He went straight to his wife's bed and dropped on his knees beside it.
Not for his life could he have spoken then. Inarticulate things were in
his mind, remorse and the loneliness of the last months, and the shame
of the girl Joan.

He caught her hand to him and covered it with kisses.

"I have tried to live without you," he said, "and death itself were
better."

When she did not reply, but lay back, white to the lips, he rose and
looked down at her.

"I can see," he said, "that my touch is bitterness. I have merited
nothing better. So I shall go again, but this time, if it will comfort
you, I shall give you the child Clotilde--not that I love her the less,
but that you deserve her the more."

Then she opened her eyes, and what he saw there brought him back to his
knees with a cry.

"I want only your love, my lord, to make me happy," she said. "And now,
see how the birthday of our Lord has brought us peace." She drew down
the covering a trifle, close to his bent head, and showed the warm curve
of her arm. "Unto us also is born a son, Charles."

"I have wanted a son," said Charles the Fair, "but more than a son have
I wanted you, heart of my heart."