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Updated: May 31, 2025
Emile would try and bully her into eating more, and occasionally essayed his talents as a chef, and cooked weird looking things in his rooms over a vilely smelling English oil stove, but the Jewess in Arithelli found him wanting in the "divers washings" she required of the saucepans, and they generally ended these Bohemian repasts with a quarrel.
Her charities were famous, her diamonds and Paris toilettes equally so. She smiled graciously at Arithelli as horse and rider bowed before her, and pulling out a few blossoms from the bouquet that rested on the ledge, threw them into the arena. As the girl looked up and the level unsmiling gaze met hers, the older woman started back. "Santa Vierge!" she muttered, hastily crossing herself.
Both were young, reckless and without money beyond what they earned, though, whereas Arithelli had been more or less tricked into her present position, Vardri had been infatuated with the Cause from the time he was old enough to take an interest in anything.
For a moment he saw no longer the goddess on her ivory throne, but a woman of flesh and blood, warm, living, and fragrant and to be desired after a man's fashion. Arithelli closed her eyes and leant back, yielding herself to his caresses. The pressure of his hand across her throat hurt her, but in some strange way it also gave her pleasure.
He felt that he must go back to his rooms, and finish out his siesta before he could work out any more plans. Arithelli awoke at once when he touched her and called her name, but before she had realised where she was Emile was half way downstairs in search of Maria.
She had proved a success, so he could afford to exult, and Estelle dangled in triumph a new pair of diamond earrings. He had lost nothing and the once famous Arithelli, the "She-wolf" who had been mad enough to defy him, was now simply one of the crowd. Her name did not appear on the programme.
So he argued, trying to convince himself, yet knowing all the time that Arithelli was not one of the women whose emotions are on the surface. Once before he had seen her cry, and now as then he stood apart. It was for Vardri to dry her tears. He glanced at the clock.
His fox-like face framed in its red hair and beard looked more relentless and crafty than ever in the revealing light, and the boy shivered anew, but not from physical cold. He did not fear the leader of the Brotherhood for himself, but for Arithelli Arithelli, the drudge, the tool, the "errand boy," as she had called herself. Perhaps in time even she would become a heartless machine.
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.
He had a large heart by way of counterbalance to his many failings, and he was interested in Arithelli, for he had come across her once or twice in the stables, and had heard various picturesque stories of her exploits. He might have been a success in his own profession, but for the two temptations that beset every Irishman whisky and horses.
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