Eleanore looked at her, the frail girl, in amazement. Then she came round and took Lenore’s hand, and said: “Thou sayest well; ’tis very late, Lenore, and thou art also lightly clad. Come thou to thy bed, and let Alixe to hers. Come, my girl.”
Lenore made no resistance, and went with madame toward the stairs; Alixe stared after them as if they had both been mad, for she had never known a blow that stuns the brain. Lenore suffered herself to be led quietly up the stairs, and, reaching her own room, which was dark save for the light that came through from madame’s open door, she dropped off her wide bliault, and lay down, shivering slightly, in the cold bed. She was numb and drowsy. Madame, bending over her, watched and saw the eyelids slowly close over her great blue eyes, till they were fast shut; and the young Lenore slept—slept as sweetly as a babe.
Of the night, however, that madame spent, who dares to speak in unexpressive words? What the slow-passing, dark-robed hours brought her, who shall say? Her last loss broke her spirit; and she felt that underneath the heavy, all-powerful hand of the Creator-Destroyer, none might stand upright and hope to live. Gerault had suffered, as now he gave, great sorrow. Eleanore had never felt herself close to his heart, as she had once been close to the heart of that daughter whom she had sacrificed to an unwilling God. But now, in the knowledge of his death, the memory of Gerault’s coldness and of his elected solitude went from her, and she recalled only the justice, the strength, the self-reliance of him. Gradually her memory drew her back through his manhood, through his youth and his boyhood, to the time of his infancy, when the little, helpless, dark-eyed babe had come to bless the loneliness of her own young life. And with this memory, at last, came tears,—those divine tears that can wash the direst grief free of its bitterness.
As the dawn showed in the east, and rose triumphant over the dying storm, madame crept to her bed, and laid her weary body on the kindly resting-place, and slept.
At half-past six the sun lifted above the eastern hills, and looked forth from a clear, green sky, over a land freshly washed, glittering with dew, and new-colored with brighter green and gold and red for the glorification of the September day. The sea, bringing great breakers in from the pathless west, was spread with a carpet of high-rolling gold, designed to cover all the new-stolen treasures gathered by night and stored within its treacherous, malignant depths. But the world poured fragrant incense to the sun, and the sun showered gold on the sea, and in this sacrificial worship Nature expiated her dire passion of the night.
It was fair daylight when Lenore opened her eyes and sat up in her bed to greet the morning. She was glad indeed to escape from the fetters of sleep, for her dreams had been feverish things. In them she had wandered abroad over the gray battlements, and through the grim chambers of dimly lighted Crépuscule, and had seen and heard terrible things. Lenore smiled to herself at the thought that all were past. And then, creeping over her, came the black shadow of reality, of memory. There was the storm—her sleeplessness—Alixe—the story of the lost Lenore—were these dreams? And then—finally—God!—the coming of Courtoise—and—
With a sharp cry Lenore sprang from the bed, flung her purple mantle upon her, and ran wildly through the adjoining room into that of madame. Eleanore, roused from her light sleep by that cry, had risen and met her daughter near the door. Lenore needed but one glance into madame’s colorless face. Then she knew that she had not dreamed in the past night. Her horrible visions were true.
Physical refreshment brought her a terrible power: the power of suffering. There could not now be any numb acceptance of facts. Eleanore herself was shocked at the change that a few seconds wrought in the young face. Yet still Lenore shed no tears, made no exhibition of her grief. Quietly, with the stillness of death about her movements, she returned to her room and began to dress herself. Before she had finished her toilet, Alixe crept in, white-faced and red-eyed, to ask if there were any service she might do. Lenore tremulously bade her wait till her hair was bound; and then she said: “Let Courtoise be brought in to me, here.”
“Wilt thou not first eat—but a morsel of bread—nay, a sup of wine?” pleaded Alixe.
Lenore looked at her. “How should I eat or drink? Let Courtoise be brought to me.”