Alixe, having set the room as much to rights as was possible, seated herself by one of the open windows, and straightway began to dream. Her thoughts were of her own life, of the new life that she should now soon enter upon, and of what would befall her when she should really reach the vast world that lay behind the barrier of eastern hills,—that world that Laure had found, but could not stay in; that world from which Lenore had come, and whither Gerault had betaken himself to die. Alixe mused for a long time, and, in her untaught way, philosophized over the sad stories of those in the Castle, and the prospect of a real history that there might be for her when she should leave Le Crépuscule; and it was in the midst of this reverie that the door from Laure’s room opened softly, and madame came in. Near the threshold she paused, looking intently at the sleeping mother and child, so that she did not at first perceive Alixe, who sat motionless, transfixed by the change which, since yesterday, had come upon madame. If there were gloom throughout the Castle, because of a disappointment in the sex of Lenore’s child, that gloom was epitomized in the face of Madame Eleanore. She was paler and older than Alixe had ever seen her before. The white in her hair was more marked than the dark. Every line in her face had deepened. Her eyes, tearless as they were, seemed somehow faded, and her manner bespoke an unutterable weariness. She looked haggard and old and worn. And yet, as she gazed at the unconscious picture of youth and tender love, the joy of the world, and the life of her race asleep there before her, her face softened, and her mouth lost a little of its hardness. After some moments of this gazing, seeing that still she had not moved, Alixe went to her. “Laure was weary, madame, and so I took her place while Lenore and the baby slept,” she said. Eleanore nodded, and Alixe wondered uneasily if she should leave the room. After a second or two, however, madame shook away her preoccupation and turned to the girl. “Alixe,” she said, “none hath as yet been despatched for Monseigneur de St. Nazaire; and I will not have Anselm baptize the child. Go thou and tell Courtoise to ride and fetch the Bishop as soon as may be, to perform one last ceremony for this house. Give him my good greeting. Tell him Lenore is well—and the babe—a girl. Mon Dieu! a girl!—Haste thee, Alixe. And thou needst not return. I will sit here while Lenore sleeps.” Alixe bowed, but still stood hesitating, near the door, till madame looked up at her impatiently. “When I have given Courtoise his message, let me bring thee food and wine, madame. Thou’lt be ill, an thou eat not.”