“My God,” she cried, “have pity upon me!”
The Seigneur Yves sought out his mother.
“Mother of mine,” said he, “where is my wife?”
“She sleeps in her high chamber,” replied his mother. “Go to her and console her, for she is sadly in need of comfort.”
The Seigneur entered. “Do you sleep?” he asked Azénor.
She turned in her bed and looked fixedly at him. “Good morrow to you, widower,” she said.
“By the saints,” cried he, “what mean you? Why do you call me widower?”
“Seigneur,” she said meaningly, “it is true that you are not a widower yet, but soon you will be.”
Then, her mind wandering, she continued: “Here is my wedding gown; give it, I pray you, to my little servant, who has been so good to me and who carried my letters to the Clerk of Mezléan. Here is a new cloak which my mother broidered; give it to the priests who will sing Masses for my soul. For yourself you may take my crown and chaplet. Keep them well, I pray, as a souvenir of our wedding.”
Who is that who arrives at the hamlet as the clocks are striking the hour? Is it the Clerk of Mezléan? Too late! Azénor is dead.