The door was open, for madame was not at prayer. She stood at the open window, looking out upon the sea. Alixe could not see her face, but from the line of her shoulders she read much of her lady’s heart.
“Madame,” she said, in a half-whisper.
Eleanore turned quickly. “Alixe!”
“Madame Eleanore—mother—”
A terrible sob broke from the older woman’s throat, and suddenly she fell upon her knees beside a wooden settle, and, burying her face in her hands, finally gave way to her desolation. Alixe, who had opened her heart, now comforted her as best she could, soothing her, caressing her, whispering to her in a magnetic, gentle voice, till madame’s grief had been nearly washed away. Then the young girl said, softly, in her ear:
“Think, madame! ’tis now but eleven days till thou mayest ride out to Laure at the priory. And there thou canst talk with her alone, and for as long as thou wilt. Also, when her novitiate is at an end, she may come here to thee, once in a fortnight, for so the Mother-prioress hath said.”
Eleanore held Alixe’s hand close to her breast, and while she stroked it, a little convulsively, she said, with returning self-control: “I thank thee—I thank thee—Alixe, for thy good comfort.” Then, in a different tone, she added, with a little sigh: “Eleven days—eleven ages—how many others have I still to spend—alone?”
CHAPTER TWO
THE SILENCE OF YOUTH