“Then come thou, also, Courtoise, out into the wide world! Let us together go forth to seek our fortunes. Thou’lt find me not too weak a comrade, I promise.”
Courtoise’s smile vanished, and he shook his head, a look of sadness stealing into his eyes: “Think you, Alixe, that after the death of my well-loved lord I should have stayed in this Castle to grow gray and mouldy ere my time, had it not held for me a trust so sacred that I could not give it up?”
“Lenore,” murmured Alixe, gently.
“Thou knowest it. Since the first day that she came home with the Seigneur, I knew that here she would sadly need a friend; and indeed she hath been my very saint. I have worshipped her more as an angel than as a woman, in her purity; and my heart hath all but broken for the great sadness of her life here. And if by remaining I can serve her in any way, in thought or in deed; if it giveth her comfort to have me in the Castle, I would sooner cut off my hand than leave her here alone. I feel also that my lord knoweth that I am faithful to the trust he left with me; and I would not forfeit his dead thanks. Therefore, Alixe, ask me not to return into the world with thee or with another.”
While he spoke, Alixe had watched him fixedly, and had seen no suspicion either in tone or in face of a deeper feeling for Lenore than he had confessed. Now she sighed quietly, and said in a gentle voice: “Courtoise, I think thou shouldst not mourn that thou’rt to dwell here; for thou hast thy trust, and thou hast some one to serve, always. Therefore fear nothing, and give thanks to God; for with Lenore in thy world—”
“Alas, alas, Alixe, there is that fear in me! Should Lenore be lost—should Lenore die—ah!”
Low as was his voice, the agony in it was unmistakable; and now Alixe was sure of all his secret: that he also loved Lenore as man sometimes loves woman,—purely. And she could find no words to say to him when the usually self-contained and tranquil man laid his head down on the table before him and did not try to hide his grief.
It was at this inopportune moment that Laure, tired of prayers, and still consumed by her restless fever, rushed in upon the two in the long room. Her old-time wild gayety was upon her, and she did not pause before the position of Courtoise, who, however, quickly straightened up. Laure scarcely saw it. She knew only that here were the companions of her youth, and as she entered she cried out to them,—
“Alixe! Courtoise! Up and out with me! Burn ye not? Stifle ye not in this dim hole? Courtoise, is our old sailing-boat still in its mooring? Let us fare forth, all three, and set out upon the wintry sea! Let us feel this January wind pull and strain at the ropes! Let us watch the foamy waves pile up before and behind us—”
“Mon Dieu!”