Part 19 (1/2)

Her round eyes widened and her round mouth grew sulky when she heard that she was expected to go upstairs without further delay and attend to Arith.e.l.li. Juan would be waiting for her outside the church door, Maria reflected, and perhaps if she did not come he would seek others.

There was Dolores, of the cigarette factory, for example. The English Senora could surely wait a few minutes. Her expression, and her obvious unwillingness, supplied Emile with material for cynical reflections upon the working value of religion. He did not trouble to communicate his views to Maria, but merely gave orders and instructions. His tone and manner were convincing. Like all the rest of her s.e.x Maria respected a man who knew what he wanted, and showed that he intended to get it.

Emile made his way into the cool, shady Rambla, where a double avenue of plane trees met overhead, and where a grateful darkness could always be found even at mid-day. On either side of the promenade were the finest shops, the gaiest _cafes_. A band of students pa.s.sed him, waving a scarlet flag and shouting a revolutionary _chanson_ of the most fiery description. Emile scowled angrily. He had not the least sympathy with these childish exhibitions of defiance, which he considered utterly futile and a great waste of time. They did harm to the serious aims and intentions of the Anarchist community, and were often the means of getting quite the wrong people arrested.

At the Flower Market (La Rambla de las Flores) he paused to look at the heaped roses, gorgeous against the grey stones. Daily they were brought there in thousands, dew-drenched and fresh from the gardens of Saria. He took up a loose handful from the piled ma.s.s of sweetness and laid it down again.

Red roses were not for Fatalite. They would not suit her, and she had good reason to loathe the colour that was symbolical of blood and sacrifice. He chose instead a sheaf of lilies, long-stalked and heavily scented, and despatched them in the care of a picturesque _gamin_. Sobrenski and the others would certainly have considered him hopelessly mad if they had known. It was many years since he had sent flowers to a woman. His present life did not encourage little courtesies and graceful actions. It was in the natural course of events that all the comrades should help one another in every possible way, but none of them made any virtue out of it. It was all done in the most matter-of-fact way possible. As he had told Arith.e.l.li when they had talked up at Montserrat, one only kissed the hands of a Marie Spiridonova. And he was sending bouquets as to some _mondaine_ of the vanished world and of his youth.

He shrugged and walked slowly on. In pa.s.sing the house where Michael Furness lodged, he stopped to leave a message as to Arith.e.l.li's condition, and the advisability of another visit.

When ”_The Witch_” touched at Corfu for letters Count Vladimir found among them one that twisted afresh the thread of two destinies--his own and that of a woman. His companion had still the same features and colouring of the boy who had sung at night under the stars in the harbour of Barcelona. Pauline Souvaroff still sang through the hours between dusk and dawn, but her disguise had been discarded, and now soft skirts trailed as she pa.s.sed, and the cropped fair hair had grown and twisted into little rings. Her secret had been no secret to Emile, though Arith.e.l.li with her trick of taking everything for granted had never guessed that Paul, the singer, was other than the boy he professed to be. Besides the two women had never talked together alone, and seldom even seen each other by daylight, for Pauline had sought no one's company.

There was for her but one being in the world, and when she could not be with the man she wors.h.i.+pped she was content to be with her thoughts and dreams.

At first she had, like many another Russian woman, yearned to make an oblation of herself in the service of her horror-ridden country, but with the coming of love she had put aside all thoughts of vengeance.

The Cause was identified for her with the person of her lover. She toiled willingly at it still, but from entirely different motives. His interests were hers, and while he worked for the revolutionary party, so also must she.

Pauline Souvaroff had loved much and given freely. All that she possessed of beauty and charm, her whole body and soul she had laid at the feet of the man at whose lightest word she flushed and paled, and on whom she looked with soft, adoring eyes. She lived in dreams, a life of drugged content in which there was neither past nor future.

In all the Brotherhood no one could be considered a free agent, and the ordering of no man's life was in his own hands. The private actions of each member were almost as well known as his public ones, for each man spied systematically upon his companions. If the devotion of two people to one another seemed likely to outrival their devotion to the Cause, then separation came swiftly. Nothing would be said, no accusations made, but each would receive orders that sent them in opposite directions. The supporters of the Red Flag movement were always particularly ingenious in arranging affairs to suit themselves.

An Anarchist could form no lasting ties. Some time in the future there was always separation to be faced.

It was in Vladimir's power to settle matters in his own way by ignoring Emile's letter, and remaining where he was in enjoyment of the present idyll. As long as they kept out to sea they were safe. But he had pledged his word to answer any summons and to give his help, and with him, as with all men, love came only second to his work. Emile had also explained Vardri's position, and it would be impossible to adjust anything without being on the spot.

He read the letter over again, slowly and carefully. It hinted and suggested more than it had said. Emile had just come from an interview with Sobrenski, and there had been a talk of an entire re-organization of the band. Some of the members would be required to carry on the propaganda in other countries, Russia, for example. They all knew what that meant--!

As he climbed the ladder by the yacht's side, and swung himself onto the deck, the girl ran up to him with outstretched hands, her white skirts fluttering behind her in the wind. She was as incapable of disguising her feelings as a child, and she was a joyous pagan in her happiness.

Vladimir slipped his hand under the warm round arm. ”Have I been long, _pet.i.te_? Come and walk up and down. I want to talk to you.”

”You have found letters, _mon ami_?” Pauline asked carelessly.

”From Poleski. Yes. I'm afraid they are rather important ones. We shall have to talk them over later on.”

”When you like. Vladimir, do you remember the girl Monsieur Poleski brought on board once for a few days. I never knew her real name. She always looked so ill and miserable. Do you remember?”

”It is about this very girl that he has written.”

Pauline looked up quickly. ”She is dead?”

”No! No! I suppose you think that because she always looked such a tragedy. However, she is very ill, out of danger now, but of course not able to ride--she was in the Hippodrome, you know--and apparently she has no money, so one must do something for them. Poleski has barely enough for two, especially under these circ.u.mstances.”

”I am sorry,” Pauline said gently. ”I remember how she used to sit all day and look at the sea. Monsieur Poleski left her too much alone, and always spoke so roughly, but I think he loved her.”

Vladimir gave a short laugh.

”You're wrong there, child. No, I'm sure that's not the case with Poleski.”