Chapter IX


Felicien was at her feet. Until now he had kept his place in the
remote corner of the balcony. But in the intense happiness she gave
him in thus unfolding the innermost secrets of her soul he had drawn
himself on his knees towards her, as he approached the window. This
great, illimitable joy was so unlooked for, that he yielded to it in
all the infinitude of its hopes of the future.

He half whispered:

"Ah, dear soul, pure, kind, and beautiful, your wonderful goodness has
cured me as with a breath! I know not now if I have ever suffered.
And, in your turn, you will now have to pardon me, for I have an
acknowledgment to make to you. I must tell you who I am."

He was troubled at the thought he could no longer disguise himself or
his position, since she had confided so freely and entirely in him. It
would be disloyal in the highest degree to do so. Yet he hesitated,
lest he might, after all, lose her, were she to be anxious about the
future when at last she knew the facts.

And she waited for him to speak again, a little malicious in spite of
herself.

In a very low voice he continued:

"I have told a falsehood to your parents."

"Yes, I know it," she said as she smiled.

"No, you do not know it; you could not possibly know it, for all that
happened too long ago. I only paint on glass for my own pleasure, and
as a simple amusement; you really ought to be told of that."

Then, with a quick movement, she put her hand on his mouth, as if she
wished to prevent this explanation.

"I do not care to hear any more. I have been expecting you. I knew
that sooner or later you would come, and you have done so. That is
all-sufficient."

They talked no longer for a while. That little hand over his lips
seemed almost too great a happiness for him.

"When the right time comes, then I shall know all. Yet I assure you
that I am ignorant of nothing connected with you, for everything had
been revealed to me before our first meeting. You were to be, and can
be, only the handsomest, the richest, and the most noble of men, the
one above all others; for that has ever been my dream, and in the sure
certainty of its full accomplishment I wait calmly. You are the chosen
hero who it was ordained should come, and I am yours."

A second time she interrupted herself in the tremor of the words she
pronounced. She did not appear to say them by herself alone; they came
to her as if sent by the beautiful night from the great white heavens,
from the old trees, and the aged stones sleeping outside and dreaming
aloud the fancies of the young girl. From behind her voices also
whispered them to her, the voices of her friends in the "Golden
Legend," with whom she had peopled the air and the space around her.
In this atmosphere she had ever lived--mysticism, in which she
revelled until it seemed fact on one side, and the daily work of life
on the other. Nothing seemed strange to her.

Now but one word remained to be said--that which would express all the
long waiting, the slow creation of affection, the constantly
increasing fever of restlessness. It escaped from her lips like a cry
from a distance, from the white flight of a bird mounting upward in
the light of the early dawn, in the pure whiteness of the chamber
behind her.

"I love you."

Angelique, her two hands spread out, bent forward towards Felicien.
And he recalled to himself the evening when she ran barefooted through
the grass, making so adorable a picture that he pursued her in order
to stammer in her ear these same words: "I love you." He knew that now
she was simply replying to him with the same cry of affection, the
eternal cry, which at last came from her freely-opened heart.

"Yes, I love you. I am yours. Lead the way, and I will follow you
wherever it may be."

In this surrender of her soul she gave herself to him fully and
entirely. It was the hereditary flame relighted within her--the pride
and the passion she thought had been conquered, but which awoke at the
wish of her beloved. He trembled before this innocence, so ardent and
so ingenuous. He took her hands gently, and crossed them upon her
breast. For a moment he looked at her, radiant with the intense
happiness her confession had given him, unwilling to wound her
delicacy in the slightest degree, and not thinking of yielding to the
temptation of even kissing her hair.

"You love me, and you know that I love you! Ah! what bliss there is in
such knowledge."

But they were suddenly drawn from their ecstatic state by a change
about them. What did it all mean? They realised that now they were
looking at each other under a great white light. It seemed to them as
if the brightness of the moon had been increased, and was as
resplendent as that of the sun. It was in reality the daybreak, a
slight shade of which already tinged with purple the tops of the elm-
trees in the neighbouring gardens. What? It could not be possible that
the dawn had come? They were astonished by it, for they did not
realise so long a time had passed since they began to talk together on
the balcony. She had as yet told him nothing, and he had so many
things he wished to say!

"Oh, stay one minute more, only one minute!" he exclaimed.

The daylight advanced still faster--the smiling morning, already warm,
of what was to be a hot day in summer. One by one the stars were
extinguished, and with them fled the wandering visions, and all the
host of invisible friends seemed to mount upward and to glide away on
the moon's rays.

Now, in the full, clear light, the room behind them had only its
ordinary whiteness of walls and ceiling, and seemed quite empty with
its old-fashioned furniture of dark oak. The velvet hangings were no
longer there, and the bedstead had resumed its original shape, as it
stood half hidden by the falling of one of its curtains.

"Do stay! Let me be near you only one minute more!"

Angelique, having risen, refused, and begged Felicien to leave
immediately. Since the day had come, she had grown confused and
anxious. The reality was now here. At her right hand, she seemed to
hear a delicate movement of wings, whilst her hair was gently blown,
although there was not the slightest breath of wind. Was it not Saint
Agnes, who, having remained until the last, was now forced to leave,
driven away by the sun?

"No, leave me, I beg of you. I am unwilling you should stay longer."

Then Felicien, obedient, withdrew.

To know that he was beloved was enough for him, and satisfied him.
Still, before leaving the balcony, he turned, and looked at her again
fixedly, as if he wished to carry away with him an indelible
remembrance of her. They both smiled at each other as they stood thus,
bathed with light, in this long caressing look.

At last he said:

"I love you."

And she gently replied:

"I love you."

That was all, and he had in a moment, with the agility of a bird, gone
down the woodwork of the corner of the building, while she, remaining
on the balcony, leaned on the balustrade and watched him, with her
tender, beautiful eyes. She had taken the bouquet of violets and
breathed the perfume to cool her feverishness. When, in crossing the
Clos-Marie, he lifted his head, he saw that she was kissing the
flowers.

Scarcely had Felicien disappeared behind the willows, when Angelique
was disturbed by hearing below the opening of the house-door. Four
o'clock had just struck, and no one was in the habit of getting up
until two hours later. Her surprise increased when she recognised
Hubertine, as it was always Hubert who went down the first. She saw
her follow slowly the walks of the narrow garden, her arms hanging
listlessly at her sides, as if, after a restless, sleepless night, a
feeling of suffocating, a need of breathing the fresh air, had made
her leave her room so early. And Hubertine was really very beautiful,
with her clothes so hastily put on; and she seemed very weary--happy,
but in the deepest grief.

The morning of the next day, on waking from a sound sleep of eight
hours, one of those sweet, deep, refreshing sleeps that come after
some great happiness, Angelique ran to her window. The sky was clear,
the air pure, and the fine weather had returned after a heavy shower
of the previous evening. Delighted, she called out joyously to Hubert,
who was just opening the blinds below her:

"Father! Father! Do look at the beautiful sunlight. Oh, how glad I am,
for the procession will be superb!"

Dressing herself as quickly as possible, she hurried to go downstairs.
It was on that day, July 28, that the Procession of the Miracle would
pass through the streets of the upper town. Every summer at this date
it was also a festival for the embroiderers; all work was put aside,
no needles were threaded, but the day was passed in ornamenting the
house, after a traditional arrangement that had been transmitted from
mother to daughter for four hundred years.

All the while that she was taking her coffee, Angelique talked of the
hangings.

"Mother, we must look at them at once, to see if they are in good
order."

"We have plenty of time before us, my dear," replied Hubertine, in her
quiet way. "We shall not put them up until afternoon."

The decorations in question consisted of three large panels of the
most admirable ancient embroidery, which the Huberts guarded with the
greatest care as a sacred family relic, and which they brought out
once a year on the occasion of the passing of this special procession.

The previous evening, according to a time-honoured custom, the Master
of the Ceremonies, the good Abbe Cornille, had gone from door to door
to notify the inhabitants of the route which would be taken by the
bearers of the statue of Saint Agnes, accompanied by Monseigneur the
Bishop, carrying the Holy Sacrament. For more than five centuries this
route had been the same. The departure was made from the portal of
Saint Agnes, then by the Rue des Orfevres to the Grand Rue, to the Rue
Basse, and after having gone through the whole of the lower town, it
returned by the Rue Magloire and the Place du Cloitre, to reappear
again at the great front entrance of the Church. And the dwellers on
all these streets, vying with each other in their zeal, decorated
their windows, hung upon their walls their richest possessions in
silks, satins, velvets, or tapestry, and strewed the pavements with
flowers, particularly with the leaves of roses and carnations.

Angelique was very impatient until permission had been given her to
take from the drawers, where they had been quietly resting for the
past twelve months, the three pieces of embroidery.

"They are in perfect order, mother. Nothing has happened to them," she
said, as she looked at them, enraptured.

She had with the greatest care removed the mass of silk paper that
protected them from the dust, and they now appeared in all their
beauty. The three were consecrated to Mary. The Blessed Virgin
receiving the visit of the Angel of the Annunciation; the Virgin
Mother at the foot of the Cross; and the Assumption of the Virgin.
They were made in the fifteenth century, of brightly coloured silks
wrought on a golden background, and were wonderfully well preserved.
The family had always refused to sell them, although very large sums
had been offered by different churches, and they were justly proud of
their possessions.

"Mother, dear, may I not hang them up to-day?"

