The Hippodrome Part 27

In the course of his life he had known others who had flung the Cause and their vows to the winds from fear or pa.s.sion and tried to hide themselves under some disguise.

If they happened to be clever and have plenty of money their escape had been fairly easy, and they had even been safe for perhaps a year or so.

Then just as they had begun to feel secure and had grown careless, the vengeance of their own particular circle had overtaken them. There had been accounts in the newspapers of a mysterious tragedy to which no motive could be a.s.signed, and for which no one could be brought to justice, and that was all.

They were all monotonously alike, these affairs!

Sobrenski had said little to anyone else of his suspicions.

No need to declare anyone a traitor till it was proven. Such things had a demoralising effect, and treachery was an infectious disease.

He descended the uneven rungs of the ladder, treading soft-footed as a cat.

There was no noise of talking, so of course she was asleep. _Sacre_, these lazy women! So she could not keep awake even for a lover!

The place was dark except for the glimmering light at the far end, and he was obliged to feel his way to avoid the mules, who had an evil trick of lashing out with their heels at anything in the vicinity.

At the foot of the steps he trod on a riding whip, which he recognised as one belonging to Vardri.

In the dim circle of light cast by the smoky lamp there was only a truss of hay disordered as if someone had lain upon it, and the _manta_, and other things belonging to Arith.e.l.li.

There was one thing more, a sheet of paper covered closely with an untidy scrawl.

The lynx eyes flashed, and Sobrenski bent eagerly forward.

Bad as the light was it had not taken him long to recognise the writing.

He held it close to the lamp, and smiled with satisfaction.

Nothing could be better from his point of view. In the first sentence there was all, even more, than he wanted.

He smoothed it out between his pointed fingers, folded it, and bestowed it carefully in an inside pocket.

It was just the kind of thing he would have expected from a girl of Arith.e.l.li's type,--to go about dropping letters. She had not method enough even to put on her clothes decently; they always looked as if they were falling off, and her hair as if it was coming down.

_Sapristi_! A fine agent for the Cause! and one fit to be trusted with important doc.u.ments.

Poleski must have been quite mad when he suggested introducing her to the Brotherhood, and he himself deserved even more blame for having as much as listened to the suggestion.

A girl of that age, picked up from nowhere, and like the rest of her s.e.x a ma.s.s of lies and vanity.

He held the lantern above his head, and peered round. Surely they had not been so utterly insane as to have attempted to escape to-night?

All the horses and mules were there safe enough, and obviously they would not attempt to walk.

He strode towards the door, meeting them on the threshold, and in spite of himself could not help being impressed by the uncanny likeness between the two, in form and outline.

They had even the same trick of movement.

The thought of what he had found made him feel almost good-humoured, although he took good care that no one else should benefit by this unusual mood.

"You have found yourself a little distraction, _hein_?" he said, ignoring Arith.e.l.li's presence. "We are not up here for amus.e.m.e.nt all the same. There's nothing done. I supposed you had come down to see to the horses."

Vardri strolled across to a rack, and took down an armful of saddles and stirrups.

"I have," he answered laconically. "They'll be ready in five minutes."

Sobrenski turned to the girl, and spoke to her in an undertone. "What are you wasting time for? See to your work." Vardri raised his head from the adjustment of a girth.

"I'm doing Mademoiselle Arith.e.l.li's work. There is no need for her to trouble." His accents possessed both dignity and command. For an instant their positions were reversed. The leader smothered an oath; but said no more. He reflected that he could well afford to wait for his revenge. The game was absolutely in his own hands if only they had known it.

He could see that they were both perfectly unconscious of the fact that they had lost anything. When they discovered they would most likely conclude it had happened during the ride up.

When Arith.e.l.li had dragged herself up into her bedroom the sky was lighting with the dawn. They had mistaken the road and gone a mile or two out of the way, and one of the men had been thrown off and twisted his ankle, and made another halt and delay. She drew the curtains closely and lay down without undressing.

Before she slept she put her hand into her breast, and felt the rustle of the thin paper on which Vardri's letter had been written.

It was not until the landlady had nearly battered down her door that she stirred four hours later, and then she unfastened her blouse and drew out instead of the original two sheets, only one.

She did not feel particularly alarmed; supposing it had been put with the envelope that she had left about in the morning. Her things so often got lost, and it was Emile who generally found them.

CHAPTER XIX

"Must a man have hope to fight?

Can a man not fight in despair?"

"A Polish Insurgent," JAMES THOMPSON.

How he lived through his last day in Barcelona Emile never quite knew.

A strong will, strong tobacco, and plenty of work were all aids in helping him to preserve his sanity.

He soon arranged things with Sobrenski, and found no difficulty in obtaining the post of messenger in the St. Petersburg affair.

He walked to the Hippodrome while the _matinee_ performance was in progress, and left a message for Arith.e.l.li at the stage door.

Then he went back to his rooms in the Calle San Antonio, and began to make the few necessary preparations for departure. He was not enc.u.mbered with worldly goods, and his wardrobe was not extensive, so there remained only to look through and destroy all doc.u.ments, books, or letters that could not be carried about or that might involve the safety of others.

Certain songs and pieces of music he put together in a pile, the rest he tore across and threw into a corner. He would have no need of these amus.e.m.e.nts now. Cultivation of the fine arts is not encouraged in the political prisons.

At five o'clock Arith.e.l.li entered the room, her clothes put on carelessly, the grey pallor of intense weariness upon her face. She had been working early and late during the past two days, and the thought of the missing letter worried her from time to time. Sometimes she felt almost certain that she had dropped it in changing from her circus clothes, and that it had been appropriated out of curiosity by one of the women who shared the dressing-room. As it was written in English, they would probably throw it away at once in disgust, annoyed at being deprived of the excitement of a romance or scandal.

She knew it would be useless to make enquiries. If it had been left there it had been done late at night, and the dressing-rooms were always cleaned early next morning, and it would have been swept away with the other rubbish.

She had not said anything about her loss to Vardri. It would make him even more anxious than herself, and she must bear the penalty of her own carelessness.

She hoped that after all it would come to light in some box or drawer among her clothes.

She came forward noiselessly across the polished, carpetless floor.