"That's no way to talk." She kissed him. "Sit on the bench, there," she said, quietly. "Maybe you shouldn't be walking around. I'll change the bandage soon." "We can skip that.... Let's leave it." "Who'll change the bandage at Petaca?" "Manuel." "Not Angelina?" "She doesn't like blood." "Stay with me a while longer." "I can't, Lucienne. Who knows what my father may do? With me away, he may press every advantage." "You must turn Pedro over to the rurales." "I know," he said. "Don't wait." "I've waited too long already," he said. "But Pedro's not hanging around Petaca, waiting to be turned over to the rurales. They'll have to get him." A banging started beyond the hedge, where the gardener had resumed his clipping. Raul glanced in the direction of the noise. "They're trying to mend a damaged spring in the victoria," she explained. "I want them to do something to it, to make it better, for your trip tomorrow. It will be a hard-enough trip for you, I'm afraid." She sat by him, smiling. "As long as it doesn't fall apart," he said. She played with his fingers. Through his open shirt, his gold cross dangled on his chest, reminding her she had once shared his faith, when they were youngsters, before her belief had been destroyed in Europe. It seemed to her everyone she had met abroad had been either agnostic or atheist. Viewing Mexico from across the sea, the country's peasant credulity had gradually become absurd. Within a few years, she had ridiculed its faith. "Raul, I'll miss you." "You have your friends." "No friends are like you." "Ride to Petaca with me, Chula." "I can't.... I must see the families of the dead. There are many things to look after. I wonder what happened at Petaca?" "We're buried in duties," he said too loudly. "Is your shoulder better than yesterday?" "Yes.... Yes." The worker banged at the damaged spring. "I wish we could meet soon in Colima," she said. "Will Angelina be going away ... perhaps?" "To Guadalajara?" "Yes." "Since Caterina's death, she doesn't seem to want to go away," he said. "I've suggested it.... No, she refused." "How long has she known about us, do you suppose? Do we know how difficult we've made her life?" He didn't know, but he knew he should never have married Angelina, that he had been carried away by her prettiness, by fancy, by passion, lopsided but nonetheless real, nonetheless foolish, passion for her city manners, her frailty.... Really, how long had Angelina known? Lucienne felt they had been considerate, as she thought about it, but she wasn't sure. It struck her, with brief but keen poignancy, that Angelina had never been married to Raul. What about her charming, corrupt friend, little Estelle, her secrets?