All these preparations required a great deal of time. Hubert was
occupied the whole forenoon in cleaning the front of the old building.
He fastened a broom to the end of a long stick, that he might dust all
the wooden panels decorated with bricks, as far as the framework of
the roof; then with a sponge he washed all the sub-basement of stone,
and all the parts of the stairway tower that he could reach. When that
was finished, the three superb pieces of embroidery were put in their
places. Angelique attached them, by their rings, to venerable nails
that were in the walls; the Annunciation below the window at the left,
the Assumption below the window at the right, while for the Calvary,
the nails for that were above the great window of the first story, and
she was obliged to use a step-ladder that she might hang it there in
its turn. She had already embellished the window with flowers, so that
the ancient dwelling seemed to have gone back to the far-away time of
its youth, with its embroideries of gold and of silk glistening in the
beautiful sunshine of this festive day.

After the noon breakfast the activity increased in every direction,
and the whole Rue des Orfevres was now in excitement. To avoid the
great heat, the procession would not move until five o'clock, but
after twelve the town began to be decorated. Opposite the Huberts',
the silversmith dressed his shop with draperies of an exquisite light
blue, bordered with a silver fringe; while the wax-chandler, who was
next to him, made use of his window-curtains of red cotton, which
looked more brilliant than ever in the broad light of day. At each
house there were different colours; a prodigality of stuffs,
everything that people owned, even to rugs of all descriptions, were
blowing about in the weary air of this hot summer afternoon. The
street now seemed clothed, sparkling, and almost trembling with
gaiety, as if changed into a gallery of fete open to the sky. All its
inhabitants were rushing to and fro, pushing against each other;
speaking loud, as if in their own homes; some of them carrying their
arms full of objects, others climbing, driving nails, and calling
vociferously. In addition to all this was the _reposoir_, or altar,
that was being prepared at the corner of the Grand Rue, the
arrangements for which called for the services of all the women of the
neighbourhood, who eagerly offered their vases and candlesticks.

Angelique ran down to carry the two candelabra, of the style of the
Empire, which they had on the mantel-shelf of their parlour. She had
not taken a moment's rest since the early morning, but had shown no
signs of fatigue, being, on the contrary, supported and carried above
herself by her great inward happiness. And as she came back from her
errand, her hair blown all about her face by the wind, Hubert began to
tease her as she seated herself to strip off the leaves of the roses,
and to put them in a great basket.

"You could not do any more than you have done were it your wedding-
day, my dear. Is it, then, that you are really to be married now?"

"But yes! oh, yes! Why not?" she answered gaily.

Hubertine smiled in her turn.

"While waiting, my daughter, since the house is so satisfactorily
arranged, the best thing for us to do is to go upstairs and dress."

"In a minute, mother. Look at my full basket."

She had finished taking the leaves from the roses which she had
reserved to throw before Monseigneur. The petals rained from her
slender fingers; the basket was running over with its light, perfumed
contents. Then, as she disappeared on the narrow stairway of the
tower, she said, while laughing heartily:

"We will be quick. I will make myself beautiful as a star!"

The afternoon advanced. Now the feverish movement in Beaumont-l'Eglise
was calmed; a peculiar air of expectation seemed to fill the streets,
which were all ready, and where everyone spoke softly, in hushed,
whispering voices. The heat had diminished, as the sun's rays grew
oblique, and between the houses, so closely pressed the one against
the others, there fell from the pale sky only a warm, fine shadow of a
gentle, serene nature. The air of meditation was profound, as if the
old town had become simply a continuation of the Cathedral; the only
sound of carriages that could be heard came up from Beaumont-la-Ville,
the new town on the banks of the Ligneul, where many of the factories
were not closed, as the proprietors disdained taking part in this
ancient religious ceremony.

Soon after four o'clock the great bell of the northern tower, the one
whose swinging stirred the house of the Huberts, began to ring; and it
was at that very moment that Hubertine and Angelique reappeared. The
former had put on a dress of pale buff linen, trimmed with a simple
thread lace, but her figure was so slight and youthful in its delicate
roundness that she looked as if she were the sister of her adopted
daughter. Angelique wore her dress of white foulard, with its soft
ruchings at the neck and wrists, and nothing else; neither earrings
nor bracelets, only her bare wrists and throat, soft in their satiny
whiteness as they came out from the delicate material, light as the
opening of a flower. An invisible comb, put in place hastily, scarcely
held the curls of her golden hair, which was carelessly dressed. She
was artless and proud, of a most touching simplicity, and, indeed,
"beautiful as a star."

"Ah!" she said, "the bell! That is to show that Monseigneur has left
his palace."

The bell continued to sound loud and clear in the great purity of the
atmosphere. The Huberts installed themselves at the wide-opened window
of the first story, the mother and daughter being in front, with their
elbows resting on the bar of support, and the husband and father
standing behind them. These were their accustomed places; they could
not possibly have found better, as they would be the very first to see
the procession as it came from the farther end of the church, without
missing even a single candle of the marching-past.

"Where is my basket?" asked Angelique.

Hubert was obliged to take and pass to her the basket of rose-leaves,
which she held between her arms, pressed against her breast.

"Oh, that bell!" she at last murmured; "it seems as if it would lull
us to sleep!"

And still the waiting continued in the little vibrating house,
sonorous with the musical movement; the street and the great square
waited, subdued by this great trembling, whist the hangings on every
side blew about more quietly in the air of the coming evening. The
perfume of roses was very sweet.

Another half-hour passed. Then at the same moment the two halves of
the portal of Saint Agnes were opened, and they perceived the very
depths of the church, dark in reality, but dotted with little bright
spots from the tapers. First the bearer of the Cross appeared, a sub-
deacon in a tunic, accompanied by the acolytes, each one of whom held
a lighted candle in his hand. Behind them hurried along the Master of
the Ceremonies, the good Abbe Cornille, who after having assured
himself that everything was in perfect order in the street, stopped
under the porch, and assisted a moment at the passing out, in order to
be sure that the places assigned to each section had been rightly
taken. The various societies of laymen opened the march: the
charitable associations, schools, by rank of seniority, and numerous
public organisations. There were a great many children: little girls
all in white, like brides, and little bareheaded boys, with curly
hair, dressed in their best, like princes, already looking in every
direction to find where their mothers were. A splendid fellow, nine
years of age, walked by himself in the middle, clad like Saint John
the Baptist, with a sheepskin over his thin, bare shoulders. Four
little girls, covered with pink ribbons, bore a shield on which was a
sheaf of ripe wheat. Then there were young girls grouped around a
banner of the Blessed Virgin; ladies in black, who also had their
special banner of crimson silk, on which was embroidered a portrait of
Saint Joseph. There were other and still other banners, in velvet or
in satin, balanced at the end of gilded batons. The brotherhoods of
men were no less numerous; penitents of all colours, but especially
the grey penitents in dark linen suits, wearing cowls, and whose
emblems made a great sensation--a large cross, with a wheel, to which
were attached the instruments of the Passion.

Angelique exclaimed with tenderness when the children came by:

"Oh, the blessed darlings! Do look at them all!"

One, no higher than a boot, scarcely three years of age, proudly
tottered along on his little feet, and looked so comical that she
plunged her hands into her basket and literally covered him with
flowers. He quite disappeared under them for an instant; he had roses
in his hair and on his shoulders. The exquisite little laughing shout
he uttered was enjoyed on every side, and flowers rained down from all
the windows as the cherub passed. In the humming silence of the street
one could now only hear the deafened sound of the regular movement of
feet in the procession, while flowers by the handful still continued
to fall silently upon the pavement. Very soon there were heaps of
them.

But now, reassured upon the good order of the laymen, the Abbe
Cornille grew impatient and disturbed, inasmuch as the procession had
been stationary for nearly two minutes, and he walked quickly towards
the head of it, bowing and smiling at the Huberts as he passed.

"What has happened? What can prevent them from continuing?" said
Angelique, all feverish from excitement, as if she were waiting for
some expected happiness that was to come to her from the other end
that was still in the church.

Hubertine answered her gently, as usual:

"There is no reason why they should run."

"There is some obstruction evidently; perhaps it is a _reposoir_ that
is still unfinished," Hubert added.

The young girls of the Society of the Blessed Virgin, the "daughters
of Mary," as they are called, had already commenced singing a
canticle, and their clear voices rose in the air, pure as crystal.
Nearer and nearer the double ranks caught the movement and recommenced
their march.

  Chapter X

After the civilians, the clergy began to leave the church, the lower
orders coming first. All, in surplices, covered their heads with their
caps, under the porch; and each one held a large, lighted wax taper;
those at the right in their right hand, and those at the left in their
left hand, outside the rank, so there was a double row of flame,
almost deadened by the brightness of the day. First were
representatives from the great seminaries, the parishes, and then
collegiate churches; then came the beneficed clergymen and clerks of
the Cathedral, followed by the canons in white pluvials. In their
midst were the choristers, in capes of red silk, who chanted the
anthem in full voice, and to whom all the clergy replied in lower
notes. The hymn, "Pange Lingua," was grandly given. The street was now
filled with a rustling of muslin from the flying winged sleeves of the
surplices, which seemed pierced all over with tiny stars of pale gold
from the flames of the candles.

"Oh!" at last Angelique half sighed, "there is Saint Agnes!"

She smiled at the saint, borne by four clerks in white surplices, on a
platform of white velvet heavily ornamented with lace. Each year it
was like a new surprise to her, as she saw her guardian angel thus
brought out from the shadows where she had been growing old for
centuries, quite like another person under the brilliant sunshine, as
if she were timid and blushing in her robe of long, golden hair. She
was really so old, yet still very young, with her small hands, her
little slender feet, her delicate, girlish face, blackened by time.

