"Il n'y a que l'amour et la mort."
For a few minutes after he had gone, Arithelli stood motionless, still
with her hands pressed tightly over her eyes, trying to command her
brain to work clearly. Her will and her limbs seemed paralysed. She
could only wait for Vardri's approach. Once she prayed an inarticulate
wordless prayer, that inspiration might be sent her to find a way out
of this _impasse_ in which there seemed neither light nor opening.
Time was passing, and every moment was bringing her nearer the most
appalling destiny that could ever be meted out to any woman. If she
did Sobrenski's bidding she would be not only a murderess, but the
murderess of the being she loved most in the world. Vardri, who was so
different from all the other men; Vardri, who could never bear anything
to be hurt, or even to be made uncomfortable. She knew that it was
perfectly useless for both of them to attempt to escape. Someone was
most likely posted at the window of the loft, they would get no
distance on foot without being overtaken, and if she attempted to lead
out any of the horses or mules, the noise would probably attract
attention.
Her hands fell to her side, and her head went up as she listened
intently. So he was coming, after all. In that undisturbed space and
clear dry air, sound travelled quickly, and she could hear the
approaching hoof-beats while he was still some way off. With the
knowledge of his approach the blood flowed again warmly in her veins
and courage and decision came back to her. Her senses, unnaturally
acute, told her that Vardri had now dismounted and was leading his
horse. She could distinguish his footsteps, and then the monotonous
regular footfalls of his mount. She ran out into the patch of
moonlight, casting a hurried backward glance at the side of the hut.
Thank God! the window was on the other side!
Vardri was coming slowly towards her, his horse's bridle over his arm.
Before she covered the distance between them she made a gesture that
enjoined silence and stopped his greeting. "Don't bring your horse
in," she whispered. "Tie him up out of the way over there, a good way
off the hut. I'll explain presently."
In another moment Vardri was beside her in the hut and had her in his
arms.
"What is it, _mon petit_? There must be something wrong. Has
Sobrenski--?"
"No, no, he has done nothing. It's just that I don't want you to be up
here too long to-night. I want you to do something for me. Will you,
Vardri?"
"Do you think you'll need to ask me twice to do anything for you, dear?"
He stood with his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes gazing down at
her hungrily. "Did you think I was never coming? I stayed behind on
purpose. I felt that Sobrenski intended to prevent our talking
together." Arithelli snatched eagerly at his words. They had given
her the clue she wanted.
"Yes, that's it. It's dangerous for me if we are seen often together.
I've done something so mad and foolish, Vardri, you must help me to put
it right,--you _can_. Those letters you have written me saying all
sorts of things against the Cause,--I left a piece of one about
somewhere,--I don't know where,--and Sobrenski found it. He has just
told me that in about half an hour's time before all the rest of them
leave, he is going to send on one of the men in advance. He will get
down to the town before us, go to my rooms and yours and collect all
the letters that have passed between us; and use them, as then he will
have what he has always wanted,--the proofs that we are what he would
call traitors. And when he has these proofs, neither of us will be
safe for an instant. It will mean death to both of us sooner or later.
But even Sobrenski can't murder us without sufficient evidence. He
will be obliged to make some formal parade of justice to put it all
before the rest of the society. If he doesn't get our letters he will
not have sufficient evidence."
"But if we go away together to-night, as we intended? We've got a
start. We can take the best horses. That is the best plan."
Arithelli shook her head. "Listen to me, dear, and believe in a
woman's wisdom for once. If we go to-night and together, we are bound
to be recaptured before we are out of Barcelona. By doing what I
suggest we avoid suspicion, we give ourselves breathing-space, time to
arrange a disguise, to think of all sorts of things that we have
overlooked. We have everything in our favour to-night, Sobrenski does
not know you are here yet. If you go soon you will get away without
his having seen you at all. Here is the key of my room. Go there
first, and you will find all your own letters in a wooden box in my big
trunk. That isn't locked. Open it and burn them all. Then go on to
your own room, do the same with yours and stay there. If they raid my
room, they will find nothing suspicious. You could pretend you were
ill, and that's the only reason you haven't come tonight, and I am here
doing my work as usual. Nothing could be less suspicious. Then when
they are off their guard we can escape."
The minutes were flying. Death thrusting his lean face before the rosy
face of Love. Sobrenski's phrase sounded in her ears like the tolling
of a bell. "You have an hour free to do your work." An hour, only an
hour! How long had they been there already? Time and all else alike
seemed blurred. All her will must be concentrated upon one thing--to
make Vardri leave her as quickly as possible. Yet she dare not show a
sign of haste or emotion lest he should suspect something amiss and
refuse to go.
"Dear, it is a wonderful plan this, of yours," Vardri was saying. "But
how can I leave you here alone with these devils? It makes me cold to
think of it."
"You'll leave me because I shall be safer alone. You _must_ see that,
_mon ami_." She clung to him, putting up her face towards his. Every
art of womanhood must be used to weave a spell to send him from her and
to save him. "Will you not do as I ask you?"
"I'll do anything in the world for you," the boy broke out eagerly;
"I'd have my hand cut off to save you a minute's pain."
"I know, _mon ami_. And this is such a little thing, and so much
depends upon its being done quickly."
What was that? A step on the ladder? She could not control a violent
start. No, it was only a creaking rung, a stamp from one of the mules.
"But you haven't broken your promise to me. You swear to come away
with me soon?"
"To-morrow if you will. Once the letters are burnt we are almost safe.
Only one day more. It doesn't make any difference."
"It does to me, _mon petit_. Every moment, every hour without you is
time wasted."
