Far away, at the end of the long alley, she could see the players coming back; she could hear them, too, laughing and calling to each other—Bravo was barking frenziedly, heedless of Diane’s small, peremptory shouts—there, he was off, with Raoul and Diane in pursuit, headed straight for the distant stables. She clung to the stone railing for a moment, limp and sick, and then she flung back her head, spurred her flagging feet, and set off down the arching lime trees, running. Running because she was desperately tired and desperately frightened; because it was toward battle that she ran, and she must get there swiftly. Laure hailed from the far end.
“Ah, small deserter, you come to surrender? Come quick, then, and do penance.”
“I’ve not come to do penance,” said the deserter. She stood very straight with her hands clasped tightly behind her. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” echoed Laure. “Here, André, take this mallet, this ball. What folly is this, Fair?”
“It’s not folly; the folly’s been in staying. I’ve learned quite a lot of things in the last few minutes, Laure. Monsieur de Lautrec has some papers that he wants to show you.”
“Papers? Well, but what is all this mystery? Come, now, Fair, you are not well, I know. The doctor he said you should not be excited.”
“I am not in the least excited,” replied Fair, her eyes two glittering danger signals. “Are you in this plot, too, Monsieur André?”
“Plot? No, decidedly, this is fever! Let me feel your hands, mon enfant——”
“Don’t touch me, please,” said Fair, clearly and distinctly.
“Did I say fever? But it is delirium! I am not to touch you?”