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Updated: May 12, 2025
Of love-making in its ordinary sense, Vardri neither thought nor dreamed. To have found his Ideal, the one woman, surely that was enough. The innate fastidiousness that goes with good breeding had kept his life clean, his hands unsoiled. He had hated the other women in the Circus, and felt sorry for them at the same time; and on their side they liked him and regarded him somewhat as a fool.
It had never occurred to Vardri to be jealous of Emile. With the curious insight that love gives he had formed a true idea of the relationship between the oddly-assorted pair. He had never thought of himself as her lover. To him she was always the Ideal, the divinity enthroned. He was content to kiss her feet, and to lay before them service and sacrifice.
Emile's stories of blood and horrors had sickened her, but the chance of breaking her neck over a high jump held no terrors. She made her exit, gaily waving her silver-handled whip, and Vardri, who was standing at the entrance of the ring, came forward quickly to lift her off her horse before the groom could reach her.
Now we are alone, we can speak the truth to each other, you and I. Vardri, do you still care for the Cause in the same way you did before?" She whispered the question fearfully, yet knowing well what the answer must be. "I don't feel the same about it since I have known you." "I have not tried to make you a traitor, have I? Sobrenski always suspects me of that." "My sweet, you have done nothing.
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.
I had taken it for granted that the man was one of us, and then I knew suddenly that he wasn't." Vardri bent forward across the table. "Did you tell anyone what you had said?" "Not Sobrenski; I told Emile. He looked me up and down, and said something that I couldn't hear, and then, 'I thought you could hold your tongue, Fatalité.
The doctor?" "No, it was Emile." Vardri nodded towards the communicating door of the bedroom. "Poleski is here then?" "No, and he doesn't know I'm here. He has gone to Sária and will not be back till late. I was horribly irritable this morning, so he thinks I'm all right now." A ripple of amusement broke her voice as their eyes met.
He motioned Vardri towards a chair. "Well, since you have refused to entertain my plan, we must think of something else. I'm at present writing a series of articles on 'Militarism in France, and should like to have them translated for publication in an English journal. You speak the language well, better even than Poleski, for you have a better accent.
She wondered if she were becoming delirious. Then she was on her feet, and her hand went to the Browning pistol at her belt. Sobrenski's figure had appeared at the top of the ladder. He was shading his eyes with his hand, and peering forward into the gloom. Only one of them there! The girl or Vardri, which was it?
He gripped her by the shoulder and forced her to look at him. "Vardri is your lover? You shall answer me before I leave this room." She did not flinch, or blush, or look away. "I love him." Joy shone in her widely open eyes. Love hovered about her mouth, and the passion that had stirred in him momentarily shrank back ashamed. He pushed back her hair with a rough caress. "It's all right, ma chère.
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