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With many picturesque oaths the Manager accused himself of folly unspeakable in not dismissing Arithelli at once. She had a contract? Yes! But in it there was no allowance made for incompetence and non-appearance. It only stipulated that she should be paid for doing her work. She had not done it, and moreover she had refused to practise.
Blood and brutalities and slave-driving? You talked about l'entresol de l'enfer, but I'm beginning to think I've stepped over the threshold." "Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute!" Arithelli bit her lips. "I don't feel in the mood for arguing now. I wish you would leave me alone."
The fanaticism of his race and temperament flamed into his cold eyes as he sat and brooded, and he hardly noticed that Arithelli had slid into the room in her noiseless fashion, and was standing before him. Emile, though little given to being astonished, marvelled at the unconcern with which she submitted to his critical inspection.
Their mother, who hated all domestic work, and could never be induced to see that their loss of money was due to her own extravagance, retired to bed, where she spent her days in reading Plato in the original, and writing charming French lyrics. When Arithelli ran away she had gone straight to an old friend of her mother's, the widow of an ambassador in Paris.
"Oh, Emile, my heart feels so queer! I'm sure it must be all wrong." "Ma foi! Ces femmes la! Il y a tou jours quelque chose! First a faint, then a heart! How often am I to tell you, Arithelli, that that part of your your how do you say it? anatomy is quite without use here? Have you any brandy in the room?" "There's Eau de Cologne on the washstand."
Love and Arithelli would be a sure antidote for any misery or disease. For her he had created a House of Dreams, and now the dreams were on the verge of becoming realities. Instead of the sand and stones of that desert that men call Life, a rainbow-coloured future lay stretched out before him. Sunshine and the summertime of love, all that he had ever hoped for, were coming nearer.
"What are you doing here, Poleski? This is the girl's business. I thought she was keen on her horses." "She is also keen on her bed," Emile answered. "She does her share of work." The Manager grumbled, but the new arrangement was allowed to stand. Arithelli did not consort with the other female members of the Hippodrome.
Eventually she would fall in love, and a woman was no more use to the Cause once that happened. No vows would be strong enough to keep her from a man's arms once she cared. She would not love lightly or easily, and where would she find love, here in Barcelona? Half unconsciously, he found himself comparing Arithelli with the woman who had betrayed him.
Now you are asked to give a practical proof of your loyalty!" The pitiless tongue lashed, and Arithelli shrank against the wall, her hands over her eyes. There had been stories current among the younger members of the Barcelona Anarchists that Sobrenski possessed the power of hypnotism and did not scruple to use it.
The Manager was a hatchet-faced and haggard man who looked as if he went to bed about once a week, on an average, and existed principally on cigarettes and absinthe. The simultaneous arrival of Emile and Arithelli roused him from his normal condition of bored cynicism to comparative animation. Like the landlady he naturally made his own conclusions.
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