Part 28 (2/2)

In the second verse the time was changed, the words were hurried and insistent.

”_Nina! si je succombe, el qu'un beau soir, Une blanche colombe vient te voir, Ouvre-lui ta fenetre car ce sera, Mon ame qui peut-etre te reviendra._”

Her voice had grown weaker since her illness, and she sang with visible exertion and faulty breathing, but it was still the golden voice of the Israelitish woman, and there was the same _timbre_ that had attracted him, and made him speak to her that afternoon in May at the station.

And all that had only happened six months ago! When she had finished he said nothing in approval, but he asked her to sing again, and she understood, and was pleased.

”You may thank the Fates for having given you a voice,” he told her.

”It's better than a face. It lasts longer. No man having once heard you would listen to another woman.”

It was the first compliment he had ever made her, but Arith.e.l.li did not answer. Her back was turned towards him as she gathered together the music.

He could see that her whole body was trembling with repressed sobs. If he could only have been sure they were for him, he would have taken her in his arms. She was sorry he was going, perhaps, in a way, but not in the way he wanted. She had become dependent upon him, and he had filled a certain place in her life. If she made a scene it was entirely his own fault. Farewells were always a mistake, and he had been foolish enough to allow her to sing sentimental verses about doves and people's wandering souls. She was over-tired and over-wrought, and a woman's tears were more often due to physical than to mental reasons.

So he argued, trying to convince himself, yet knowing all the time that Arith.e.l.li was not one of the women whose emotions are on the surface.

Once before he had seen her cry, and now as then he stood apart. It was for Vardri to dry her tears.

He glanced at the clock. Of course it was wrong, but he knew by the shadows that filled the room that it must be time for her to leave if she was to appear in public again to-night.

He must hurry the interview to a close, for he could not play his part much longer.

”You ought to be glad to get rid of me, Arith.e.l.li. _Vous avez la chance_! What have I given you but work and grumbles, eh?”

The soft, broken voice answered him:

”I shall feel afraid without you.”

”You will have Vardri,--your lover.” His tone was brutal as the blow of a knife. The natural animal jealousy of a man had risen in him again. When he was between stone walls, she would have the warmth of a lover's arms; every nerve in his own body would know it, and long for that which he had himself resigned.

He would have long hours to sit and think the thoughts that drive men to insanity or self-destruction.

”Yes, but one can care in different ways, and you have done so many things for me.”

The man drew in his breath sharply. The knife was in her hand now, but she had stabbed unconsciously. He knew that she spoke quite simply, thinking only of his care for her physical well-being.

Truly he had done things, things that he would have given several years of life to undo.

Now he had that for which he craved,--the a.s.surance that she cared, that she would miss him. Still he did not delude himself. He knew that what she felt towards him was not the love between a woman and her mate, but the affection of dependence, of habit. Yet for such as it was his soul uttered thanksgiving. Any other woman gifted with a less sweet nature would have felt for him nothing but hatred, but in Fatalite's mind neither spite nor malice ever found a place. The petty vices of womankind had never been hers. He knew now that he had been something to her, and that knowledge would make suns.h.i.+ne for him even in the shadow of a prison. It gave him courage also to play out the tragi-comedy to the end, to make a brave jest, to lie convincingly.

”We needn't make each other eternal adieux, _mon enfant_. You must not take all I said about Siberian dungeons _au serieux_. Russia isn't quite as dangerous as it's made out to be. Of course the police keep a watch more or less on the 'suspects,' but we know all their tricks, and how to avoid them. Plenty of us go to St. Petersburg and even to Kara and come back again. The Schlusselburg fortress is about the only place we haven't succeeded in getting out of yet. It's fairly easy to manage a false pa.s.sport. You can write to me at the address I've given you.”

It was all over now, and he was alone. He had taken both her hands for an instant, and felt the convulsive clinging of the thin fingers. He had longed to kiss them, but dared not trust himself. His words were only such as might have been used by anyone of the Brotherhood.

”_Au revoir, camarade_!”

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