She thought of everything. The wild cat disappeared.
“What did you say to him?” Renaud inquired.
She began to laugh, an insolent laugh.
He felt that he abhorred her, that he would delight to see her conquered, under his heel, absolutely in his power, gipsy queen and sorceress that she was, like an ordinary woman.
Each desired the other in hatred.
She laughed as she thought that the man about whom her arms were thrown like a lover she was luring to his destruction. That very night—before or after the joys of love; what cared she for that?—there would be between him and that other a struggle as of wild beasts, which she longed to see; a witches’ carnival of love, to rejoice the souls of the dead; and she laughed.
“Queens,” said she, “cannot leave their kingdoms without issuing secret orders. Come, my beast!”
Was she speaking to the man or the horse?—To the man, doubtless, in whom she had awakened an animal like herself.
She pressed him tighter, and again she whispered:
“Come, come!”