“Meseemeth that, since the day of Gerault’s death, a part of me hath been asleep. Save when, on the night of his home-coming, I lay beside his body and touched again his hair and his eyes—”
“Holy God! Thou couldst lie beside the dead!”
“Ah, was it not Gerault come home to me—seeming as if he slept? Since that time, and the night that followed it, I say, I have not wept for him. Mine eyes are dry. There is sometimes a fire in them; but the tears never come. And my heart ofttimes burns, and yet I do not very bitterly grieve. I know not why, but my sorrow hath not been all that I should have made it. I have been soothed with shadows. I have found great comfort in yon rolling sea. And then there is also the child,—Gerault’s son,—the Lord of Crépuscule.”
“Yes, the child! Oh, I know how thou lovest him—I know!”
“Methinks, Lenore, I understand the mother-love. How should I have praised God had he deemed me also worthy of it! But I was not. I know well ’twas a vain desire. But, oh, to hold in mine arms a little one, a babe, and to know it for mine own! Wouldst not deliver up thy soul for that, Lenore?”
Lenore looked at her with a vague little smile. “Perhaps; I do not know. My babe must carry on his father’s name, and so I love him. Yea, I will bear any suffering so that he come into the world; for Gerault said to me long since that such must be my duty and my great joy. He spake somewhat as you do. Yet I know not that eagerness thou speakest of.”
Laure examined the ethereal figure lying before her with new curiosity; and under the gaze of the calm, deep-hued eyes her own were kindled with a brighter gleam. “Hast thou not loved, Lenore?” she asked. “Knowest thou nothing of the joy of living, the two in one, united by divine fire? Dost thou not worship God for the reason that there is now in thee a double soul? Wake! Wake from thy dream-life! Suffer! For out of suffering, great joy will come upon thee!”
As she met Laure’s look, a new light burned in Lenore’s eyes, and the other saw her quiver under those words. Finally, freeing her gaze, she said very softly: “I would not wake. How, indeed, should I live, if I roused myself? Life and love and the world are hidden away behind the far hills of Rennes. Here I must dwell forever in the twilight. So let me dream! Ah, Laure, thou too, thou too wilt come to it. The fever may burn within thee still, but time will cool it. Tell me, Laure,” she added, smitten with a sudden curiosity that was foreign to her usual self, “tell me, Laure, how didst thou find courage to run out from thy dreams in the priory into life with Flammecœur, the trouvère?”