For the first time in
her life she feared the audience. She knew too well the fickle nature
of a Spanish crowd. To a performer who failed to please them they
would be merciless. People who screamed aloud for more blood when the
sport had been tame at a bull-fight, people who habitually tortured
their animals, were not likely to show consideration to one who was
paid to entertain them. They would applaud furiously one minute and
hiss furiously the next.
As she stood alone, waiting, she glanced instinctively towards the
place where Emile always sat, and wished he had been there. He would
be angry with her if she failed, but she felt somehow that he would be
sorry for her as well. Perhaps he might even make excuses for her, for
he was the only person who knew about the episode of the previous
night, and her injured hand. Sometimes she had loved the swaying crowd
of human beings for whose amusement she risked her life and limbs. Now
she hated the eager watching faces. They only wanted to see her fall,
she told herself.
She ran blindly across the open space.
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