Alixe let her poetry go, and jumped hastily up. “I will seek him. An he be about the Castle, he will surely come.”
Lenore smiled with pleasure. “Thank thee, maiden. Let him come now, at once.”
Alixe, hugging Courtoise’s secret to her heart, hurriedly left the room, and ran downstairs, straight upon Courtoise, who stood in the hall below. He was booted and spurred, and his horse waited for him in the doorway. Making a hasty apology to Alixe, he was going on, when she cried to him: “Courtoise, stay! Madame Lenore seeks thy presence. She would have thee go to her and talk with her for an hour this afternoon. Shall I tell her thou’rt ridden hawking?”
“Holy Mary! Say that—say that I come instantly. She hath asked for me? Hurry, Alixe! Say that I come at once!”
Courtoise retreated to his room, trembling like a girl. He had forgotten his horse, which Alixe considerately caused to be taken back to the stable, and while he removed his spurs and fussily rearranged his dress and hair, he tried in vain to recover his equanimity. Then, when he could no longer torture himself with delay, he hurried away to the door of her room and there paused again, remembering how many times since her illness he had stood there, both by night and by day, listening, not always vainly, for the sound of her voice, or for the little wailing cry of the hungry babe. And now—now he was to enter that sacred room, holier to him than any consecrated church of God. Now he was to look at her, to touch her hand, to feast his eyes upon her exquisite face. He drew a long breath and was about to tap on the door, when it suddenly opened, and Alixe, finding herself face to face with him, gave a little exclamation,—
“Holy saints! I was just coming to seek thee again. Hadst forgotten that madame waits for thee? There—go in!”
Courtoise never noticed the mischief of Alixe’s tone, but went straight into the room, and saw Lenore sitting by the window with the baby on her lap. She turned toward him, smiling, and holding out her hand. He went over, looking at her thirstily, but not so that she could read what was in his heart. Then he realized vaguely that Alixe had left the room, and that he was alone with Lenore.
“’Tis very long, Courtoise, very long, since we have seen each other. Why hast thou not come ere now?”
“Madame! Had I but thought thou’dst have had me! Thrice every day during thy illness came I to thy door to ask after thee and the babe; and since then—often—I have stood and listened, to hear if thou wast speaking here within. But I did not know—”
“Enough, Courtoise! I thank thee. Thou’rt very good. Thou knowest thou’rt all that I have left of Gerault, and I would fain have thee oftener near me. Wilt take the babe? Little one! She feels the strength of a man’s arms but seldom. Sit there yonder with her. So!”