But Monseigneur was to follow her. Already the swinging of the censers
could be heard coming from the depths of the church.

There was a slight murmuring of voices as Angelique repeated:

"Monseigneur, Monseigneur," and with her eyes still upon the saint who
was going by, she recalled to mind at this moment the old histories.
The noble Marquesses d'Hautecoeur delivering Beaumont from the plague,
thanks to the intervention of Agnes, then Jean V and all those of his
race coming to kneel before her image, to pay their devotions to the
saint, and she seemed to see them all, the lords of the miracle,
coming one by one like a line of princes.

A large space had been left empty. Then the chaplain charged with the
care of the crozier advanced, holding it erect, the curved part being
towards him. Afterward came two censer-bearers, who walked backwards
and swung the censers gently from side to side, each one having near
him an acolyte charged with the incense-box. There was a little
difficulty before they succeeded in passing by one of the divisions of
the door the great canopy of royal scarlet velvet, decorated with a
heavy fringe of gold. But the delay was short, order was quickly
re-established, and the designated officials took the supports in
hand. Underneath, between his deacons of honour, Monseigneur walked,
bareheaded, his shoulders covered with a white scarf, the two ends of
which enveloped his hands, which bore the Holy Sacrament as high as
possible, and without touching it.

Immediately the incense-bearers resumed their places, and the censers
sent out in haste, fell back again in unison with the little silvery
sound of their chains.

But Angelique started as she thought, where had she ever seen anyone
who looked like Monseigneur? She certainly knew his face before, but
had never been struck by it as to-day! All heads were bowed in solemn
devotion. But she was so uneasy, she simply bent down and looked at
him. He was tall, slight, and noble-looking; superb in his physical
strength, notwithstanding his sixty years. His eyes were piercing as
those of an eagle; his nose, a little prominent, only seemed to
increase the sovereign authority of his face, which was somewhat
softened by his white hair, that was thick and curly. She noticed the
pallor of his complexion, and it seemed to her as if he suddenly
flushed from some unknown reason. Perhaps, however, it was simply a
reflection from the great golden-rayed sun which he carried in his
covered hands, and which placed him in a radiance of mystic light.

Certainly, he to-day made her think of someone, but of whom? As soon
as he left the church, Monseigneur had commenced a psalm, which he
recited in a low voice, alternating the verses thereof with his
deacons. And Angelique trembled when she saw him turn his eyes towards
their window, for he seemed to her so severe, so haughty, and so cold,
as if he were condemning the vanity of all earthly affection. He
turned his face towards the three bands of ancient embroidery--Mary
and the Angel, Mary at the foot of the Cross, Mary being borne to
Heaven--and his face brightened. Then he lowered his eyes and fixed
them upon her, but she was so disturbed she could not tell whether his
glance was harsh or gentle; at all events it was only for a moment,
for quickly regarding the Holy Sacrament, his expression was lost in
the light which came from the great golden vessel. The censers still
swung back and forth with a measured rhythm, while a little blue cloud
mounted in the air.

But Angelique's heart now beat so rapidly she could scarcely keep
still. Behind the canopy she had just seen a chaplain, his fingers
covered with a scarf, who was carrying the mitre as devoutly as if it
were a sacred object, Saint Agnes flying heavenward with the two
angels, the work of her hands, and into each stitch of which she had
put such deep love. Then, among the laymen who followed, in the midst
of functionaries, of officers, of magistrates, she recognised Felicien
in the front rank, slight and graceful, with his curly hair, his
rather large but straight nose, and his black eyes, the expression of
which was at the same time proud and gentle. She expected him; she was
not at all surprised to find him transformed into a prince; her heart
simply was overflowing with joy. To the anxious look which he gave
her, as of imploring forgiveness for his falsehood, she replied by a
lovely smile.

"But look!" exclaimed Hubertine, astonished at what she saw, "is not
that the young man who came to our house about the mitre?"

She had also recognised him, and was much disturbed when, turning
towards the young girl, she saw the latter transfigured, in ecstacy,
avoiding a reply.

"Then he did not tell us the truth about himself? But why? Do you know
the reason? Tell me, my dear, do you know who this young man is?"

Yes, perhaps in reality she did know. An inner voice answered all
these questions. But she dared not speak; she was unwilling to ask
herself anything. At the right time and at the proper place the truth
would be made clear. She thought it was approaching, and felt an
increase of pride of spirit, and of great love.

"But what is it? What has happened?" asked Hubert, as he bent forward
and touched the shoulder of his wife.

He was never present at the moment of an occurrence, but always
appeared to come from a reverie to the realisation of what passed
about him. When the young man was pointed out to him, he did not
recognise him at all.

"Is it he? I think not. No, you must be mistaken; it is not he."

Then Hubertine acknowledged that she was not quite sure. At all
events, it was as well to talk no more about it, but she would inform
herself later on. But the procession, which had stopped again in order
that Monseigneur might incense the Holy Sacrament, which was placed
among the verdure of a temporary altar at the corner of the street,
was now about to move on again; and Angelique, whose hands seemed lost
in the basket on her lap, suddenly, in her delight and confusion, made
a quick movement, and carelessly threw out a great quantity of the
perfumed petals. At that instant Felicien approached. The leaves fell
like a little shower, and at last two of them fluttered, balanced
themselves, then quietly settled down on his hair.

It was over. The canopy had disappeared round the corner of the Grand
Rue, the end of the cortege went by, leaving the pavements deserted,
hushed as if quieted by a dreamy faith, in the rather strong
exhalation of crushed roses. Yet one could still hear in the distance,
growing weaker and weaker by degrees, the silvery sound of the little
chains of the swinging censers.

"Oh mother!" said Angelique, pleadingly, "do let us go into the
church, so as to see them all as they come back."

Hubertine's first impulse was to refuse. But she, for her own part,
was very anxious to ascertain what she could about Felicien, so she
replied:

"Yes, after a while, if you really wish to do so."

But they must, of course, wait a little. Angelique, after going to her
room for her hat, could not keep still. She returned every minute to
the great window, which was still wide open. She looked to the end of
the street inquiringly, then she lifted her eyes as if seeking
something in space itself; and so nervous was she that she spoke
aloud, as she mentally followed the procession step by step.

"Now they are going down the Rue Basse. Ah! see, they must be turning
on the square before the Sous Prefecture. There is no end to all the
long streets in Beaumont-la-Ville. What pleasure can they take in
seeing Saint Agnes, I would like to know. All these petty tradesmen!"

Above them, in the heavens, was a delicately rose-tinted cloud, with a
band of white and gold around it, and it seemed as if from it there
came a devotional peace and a hush of religious expectation. In the
immobility of the air one realised that all civil life was suspended,
as if God had left His house, and everyone was awaiting His return
before resuming their daily occupations. Opposite them the blue
draperies of the silversmith, and the red curtains of the wax-
chandler, still barred the interior of their shops and hid the
contents from view. The streets seemed empty; there was no
reverberation from one to the other, except that of the slow march of
the clergy, whose progress could easily be realised from every corner
of the town.

"Mother! mother! I assure you that now they are at the corner of the
Rue Magloire. They will soon come up the hill."

She was mistaken, for it was only half-past six, and the procession
never came back before a quarter-past seven. She should have known
well, had she not been over-impatient, that the canopy must be only at
the lower wharf of the Ligneul. But she was too excited to think.

"Oh! mother dear! _do_ hurry, or we may not find any places."

"Come, make haste then, little one," at last Hubertine said, smiling
in spite of herself. "We shall certainly be obliged to wait a great
while, but never mind."

"As for me, I will remain at home," said Hubert. "I can take down and
put away the embroidered panels, and then I will set the table for
dinner."

The church seemed empty to them, as the Blessed Sacrament was no
longer there. All the doors were wide open, like those of a house in
complete disorder, where one is awaiting the return of the master.
Very few persons came in; the great altar alone, a sarcophagus of
severe Romanesque style, glittered as if burning at the end of the
nave, covered as it was with stars from the flame of many candles; all
the rest of the enormous building--the aisles, the chapels, and the
arches--seemed filled with shadow under the coming-on of the evening
darkness.

Slowly, in order to gain a little patience, Angelique and Hubertine
walked round the edifice. Low down, it seemed as if crushed, thickset
columns supported the semicircular arches of the side-aisles. They
walked the whole length of the dark chapels, which were buried almost
as if they were crypts. Then, when they crossed over, before the great
entrance portal, under the triforium of the organ, they had a feeling
of deliverance as they raised their eyes towards the high, Gothic
windows of the nave, which shot up so gracefully above the heavy
Romanesque coursed work. But they continued by the southern side-
aisle, and the feeling of suffocation returned again. At the cross of
the transept four enormous pillars made the four corners, and rose to
a great height, then struck off to support the roof. There was still
to be found a delicate purple-tinted light, the farewell of the day,
through the rose windows of the side fronts. They had crossed the
three steps which led to the choir, then they turned by the
circumference of the apse, which was the very oldest part of the
building, and seemed most sepulchral. They stopped one moment and
leaned against the ancient grating, which entirely surrounded the
choir, and which was most elaborately wrought, that they might look at
the flaming altar, where each separate light was reflected in the old
polished oak of the stalls, most marvellous stalls, covered with rare
sculptures. So at last they came back to the point from which they
started, lifting up their heads as if they breathed more freely from
the heights of the nave, which the growing shades at night drove
farther away, and enlarged the old walls, on which were faint remains
of paintings and of gold.

"I know perfectly well that we are altogether too early," said
Hubertine.

Angelique, without replying, said, as if to herself:

"How grand it is!"

