"Dieu! How sweet you are! But don't call me 'Camarade,' mon petit. Those wolves above call each other that!"
"I won't, if you hate it. Yes, that's really love to give all and take nothing." Arithelli spoke dreamily. "Emile made me sing to him before he went away; you remember 'L'Adieu' of Schubert? He loved it.
"La mort est une amie,
Qui rend la liberté."
"C'est bien vrai ca! I used to sing it without thinking at one time.
How alike all those songs are. Always Death;—Death and Liberty!"
"Don't talk of those things, dear. It's going to be Life for both of us—after to-morrow."
"I was thinking of poor Emile."
"He was always fond of you. He'll be glad when he hears you're married and safe."
"Yes, he'll be glad. Don't talk any more for a minute, dear, then just say au revoir to me and go as quickly as you can. I want to be quiet. It's good to be loved. How gentle you are! Emile was always so rough when he touched me."
Vardri hung over her, caressing her with infinite tenderness. Of all men in the world he was surely the happiest to have known this sweet and womanly Arithelli, the Arithelli that no one else had ever seen. He kissed the heavy, closed lids and stroked back the hair from her forehead.
A faint intoxicating odour of jasmine hovered about her, for she was
Eastern in her love of perfumes. The stifling, dirty hut became a
Paradise while she lay thus in his arms.