Part 5 (2/2)
The realisation of the folly of trying to escape from the burden that had been laid upon her affected her nerve and seat during her performances in the ring.
For the first time she felt her courage failing her when she entered Sobrenski's house in answer to his summons. When he had given her the despatch she made an objection on the grounds that the time taken in conveying it would absorb her few hours of rest.
”It's too far,” she protested. ”I can't go there to-day.”
”Then you can go to-morrow,” answered Sobrenski in the accents of finality. He had never cared about the girl's inclusion in their plots, and took his revenge in exacting from her considerably more than his pound of flesh.
Moreover he suspected her of treachery, and disliked her for the quickness of her wit in argument.
Even his unseeing eyes told him she looked both ill and haggard, but if she were there, well, she must work like the rest of them.
Arith.e.l.li hesitated for a moment, and when she spoke for all her pluck her voice was a little rough and uneven. ”I'm tired of being an errand boy!”
Sobrenski looked at her, drawing his eyebrows together. Everyone of the band had a nickname for her, and his own very unpleasant one was ”Deadly Nightshade.” Some of the others were ”Sapho” and ”Becky Sharp,” which latter Emile had also adopted as being particularly appropriate.
”Oh, very well,” he answered. ”Shall it be the messages or a bullet?
You can take your choice. Perhaps you would prefer the latter. It makes no difference to me. This comes of employing women. When Poleski brought you here first I was opposed to having you. Women always give trouble.”
”Would you have got a man to do half the work I do?” she flashed out with desperate courage.
”Then _do_ your work and don't talk about it,” retorted Sobrenski sharply. ”If you are absolutely ill and in bed, of course we can't expect you to go to various places, but as long as you can ride every night at the Hippodrome, you can certainly carry messages.”
He turned his back on her and took up some papers from the table, and Arith.e.l.li went out, beaten and raging.
Emile found her lying on the bed, her hands clenched by her side, her proud mouth set in bitter lines. As he came in she turned away from him, to face the wall.
”_Tiens_!” he observed, ”you are a lazy little trollop.” Emile was proud of his English slang.
Finding there was no answer he changed his tone. ”Hysterics, eh? They won't do here. Turn over, I want to talk to you.”
The girl moved mechanically, and Emile surveyed her. There were slow tears forcing themselves under her heavy eyelids.
”I wish I were dead!”
”Probably you will be soon. So will the rest of us.”
”What brutes you all are!”
”Because we don't care whether we die to-day or to-morrow? _Souvent femme varie_! Just now you seemed so anxious,--besides, if one belongs to the Cause one knows what to expect.” Emile strolled towards the uncomfortable piece of furniture by the window, that purported to be an armchair, and sat down.
”I loathe the Cause! I didn't belong to it from choice. Why did you make me join?”
”Because I thought you would be useful. You _are_ useful and probably will be more so.”
”Suppose I refuse to do anything more?”
”They will not give you the choice of refusing twice.”
”Emile, I believe you are trying to frighten me. Tell me what they would do.”
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