She sighed. “I’m afraid I am, Meester—Meester Teddy.” She barricaded her lips with her hand. “No more. Do be good. I’ve got to be wise for both of us. I suppose you think I was jealous? I wasn’t.”
As the train drew near Arles, she made him release her. His heart was beating fast. Producing a pocket-mirror, she inspected herself. For the moment she seemed entirely forgetful of him. Then, “Tell me about this old Les Baux place,” she commanded.
The engine halted. He helped her out. “It’s a surprise. You’ll see for yourself.”
On making inquiries, they found that the drive was so long that they would have to start at once to arrive by evening. To save time, they took their lunch with them—grapes, wine and cakes. When the town was left behind, they commenced to picnic in the carriage. They had only one bottle, from which they had to drink in turns. She played a game of feeding him, slipping grapes into his mouth. They had to keep a sharp eye on the cocher, who was very particular that they should miss none of the landmarks. When he turned to attract their attention, pointing with his whip, they straightened their faces and became very proper. After he had twice caught them, Desire said, “He’ll think we’re married now, so we may as well deceive him.”
Teddy was allowed to place an arm about her, while she held the parasol over them.
“If we were really married, d’you think you’d let me smoke a cigarette?”
He lit one and, having drawn a few puffs, edged it between her lips.
“You are good to me,” she murmured; “you save me so much trouble.”
The fierce sun of Provence blazed down on them. A haze hung over the country, making everything tremble. Cicalas chirped more drowsily. The white straight road looked molten. Plane-trees, stretching on in an endless line, seemed to crouch beneath their shadows. The air was full of the fragrance of wild lavender. Farmhouses which they passed were silent and shuttered. No life moved between the osier partitions of their gardens. Even birds were in hiding. Only lizards were awake and darted like a flash across rocks which would have scorched the hand. Beneath a wild fig-tree a mule-driver slumbered, his face buried in his arms and his bare feet thrust outward. It was a land enchanted.
Desire grew silent. Her head drooped nearer to his shoulder. Beads of moisture began to glisten on her throat and forehead. Once or twice she opened her eyes, smiling dreamily up at him; then her breath came softly and she slept.