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Updated: May 31, 2025
The weather had been unnaturally warm for the time of year, all day, down in the city. They were all glad when they had mounted above the sea-level. There was a little breeze met them, and the tired and patiently plodding horses raised their heads. Arithelli drew a long breath of relief as she shifted in her saddle, and glanced back to see if they were all in sight.
By way of advertising herself and her performance Arithelli was given a high, smartly painted carriage in which she drove in the fashionable promenade of Barcelona, the Paséo de Gracia, with three of the cream-coloured horses lightly harnessed and jingling with bells. On these occasions Emile played the part of lady's maid and escort.
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.
The horses fidgeted and stamped, and a mule dragged at its halter with laid-back ears and vicious sidelong glances. Sometimes a stirrup or a bit clashed against another with a musical ring and jingle. Arithelli heard nothing till she awoke to find herself in Vardri's arms, and being lifted into a sitting position with her back against the wall.
Vardri, who had arrived last of all, rode forward to join her, but was curtly ordered to the rear by Sobrenski. They should see enough of each other later on, when it was time. Before they started on their ride he spoke to Arithelli alone, and gave her his final instructions, and saw for himself that the pistol she wore at her belt was properly charged.
They have just settled to draw lots to-morrow night. I wonder who will have the 'honour' of becoming executioner? I suppose they can't do it to-night because Poleski isn't here." Arithelli shook her head. "That is not the reason. They have given Emile other work to do in Russia. He is leaving here very soon. I thought you knew." "Who told you that Poleski is going away? It may not be true."
"You're going to tumble off, you mean? Better not! You don't want to get turned out, do you?" Arithelli turned to a mirror on the wall. "Do I look very ghastly?" she asked. "Not much more than usual. None of us look very fresh out here, do we? Do you think your hat is on straight, you untidy little trollop? Well, it isn't! Hurry up, it's late. No, I'm not going down there with you.
Give me your hand again, Fatalité, bien aimée! gardez-vous, mais gardez-vous!" She answered him steadily. "À demain. Adieu, mon ami. Ride as quickly as you can, but lead your horse for the first few minutes." "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.
Arithelli awoke next day in her comfortless room, and lay wondering over the waking nightmare of the past hours. Everything seemed so different in the morning. There was no thrill of excitement now, nothing to make her blood run quickly. She only felt flat, dull, stupid, and disinclined to move. How strange and unlike himself Emile had been.
Arithelli cleaned the doorsteps and the kitchen stove, blackleaded the grates and prepared the meals, which more often than not consisted only of potatoes and tea.
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