It really seemed to her as if she had never known the church before,
but that she had just seen it for the first time. Her eyes wandered
over the motionless sea of chairs, then went to the depth of the
chapels, where she could only imagine were tombs and old funereal
stones, on account of the increased darkness therein. But she saw at
last the Chapel Hautecoeur, where she recognised the window that had
been repaired, with its Saint George, that now looked vague as a
dream, in the dusk. She was unusually happy.

At last there was a gentle shaking through the whole building, and the
great clock struck. Then the bell began to ring.

"Ah! now," she said, "look, for they are really coming up the Rue
Magloire."

This time it was indeed so. A crowd invaded the church, the aisles
were soon filled, and one realised that each minute the procession
approached nearer and nearer. The noise increased with the pealing of
the bells, with a certain rushing movement of air by the great
entrance, the portal of which was wide open.

Angelique, leaning on Hubertine's shoulder, made herself as tall as
possible by standing upon the points of her feet, as she looked
towards this arched open space, the roundness of whose top was
perfectly defined in the pale twilight of the Place du Cloitre. The
first to appear was, of course, the bearer of the Cross, accompanied
by his two acolytes with their candelabra; and behind them the Master
of the Ceremonies hurried along--the good Abbe Cornille, who now
seemed quite out of breath and overcome by fatigue. At the threshold
of the door, the silhouette of each new arrival was thrown out for a
second, clear and strong, then passed quickly away in the darkness of
the interior. There were the laymen, the schools, the associations,
the fraternities, whose banners, like sails, wavered for an instant,
then suddenly vanished in the shade. One saw again the pale "daughters
of Mary," who, as they entered, still sang with their voices like
those of seraphim.

The Cathedral had room for all. The nave was slowly filled, the men
being at the right and the women at the left. But night had come. The
whole place outside was dotted with bright points, hundreds of moving
lights, and soon it was the turn for the clergy, the tapers that were
held outside the ranks making a double yellow cord as they passed
through the door. The tapers seemed endless as they succeeded each
other and multiplied themselves; the great seminary, the parishes, and
the Cathedral; the choristers still singing the anthem, and the canons
in their white pluvials. Then little by little the church became
lighted up, seemed inhabited, illuminated, overpowered by hundreds of
stars, like a summer sky.

Two chairs being unoccupied, Angelique stood upon one of them.

"Get down, my dear," whispered Hubertine, "for that is forbidden."

But she tranquilly remained there, and did not move.

"Why is it forbidden? I must see, at all events. Oh! how exquisite all
this is!"

At last she prevailed upon her mother to get upon the other chair.

Now the whole Cathedral was glowing with a reddish yellow light. This
billow of candles which crossed it illuminated the lower arches of the
side-aisles, the depth of the chapels, and glittered upon the glass of
some shrine or upon the gold of some tabernacle. The rays even
penetrated into the apse, and the sepulchral crypts were brightened up
by them. The choir was a mass of flame, with its altar on fire, its
glistening stalls, and its old railing, whose ornamentation stood out
boldly. And the flight of the nave was stronger marked than ever, with
the heavy curved pillars below, supporting the round arches, while
above, the numbers of little columns grew smaller and smaller as they
burst forth among the broken arches of the ogives, like an
inexpressible declaration of faith and love which seemed to come from
the lights. In the centre, under the roof, along the ribs of the nave,
there was a yellow cloud, a thick colour of wax, from the multitude of
little tapers.

But now, above the sound of feet and the moving of chairs, one heard
again the falling of the chains of the censers. Then the organ pealed
forth majestically, a glorious burst of music that filled to
overflowing the highest arches as if with the rumbling of thunder. It
was at this instant that Monseigneur arrived on the Place du Cloitre.
The statue of Saint Agnes had reached the apse, still borne by the
surpliced clerks, and her face looked very calm under the light, as if
she were more than happy to return to her dreams of four centuries. At
last, preceded by the crosier, and followed by the mitre, Monseigneur
entered with his deacons under the canopy, still having his two hands
covered with a white scarf, and holding the Blessed Sacrament in the
same position as at first. The canopy, which was borne down the
central aisle, was stopped at the railing of the choir, and there, on
account of a certain unavoidable confusion, the Bishop was for a
moment made to approach the persons who formed his suite. Since
Felicien had reappeared, Angelique had looked at him constantly. It so
happened that on account of the pressure he was placed a little at the
right of the canopy, and at that moment she saw very near together the
white head of Monseigneur and the blonde head of the young man. That
glance was a revelation; a sudden light came to her eyes; she joined
her hands together as she said aloud:

"Oh! Monseigneur, the son of Monseigneur!"

Her secret escaped her. It was an involuntary cry, the certainty which
revealed itself in this sudden fact of their resemblance. Perhaps, in
the depths of her mind, she already knew it, but she would never have
dared to have said so; whilst now it was self-evident, a fact of which
there could be no denial. From everything around her, from her own
soul, from inanimate objects, from past recollections, her cry seemed
repeated.

Hubertine, quite overcome, said in a whisper, "This young man is the
son of Monseigneur?"

Around these two the crowd had gradually accumulated. They were well
known and were greatly admired; the mother still adorable in her
simple toilette of linen, the daughter with the angelic grace of a
cherubim, in her gown of white foulard, as light as a feather. They
were so handsome and in such full view, as they stood upon their
chairs, that from every direction eyes were turned towards them, and
admiring glances given them.

"But yes, indeed, my good lady," said the _mere_ Lemballeuse, who
chanced to be in the group; "but yes, he is the son of Monseigneur.
But how does it happen that you have not already heard of it? And not
only that, but he is a wonderfully handsome young man, and so rich!
Rich! Yes indeed, he could buy the whole town if he wished to do so.
He has millions and millions!"

Hubertine turned very pale as she listened.

"You must have heard his history spoken of?" continued the beggar-
woman. "His mother died soon after his birth, and it was on that
account that Monseigneur concluded to become a clergyman. Now,
however, after all these years, he sent for his son to join him. He
is, in fact, Felicien VII d'Hautecoeur, with a title as if he were a
real prince."

Then Hubertine was intensely grieved. But Angelique beamed with joy
before the commencement of the realisation of her dream. She was not
in the slightest degree astonished, for she had always known that he
would be the richest, the noblest, and the handsomest of men. So her
joy was intense and perfect, without the slightest anxiety for the
future, or suspicion of any obstacle that could possibly come between
them. In short, he would in his turn now make himself known, and would
tell everything. As she had fancied, gold would stream down with the
little flickering flames of the candles. The organs would send forth
their most glorious music on the occasion of their betrothal. The line
of the Hautecoeurs would continue royally from the beginning of the
legend--Norbert I, Jean V, Felicien III, Jean XII, then the last,
Felicien VII, who just turned towards her his noble face. He was the
descendant of the cousins of the Virgin, the master, the superb son,
showing himself in all his beauty at the side of his father.

Just then Felicien smiled sweetly at her, and she did not see the
angry look of Monseigneur, who had remarked her standing on the chair,
above the crowd, blushing in her pride and love.

"Oh, my poor dear child!" sighed Hubertine.

But the chaplain and the acolytes were ranged on the right and the
left, and the first deacon having taken the Holy Sacrament from the
hands of Monseigneur, he placed it on the altar. It was the final
Benediction--the _Tantum ergo_ sung loudly by the choristers, the
incenses of the boxes burning in the censers, the strange, brusque
silence during the prayer--and in the midst of the lighted church,
overflowing with clergy and with people, under the high, springing
arches, Monseigneur remounted to the altar, took again in his two
hands the great golden sun, which he waved back and forth in the air
three times, with a slow sign of the Cross.

Chapter XI

That same evening, on returning from church, Angelique thought to
herself, "I shall see him again very soon, for he will certainly be in
the Clos-Marie, and I will go there to meet him."

Without having exchanged a word with each other, they appeared to have
silently arranged this interview. The family dined as usual in the
kitchen, but it was eight o'clock before they were seated at the
table. Hubert, quite excited by this day of recreation and of fete,
was the only one who had anything to say. Hubertine, unusually quiet,
scarcely replied to her husband, but kept her looks fixed upon the
young girl, who ate heartily and with a good appetite, although she
scarcely seemed to pay any attention to the food, or to know that she
put her fork to her mouth, so absorbed was she by her fancies. And
under this candid forehead, as under the crystal of the purest water,
Hubertine read her thoughts clearly, and followed them as they formed
themselves in her mind one by one.

At nine o'clock they were greatly surprised by a ringing of the door-
bell. It proved to be the Abbe Cornille, who, notwithstanding his
great fatigue, had come to tell them that Monseigneur the Bishop had
greatly admired the three old panels of marvellous embroidery.

"Yes, indeed! And he spoke of them so enthusiastically to me that I
was sure it would please you to know it."

Angelique, who had roused up on hearing the name of Monseigneur, fell
back again into her reveries as soon as the conversation turned to the
procession. Then after a few minutes she got up.

"But where are you going, dear?" asked Hubertine.

The question startled her, as if she herself knew not why she had left
her seat.

"I am going upstairs, mother, for I am very tired."

In spite of this plausible excuse, Hubertine imagined the true reason
that influenced her. It was the need of being by herself, the haste of
communing alone with her great happiness.

When she held her in her arms pressed against her breast, she felt
that she was trembling. She almost seemed to avoid her usual evening
kiss. Looking anxiously in her face, Hubertine read in her eyes the
feverish expectation connected with the hoped-for meeting. It was all
so evident to her that she promised herself to keep a close watch.

"Be good, dear, and sleep well."

