In a moment Cupid was back, less frozen yet trembling: "She am' dah. Seem' like 'tis her leave de do' opem."
"Her clothes--they are gone?"
"No'm, all dah 'cep' de cloak she tuck on de machine. Reckon she out in de honey-sucker bower whah dey sot together Sunday evenin'. Reckon Marie Madeleine gone dah. I'll go see."
"Ah, fearlezz boy, yes! Make quick!"
This time both women pushed, single file, all the way to the garden door. There they strained their sight down the path, beyond him, but the bower was quite dark. "Corinne, chére, ought not one of us to go, yo'seff?--to spare her feelings--from that li'l' negro? You don' think one of us ought to go, yo'seff?"
"No, to sen' him, that is to spare those feel'--listen! . . . Ah, Yvonne, grâce au ciel, she's there!"
They frankly wept. "Thangg the good God!"
"Yvonne, chère, you know, we are the cause of this. 'Tis biccause juz'--you and me. And she's gone yonder juz' for one thing; to be as far from her misérie as she can."
"Yes, chère, I billieve that. I think even, she muz' not see us when she's riturning." No footfall sounded, but the cat came in, tail up, purring. Back in their chamber, with wet cheeks on its unlatched door, the sisters listened.
"I know what we muz' do, Yvonne, as soon as to-morrow. Tha'z strange I never saw that biffo'!"