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Updated: May 7, 2025
Sobrenski, the red-haired leader, detested women, and thought them all fools, who generally added the sin of treachery to their foolishness. Emile himself had taken no interest in any woman since he had lived in Barcelona. He too had found them treacherous. Since he had lost his little childish goddess, Marie Roumanoff, he had had no desire to play the role of lover.
If some of us dream dreams we have also to face actions and realities." Perhaps the episode of Marie Roumanoff belonged to the days before he joined the Brotherhood and became an exile from his country. She knew that once upon a time he had owned land and estates in Russia, and Emile the Anarchist of Barcelona had been known as Count Poleski.
Her awakening had been a complete one. At first novelty and excitement had served as merciful anaesthetics, but they could not last for ever. He was not in love with her, he still told himself, but he would miss her. Women like the Roumanoff were the women to whom men made passionate love, but Arithelli was unique. She had become part of his life in Barcelona.
Emile never lied, even to himself, and he knew now that Marie Roumanoff had almost become a shadow. A plaything she had been, a child, a doll, a being made for caresses and admiration. To a woman of her type camaraderie would have been impossible. He had not wanted it, and it had not been in her nature to give it.
There were sure to be some women too among the "politicals," and he would be obliged to watch their sufferings. There would be no imaginary grievances in that life at all events. On the floor, as it had dropped from among the music there lay a photograph, face downwards. He picked it up and looked back at the childish, smiling face, the tiny, rounded figure of Marie Roumanoff.
"Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse." His mouth twisted into a cynical smile. She had been a true prophetess when she had written that. He tore the picture across, and threw it upon the rest of the débris. The Roumanoff would never haunt his dreams again. Her portrait was easily destroyed. A flimsy thing of print and paper, as slight and fragile as herself.
The picture was signed Marie Roumanoff, and on the back was written "Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse!" There were songs too scrawled with love-messages in Emile's handwriting. She pored over them with a vivid interest quite unmingled with any thought of jealousy. Emile always said that no revolutionist ever wasted time or thought on women. After all, if she were shot to-morrow who would care?
For an instant his years of outlawry and poverty were blotted out and he had gone back to the days in Russia when he had first come into his kingdom, and had believed women faithful and their honour a thing on which to stake one's own. As sweet and yielding Marie Roumanoff had seemed when she had lain in his arms.
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