But already, after a hurried good-night to Hubert and to the Abbe
Cornille, Angelique was halfway up the stairs, quite disturbed, as she
realised that her secret had almost escaped her. Had her mother held
her against her heart one second longer, she would have told her
everything. When she had shut herself in her own room, and doubly
locked her door, the light troubled her, and she blew out her candle.
The moon, which rose later and later, had not yet appeared above the
horizon, and the night was very dark. Without undressing, she seated
herself before the open window, looked out into the deep shade, and
waited patiently for the hours to pass. The minutes went by rapidly,
as she was fully occupied with the one idea that as soon as the clock
struck for midnight she would go down to find Felicien. As it would be
the most natural thing in the world to do, she traced out her way,
step by step, and every movement she would make with the most perfect
composure.

It was not very late when she heard the Abbe Cornille take his leave.
Soon after, the Huberts, in their turn, came upstairs. Then it seemed
to her as if someone came out of their chamber, and with furtive steps
moved cautiously as far as the foot of the stairway, then stopped, as
if listening for a moment before returning. Then the house soon sank,
as if in the quiet of a deep sleep.

When the great church clock struck twelve, Angelique left her seat.
"Now I must go, for he is waiting for me." She unlocked the door, and,
passing out, neglected closing it after her. Going down the first
flight of stairs, she stopped as she approached the room of the
Huberts, but heard nothing--nothing but the indefinable quivering of
silence. Moreover, she was neither in a hurry, nor had she any fear,
for being totally unconscious of any wrong intentions, she felt at
perfect ease. It would have been quite impossible for her not to have
gone down. An inward power directed and led her, and it all seemed so
simple and right; she would have smiled at the idea of a hidden
danger. Once in the lower rooms, she passed through the kitchen to go
out into the garden, and again forgot to fasten the shutters. Then she
walked rapidly towards the little gate of the Clos-Marie, which she
also left wide open after her. Notwithstanding the obscurity and the
dense shadows in the field, she did not hesitate an instant, but went
direct to the little plank which served as a bridge to the Chevrotte,
crossed it, guiding herself by feeling the way, as if in a familiar
place, where every tree and bush were well known to her. Turning to
the right, under a great willow-tree, she had only to put out her
hands to have them earnestly grasped by Felicien, whom she knew would
be there in waiting for her.

For a minute, without speaking, Angelique pressed Felicien's hands in
hers. They could not see each other, for the sky was covered with a
misty cloud of heat, and the pale moon which had just risen, had not
yet lighted it up. At length she spoke in the darkness, her heart
filled to overflowing with her great happiness:

"Oh, my dear seigneur, how I love you, and how grateful I am to you!"

She laughed aloud at the realisation of the fact that at last she knew
him; she thanked him for being younger, more beautiful, and richer
even than she had expected him to be. Her gaiety was charming; it was
a cry of astonishment and of gratitude before this present of love,
this fulfillment of her dreams.

"You are the king. You are my master; and lo! here am I, your slave. I
belong to you henceforth, and my only regret is that I am of so little
worth. But I am proud of being yours; it is sufficient for you to love
me, and that I may be in my turn a queen. It was indeed well that I
knew you were to come, and so waited for you; my heart is overflowing
with joy since finding that you are so great, so far above me. Ah! my
dear seigneur, how I thank you, and how I love you."

Gently he put his arm around her as he said:

"Come and see where I live."

He made her cross the Clos-Marie, among the wild grass and herbs, and
then she understood for the first time in what way he had come every
night into the field from the park of the Bishop's Palace. It was
through an old gate, that had been unused for a long time, and which
this evening he had left half open. Taking Angelique's hand, he led
her in that way into the great garden of the Monseigneur.

The rising moon was half-hidden in the sky, under a veil of warm mist,
and its rays fell down upon them with a white, mysterious light. There
were no stars visible, but the whole vault of heaven was filled with a
dim lustre, which quietly penetrated everything in this serene night.
Slowly they walked along on the borders of the Chevrotte, which
crossed the park; but it was no longer the rapid rivulet rushing over
a pebbly descent--it was a quiet, languid brook, gliding along through
clumps of trees. Under this mass of luminous vapour, between the
bushes which seemed to bathe and float therein, it was like an Elysian
stream which unfolded itself before them.

Angelique soon resumed her gay chattering.

"I am so proud and so happy to be here on your arm."

Felicien, touched by such artless, frank simplicity, listened with
delight as she talked unrestrainedly, concealing nothing, but telling
all her inmost thoughts, as she opened her heart to him. Why should
she even think of keeping anything back? She had never harmed anyone,
so she had only good things to say.

"Ah, my dear child, it is I who ought to be exceedingly grateful to
you, inasmuch as you are willing to love me a little in so sweet a
way. Tell me once more how much you love me. Tell me exactly what you
thought when you found out at last who I really was."

But with a pretty, impatient movement she interrupted him.

"No, no; let us talk of you, only of you. Am I really of any
consequence? At all events, what matters it who I am or what I think!
For the moment you are the only one of importance."

And keeping as near him as possible, going more slowly along the sides
of the enchanted river, she questioned him incessantly, wishing to
learn everything about him, of his childhood, his youth, and the
twenty years he had passed away from his father. "I already know that
your mother died when you were an infant, and that you grew up under
the care of an uncle who is a clergyman. I also know that Monseigneur
refused to see you again."

Then Felicien answered, speaking in a very low tone, with a voice that
seemed as if it came from the far-away past.

"Yes, my father idolised my mother, and it seemed to him as if I were
guilty, since my birth had cost her her life. My uncle brought me up
in entire ignorance of my family, harshly too, as if I had been a poor
child confided to his care. I had no idea of my true position until
very recently. It is scarcely two years, in fact, since it was
revealed to me. But I was not at all surprised in hearing the truth;
it seemed as if I had always half-realised that a great fortune
belonged to me. All regular work wearied me; I was good for nothing
except to run about the fields and amuse myself. At last I took a
great fancy for the painted windows of our little church." Angelique
interrupted him by laughing gaily, and he joined her in her mirth for
a moment.

"I became a workman like yourself. I had fully decided to earn my
living by painting on glass, and was studying for that purpose, when
all this fortune poured down upon me. My father was intensely
disappointed when my uncle wrote him that I was a good-for-nothing
fellow, and that I would never consent to enter into the service of
the Church. It had been his expressed wish that I should become a
clergyman; perhaps he had an idea that in so doing I could atone for
the death of my mother. He became, however, reconciled at last, and
wished for me to be here and remain near him. Ah! how good it is to
live, simply to live," he exclaimed. "Yes, to live, to love, and to be
loved in return."

This trembling cry, which resounded in the clear night air, vibrated
with the earnest feeling of his healthy youth. It was full of passion,
of sympathy for his dead mother, and of the intense ardour he had
thrown into this, his first love, born of mystery. It filled all his
spirit, his beauty, his loyalty, his ignorance, and his earnest desire
of life.

"Like you," he continued, "I was, indeed, expecting the unknown, and
the evening when you first appeared at the window I also recognised
you at once. Tell me all that you have ever thought, and what you were
in the habit of doing in the days that have passed." But again she
refused, saying gently:

"No; speak only of yourself. I am eager to know every petty incident
of your life, so please keep nothing back. In that way I shall realise
that you belong to me, and that I love you in the past as well as in
the present."

She never would have been fatigued in listening to him as he talked of
his life, but was in a state of joyous ecstasy in thus becoming
thoroughly acquainted with him, adoring him like a little child at the
feet of some saint. Neither of them wearied of repeating the same
things: how much they loved each other and how dearly they were
beloved in return. The same words returned constantly to their lips,
but they always seemed new, as they assumed unforeseen, immeasurable
depths of meaning. Their happiness increased as they thus made known
the secrets of their hearts, and lingered over the music of the words
that passed their lips. He confessed to her the charm her voice had
always been to him, so much so that as soon as he heard it he became
at once her devoted slave. She acknowledged the delicious fear she
always had at seeing his pale face flush at the slightest anger or
displeasure.

They had now left the misty banks of the Chevrotte, and arm-in-arm
they entered under the shadows of the great elm-trees.

"Oh! this beautiful garden," whispered Angelique, happy to breathe in
the freshness which fell from the trees. "For years I have wished to
enter it; and now I am here with you--yes, I am here."

It did not occur to her to ask him where he was leading her, but she
gave herself up to his guidance, under the darkness of these
centenarian trees. The ground was soft under their feet; the archway
of leaves above them was high, like the vaulted ceiling of a church.
There was neither sound nor breath, only the beating of their own
hearts.

At length he pushed open the door of a little pavilion, and said to
her: "Go in; this is my home."

It was there that his father had seen fit to install him all by
himself, in this distant corner of the park. On the first floor there
was a hall, and one very large room, which was now lighted by a great
lamp. Above was a complete little apartment.

"You can see for yourself," he continued smilingly, "that you are at
the house of an artisan. This is my shop."

It was a working-room indeed; the caprice of a wealthy young man, who
amused himself in his leisure hours by painting on glass. He had
re-found the ancient methods of the thirteenth century, so that he
could fancy himself as being one of the primitive glass-workers,
producing masterpieces with the poor, unfinished means of the older
time. An ancient table answered all his purposes. It was coated with
moist, powdered chalk, upon which he drew his designs in red, and
where he cut the panes with heated irons, disdaining the modern use of
a diamond point. The muffle, a little furnace made after the fashion
of an old model, was just now quite heated; the baking of some picture
was going on, which was to be used in repairing another stained window
in the Cathedral; and in cases on every side were glasses of all
colours which he had ordered to be made expressly for him, in blue,
yellow, green, and red, in many lighter tints, marbled, smoked,
shaded, pearl-coloured, and black. But the walls of the room were hung
with admirable stuffs, and the working materials disappeared in the
midst of a marvellous luxury of furniture. In one corner, on an old
tabernacle which served as a pedestal, a great gilded statue of the
Blessed Virgin seemed to smile upon them.

