“Name of Heaven! Is there something of importance in this house of shadows?”
“There is Madame Lenore,” she said soberly.
“Lenore! Ah, ’tis of her thou wouldst speak,” he cried, his whole face lighting.
Suddenly Alixe broke into a rippling mockery of laughter. “There, Courtoise, thou art betrayed! Nay, I will be still about it, for I also love her. Now, to be cruel, my talk is not to be of her, but of myself, even me,—Alixe No-name. Thou, Courtoise, art in something the same position in Le Crépuscule as I, save that thou hast a binding tie of interest here. Then canst thou not offer me a moment’s thought, a moment’s sympathy? For, in very truth, I need them both.”
With Alixe’s first words, Courtoise had flushed an angry scarlet; but with her last, his ordinary color came back to him, and he looked at her in friendly fashion as he answered: “What time and thought I have are thine, Alixe. But thou must show me thy need of sympathy.”
“Why, let it be just for dwelling in Le Crépuscule. And—if thou wouldst have more—for holding no certain place here. There was a time, after Laure had gone away, and when the Seigneur was in Rennes, that I was really wanted. I brought comfort to madame, and I know she loved me well. And also, since Madame Lenore was widowed, I have been sometimes a companion to her. But now there are two daughters here. Madame’s life is full with them; and my place in Le Crépuscule is only one of tolerance. Therefore—lend thine ear closely, Courtoise—I would go away, I, Alixe No-name, out into the world, to see if there be not a fortune hidden for me beyond the eastern hills. I would go to Rennes, or even farther, to try what city life might be; yet I would not have the trouble of explanation and protests and insistence, and finally of farewell, with the dwellers here. Rather, I would just steal away, some night, nor return again hither evermore. What say you, Courtoise? Think you that that wish is all ingratitude?”
It was some moments before Courtoise replied. His face was a little turned from Alixe, but she could see that his brow was knit in thought. At length he answered her: “Nay, Alixe, thy wish is not ingratitude. Rather, indeed, I have sometimes thought that Madame Eleanore showed something of ingratitude toward thee; for thou wast a daughter to her in her sorrow; and since the return of mademoiselle, I have seen thee many a time set aside.
“If thou wouldst fare forth into the world—well, Alixe, the world is a wide place, and many dangers lurk therein. Yet thou art stout of heart, and strong enow in body, and methinks there are few like thee that would of choice dwell in such a place as this. I myself, were it only not for— Ah, well, if thou wouldst go forth and make thy way at once to Rennes, depart not now in the winter season. Thou’dst freeze on thy way. Wait till the spring is upon us, and the woods are light at night. And then—”
“Then thou’lt help me? Wilt thou, Courtoise? Wilt thou tell madame when I am gone wherefore it was I went? Wilt thou give her messages of faithful love? Wilt—”
“Wait, wait! Ask no more than that,” he said, smiling thoughtfully. “When the days are warmer and the spring is in the leaf, when the blood flows fast through the veins, and the head burns with new life—” he drew a sudden, quick breath, and Alixe, looking upon him with new interest, said quickly and softly: