When Laure, her message given, started back upstairs again, Alixe was at her side. At Lenore’s door they both stopped, till madame opened it. Laure entered the room at once, but Eleanore shook her head at the maiden, and bade her seek her rest. Then Alixe, disappointed, but too weary for speech, followed the chattering demoiselles down the corridor where were all their rooms, and, saying not a word to one of them, shut herself into her own chamber. Once there, she disrobed with speed, but when she had crept into her bed and pulled the coverings up above her, she found that sleep was an impossibility. There was a dull weight at her heart, which for the moment she could not analyze. It was as if some great misfortune had befallen her. Yet Lenore lived—was remarkably well. And the child—ah, the child! It was the first, almost, that Alixe had thought of the child. A girl, another girl, in Le Crépuscule! a thing of inaction, of resignation, of quiescence; the sport of Fate; the jest of the age! Alas, alas! A girl! To grow up alone, here in this wilderness, companionless, without hope of escape! Thus, dully, inarticulately, every one in Le Crépuscule was meditating with Alixe, till at last, one by one, they fell asleep, each in his late bed.
The morning was far spent, and an April sun streamed brightly across her coverlet, when Alixe finally awoke. Her sleep had done her good, and there was no trace of melancholy in her air as she rose and made herself ready for the day. She was healthfully hungry, but there was another interest, greater than hunger, that had caused her so speedily to dress. Hurrying out and down the hall, she stopped at the door to Lenore’s room, and tapped there softly.
Laure opened it at once, and smiled a good-morning to her. “Come thou in,” she whispered. “Lenore would have thee see the child.”
Alixe entered softly, and halted near the bed, transfixed by the sight of Lenore. Never, even in the early days of her bridal, had Gerault’s lady been so beautiful. The mysterious spell of her holy estate was on her, was clearly visible in her brilliant eyes, in the rosy flush of her cheeks, in the coiling, burning gold of her wondrous hair, in the smiling, gentle languor of her manner. There was something newly born in her, some still ecstasy, that had come to her together with the tiny bundle at her side.
“Come thou, Alixe, and look at her,” she said, in a weak voice, smiling happily, and casting tender love-looks at the little thing.
Alixe went over, and, with Laure’s aid, unwrapped enough of the small creature for her to see its tiny, red face and feeble, fluttering hands. As she gently touched one of the cheeks, the wide, blue, baby eyes stared up at her, unwinking in their new wonder at the world; while Lenore watched them, eagerly, hungrily. Neither she nor Alixe noticed that Laure had moved off to a distance, and was staring dully out of a window. When Alixe had stood for some moments over the baby, wondering in her heart what to say to Lenore, the mother looked up at her with those newly unfathomable eyes, and said softly,—
“Put her into my arms, Alixe.”
Alixe did so, laying the infant carefully across the mother’s breast. Lenore’s arms closed around it, and her eyes fell shut while a smile of unutterable peace lighted up her gentle face.