Under his passionate words Arithelli sat like a being
entranced, unseeing, unhearing. The inscrutable eyes set in the rigid
face gave her the likeness to some carven thing.
"Fatalite! Fatalite!"
The sound of his voice came to her as from a distance. She roused
herself, and tried to smile. "_Mon ami_, I'm a little tired to-night,
a little nervous; I was thinking about the letters! I shall feel so
much safer when they're burnt."
"I'll go at once--just one moment. Arithelli, you do believe that I
love you, and that I want nothing? See, I'll not even touch your hand
if it doesn't please you."
The soft hand was laid gently on his. "But if it _does_ please me,
_mon camarade_--"
"_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 liberte.
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