“Never and never, Mademoiselle. We are your slaves.”
She knotted her shoe-laces with frantic fingers, snatched up the brown tam from the table, and raced down the corridor between the swaying tapestries like a small wild thing. But half way down she halted abruptly. Behind one of the great doors someone was singing, gay and ringing and reckless, a gallant thing, that set her heart flying.
“Monsieur Charette à dit a ces Messieurs
Monsieur Charette à dit——”
Philippe le Gai was singing the old Vendée marching song that he had translated for her the day before.
For a moment she wavered and then, thrusting her hands deep in her pockets, she took a long breath. “Morning, Monsieur Philippe!” she challenged clearly.
The song broke off, and Fair could see him, for all the closed doors—could see his shining black head and the dark young face with its recklessly friendly smile, and its curiously unfriendly eyes, gray and quiet. She could see—— The blithe voice rang out again.
“And a most good morning to Mistress Fairy Carter! Where is she going, with those quick feet?”
“She’s going to play croquo-golf with Laure and Diane and the De Chartreuils. It’s such a heavenly beautiful day. You—you aren’t coming?”
“But never of this life!” laughed the voice. “How old you think we in here are, hein? Seven? Eight? We have twenty-nine years and thirty-nine gray hairs—we don’t play with foolish children. Only fairies can do that! You be careful of the ball going by old Daudin’s farm, see; there’s a sacred traitor of a ditch just over the hill—hit him hard and good, that ball, and maybe you clear it. Maybe you don’t, too! It is one animal of a ditch!” The light, strong laughter swept through the door, and Fair swayed to it as though it were a hand that pulled her. Then she turned away with a brave lift to her head.
“Thanks a lot—I’ll be careful. See you this afternoon, then.”