"So you can work--you really can work," repeated Angelique with
childish joy.

She was very much amused with the little furnace, and insisted upon it
that he should explain to her everything connected with his labour.
Why he contented himself with the examples of the old masters, who
used glass coloured in the making, which he shaded simply with black;
the reason he limited himself to little, distinct figures, to the
gestures and draperies of which he gave a decided character; his ideas
upon the art of the glass-workers, which in reality declined as soon
as they began to design better, to paint, and to enamel it; and his
final opinion that a stained-glass window should be simply a
transparent mosaic, in which the brightest colours should be arranged
in the most harmonious order, so as to make a delicate, shaded
bouquet. But at this moment little did she care for the art in itself.
These things had but one interest for her now--that they were
connected with him, that they seemed to bring her nearer to him and to
strengthen the tie between them.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "how happy we shall be together. You will paint,
while I embroider."

He had just retaken her hands, in the centre of this great room, in
the luxury of which she was quite at her ease, as it seemed to be her
natural surrounding, where her grace would be fully developed. Both of
them remained silent for a moment. Then she was, as usual, the first
to speak.

"Now everything is decided upon, is it not?"

"What?" he smilingly asked, "what do you mean?"

"Our marriage."

He hesitated an instant. His face, which had been very pale, flushed
quickly. She was disturbed at such a change.

"Have I made you angry in any way?"

But he had already conquered himself, and pressed her hands tenderly,
with a grasp that seemed to cover everything.

"Yes, it is decided upon, and it is sufficient for you to wish for a
thing that it should be done, no matter how many obstacles may oppose
it. Henceforward my one great desire in life will be to obey you."

Then her face beamed with perfect happiness and delight.

She did not have a single doubt. All seemed to her quite natural, to
be so well-arranged that it could be finished on the morrow with the
same ease as in many of the miracles of the "Golden Legend." The idea
never occurred to her that there should be the slightest hindrance or
the least delay. Since they really loved each other, why should they
be any longer separated? It was the most simple thing in the world for
two persons who loved each other to be married. She was so secure in
her happiness that she was perfectly calm.

"Since it is agreed upon," she said jokingly, "give me your hand."

He took her little hand and kissed it, as he said:

"It is all arranged."

She then hastened to go away, in the fear of being surprised by the
dawn, and also impatient to relieve her mind of her secret. He wished
to accompany her.

"No, no," she replied. "We should not get back before daylight. I can
easily find the way. Good-bye until to-morrow."

"Until to-morrow, then."

Felicien obeyed, and watched Angelique as she ran, first under the
shady elms, then along the banks of the Chevrotte, which were now
bathed in light. Soon she closed the gate of the park, then darted
across the Clos-Marie, through the high grass. While on her way, she
thought it would be impossible to wait until sunrise, but that she
would rap at the door of the Huberts' room as soon as she reached
home, that she might wake them up and tell them everything. She was in
such an expansion of happiness, such a turmoil of sincerity, that she
realised that she was incapable of keeping five minutes longer this
great secret which had been hers for so long a time. She entered into
their garden and closed the gate.

And there, near the Cathedral, Angelique saw Hubertine, who waited for
her in the night, seated upon the stone bench, which was surrounded by
a small cluster of lilac-bushes. Awakened, warned by some
inexpressible feeling, she had gone upstairs, then down again, and on
finding all the doors open, that of the chamber as well as that of the
house, she had understood what had happened. So, uncertain what it was
best to do, or where to go, in the fear lest she might aggravate
matters, she sat down anxiously.

Angelique immediately ran to her, without embarrassment, kissed her
repeatedly, her heart beating with joy as she laughed merrily at the
thought that she had no longer need of hiding anything from her.

"Oh, mother mine, everything is arranged! We are to be married very
soon, and I am so happy."

Before replying, Hubertine examined her closely. But her fears
vanished instantly before the limpid eyes and the pure lips of this
exquisite young girl. Yet she was deeply troubled, and great tears
rolled down her cheeks.

"My poor, dear child," she whispered, as she had done the previous
evening in church.

Astonished to see her in such a way, she who was always so equable,
who never wept, Angelique exclaimed:

"But what is the matter, mother? It is, indeed, true that I have not
done right, inasmuch as I have not made you my confidante. But you
would pardon me if you knew how much I have suffered from it, and how
keen my remorse has been. Since at first I did not speak, later on I
did not dare to break the silence. Will you forgive me?"

She had seated herself near her mother, and had placed her arm
caressingly around her waist. The old bench seemed almost hidden in
this moss-covered corner of the Cathedral. Above their heads the
lilacs made a little shade, while near them was the bush of eglantine
which the young girl had set out in the hope that it might bear roses;
but, having been neglected for some time, it simply vegetated, and had
returned to its natural state.

"Mother, let me tell you everything now. Come, listen to me, please."

Chapter XII


Then, in a low tone, Angelique began her story. She related in a flow
of inexhaustible words all that had happened, calling up the most
minute details, growing more and more excited at the recollection of
them. She omitted nothing, but searched her memory as if it were for a
confession. She was not at all embarrassed, although her cheeks grew
very red and her eyes sparkled with flashes of pride; yet she did not
raise her voice, but continued to talk earnestly in a half-whisper.

At length Hubertine interrupted her, speaking also very low:

"Ah, my dear! Now you are too excited. You have indeed to correct
yourself, for you are carried away by your feelings, as if by a great
wind. Ah, my vain, my headstrong child, you are always the same little
girl who refused to wash up the kitchen floor, and who kissed her own
hands."

Angelique could not prevent herself from laughing.

"No, do not laugh. It may be that by-and-by you will not have tears
enough to weep. My poor darling, this marriage can never take place."

Again her gaiety burst out in a long musical laugh.

"But mother, mother, what are you saying? Do you wish to punish me by
teasing me? It is a very simple matter. This evening Felicien is to
talk of it with his father. To-morrow he will come to arrange
everything with you."

Could it be true that she believed all this? Hubertine was distressed,
and knew not what to do. At last she concluded it was best to be
pitiless and tell her; that it would be impossible for a little
embroiderer without money and without name to marry Felicien
d'Hautecoeur. A young man who was worth so many millions! The last
descendant of one of the oldest families of France! No, that could
never be.

But at each new obstacle Angelique tranquilly replied: "But why not?"
It would be a real scandal, a marriage beyond all ordinary conditions
of happiness. Did she hope, then, to contend against all the world?
"But why not?" Monseigneur is called very strict and very haughty,
proud of his name, and severe in his criticisms in regard to all marks
of affection. Could she dare to expect to bend him?

"But why not?" And, unshakable in her faith, in her firm, ingenuous
manner she said: "It is very odd, dear mother, that you should think
people all so bad! Especially when I have just assured you that
everything is well under way, and is sure to come out all right. Do
you not recollect that only two months ago you scolded me, and
ridiculed my plans? Yet I was right, and everything that I expected
has come to pass."

"But, unhappy child, wait for the end!"

Hubertine now thought of the past, and was angry with herself, as she
now reflected, more bitterly than ever before, that Angelique had been
brought up in such ignorance. Again she predicted to her the hard
lessons of the reality of life, and she would have liked to have
explained to her some of the cruelties and abominations of the world,
but, greatly embarrassed, she could not find the necessary words. What
a grief it would be to her if some day she were forced to accuse
herself of having brought about the unhappiness of this child, who had
been kept alone as a recluse, and allowed to dwell in the continued
falsehood of imagination and dreams!

"Listen to me, dearest. You certainly would not wish to marry this
young man against the wish of us all, and without the consent of his
father?"

Angelique had grown very serious. She looked her mother in the face,
and in a serious tone replied:

"Why should I not do so? I love him, and he loves me."

With a pang of anguish, Hubertine took her again in her arms, clasped
her tenderly, but convulsively, and looked at her earnestly, but
without speaking. The pale moon had disappeared from sight behind the
Cathedral, and the flying, misty clouds were now delicately coloured
in the heavens by the approach of the dawn. They were both of them
enveloped in this purity of the early morn, in the great fresh
silence, which was alone disturbed by the little chirping of the just-
awakening birds.

"But alas! my dear child, happiness is only found in obedience and in
humility. For one little hour of passion, or of pride, we sometimes
are obliged to suffer all our lives. If you wish to be contented on
this earth, be submissive, be ready to renounce and give up
everything."

But feeling that she was still rebellious under her embrace, that
which she had never said to anyone, that which she still hesitated to
speak of, almost involuntarily escaped from her lips:

"Listen to me once more, my dear child. You think that we are happy,
do you not, your father and I. We should indeed be so had not our
lives been embittered by a great vexation."

She lowered her voice still more, as she related with a trembling
breath their history. The marriage without the consent of her mother,
the death of their infant, and their vain desire to have another
child, which was evidently the punishment of their fault. Still, they
adored each other. They had lived by working, had wanted for nothing;
but their regret for the child they had lost was so ever-present that
they would have been wretchedly unhappy, would have quarrelled, and
perhaps even have been separated, had it not been that her husband was
so thoroughly good, while for herself she had always tried to be just
and reasonable.

"Reflect, my daughter. Do not put any stumbling-block in your path
which will make you suffer later on. Be humble, obey, check the
impulse of your heart as much as possible."