"But you'll go, dear, before Sobrenski sees us together?"
"My sweet, if it is for your good, of course I will go. You're right
about the letters; I ought to have known it wasn't safe to keep them.
As you say, they've got no circumstantial evidence if those are
destroyed, and it only means a few more hours' delay in our getting
off. I'll go, darling. I'll get down the hills in no time. It's the
best horse of the lot, that one outside. But before I go give me
yourself for a few minutes."
Arithelli let him lead her unresisting towards the corner of the hut,
and lay her gently back upon a truss of hay that he had covered with a
cloak. She had not the strength to deny him their last few minutes
together. Every fibre in her own nature, the lover, the mother, the
child, were all crying out for him. How gentle he had been, how he had
always cared for her. No one had ever touched her like this before,
spoken to her in this caressing voice. Emile had been kind in his way,
but he had been always rough. Her own emotions had always lain buried
deeply, and now they had been called to life she longed for the natural
expression of her love through the medium of physical things, by word
and touch.
"Now for my reward," Vardri said. "I want to take your hair down."
Arithelli bent her head towards him without speaking and he drew the
pins, and undid the braid with deft fingers, spreading it out till it
covered her as with a veil.
"If only I could paint you! How beautiful you are to-night, but how
still and cold! Fatalité, tell me you love me a little, _mon coeur_!"
She put her arms round his neck, laying her cheek against his. "_Mon
ami_, I love you!"
He held her in his arms as one holds a child, rocking her to and fro.
"_Voilà chérie_!" he whispered. "After to-morrow I shall have you
always, I shall never let you go again. My dream is coming true."
Arithelli listened with dry eyes and an aching heart. She was past
crying, and her brain felt curiously reasonable and alert. She could
not send him from her at once, yet with every passing second Death drew
stealthily nearer and nearer. Time swept on relentless and inflexible.
"Perhaps you will be disappointed in me one of these days, find me
depressing and full of moods. I've always been so lonely, you know,
till I met you. _Je suis une âme detachée_."
"Never again while I'm alive! I think of you and with you. When you
are happy I know it, and when you are miserable I know it too.
Fatalité! Fatalité! believe that I don't want anything in return.
I'll wait on you, work for you, lie, starve, steal, do anything. I
only want to know you're there, to have the right to serve you, to feel
you don't hate me. I couldn't go on living it I lost you. Since the
first day I saw you at the Hippodrome you've haunted me. I led Don
Juan down to the entrance to the ring. You don't remember? How should
you? I've never forgotten! You smiled and thanked me. You looked so
strange beside Estelle and those other women."
He was kneeling beside her, his lips pressed against the hollow of her
arm, from which the loose red sleeve had slipped back to above the
elbow. Under his passionate words Arithelli sat like a being
entranced, unseeing, unhearing. The inscrutable eyes set in the rigid
face gave her the likeness to some carven thing.
"Fatalité! Fatalité!"
The sound of his voice came to her as from a distance. She roused
herself, and tried to smile. "_Mon ami_, I'm a little tired to-night,
a little nervous; I was thinking about the letters! I shall feel so
much safer when they're burnt."
"I'll go at once--just one moment. Arithelli, you do believe that I
love you, and that I want nothing? See, I'll not even touch your hand
if it doesn't please you."
The soft hand was laid gently on his. "But if it _does_ please me,
_mon camarade_--"
"_Dieu_! How sweet you are! But don't call me '_Camarade_,' _mon
petit_. Those wolves above call each other that!"
"I won't, if you hate it. Yes, that's really love to give all and take
nothing." Arithelli spoke dreamily. "Emile made me sing to him before
he went away; you remember 'L'Adieu' of Schubert? He loved it.
"La mort est une amie,
Qui rend la liberté."
"C'est bien vrai ca! I used to sing it without thinking at one time.
How alike all those songs are. Always Death;--Death and Liberty!"
"Don't talk of those things, dear. It's going to be Life for both of
us--after to-morrow."
"I was thinking of poor Emile."
"He was always fond of you. He'll be glad when he hears you're married
and safe."
"Yes, he'll be glad. Don't talk any more for a minute, dear, then just
say _au revoir_ to me and go as quickly as you can. I want to be
quiet. It's good to be loved. How gentle you are! Emile was always
so rough when he touched me."
Vardri hung over her, caressing her with infinite tenderness. Of all
men in the world he was surely the happiest to have known this sweet
and womanly Arithelli, the Arithelli that no one else had ever seen.
He kissed the heavy, closed lids and stroked back the hair from her
forehead.
A faint intoxicating odour of jasmine hovered about her, for she was
Eastern in her love of perfumes. The stifling, dirty hut became a
Paradise while she lay thus in his arms.
Once again they kissed and clung together. Though Arithelli's lips
burnt, they scorched with the fires of despair rather than with those
of passion.
In silence Vardri helped her to her feet, and they walked together to
the door.
"You'll come to me to-morrow," Arithelli said.
"To-morrow we shall be safe. We'll be out of this hell altogether in
another day or two, _à la bonne heure_! You're not afraid, Fatalité?"
"I shan't be--when the letters are safe. Take care of yourself, _mon
ami, et à bientot_!"
"_Mon Dieu_! what pluck you have! How I love you for it! Go back and
rest, dear, till those brutes come down. Give me your hand again,
Fatalité, _bien aimée! gardez-vous, mais gardez-vous_!"
She answered him steadily. "_À demain_. _Adieu, mon ami_. Ride as
quickly as you can, but lead your horse for the first few minutes."