First the work and risks of a secret printing press in some cellar or sordid room behind a shop, and later on the inevitable police-raid, a trial that would be no trial with the condemnation signed before-hand, and afterwards the travaux forcés, the long marches, the agonies of farewell at the Siberian boundary-post—not for him, for his were said, but for his companions in misery—the miseries of the sick and dying, the partial starvation, and the horrors of dirt and vermin. There were sure to be some women too among the "politicals," and he would be obliged to watch their sufferings.
There would be no imaginary grievances in that life at all events.
On the floor, as it had dropped from among the music there lay a photograph, face downwards.
He picked it up and looked back at the childish, smiling face, the tiny, rounded figure of Marie Roumanoff.
"Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse."
His mouth twisted into a cynical smile. She had been a true prophetess when she had written that.
He tore the picture across, and threw it upon the rest of the débris.
The Roumanoff would never haunt his dreams again.
Her portrait was easily destroyed. A flimsy thing of print and paper, as slight and fragile as herself.
Of Arithelli he possessed no tangible likeness, but he would have her always with him, for her image was seared deep upon both heart and brain.