"I am here," I said, joining her.
Then, speaking in a lower tone now, she said, "He is close behind—behind a bosquet in the alley. He is watching us, I know. Kiss my hand—do something lover-like—call me by some lover's name of endearment. And speak in French; he knows no English."
"Kiss my hand—do something lover-like."
"A la fin! ma mie," I said, falling in with her cue at once, and going on in the tongue she bade me speak. "I thought you would never come;" after which, remembering her injunction, I stooped and kissed her hand, holding it to my lips for some seconds, while all the time the great jewels on her fingers sparkled in the moonlight.
"Farewell," she said, "I may not stay. To-night—to-night," and now she spoke loudly again, clearly, so that none within fifty paces of us could fail to hear her words—"to-night at two o'clock come to supper with me at my house. I await you. Till then, adieu. And come to the side-door, that opening on to the Rue des Fleurs. Till then, adieu."
"Do you mean it?" I whispered now, wondering if this was play-acting too. "Do you mean it, Damaris?"
"Ay, I mean it. We must play the comedy out. But," and now she spoke in English, and her voice sunk to its deepest whisper, "forget not your rapier. You may need it."
"I shall not forget." Then, while again she had given me her hand, which, at this moment, she was making great pretence of withdrawing from my grasp, I whispered, also in English, "But this has got to be paid for, Damaris; and the reward I shall demand will be enormous."
But she only laughed, showing her little white teeth, and went swiftly back up the alley she had come down, turning once and saying in a fairly clear voice, "Remember."