The Castle of Twilight

by Margaret Horton Potter

In the course of time, however, the last jack was emptied, the last song sung, the last questionable story told. Monseigneur de St. Nazaire rose and repeated the ending grace, and then the whole drowsy, witless company followed him into the glowing chapel, where a short mass was performed. Lenore and Gerault knelt side by side to the right of the altar, with Eleanore a little behind them, where she could watch the bright candle-rays vie with the radiance of Lenore’s golden hair, and see where the silvery bridal robe overlapped a little the edge of the gray surcoat of Le Crépuscule, that swept the floor beside it. The mother-eyes were all for the girlish form of the new daughter; and her heart went out again to Gerault, who had brought this fairy creature to Le Crépuscule, in place of her who had been so terribly mourned.

Lenore listened to the repetition of the mass with a reverent air, but without much thinking of the familiar form. Her mind was busy with thoughts of these new surroundings and the faces of the new vassals and companions. Gerault, her beloved, was at her side; the great silver crucifix that hung over the altar gave her a sense of comfort and protection, and she found a restful pleasure in the tones of the Bishop’s voice. The bright candle-light that shone into her eyes produced in her a semi-hypnotic state, and she seemed to have knelt there at the altar but three or four minutes when the words of the benediction fell upon her ears, and presently the whole company was trooping out into the great hall, whence all signs of the feast had been removed.

In the same dreamlike way, Lenore went with her husband and madame upstairs, to the room that had been prepared for her and Gerault. Here her two demoiselles were already unpacking the coffer which had come from Rennes with them. And here she removed her travel-stained garments, bathed the dust from her face and arms, was combed and perfumed like the great lady she had become, and lay down to rest for a little time in the twilight, with new ministers to her comfort all about her. Later, as it grew dark, she dressed again and descended to the great hall, where further merriment was in progress.

The demoiselles and squires of the Castle were now holding high revel, and their games caused the old stone walls to echo with laughter and shrieks of delight. In one corner of the room madame and the Bishop sat together over a game of chess. Gerault was near them, where he could watch the battle; but his eyes were often to be seen following the light figure of Lenore through the mazes of the dances and games in which she so eagerly joined. The sports in which these maidens and young men grown indulged, were commonly played by older folk throughout France, and have descended almost intact to the children of a more advanced and less light-hearted age. Lenore entered into the play with a pleasure too unconscious not to be genuine. She laughed and sang and chattered, and put herself at home with every one. She was soon the leading spirit of the company, as she had been wont to be in her own home. The games were innumerable: Pantouffle, Pince-Mérille, Bric, Qui Féry, Le Roi qui ne Ment pas, and a dozen others. And were there a forfeit to be paid in the shape of a kiss, she instantly deserted Courtoise and David, who, enraptured with her youth and gayety, kept close on either side of her, and delivered it with shy delight to Gerault, who scarcely appeared to appreciate the gifts he got.

In the course of time a “Ribbon Dance” was ordered, and madame and monseigneur actually left their game to lead it, drawing Gerault with them into the sport. Obediently he gave one hand to Lenore, the other to Alixe, and went through the dance with apathetic grace, bringing by his half unconscious manner the first chill upon Lenore’s happy evening. This was, however, the end of the amusement; and when the flushed and panting company finally halted, Gerault at once drew his wife to madame’s side, himself saluted his mother, and then followed Lenore up the torchlit stairs. In ten minutes the whole company had dispersed, and Eleanore remained alone in the great hall.

When she had extinguished all the lights below, madame passed up the stairs, putting out the smoking torches as she went, and, reaching the upper hall, went immediately to her own bedroom. Here she slipped off the heavy mantle and the modified “cote-hardi.” Then, clad only in a long, light, damask tunic, she went over to one of the wide-open west windows, and, leaning across its sill, looked out upon the vasty, murmurous, summer sea. Low on the horizon, among a group of faint clustering stars, swung the crescent moon, which was reflected in the smooth surface of a distant wave. A great, fresh, salt breath came up like a tonic through the wilted air. The voice of the sea was infinitely soothing. Eleanore listened to it eagerly, her lips parted, her eyes wandering along that distant wave-line; her thoughts almost as far away. Presently the door of her room opened, softly; and some one paused upon the threshold. Instinctively she knew who it was that entered. Half turning, she said gently,—

“Thou’rt come here, Gerault?”

Her son came forward slowly, halted a few steps away, and held out one hand to her. She went to him and took it, wondering a little at his manner, but not questioning him. Quietly she drew the young man to the window where she had been; and both stood there and looked out upon the scene. They were silent for a long time. It was intensely difficult for Gerault to speak; and madame knew not how to help him. At length, in a voice that sounded slightly strained, he asked: “Thou’rt pleased with her? Thou’rt satisfied, my mother?”

“Oh, Gerault! Gerault! She is so fair, so delicate, so like some faery child! I almost fear to see her beauty fade in the shadow of these gray walls.”

“And will she—Lenore—help thee, in a way, to forget thy grief in Laure?”