He was not by nature optimistic, and the events of the last few days had made him even less so than ordinary. He felt that he must go back to his rooms, and finish out his siesta before he could work out any more plans.
Arithelli awoke at once when he touched her and called her name, but before she had realised where she was Emile was half way downstairs in search of Maria.
As it happened it was Sunday morning, and being at least outwardly devout, the damsel was just on the point of starting for an early Mass, and was arrayed in her church-going uniform of black gown and velo, and armed with missal and rosary.
Her round eyes widened and her round mouth grew sulky when she heard that she was expected to go upstairs without further delay and attend to Arithelli. Juan would be waiting for her outside the church door, Maria reflected, and perhaps if she did not come he would seek others. There was Dolores, of the cigarette factory, for example. The English Señora could surely wait a few minutes. Her expression, and her obvious unwillingness, supplied Emile with material for cynical reflections upon the working value of religion. He did not trouble to communicate his views to Maria, but merely gave orders and instructions. His tone and manner were convincing. Like all the rest of her sex Maria respected a man who knew what he wanted, and showed that he intended to get it.
Emile made his way into the cool, shady Rambla, where a double avenue of plane trees met overhead, and where a grateful darkness could always be found even at mid-day. On either side of the promenade were the finest shops, the gaiest cafés. A band of students passed him, waving a scarlet flag and shouting a revolutionary chanson of the most fiery description. Emile scowled angrily. He had not the least sympathy with these childish exhibitions of defiance, which he considered utterly futile and a great waste of time. They did harm to the serious aims and intentions of the Anarchist community, and were often the means of getting quite the wrong people arrested.
At the Flower Market (La Rambla de las Flores) he paused to look at the heaped roses, gorgeous against the grey stones. Daily they were brought there in thousands, dew-drenched and fresh from the gardens of Sária. He took up a loose handful from the piled mass of sweetness and laid it down again.
Red roses were not for Fatalité. They would not suit her, and she had good reason to loathe the colour that was symbolical of blood and sacrifice. He chose instead a sheaf of lilies, long-stalked and heavily scented, and despatched them in the care of a picturesque gamin. Sobrenski and the others would certainly have considered him hopelessly mad if they had known. It was many years since he had sent flowers to a woman. His present life did not encourage little courtesies and graceful actions. It was in the natural course of events that all the comrades should help one another in every possible way, but none of them made any virtue out of it. It was all done in the most matter-of-fact way possible. As he had told Arithelli when they had talked up at Montserrat, one only kissed the hands of a Marie Spiridonova. And he was sending bouquets as to some mondaine of the vanished world and of his youth.
He shrugged and walked slowly on. In passing the house where Michael Furness lodged, he stopped to leave a message as to Arithelli's condition, and the advisability of another visit.
When "The Witch" touched at Corfu for letters Count Vladimir found among them one that twisted afresh the thread of two destinies—his own and that of a woman. His companion had still the same features and colouring of the boy who had sung at night under the stars in the harbour of Barcelona. Pauline Souvaroff still sang through the hours between dusk and dawn, but her disguise had been discarded, and now soft skirts trailed as she passed, and the cropped fair hair had grown and twisted into little rings. Her secret had been no secret to Emile, though Arithelli with her trick of taking everything for granted had never guessed that Paul, the singer, was other than the boy he professed to be. Besides the two women had never talked together alone, and seldom even seen each other by daylight, for Pauline had sought no one's company.
There was for her but one being in the world, and when she could not be with the man she worshipped she was content to be with her thoughts and dreams.