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Arithelli shivered as she sat back on her heels on the floor, and looked round the sordid room. The excitement of her arrival had worn off, and the element of depression reigned supreme in her mind. Certainly the apartment, which was supposed to be a bed-sitting-room, but which was merely a bedroom, was not enlivening to contemplate.
"From Paris," she answered him serenely. "I'm Arithelli of the Hippodrome." There was a girlish pride in her accents, and she looked at him sideways to observe the effect of her announcement. "Ma foi! So it's that, is it? Then I've heard something about you. I know the Manager pretty well. He said you were un peu bizarre." "Peut être plus qu'un peu," Arithelli retorted quickly.
He felt in better health, for he had been able to go to bed at a reasonable time, and though he missed the horses and the free life of the Hippodrome, and found the work of a newspaper office somewhat trying, there were shorter hours and other advantages. He had also the joy of knowing that Arithelli was almost well again.
He groped for the matches, struck one and lit a candle. Arithelli sat upright in bed; she had pushed back the clothes, and her long fingers were dragging at the blue scarf. It was knotted at the back under her plait of hair, and she had almost succeeded in loosening it. The fatal inertia was passed, and she was beside herself with heat and pain and the fight for breath.
Arithelli stood her ground, listened to the comments on her appearance which the Manager felt himself entitled to use, returned his cynical survey with a level glance, and answered his questions with an unruffled composure. It was arranged that she should rehearse every day for two hours in the morning, and another two hours between the afternoon and evening performances.
Also it was likely to make people hysterical. Therefore when Arithelli woke at six o'clock in the morning, and sat up panting, with a hand at her left side, he elevated both shoulders and eyebrows. "Qu'est ce-qu vous avez donc? You're all right now." He knew perfectly well that there was no pretence of illness. The strained eyes, the blue shadows round the mouth told their own tale.
You'll be late again, and one of these days you'll find yourself dismissed. You must just go on and put up with it all. Life mostly consists of putting up with things." But even this consoling philosophy failed to have a rousing effect. For the first time in her life Arithelli had fainted.
Being, however, according to the world's standard, a fool and a dreamer, he chose to let the moment pass, to refuse what the gods offered, to think of Arithelli rather than of himself. "I'm hurting you, dear." His voice shook a little, in spite of his efforts to control it. "No. Nothing hurts now. And I'm glad you love me." "I hurt you a minute ago. I was mad and a beast. Will you forgive me?
Though he was a revolutionist he was still a human being, and he had always been as sorry for her as he had dared allow himself to be, and he hoped it was not the girl. Another man came up carrying a lantern, and flashed the light on what rested motionless at their feet. Arithelli lay on her face as she had fallen. Her hair streamed over her shoulders and mingled with the dark folds of the cloak.
"I see you think he's right." Arrived at the lodgings she sat still, waiting in the cab with the same apparent indifference while Emile wrangled with the landlady. At length he came back to her: "You had better try these for a week," he said. "They're forty pesetas. She will want the rent in advance as you have no recommendation." For the first time Arithelli seemed disturbed.
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