He went on reading.
“‘My guest,’ made answer the fair Nausicaa, ‘for I call thee so since thou seemest not base nor foolish, it is Zeus himself that giveth weal to men—‘”
Jeanne was no longer listening. She was thinking. Of what? Of several things, perhaps, but certainly of how to beat a retreat. I guessed it by the movement of her sunshade, which was nervously tracing figures in the turf. I signalled to Lampron. We retired backward. Yet it was in vain; the charm was broken, the peace had been disturbed.
She gave two coughs—musical little coughs, produced at will.
M. Charnot broke off his reading.
“You are cold, Jeanne?”
“Why, no, father.”
“Yes, yes, you’re cold. Why did you not say so before? Lord, Lord, these children! Always the same—think of nothing!”
He rose without delay, put his book in his pocket, buttoned up his coat, and, leaning on his stick, glanced up a moment at the tree-tops. Then, side by side, they disappeared down the path, Jeanne stepping briskly, upright and supple, between the young branches which soon concealed her.
Still Lampron continued to watch the turning in the path down which she had vanished.