She sat alone, by prearrangement, to one end of the high-ceiled and
radiant apartment; midway in the hall her lords and divers ladies were
gathered about a saltatrice and a jongleur, who were diverting the
courtiers, to the mincing accompaniment of a lute; but Jehane sat
apart from these, frail, and splendid with many jewels, and a little
sad.
And Antoine Riczi found no power of speech within him at the first.
Silent he stood before her, still as an effigy, while meltingly the
jongleur sang.
"Jehane!" said Antoine Riczi, in a while, "have you, then, forgotten,
O Jehane?"
The resplendent woman had not moved at all. It was as though she were
some tinted and lavishly adorned statue of barbaric heathenry, and he
her postulant; and her large eyes appeared to judge an immeasurable
path, beyond him. Now her lips fluttered somewhat. "I am the Duchess
of Brittany," she said, in the phantom of a voice. "I am the Countess
of Rougemont. The Lady of Nantes and of Guerrand! of Rais and of
Toufon and Guerche!... Jehane is dead."
The man had drawn one audible breath.
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