“Hast thou not loved Laure and cared for her throughout thy life because she was thy child, flesh of thy flesh, blood of thy blood, conceived of great love, and born of suffering?”
“Yea, verily.”
“And, despite her months of grievous wandering from thy sight, still hath she not given thee all the joy that Gerault gave?”
“More, methinks; in that she hath ever been more mine own.”
“Then, Eleanore,” and there was joy in the man’s tone, “take this child of thy son to thy heart and love her. Let her young innocence bring thee peace. Hold her close to thy life, and give and receive comfort through thy love. Seek not woe because she is not what she cannot be. Assume not a knowledge greater than that of God. Trouble not thyself about the future; but, rather, take what is given thee, and know that it is good. Shall not a young voice cause these walls to echo again to the sound of laughter? Will not a child bring light into thy life? Why shouldst thou grieve because, in the years after thy death, Le Crépuscule may fall into other hands than those of thy race? Thinkest thou thou wilt be here to see it? For shame, Eleanore! Forget thy bitterness, and find the joy that Gerault’s widow already knows!”
Though she would not have acknowledged it, Eleanore was influenced by the Bishop’s words; and the change in her was already visible in her face. Judging wisely, then, St. Nazaire let his plea rest where it was, and blessing her, said good-night and left her to sleep or to pray—he could not tell which. And in truth Eleanore slept; but in her sleep, love and pity entered into her heart. She woke in the early dawn, and, hardly thinking what she did, stole into Lenore’s room, creeping softly to the bed where the sleeping mother and infant lay. At sight of them a wave of feeling overswept her. She knew again the crowning joy of woman’s life: she felt again the glory of youth; and when she returned to her solitude, it was to weep away the greater part of her bitterness, and to take into her inmost heart the helpless baby of Gerault.
On the following morning, in the presence of an imposing company, the Lord Bishop officiating, the little girl was baptized. Laure and Courtoise were the godparents; Laure feeling that, in being trusted with this holy office, she stood once more honorably in the eyes of the world. According to her mother’s wish, the babe was christened Lenore, and Alixe guessed wrong when she thought the little one called after another of that name. When the ceremony was over, and the baptismal feast lay ready spread, madame took the child into her arms to carry it back to the mother; and St. Nazaire, seeing the kiss that she pressed upon the tiny cheek, realized that the cause was won.
Madame Eleanore’s lead was quickly followed by every one in the Castle; and the disappointment at the baby’s sex wore away so rapidly that in a month probably no one would have admitted that there had ever been any chagrin at all. Perhaps no royal heir had ever known more abject homage than was paid to that wee, bright-eyed, grave-faced, helpless creature, who was perfectly contented only when she lay in her mother’s arms.
Lenore regained her strength slowly. Her long winter of idleness and grieving had ill-fitted her to bear the strain of what she had endured; and it was many weeks before she tried to leave her room. Thus, bit by bit, the whole life of the Castle came to gravitate around her chamber. It was like a court of which the young mother was queen, and where at certain hours of the day, all the women-folk of Crépuscule were wont to congregate. It was on an afternoon in the middle of May, when summer first hovered over the land, that Lenore was dressed for the first time. She sat in a semi-reclining position by the window, whence she could look off upon the sea, the baby at her side, and Alixe the only other person in the room. For nearly an hour Lenore had been silent, one hand gently caressing the baby’s little cheek, her big eyes wandering along the far horizon line. Alixe was bent over a parchment manuscript, which Anselm had taught her how to read, and she scarcely raised her eyes from it to look at anything in the room. Her passage had become complicated, and, at the same time, interesting, when Lenore’s voice suddenly broke in upon her,—
“Alixe, ’tis long time now since I saw Courtoise. Thinkest thou he is near and would come and talk to me?”