"She hates him," Ruby whispered. "And whenever she can she gets in a dig because he hasn't tried to fight for his country. Funny thing for two people to live together for three years and hate each other like they do."
Sylvia said that she had no more information about the war than they had in Odessa, and there followed groans from all the artistes gathered together over coffee for the havoc which the war had brought in their profession.
"I was always anti-militariste," Armand proclaimed, "even before the war. Why, once in France I was arrested for singing a song that made fun of the army. It's a fine thing to talk about valor and glory and la patrie when you're du premier grade, but when you're not—" He shook his fist at a world of generals. "Enfin, Belgium no longer exists. And who first thought of stopping the Germans? The king! Does he have to dance for a living? Ah, non alors! She is always talking about the war," he went on, looking at Flora. "But if I applied for a passport to go back, she'd be the first to make a row."
"Menteur!" Flora snapped. "Je m'en fiche."
"Alors, ce soir je n'irai pas au cabaret."
"Tant mieux! Qu'est-ce que ça peut me ficher? Bon Dieu!"
"Alors, nous verrons, ma gosse."
"Insoumis!" she spat forth. "Comme t'es lâche."
"They always carry on like that," Ruby whispered. "But they'll be dancing together to-night just the same as usual."
When Sylvia came down from the dressing-room for her turn she found that Ruby had prophesied truly. Armand and Flora were dancing together on the stage, but, though their lips were smiling, the eyes of both were sullen and hateful. The performance at the Cabaret de l'Aube could not be said to differ in any particular from that of any other cabaret. Sylvia, when she was brought face to face with such evidences of international bad taste, wondered how the world had ever gone to war. All over Europe people slept in the same kind of wagon-lits (though here in Russia with a broad gauge they slept more comfortably), ate the same kind of food in the same kind of hotel, clapped the same mediocre artistes, and drank the same sweet champagne: yet they could talk about the individuality of nations. How remote war seemed here in Odessa: it was perhaps wrong of her to escape from it like this, and she pondered the detached point of view of Armand. Had she the right to despise his point of view? Did she not herself merit equal contempt?