"Le jeu est fait, rien ne vas plus!"
He was gone, and Arithelli was back in the hut again, and now the worst
of it all was still to come. If Vardri was to have a fair start she
must wait out the hour alone, realising every moment of the time what
awaited her at the end of it.
A mad impulse seized her to rush up the steps to the loft, interrupt
the meeting, defy them all and boast how she had schemed her lover's
escape, and laugh at them and their plots, goad them into shooting her
at once and finishing it all quickly. She felt that she could not
endure any more suspense and strain. Anything would be better than
this interminable, awful waiting in the semi-darkness and loneliness,
with neither friend nor lover at hand, no single human to take her part
or defend her. Emile had gone and now Vardri, and she must face
everything alone. If she waited Vardri would have perhaps half an
hour's grace and while they were dealing with her it would give him
still another few minutes, and every minute counted.
She fought down the temptation, and began to move about, speaking to
the mules and, horses, taking down saddles and bridles. She must not
be too quiet, or they might suspect something, and come down sooner to
see if she were still there. She must pretend to be busy, play out the
play to the end.
She unhooked the lantern from its nail and placed it on the ground, and
then stood still again to listen.
The smothered hum of voices grew louder overhead. It stopped suddenly,
and she could only hear Sobrenski's slow, incisive tones. No doubt
they were listening to him as to one inspired while he preached his
gospel of destruction. Arithelli shivered, pressing her hands over her
ears that she might shut out the sound of that hated voice that had
bidden her outrage her sex.
She stumbled towards the bed of hay, still warm with the impress of her
own figure, and flung herself upon it face downwards and lay there
whispering to herself over and over again Vardri's name as one whispers
a charm.
Would he forget her one of these days and marry someone else? Had it
been real, anything of this that she had lived through during these
months in Spain? Was she still that same "Arithelli of the Hippodrome"
who had come gaily into Barcelona with her ridiculous dresses and her
belief in herself and her career? She had known an hour of love and
passion, and that had been worth all the rest Emile had always told her
that people were not meant to be happy long _ici-bas_. She must pay
now for her hour. The gods were angry and must have a sacrifice.
After she had been out in Barcelona only a week, Emile had taken her to
one of the gambling-hells of the place, where the lights and mirrors
and gilding hurt her tired eyes, and the croupiers called incessantly
through the strained silence, "_Le jeu est fait_. _Rien ne vas plus_!"
It was like that with her now, "_Le jeu est fait_." How that sentence
heat in her brain! She wondered if she were becoming delirious. Then
she was on her feet, and her hand went to the Browning pistol at her
belt. Sobrenski's figure had appeared at the top of the ladder. He
was shading his eyes with his hand, and peering forward into the gloom.
Only one of them there! The girl or Vardri, which was it?
Then the whole place was in darkness, for Arithelli had overturned and
extinguished the solitary lamp. The excited whinny of a horse mingled
with the sound of two shots fired in rapid succession, a rustling noise
among the hay, a groan, and silence. Before he set foot on the ladder
Sobrenski shouted to the rest of the conspirators to bring a light. He
did not wait to look at the prone figure, but made straight for the
door. His business it was first to see whether his quarry were still
in sight.
All the other men were hustling each other in a hasty descent. "_Que
diable_!" one of them said. "What is it now? A spy?"
The man who had lowered Arithelli from the window of the house in the
Calle de Pescadores, made his way first to where Arithelli lay and
stood beside her. He could only see dimly the outline of a figure
which might have been either that of a man or woman. "Bring a light
here," Valdez called impatiently. "Which of them is it?" Though he
was a revolutionist he was still a human being, and he had always been
as sorry for her as he had dared allow himself to be, and he hoped it
was not the girl. Another man came up carrying a lantern, and flashed
the light on what rested motionless at their feet. Arithelli lay on
her face as she had fallen. Her hair streamed over her shoulders and
mingled with the dark folds of the cloak. The hand that still held the
pistol was flung wide.
"It's not Vardri," the other man said. "Is it--?" Sobrenski cut
across the question. "A traitor," he said. "What does it matter about
the name? Get back all of you and see to the horses. There should be
two of them and there's only one here. We've got to find the other
one."
With a sudden brusque movement Valdez knelt down, turned the limp body
over, and rested the head upon his knee. "_Pardieu_!" he ejaculated as
he let it fall gently back. "It's Fatalité!"