Aristides stopped in his work. He was kneeling by the side of his enemy, and he fixed his glittering eyes on him with hate-hunger.
“I think I’ve been massaged enough,” said Georges, feeling suddenly sick. “I am not very well. Perhaps it was the cognac.... How silent this place is! No sound but water dripping.”
“We are here alone,” said Aristides. Though he spoke with no meaning in his tone, Georges started violently and looked at the closed door.
“Yes, it is locked,” said Aristides.
And, without a word, the masseur rose languidly to his feet, crossed the little chamber, and sat on the only chair it contained. Georges raised himself to a sitting posture. His flabby face was pale, and involuntarily he looked up at the windowless domes.
“There is no way out here,” said Aristides, smiling grimly.
“No. Why should there be? Will you fetch me some water? I feel faint and damnably sick.”
“Certainly.”
Aristides brought a glass from a cupboard, filled it with water, and handed it to his enemy.
Georges, having drained its last drop, rose, swayed for a moment, and sat down, wiping his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand.