And Antoine Riczi found no power of speech within him at the first. Silent he stood before her, still as an effigy, while meltingly the jongleur sang.
“Jehane!” said Antoine Riczi, in a while, “have you, then, forgotten, O Jehane?”
The resplendent woman had not moved at all. It was as though she were some tinted and lavishly adorned statue of barbaric heathenry, and he her postulant; and her large eyes appeared to judge an immeasurable path, beyond him. Now her lips fluttered somewhat. “I am the Duchess of Brittany,” she said, in the phantom of a voice. “I am the Countess of Rougemont. The Lady of Nantes and of Guerrand! of Rais and of Toufon and Guerche!... Jehane is dead.”
The man had drawn one audible breath. “You are that Jehane, whose only title is the Constant Lover!”
“Friend, the world smirches us,” she said half-pleadingly, “I have tasted too deep of wealth and power. I am drunk with a deadly wine, and ever I thirst—I thirst—”
“Jehane, do you remember that May morning in Pampeluna when first I kissed you, and about us sang many birds? Then as now you wore a gown of green, Jehane.”
“Friend, I have swayed kingdoms since.”
“Jehane, do you remember that August twilight in Pampeluna when last I kissed you? Then as now you wore a gown of green, Jehane.”
“But I wore no such chain as this about my neck,” the woman answered, and lifted a huge golden collar garnished with emeralds and sapphires and with many pearls. “Friend, the chain is heavy, yet I lack the will to cast it off. I lack the will, Antoine.” And now with a sudden shout of mirth her courtiers applauded the evolutions of the saltatrice.
“King’s daughter!” said Riczi then; “O perilous merchandise! a god came to me and a sword had pierced his breast. He touched the gold hilt of it and said, ‘Take back your weapon.’ I answered, ‘I do not know you.’ ‘I am Youth’ he said; ‘take back your weapon.’”