“You! What do you want?” she shrieked.
“Allons, levez-vous,” said one of them, and his voice had a sharp abruptness that suggested that he would put up with no nonsense.
“I’m afraid you must get up, Madame Lazzari,” said Ashenden. “I am delivering you once more to the care of these gentlemen.”
“How can I get up! I’m ill, I tell you. I cannot stand. Do you want to kill me?”
“If you won’t dress yourself, we shall have to dress you, and I’m afraid we shouldn’t do it very cleverly. Come, come, it’s no good making a scene.”
“Where are you going to take me?”
“They’re going to take you back to England.”
One of the detectives took hold of her arm.
“Don’t touch me, don’t come near me,” she screamed furiously.
“Let her be,” said Ashenden. “I’m sure she’ll see the necessity of making as little trouble as possible.”
“I’ll dress myself.”
Ashenden watched her as she took off her dressing-gown and slipped a dress over her head. She forced her feet into shoes obviously too small for her. She arranged her hair. Every now and then she gave the detectives a hurried, sullen glance. Ashenden wondered if she would have the nerve to go through with it. R. would call him a damned fool, but he almost wished she would. She went up to the dressing-table and Ashenden stood up in order to let her sit down. She greased her face quickly and then rubbed off the grease with a dirty towel, she powdered herself and made up her eyes. But her hand shook. The three men watched her in silence. She rubbed the rouge on her cheeks and painted her mouth. Then she crammed a hat down on her head. Ashenden made a gesture to the first detective and he took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and advanced towards her.
At the sight of them she started back violently and flung her arms wide.
“Non, non, non. Je ne veux pas. No, not them. No. No.”
“Come, ma fille, don’t be silly,” said the detective roughly.
As though for protection (very much to his surprise) she flung her arms round Ashenden.
“Don’t let them take me, have mercy on me, I can’t, I can’t.”
Ashenden extricated himself as best he could.
“I can do nothing more for you.”
The detective seized her wrists and was about to affix the handcuffs when with a great cry she threw herself down on the floor.
“I will do what you wish. I will do everything.”
On a sign from Ashenden the detectives left the room. He waited for a little till she had regained a certain calm. She was lying on the floor, sobbing passionately. He raised her to her feet and made her sit down.
“What do you want me to do?” she gasped.
“I want you to write another letter to Chandra.”
“My head is in a whirl. I could not put two phrases together. You must give me time.”
But Ashenden felt that it was better to get her to write a letter while she was under the effect of her terror. He did not want to give her time to collect herself.
“I will dictate the letter to you. All you have to do is to write exactly what I tell you.”
She gave a deep sigh, but took the pen and the paper and sat down before them at the dressing-table.
“If I do this and … and you succeed, how do I know that I shall be allowed to go free?”
“The Colonel promised that you should. You must take my word for it that I shall carry out his instructions.”
“I should look a fool if I betrayed my friend and then went to prison for ten years.”
“I’ll tell you your best guarantee of our good faith. Except by reason of Chandra you are not of the smallest importance to us. Why should we put ourselves to the bother and expense of keeping you in prison when you can do us no harm?”
She reflected for an instant. She was composed now. It was as though, having exhausted her emotion, she had become on a sudden a sensible and practical woman.
“Tell me what you want me to write.”
Ashenden hesitated. He thought he could put the letter more or less in the way she would naturally have put it, but he had to give it consideration. It must be neither fluent nor literary. He knew that in moments of emotion people are inclined to be melodramatic and stilted. In a book or on the stage this always rings false and the author has to make his people speak more simply and with less emphasis than in fact they do. It was a serious moment, but Ashenden felt that there were in it elements of the comic.
“I didn’t know I loved a coward,” he started. “If you loved me you couldn’t hesitate when I ask you to come. … Underline couldn’t twice.” He went on. “When I promise you there is no danger. If you don’t love me, you are right not to come. Don’t come. Go back to Berlin where you are in safety. I am sick of it. I am alone here. I have made myself ill by waiting for you and every day I have said he is coming. If you loved me you would not hesitate so much. It is quite clear to me that you do not love me. I am sick and tired of you. I have no money. This hotel is impossible. There is nothing for me to stay for. I can get an engagement in Paris. I have a friend there who has made me serious propositions. I have wasted long enough over you and look what I have got from it. It is finished. Goodbye. You will never find a woman who will love you as I have loved you. I cannot afford to refuse the proposition of my friend, so I have telegraphed to him and as soon as I shall receive his answer I
