They were sitting in Emile's room now, for they made use of each other's lodgings alternately, and there was a battered and rather out-of-tune piano. Sometimes, after the evening performance, there would be a gathering of the conspirators, all more or less morose, unshaven and untidy; and while Emile played for her, Arithelli would stand in the middle of the room, her green eyes blazing out of her pale face, her arms folded, singing with a fervour which surprised even her teacher, the lovely impassioned "Rêve du prisonnier" of Rubinstein. She was always pleased with her own performances, and not in the least troubled with shyness. Also she was invariably eager to practise. She shook down her skirt, went across to the piano and began to pick out the notes.
"S'il faut, ah, prends ma vie. Mais rends-moi la liberté!"
Emile was sewing on buttons. Though he did not look in the least domesticated, he was far more dexterous at such work than the long-fingered Arithelli. In fact it was only at his suggestion that she ever mended anything at all.
"Do you ever by chance realise what you are singing about?" he demanded.
"Of course I do. I'm a red hot Socialist. I've read Tolstoi's books and lots of others. I got in an awful scrape over political things just the little time I was in Paris. It was when the Dreyfus case was on. Madame Bertrand was terrified at the way I aired my opinions. You see politics are so different abroad to what they are in England."
Emile agreed. The girl was developing even more than he had hoped.
"Ah! This is the first time I've ever heard about your political opinions."
"You've never asked me before. One doesn't know everything about a person at once."
Again Emile agreed. Then he said abruptly, "Well, if you have all these ideas you'd better join the Cause."
"I'd love to! Shall I have to go to meetings with Sobrenski and all the rest of them?"