Said Mélite, “Was this Lady Venus, then, exceedingly beautiful?”
Adhelmar swore an oath of sufficient magnitude that she was.
Whereupon Mélite, twisting her fingers idly and evincing a sudden interest in her own feet, demanded if this Venus were more beautiful than the Lady Ermengarde of Arnaye or the Lady Ysabeau of Brieuc.
“Holy Ouen!” scoffed Adhelmar; “these ladies, while well enough, I grant you, would seem to be callow howlets blinking about that Arabian Phoenix which Plinius tells of, in comparison with this Lady Venus that is dead!”
“But how,” asked Mélite, “was this lady fashioned that you commend so highly?—and how can you know of her beauty who have never seen her?”
Said Adhelmar: “I have read of her fairness in the chronicles of Messire Stace of Thebes, and of Dares, who was her husband’s bishop. And she was very comely, neither too little nor too big; she was fairer and whiter and more lovely than any flower of the lily or snow upon the branch, but her eyebrows had the mischance of meeting. She had wide-open, beautiful eyes, and her wit was quick and ready. She was graceful and of demure countenance. She was well-beloved, and could herself love well, but her heart was changeable—”
“Cousin Adhelmar,” declared Mélite, flushing somewhat, for the portrait was like enough, “I think that you tell of a woman, not of a goddess of heathenry.”
“Her eyes,” said Adhelmar, and his voice shook, and his hands, lifting a little, trembled—“her eyes were large and very bright and of a color like that of the June sunlight falling upon deep waters. Her hair was of a curious gold color like the Fleece that the knight Jason sought, and it curled marvellously about her temples. For mouth she had but a small red wound; and her throat was a tower builded of ivory.”
But now, still staring at her feet and glowing with the even complexion of a rose, (though not ill-pleased), the Demoiselle Mélite bade him desist and make her a song. Moreover, she added, beauty was but a fleeting thing, and she considered it of little importance; and then she laughed again.
Adhelmar took up the lute that lay beside them and fingered it for a moment, as though wondering of what he would rhyme. Afterward he sang for her as they sat in the gardens.
Sang Adhelmar:
“It is in vain I mirror forth the praise
In pondered virelais
Of her that is the lady of my love;
Far-sought and curious phrases fail to tell
The tender miracle
Of her white body and the grace thereof.“Thus many and many an artful-artless strain
Is fashioned all in vain:
Sound proves unsound; and even her name, that is
To me more glorious than the glow of fire
Or dawn or love’s desire
Or opals interlinked with turquoises,
Mocks utterance.“So, lacking skill to praise
That perfect bodily beauty which is hers,
Even as those worshippers
Who bore rude offerings of honey and maize,
Their all, into the gold-paved ministers
Of Aphrodite, I have given her these
My faltering melodies,
That are Love’s lean and ragged messengers.”
When he had ended, Adhelmar cast aside the lute, and caught up both of Mélite’s hands, and strained them to his lips. There needed no wizard to read the message in his eyes.
Mélite sat silent for a moment. Presently, “Ah, cousin, cousin!” she sighed, “I cannot love you as you would have me love. God alone knows why, true heart, for I revere you as a strong man and a proven knight and a faithful lover; but I do not love you. There are many women who would love you, Adhelmar, for the world praises you, and you have done brave deeds and made good songs and have served your King potently; and yet”—she drew her hands away and laughed a little wearily—“yet I, poor maid, must needs love Hugues, who has done nothing. This love is a strange, unreasoning thing, my cousin.”
“But do you in truth love Hugues?” asked Adhelmar, in a harsh voice.
“Yes,” said Mélite, very softly, and afterward flushed and wondered dimly if she had spoken the truth. Then, somehow, her arms clasped about Adhelmar’s neck, and she kissed him, from pure pity, as she told herself; for Mélite’s heart was tender, and she could not endure the anguish in his face.
This was all very well. But Hugues d’Arques, coming suddenly out of a pleached walk, at this juncture, stumbled upon them and found their postures distasteful. He bent black brows upon the two.
“Adhelmar,” said he, at length, “this world is a small place.”
Adhelmar rose. “Indeed,” he assented, with a wried smile, “I think there is scarce room in it for both of us, Hugues.”
“That was my meaning,” said the Sieur d’Arques.
“Only,” Adhelmar pursued, somewhat wistfully, “my sword just now, Hugues, is vowed to my King’s quarrel. There are some of us who hope to save France yet, if our blood may avail. In a year, God willing, I shall come again to Puysange; and till then you must wait.”
Hugues conceded that, perforce, he must wait, since a vow was sacred; and Adhelmar, who suspected Hugues’ natural appetite for battle to be lamentably squeamish, grinned. After that, in a sick rage, Adhelmar struck Hugues in the face, and turned about.
The Sieur d’Arques rubbed his cheek ruefully. Then he and Mélite stood silent for a moment, and heard Adhelmar in the courtyard calling his men to ride forth; and Mélite laughed; and Hugues scowled.
II
Nicolas as Chorus
The year passed, and Adhelmar did not return; and there was much
