Matthiette came to a hut, from whose open window a faded golden glow spread out into obscurity like a tawdry fan. From without she peered into the hut and saw Raoul. A lamp flickered upon the table. His shadow twitched and wavered about the plastered walls,--a portentous mass of head upon a hemisphere of shoulders,--as Raoul bent over a chest, sorting the contents, singing softly to himself, while Matthiette leaned upon the sill without, and the gardens of Arnaye took form and stirred in the heart of a chill, steady, sapphire-like radiance.
Sang Raoul: "Lord, I have worshipped thee ever,-- Through all these years I have served thee, forsaking never Light Love that veers As a child between laughter and tears. Hast thou no more to afford,-- Naught save laughter and tears,-- Love, my lord?
"I have borne thy heaviest burden, Nor served thee amiss: Now thou hast given a guerdon; Lo, it was this-- A sigh, a shudder, a kiss. Hast thou no more to accord! I would have more than this, Love, my lord.
"I am wearied of love that is pastime And gifts that it brings; I entreat of thee, lord, at this last time "Inèffable things. Nay, have proud long-dead kings Stricken no subtler chord, Whereof the memory clings, Love, my lord?
"But for a little we live; Show me thine innermost hoard! Hast thou no more to give, Love, my lord?"
4. Raymond Psychopompos
Matthiette went to the hut's door: her hands fell irresolutely upon the rough surface of it and lay still for a moment. Then with the noise of a hoarse groan the door swung inward, and the light guttered in a swirl of keen morning air, casting convulsive shadows upon her lifted countenance, and was extinguished. She held out her arms in a gesture that was half maternal. "Raoul!" she murmured.
He turned. A sudden bird plunged through the twilight without, with a glad cry that pierced like a knife through the stillness which had fallen in the little room. Raoul de Frison faced her, with clenched hands, silent. For that instant she saw him transfigured.
But his silence frightened her. There came a piteous catch in her voice. "Fair friend, have you not bidden me--be happy?"
He sighed. "Mademoiselle," he said, dully, "I may not avail myself of your tenderness of heart; that you have come to comfort me in my sorrow is a deed at which, I think, God's holy Angels must rejoice: but I cannot avail myself of it."