The Hippodrome Part 33

"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 Arith.e.l.li, the Arith.e.l.li 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 Arith.e.l.li's lips burnt, they scorched with the fires of despair rather than with those of pa.s.sion.

In silence Vardri helped her to her feet, and they walked together to the door.

"You'll come to me to-morrow," Arith.e.l.li said.

"To-morrow we shall be safe. We'll be out of this h.e.l.l altogether in another day or two, _a la bonne heure_! You're not afraid, Fatalite?"

"I shan't be--when the letters are safe. Take care of yourself, _mon ami, et a 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, Fatalite, _bien aimee! gardez-vous, mais gardez-vous_!"

She answered him steadily. "_a demain_. _Adieu, mon ami_. Ride as quickly as you can, but lead your horse for the first few minutes."

CHAPTER XXIII

"Le jeu est fait, rien ne vas plus!"

He was gone, and Arith.e.l.li 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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. Arith.e.l.li s.h.i.+vered, pressing her hands over her ears that she might shut out the sound of that hated voice that had bidden her outrage her s.e.x.

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 "Arith.e.l.li 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 pa.s.sion, 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 G.o.ds 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-h.e.l.ls 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 Arith.e.l.li 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 p.r.o.ne 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 Arith.e.l.li from the window of the house in the Calle de Pescadores, made his way first to where Arith.e.l.li 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. Arith.e.l.li 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed as he let it fall gently back. "It's Fatalite!"