Subdued at last, Angelique restrained her tears, but grew very pale as
she listened, and interrupted her by saying:

"Mother, you pain me terribly. I love him, and I am sure that he loves
me."

Then she allowed her tears to flow. She was quite overcome by all she
had listened to, softened, and with an expression in her eyes as if
deeply wounded by the glimpse given her of the probable truth of the
case. Yet she could suffer, and would willingly die, if need be, for
her love.

Then Hubertine decided to continue.

"I do not wish to pain you too deeply at once, yet it is absolutely
necessary that you should know the whole truth. Last evening, after
you had gone upstairs, I had quite a talk with the Abbe Cornille, and
he explained to me why Monseigneur, after great hesitation, had at
last decided to call his son to Beaumont. One of his greatest troubles
was the impetuosity of the young man, the uncontrollable haste which
he manifested to plunge into the excitement of life, without listening
to the advice of his elders. After having with pain renounced all hope
of making him a priest, his father found that he could not establish
him in any occupation suitable to his rank and his fortune. He would
never be anything but a headstrong fellow, restless, wandering,
yielding to his artistic tastes when so inclined. He was alarmed at
seeing in his son traits of character like those from which he himself
had so cruelly suffered. At last, from fear that he might take some
foolish step, and fall in love with someone beneath him in position,
he wished to have him here, that he might be married at once."

"Very well," said Angelique, who did not yet understand.

"Such a marriage had been proposed even before his arrival, and all
preliminaries were settled yesterday, so that the Abbe Cornille
formally announced that in the autumn Felicien would wed Mademoiselle
Claire de Voincourt. You know very well the Hotel de Voincourt there,
close to the Bishop's Palace. The family are very intimate with
Monseigneur. On both sides, nothing better could be hoped for, either
in the way of name or of fortune. The Abbe himself highly approves of
the union."

The young girl no longer listened to these reasons of the fitness of
things. Suddenly an image appeared to come before her eyes--that of
Claire. She saw her, as she had occasionally had a glimpse of her in
the alleys of the Park during the winter, or as she had seen her on
fete days in the Cathedral. A tall young lady, a brunette, very
handsome, of a much more striking beauty than her own, and with a
royal bearing and appearance. Notwithstanding her haughty air, she was
said to be very good and kind.

"So he is to marry this elegant young lady, who is not only beautiful
but very rich," she murmured.

Then, as if suddenly pierced by a sharp agony, she exclaimed:

"He uttered a falsehood! He did not tell me this!"

She recollected now the momentary hesitation of Felicien, the rush of
blood which had coloured his cheeks when she spoke to him of their
marriage. The shock was so great that she turned deadly pale, and her
head fell heavily on her mother's shoulders.

"My darling, my dear darling! This is, indeed, a cruel thing; I know
it well. But it would have been still worse had you waited. Take
courage, then, and draw at once the knife from the wound. Repeat to
yourself, whenever the thought of this young man comes to you, that
never would Monseigneur, the terrible Jean XII, whose intractable
pride, it appears, is still recollected by all the world, give his
son, the last of his race, to a little embroiderer, found under a
gateway and adopted by poor people like ourselves."

In her weakness, Angelique heard all this without making any
objection. What was it she felt pass over her face? A cold breath
coming from a distance, from far above the roofs of the houses, seemed
to freeze her blood. Was it true that her mother was telling her of
this misery of the world, this sad reality, in the same way that
parents relate the story of the wolf to unreasonable children? She
would never forget the shock and the grief of this first experience of
a bitter disappointment. Yet, however, she already excused Felicien.
He had told no falsehood; he simply had been silent. Were his father
to wish him to marry this young girl, no doubt he would refuse to do
so. But as yet he had not dared to rebel. As he had not said anything
to her of the matter, perhaps it was because he had just made up his
mind as to what it was best for him to do. Before this sudden
vanishing away of her air-castles, pale and weak from the rude touch
of the actual life, she still kept her faith, and trusted, in spite of
all, in the future realisation of her dream. Eventually the fair
promises for the future would come to pass, even although now her
pride was crushed and she sank down into a state of humiliation and
resignation.

"Mother, it is true I have done wrong, but I will never sin again. I
promise you that I will be patient, and submit myself without a murmur
of revolt to whatever Heaven wishes me to be."

It was true grace which spoke within her. The trial was great, but she
was able to conquer, from the effects of the education she had
received and the excellent example of the home life in which she had
grown up. Why should she doubt the morrow, when until this present
moment everyone near her had been so generous and so tender towards
her? She prayed that she might be able to have the wisdom of
Catherine, the meekness of Elizabeth, the chastity of Agnes; and
re-comforted by the aid of the saints, she was sure that they alone
would help her to triumph over every trouble. Was it not true that her
old friends the Cathedral, the Clos-Marie, and the Chevrotte, the
little fresh house of the Huberts, the Huberts themselves, all who
loved her, would defend her, without her being obliged to do anything,
except to be obedient and good?

"Then, dear child, you promise me that you will never act contrary to
our wishes, and above all against those of Monseigneur?"

"Yes, mother, I promise."

"You also promise me not to see this young man again, and no longer to
indulge in the foolish idea of marrying him?"

At this question her courage failed her. She almost felt the spirit of
rebellion rise again within her, as she thought of the depth of her
love. But in a moment she bowed her head and was definitely conquered.

"I promise to do nothing to bring about a meeting with him, and to
take no steps towards our marriage."

Hubertine, touched to the heart, pressed the young girl most
affectionately in her arms as she thanked her for her obedience. Oh!
what a dreadful thing it was, when wishing to do good to the child she
so tenderly loved, she was forced to make her suffer so intensely. She
was exhausted, and rose up hastily, surprised that daylight had come.
The little cry of the birds had increased in every direction, although
as yet none were to be seen in flight. In the sky the clouds, delicate
as gauze, seemed to float away in the limpid blueness of the
atmosphere.

Then Angelique, whose look had mechanically fallen upon her wild rose-
bush, at last noticed it with its puny leaves. She smiled sadly as she
said:

"You were right, mother dear; it will never be in blossom."

At seven o'clock in the morning Angelique was at her work as usual.
The days followed each other, and every forenoon found her seated
before the chasuble she had left on the previous evening. Nothing
appeared to be changed outwardly; she kept strictly her promise, shut
herself up, and made no attempt whatever to see Felicien. This did not
seem to depress her at all, but she kept her bright, youthful look,
smiling sweetly at Hubertine when occasionally she saw her eyes fixed
upon her as if astonished. However, in this enforced silence she
thought only of him; he was always in her mind.

Her hope remained firm, and she was sure that in spite of all
obstacles everything would come out all right in the end. In fact, it
was this feeling of certainty that gave her such an air of courage, of
haughty rectitude, and of justice.

Hubert from time to time scolded her.

"You are over-doing, my dear; you are really growing pale. I hope at
least that you sleep well at night."

"Oh yes, father! Like a log! Never in my life did I feel better than
now."

But Hubertine, becoming anxious in her turn, proposed that they should
take a little vacation, and said:

"If you would like it, my child, we will shut up the house, and we
will go, all three of us, to Paris for a while."

"Oh! mother mine, of what are you thinking? What would become of all
our orders for work? You know I am never in better health than when
closely occupied."

In reality, Angelique simply awaited a miracle, some manifestation of
the Invisible which would give her to Felicien. In addition to the
fact that she had promised to do nothing, what need was there of her
striving, since in the beyond some unknown power was always working
for her? So, in her voluntary inaction, while feigning indifference,
she was continually on the watch, listening to the voices of all that
quivered around her, and to the little familiar sounds of this circle
in which she lived and which would assuredly help her. Something must
eventually come from necessity. As she leaned over her embroidery-
frame, not far from the open window, she lost not a trembling of the
leaves, not a murmur of the Chevrotte. The slightest sighs from the
Cathedral came to her, magnified tenfold by the eagerness of her
attention; she even heard the slippers of the beadle as he walked
round the altar when putting out the tapers. Again at her side she
felt the light touch of mysterious wings; she knew that she was aided
by the unknown, and at times she even turned suddenly, thinking that a
phantom had whispered in her ear the way of gaining the hoped-for
victory. But days passed and no change came.

At night, that she need not break her word, Angelique at first did not
go out upon the balcony, for fear of being tempted to rejoin Felicien,
were she to see him below her. She remained quietly waiting in her
chamber. Then, as the leaves even scarcely stirred, but seemed to
sleep, she ventured out, and began to question the dark shadows as
before.

From whence would the miracle come? Without doubt, in the Bishop's
garden would be seen a flaming hand, which would beckon to her to
approach.

Or, perhaps, the sign would appear in the Cathedral, the great organs
of which would peal forth, and would call her to the altar.

Nothing would have surprised her: neither the doves of the "Golden
Legend" bringing the words of benediction, nor the intervention of
saints, who would enter through the walls, to tell her that
Monseigneur wished to see her. The only thing at which she wondered
was the slowness of the working of the marvel. Like the day, the
nights succeeded nights, yet nothing, nothing manifested itself.

At the close of the second week, that which astonished Angelique above
all was that she had not seen Felicien. She, it was true, had pledged
herself to take no steps towards meeting him, yet, without having said
so to anyone, she thought he would do all in his power to find her.
But the Clos-Marie remained deserted, and he no longer walked among
the wild grasses therein. Not once during the past fortnight had she
had a glimpse of him by day, or even seen his shadow in the evening.
Still her faith remained unshaken; that he did not come was simply
that he was occupied in making his preparations to rejoin her.
However, as her surprise increased there was at length mingled with it
a beginning of anxiety.

