After all, if she were shot to-morrow who would care? She had written
to her people and sent them photographs and newspapers with the
accounts of her triumph.
Success was a sure road to approbation. If she had failed she would
not have written.
The Hippodrome engagement could not last forever. A little
carelessness, a loss of nerve, and her career would be at an end.
Sometimes when she had been singing "_Le Reve_," she had really meant
it all.
"_S'il faut, ah, prends ma vie_!"
Only a few days ago Emile had stormed at her in his rasping French,
because she had, with the vehemence of youth, denounced the Anarchist
leader as a relentless brute.
"You think yourself over-worked and ill-used--you!" he said as he
strode up and down the room twisting his fiercely pointed moustache.
"Look at Sobrenski. He works us all, but does he ever spare himself?
Look at Vardri? Rich, well-born, starving at the Hippodrome on a few
_pesetas_ a week. I thought you had better stuff in you. Are you
going to turn out English milk-and-water? You're _not_ English, you
say? No, I suppose you're not, or you wouldn't talk about 'dirty
Gentiles.
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