The Castle of Twilight

by Margaret Horton Potter

With a final kiss he put her from him and saw her go; and then he threw himself over the wall, and set out on his return ride to the Castle by the sea.

Laure descended to prime next morning, trembling for fear of unknown possibilities. But no one in the church saw her muddy sandals; and her skirts and mantle were not more soiled round the bottom than was customary with those nuns that took their recreation in the garden. By the time the breaking of the fast occurred, she was reassured, and felt herself safe from the consequences of her night. Then, and only then, did she turn her mind to the choice that she must make during the ensuing sennight.

That week was one of terror by night and woe by day. Hourly she resolved to renounce forever all thoughts of the flesh, confess her sin, and remain true to the convent for life. For the first three days these renewals of faith made her strong and stronger. She wept and she prayed and she hoped for strength; and finally she began to believe that the Devil was beaten. And yet—and yet—she did not even now confess the story of her acquaintance with Flammecœur. She said to herself that she would win this last fight alone; but she did not seek to find if there was self-deception in that excuse. No one but the girl Eloise had any idea that there existed such a person as the trouvère; and Eloise was unaware that Sœur Angelique had ever seen that gallant gentleman save when she and Yvain were present. Moreover, the stupid one was becoming alarmed lest the sudden devotional fervor of Demoiselle Angelique should lead to the cessation of those meetings for which her vague soul so impiously thirsted. The rest of the sisters perceived Laure’s extra prayers and rigorous fasting with admiration and approval, and put them down to one of those sudden rushes of fervor to which young nuns were peculiarly subject.

After three days of this devotional effort, the Devil widened his little wedge of temptation, and roused in her an overpowering desire to see her lover again. By now she had lost her shame at the first hot kiss ever laid upon her lips, and—alas, poor humanity!—was longing secretly for more. So long, however, as Flammecœur was still in Le Crépuscule, she believed that she could endure everything. But she knew that after four days he would be there no more; and if she let her chance go, it was the last she should ever have. Then her mind strayed to the after-picture of her life here in the nunnery; and at the thought her heart grew numb and cold. Yet still she fought and prayed, trusting to no one her weight of temptation, keeping steadfastly to that self-deceptive determination to finish the battle alone.

The torturing week came slowly to an end. On the final night, after compline, she went to her cell feeling like a spirit condemned to eternal night. Once alone, face to face with her soul, she sat down upon a chair, bent her head upon her breast, and thought. She did not extinguish her light, neither did she make preparations for bed. Unconsciously she set herself to wait through the hour following compline, as if its finish would bring the end of her trial. The minutes were passing smoothly by, and there was a great, unuttered cry of terror in her heart. What should she do? Nay, at the last minute, what would she do? Here her mind broke. She could think no more. Her brain was a vacuum. Presently her muscles began to twitch. Her flesh became cold and damp, and the hot saliva poured into her mouth. Would that hour never end?

It ended. By now Flammecœur was in the garden, three hundred feet away. Flammecœur was waiting for her. Horses were there, and garments for her,—other garments than these of sickening white wool. How long would the trouvère wait? Till matins, he had said. But if that were not true? If he should go before—if he were going now!

Laure started to her feet, halted, hesitated, then sank slowly to her knees. The first words of a prayer came from her lips; but in the middle of the phrase she was silent. Prayer was suddenly nothing to her. She had prayed so much; she had prayed so long! The beauty of appeals to the Most High was lost just now. She felt all the weight of her never-satisfied religion upon her, and she revolted at it. For the moment love itself seemed desirable only in so much as it would get her away from this place of her hypocrisy. A sudden thought of her mother came to her. For one moment—two—five—she kept her mind fixed. Then she sobbed. Flammecœur was below, calling to her with every fibre of his being. She knew that. She could see him waiting there, her cloak over his arm. With a low wail she stretched out her arms to the mental image. Afterwards, scarcely knowing what she did, she knelt down before the bright-painted picture of the Madonna on the wall of her cell, and kissed the stones of the floor below it.

Then she stood up, pressing her hands tightly to her throat to ease the pain there. She looked around her, and in that look saw everything in the little stone room that had for so long been her home. Then, removing from her head the coif, wimple, and veil, the symbols of her virginity, she extinguished her lantern, and walked, blindly and wearily, out of her cell. So she passed, without making any noise, through the convent, into the library, and out—out—out into the garden beyond.

Instantly Flammecœur was at her side. “Laure!” cried he, half laughing in his triumph. “Laure! Now we shall go!”

Over his arm he carried a voluminous black mantle and a close, dark hood. These he put upon her, getting small assistance in the matter, for Laure’s movements were wooden, her hands like ice.