, for of
religion in the orthodox sense he possessed nothing, but he knew that
his feet were set upon the path where snow and blood would mingle in
his footprints. He was going back to Russia, where death would be a
thing to be welcomed and desired. He had listened to the tales of
escaped prisoners, and he knew that no words could exaggerate this
frozen Hell in which flourished vices unnamable, where men rotted
alive, and women strangled themselves with their own hair, or cut their
throats with a scrap of glass to escape the brutalities of a gaoler or
Cossack guard.
He wondered whether it would be Akatui, or the mines, for him. It was
no use to try and delude himself that he could escape the police.
He had got out of Russia by the skin of his teeth last time, and, even
if he managed to get his despatches safely delivered, there would be a
raid on the newspaper office, an arrest in the street. Of course there
was always the hope that he might come in for a chance shot in a
scrimmage, but that was too much luck to expect.
He had nothing to wait for now after what he had heard to-night, and
the sooner he put himself out of the way, the better. He would
volunteer at once for the St. Petersburg mission. The usual custom was
to cast lots, unless some enthusiast begged for the privilege of a
speedy doom. By virtue of his long service he had a right to claim
that privilege.
If he could go to-morrow so much the better. After what Arithelli had
confessed it would be dangerous for them both if he stayed. For a
moment the primaeval man in him leapt up, telling him that he had only
to pit himself against Vardri, and the victory would be assuredly his
own. His rival was only a boy, and Emile knew that if there came the
struggle between male and male, the odds were all in his own favour.
Arithelli had grown into the habit of obedience to him, and if he
wished it he could make it practically impossible for her to see Vardri
without his knowledge and consent. She would sorrow for her lover at
first, but he was a man, and he could make her forget.
A thousand little devils crowded close, whispering how easy it would be
to get Vardri sent out of the way. A few words to Sobrenski, and the
whole thing would be done.
His sense of justice reminded him that he least of all people had a
right to grudge her a few hours of happiness. If he obliterated
himself he was only making her a deserved reparation for some of the
things she had suffered. Through him she had joined the Anarchist
ranks, and through him she had taken vows that despoiled her of the
hopes and joys of womanhood, and transformed her into an instrument of
vengeance. She had apparently never realised that she had been in any
way injured, for she had never blamed him, and been invariably grateful
for anything he had done for her physical comfort.
She loved Vardri, or imagined that she did. Emile told himself
savagely that he was a fool who deserved no pity, for he had had his
own chance and missed it. He had been with her by night and day, and
her life had been in his own hands all these months, but he had never
made love to her. He had only bullied her, taught her, made her work,
looked after her clothes and food, and, he knew it now too late, loved
her.
She had never suspected it, and the secret should remain his own. Love
and love-making were two very different things. She did not know that
now, but later on she would, when she was ten years older, perhaps, and
then it would not matter to him, for he would be under two or three
feet of snow in a Siberian convict settlement.
He had gone about persuading himself that she was still a child, and
this Austrian boy, this wastrel and dreamer, had awakened her.
It was no use wasting time in sentiment and regrets. _À la Guerre,
comme à la Guerre_. The episode was finished.
He would have work enough to divert his mind soon. There was nothing
left to him now but the Cause.
He would see Sobrenski to-morrow, and hurry on all arrangements for
departure.
After all, as he had once told Arithelli, in any venture it is only the
first step that counts.