The treadmill continued until Arithelli would have welcomed an accident as a break in the grinding monotony. The exercise instead of making her hot, had made her shiver as if with great cold. She felt as if she had been practising for days instead of hours. It was of no use! She could not go on any longer. She slipped from her standing position on the broad pad saddle to Don Juan's back, and without waiting for the word of command, reined him to a standstill in front of the Manager.
"You must let me go," she said. "I can't do any better now."
The Manager stepped back a pace, and dropped his whip with sheer astonishment. For an instant he stared with open mouth, then he found speech.
"You sit there, do you, and tell me you refuse to work! You with your insolence! When you fall and that long neck of yours goes crack" (he snapped a finger and thumb together in expressive pantomime), "then I shall laugh—nom d'un chien!—how I shall laugh."
Arithelli waited in silence, a faint smile curling her lips. One hand, laden with rings, moved caressingly up and down Don Juan's silky mane. She had hitherto answered abuse with maddening indifference. Now she flung back her head and mocked him.
"So you hope I'll fall," she said. "Perhaps I hope so too. Do you think I care, that I'm afraid of breaking my neck?"
Her voice was not raised a tone from its ordinary level, but passion and contempt vibrated in every accent. An unwilling admiration stirred the man's dull brutality. He could dismiss her to-morrow, but he would never find another woman who would be her match for physique and endurance. Besides, others would know their value and demand a larger salary.
He pointed to the performers' exit. "Allez!"
As she rode past, Arithelli made him a little bow. It was the salute of a courteous duellist to his adversary. To his profound surprise the Manager found himself acknowledging it, with like dignity.
At eight o'clock that evening she sat before the glass in her dressing-room and awaited the shouted summons of the impish call-boy, who respected no one on earth, and to whom she was never "Mamzelle" or "Señora," but only Arithelli. The dresser had gone out for an instant, leaving the door ajar, and a noisy burst of applause swept along the passage.