MICH. She’s dying?
(She has gained the door, just enters, leaning back against the post. MICHAEL’S back is towards her.)
AUDR. I’m afraid I am.
(MICHAEL looks at her, utters a wild cry of joy, then looks at her more closely, realizes she is dying, goes to her, kisses her, bursts into sobs.)
AUDR. (putting her hand on his head). Don’t cry. I’m past crying for. Help me there. (Points to seat.)
(He seats her; looks at her with great anxiety.)
AUDR. (laughing, a little weak feeble laugh, and speaking feebly with pause between each word). Don’t pull—that—long—face. You’ll—make me—laugh—if you—do. And I want to be—serious now.
MICH. But you’re dying!
AUDR. (with a sigh). Yes. Can’t help it. Sir Lyolf, pay—coachman—(taking out purse feebly) outside—No, perhaps—better—wait—or bring another sort—of—carriage. But no mutes—no feathers—no mummery.
SIR LYOLF. I’ll send him away. You’ll stay with us now?