"And I have to go back to it," the girl said under her breath. "And I may be hissed again. You will not be there now, and we shall miss you. I and Don Juan and Cavaliero, and El Rey, and Don Quixote. Some of the grooms are horrible, and the animals get so badly treated."
"It seems to me that everything gets badly treated here," Vardri muttered. "Women and horses, it's all the same. Don't let us talk about it. It drives me mad to think, I shan't be able to be near you. I was some use to you there."
He jumped up and began to move about the room collecting the scattered cigarettes.
"Shall I play to you, mon ange? I suppose the piano hasn't been tuned yet." He struck a few notes, and made a rueful grimace. "It's worse than ever."
"I'm afraid it never will be tuned now that I've been ill and caused so much expense. Emile always says he will go without cigarettes to afford it, and I say I will go without powder, but neither of us keep our heroic resolutions, and the piano gets worse and worse."
Vardri shut down the lid with a bang.
"Well, anyway it doesn't matter," he said, "I don't want to play or do anything; I just want to be with you."
"Bring up a chair, and sit and smoke, mon camarade." She held out her hand with a gesture of invitation, and Vardri took it and kissed it, and went back to his former position at her feet.
"Shall I read to you?" he asked. "Ah! I'd forgotten there was something I wanted to tell you. I found a poem the other day, a love-song of De Musset. Do you know that you lived in this very city years ago, Fatalité, and he saw you and loved you? How else could he have written this?
"Avez-vous vu en Barcelone,
Une Andalouse au sein bruni,
Pâle comme un beau soir d'Autômne,
C'est ma maitresse, ma lionne,
La Marchesa d'Amagui."