“Come; the blow’s forgiven; you did not think. The wine-cup, Bertrand.”
He brought it her, a man whose conscience was crying within his heart.
“Drink some of the wine, child.”
But the girl only broke into bitter weeping and hid her face in the coverlet of the bed. Tiphaïne stood looking at her, her lips quivering, her eyes compassionate.
She turned to Bertrand, and gave the cup back into his hands.
“She is better alone, perhaps. Take one of the torches and light me to the chapel.”
Bertrand obeyed her without a word. The whole scene had been a revelation to him, as though the last glimpse of Arletta crouching by the bed had been a vision betraying his own shame. Carrying the torch, he went before Tiphaïne into the chapel, feeling himself guilty of the blow that had been aimed by Arletta at her heart.
Bertrand set the torch in one of the iron brackets on the wall. Tiphaïne went to kneel at her prie-dieu, her chin upon her hands, her face lifted towards the altar. She knelt there awhile, silent, motionless, while Bertrand watched her, wondering what her woman’s mind would weave out of the tangle.
She spoke at last.
“How long has the child been with you?”