The Hippodrome | Page 7

about the Cause?"
"I fancy not, but she appears to have the right ideas, and after I have judiciously fanned the flame!--girls of that age are always wildly enthusiastic over something--so she may as well devote her enthusiasm to us."
CHAPTER III
"Out of the uttermost end of things On the side of life that is seamier, There lies a land, so its poet sings, Whose people call it Bohemia.
"It is not old, it is not new, It is not false, it is not true, And they will not answer for what they do, Far away in Bohemia." "Love in Bohemia," DOLF WYLLARDE.
"I think," Arithelli said with deliberation, "that all your friends are very fatiguing. They have such bad tempers, and do nothing but argue."
"They live for the serious things of life," retorted Emile. "Not to play the fool."
"Thanks! Is this one of the serious things of life, do you suppose?" She stuck the large needle with which she had been awkwardly cobbling a tear in her skirt, into the seat of a chair.
"What are you doing that for?" demanded Emile.
"Oh, pardon, I forgot." She extracted the needle. "I don't think I'm unwomanly but I'm not a good sewer. Emile! don't you think we might have some music? I really am beginning to sing 'Le Rêve' quite well."
Her education in Anarchy had commenced with the teaching of revolutionary songs. Emile, who was himself music-mad, had discovered her to be possessed of a rough contralto voice of a curious mature quality. It would have been an absurd voice for ballads in a drawing-room, but it suited fiery declamations in praise of La Liberté!
They were sitting in Emile's room now, for they made use of each other's lodgings alternately, and there was a battered and rather out-of-tune piano. Sometimes, after the evening performance, there would be a gathering of the conspirators, all more or less morose, unshaven and untidy; and while Emile played for her, Arithelli would stand in the middle of the room, her green eyes blazing out of her pale face, her arms folded, singing with a fervour which surprised even her teacher, the lovely impassioned "Rêve du prisonnier" of Rubinstein. She was always pleased with her own performances, and not in the least troubled with shyness. Also she was invariably eager to practise. She shook down her skirt, went across to the piano and began to pick out the notes.
"S'il faut, ah, prends ma vie. Mais rends-moi la liberté!"
Emile was sewing on buttons. Though he did not look in the least domesticated, he was far more dexterous at such work than the long-fingered Arithelli. In fact it was only at his suggestion that she ever mended anything at all.
"Do you ever by chance realise what you are singing about?" he demanded.
"Of course I do. I'm a red hot Socialist. I've read Tolstoi's books and lots of others. I got in an awful scrape over political things just the little time I was in Paris. It was when the Dreyfus case was on. Madame Bertrand was terrified at the way I aired my opinions. You see politics are so different abroad to what they are in England."
Emile agreed. The girl was developing even more than he had hoped.
"Ah! This is the first time I've ever heard about your political opinions."
"You've never asked me before. One doesn't know everything about a person at once."
Again Emile agreed. Then he said abruptly, "Well, if you have all these ideas you'd better join the Cause."
"I'd love to! Shall I have to go to meetings with Sobrenski and all the rest of them?"
"Probably. But you'll not be expected to talk. You may be told to do some writing or carry messages."
"Is that all?" She seemed rather disappointed. Emile felt for a moment almost inclined to develop scruples. She evidently regarded Anarchy at large as a species of particularly exciting diversion.
"Who are the other women mixed up with it?" she asked.
"There are no other women. You should feel honoured that we are having you."
Emile stood up, having completed his renovating operations. "You want to sing, eh?" Arithelli assented eagerly. "You will work?" Emile demanded.
"Yes!" Her eyes had become suddenly like green jewels, and she looked almost animated. She was more interested in Emile's music than in any other part of him. His wild Russian ballads sung with his strange clipped accent and fiery emphasis, fascinated her. She was content to listen for an indefinite period of time, her long body in a restful attitude, her feet crossed, her hands in her lap, as absolutely immovable as one who is hypnotised.
Emile, for his part, was equally interested in her exploits in vocalism, which he found as extraordinary and unexpected as everything else about her. Her singing voice was so curiously unlike her speaking voice that it might have belonged to