At last, one evening the dinner was sad at the embroiderer's, and as
soon as it was over Hubert went out, under the pretext of having an
important commission to attend to, so Hubertine remained alone with
Angelique in the kitchen. She looked at her for a long time with
moistened eyes, touched by such courage. During the past fortnight not
one word had been exchanged between them in reference to those things
with which their hearts were full, and she was deeply moved by the
strength of character and loyalty her daughter displayed in thus
keeping her promise. A sudden feeling of deep tenderness made her open
her arms, and the young girl threw herself upon her breast, and in
silence they clasped each other in a loving embrace.

Then, when Hubertine was able to speak, she said:

"Ah! my poor child, I have been impatient to be alone with you, for
you must know that now all is at an end; yes, quite at an end."

Startled, Angelique rose quickly, exclaiming:

"What! Is Felicien dead?"

"No! oh no!"

"If he will never come again, it is only that he is dead."

So Hubertine was obliged to explain to her that the day after the
procession she had been to see him, and had made him also promise that
he would keep way from them until he had the full authorisation of
Monseigneur to do otherwise. It was thus a definite leave-taking, for
she knew a marriage would be utterly impossible. She had made him
almost distracted as she explained to him how wrongly he had done in
thus compromising a young, ignorant, confiding child, whom he would
not be allowed to make his wife; and then he had assured her, that if
he could not see her again, he would die from grief, rather than be
disloyal.

That same evening he confessed everything to his father.

"You see, my dear," continued Hubertine, "you are so courageous that I
can repeat to you all I know without hesitation. Oh! if you realised,
my darling, how I pity you, and what admiration I have for you since I
have found you so strong, so brave in keeping silent and in appearing
gay when your heart was heavily burdened. But you will have need of
even more firmness; yes, much more, my dear. This afternoon I have
seen the Abbe Cornille, and he gives me no encouragement whatever.
Monseigneur refuses to listen to the subject, so there is no more
hope."

She expected a flood of fears, and she was astonished to see her
daughter reseat herself tranquilly, although she had turned very pale.
The old oaken table had been cleared, and a lamp lighted up this
ancient servants' hall, the quiet of which was only disturbed by the
humming of the boiler.

"Mother, dear, the end has not yet come. Tell me everything, I beg of
you. Have I not a right to know all, since I am the one above all
others most deeply interested in the matter?"

And she listened attentively to what Hubertine thought best to tell
her of what she had learned from the Abbe, keeping back only certain
details of the life which was as yet an unknown thing to this innocent
child.

  Chapter XIII


Since the return of his son to him Monseigneur's days had been full of
trouble. After having banished him from his presence almost
immediately upon the death of his wife, and remaining without seeing
him for twenty years, lo! he had now come back to him in the plenitude
and lustre of youth, the living portrait of the one he had so mourned,
with the same delicate grace and beauty. This long exile, this
resentment against a child whose life had cost that of the mother, was
also an act of prudence. He realised it doubly now, and regretted that
he had changed his determination of not seeing him again. Age, twenty
years of prayer, his life as clergyman, had not subdued the
unregenerate man within him. It was simply necessary that this son of
his, this child of the wife he had so adored, should appear with his
laughing blue eyes, to make the blood circulate so rapidly in his
veins as if it would burst them, as he seemed to think that the dead
had been brought to life again. He struck his breast, he sobbed
bitterly in penitence, as he remembered that the joys of married life
and the ties springing therefrom were prohibited to the priesthood.
The good Abbe Cornille had spoken of all this to Hubertine in a low
voice and with trembling lips. Mysterious sounds had been heard, and
it was whispered that Monseigneur shut himself up after twilight, and
passed nights of combat, of tears and of cries, the violence of which,
although partly stifled by the hangings of his room, yet frightened
the members of his household. He thought that he had forgotten; that
he had conquered passion; but it reappeared with the violence of a
tempest, reminding him of the terrible man he had been formerly--the
bold adventurer, the descendant of brave, legendary chieftains. Each
evening on his knees he flayed his skin with haircloth, he tried to
banish the phantom of the regretted wife by calling from its coffin
the skeleton which must now be there. But she constantly appeared
before him, living, in the delicious freshness of youth, such as she
was when very young he had first met her and loved her with the
devoted affection of maturity. The torture then recommenced as keen
and intense as on the day after her death: he mourned her, he longed
for her with the same revolt against God Who had taken her from him;
he was unable to calm himself until the break of day, when quite
exhausted by contempt of himself and disgust of all the world. Oh!
Divine love! When he went out of his room Monseigneur resumed his
severe attitude, his expression was calm and haughty, and his face was
only slightly pale. The morning when Felicien had made his confession
he listened to him without interruption, controlling himself with so
great an effort that not a fibre of his body quivered, and he looked
earnestly at him, distressed beyond measure to see him, so young, so
handsome, so eager, and so like himself in this folly of impetuous
love. It was no longer with bitterness, but it was his absolute will,
his hard duty to save his son from the ills which had caused him so
much suffering, and he would destroy the passion in his child as he
wished to kill it in himself. This romantic history ended by giving
him great anxiety. Could it be true that a poor girl--a child without
a name, a little embroiderer, first seen under a pale ray of
moonlight, had been transfigured into a delicate Virgin of the
Legends, and adored with a fervent love as if in a dream? At each new
acknowledgment he thought his anger was increased, as his heart beat
with such an inordinate emotion, and he redoubled his attempts at
self-control, knowing not what cry might come to his lips. He had
finished by replying with a single word, "Never!" Then Felicien threw
himself on his knees before him, implored him, and pleaded his cause
as well as that of Angelique, in the trembling of respect and of
terror with which the sight of his father always filled him. Until
then he had approached him only with fear. He besought him not to
oppose his happiness, without even daring to lift his eyes towards his
saintly personage. With a submissive voice he offered to go away, no
matter where; to leave all his great fortune to the Church, and to
take his wife so far from there that they would never be seen again.
He only wished to love and to be loved, unknown. Monseigneur shook
from trembling as he repeated severely the word, "Never!" He had
pledged himself to the Voincourts, and he would never break his
engagement with them. Then Felicien, quite discouraged, realising that
he was very angry, went away, fearing lest the rush of blood, which
empurpled his cheeks, might make him commit the sacrilege of an open
revolt against paternal authority.

"My child," concluded Hubertine, "you can easily understand that you
must no longer think of this young man, for you certainly would not
wish to act in opposition to the wishes of Monseigneur. I knew that
beforehand, but I preferred that the facts should speak for
themselves, and that no obstacle should appear to come from me."

Angelique had listened to all this calmly, with her hands listlessly
clasped in her lap. Scarcely had she even dropped her eyelids from
time to time, as with fixed looks she saw the scene so vividly
described--Felicien at the feet of Monseigneur, speaking of her in an
overflow of tenderness. She did not answer immediately, but continued
to think seriously, in the dead quiet of the kitchen, where even the
little bubbling sound of the water in the boiler was no longer heard.
She lowered her eyes and looked as her hands, which, under the
lamplight, seemed as if made of beautiful ivory. Then, while the smile
of perfect confidence came back to her lips, she said simply:

"If Monseigneur refuses, it is because he waits to know me."

That night Angelique slept but little. The idea that to see her would
enable at once Monseigneur to decide in her favor haunted her. There
was in it no personal, feminine vanity, but she was under the
influence of a deep, intense love, and her true affection for Felicien
was so evident, she was sure that when his father realised it he could
not be so obstinate as to make them both unhappy. Many times she
turned restlessly in her bed as she pictured what would happen. Before
her closed eyes Monseigneur constantly passed in his violet-coloured
robe. Perhaps it was, indeed, through him, and by him, that the
expected miracle was to appear. The warm night was sleeping without,
and she eagerly listened for the voices, trying to know what the
trees, the Chevrotte, the Cathedral, her chamber itself, peopled with
such friendly shadows, advised her to do. But there was only an
indistinct humming, and nothing precise came to her. It seemed,
however, as if mysterious whispers encouraged her to persevere. At
last she grew impatient of these too slow certitudes, and as she fell
asleep she surprised herself by saying:

"To-morrow I will speak to Monseigneur."

When she awoke, her proposed plan seemed not only quite natural but
necessary. It was ingenuous and brave; born of a proud and great
purity.

She knew that at five o'clock on every Saturday afternoon Monseigneur
went to kneel in the Chapel Hautecoeur, where he liked to pray alone,
giving himself up entirely to the past of his race and to himself,
seeking a solitude which was respected by all connected with the
Cathedral. As it fortunately happened, this was a Saturday. She
quickly came to a decision. At the Bishop's Palace, not only would she
be apt to find it difficult to be received, but, on the other hand,
there were always so many people about she would be ill at ease;
whilst it would be so simple to await him in the chapel, and to
introduce herself to Monseigneur as soon as he appeared. That day she
embroidered with her usual application and composure. Firm in her
wish, sure of doing the right thing, she had no impatient fever of
expectation. When it was four o'clock she spoke of going to see the
_mere_ Gabet, and went out, dressed as for an ordinary walk, wearing
her little garden-hat tied carelessly under her chin. She turned to
the left, and pushing open the linted, stuffed door of the portal of
Saint Agnes, let it fall back heavily behind her.

The church was empty; alone, the confessional of Saint Joseph was
still occupied by a penitent, the edge of whose black dress was just
seen as one passed. Angelique, who had been perfectly self-possessed
until now, began to tremble as she entered this sacred, cold solitude,
where even the little sound of her steps seemed to echo terribly. Why
was it that her heart grew so oppressed? She had thought she was quite
strong, and the day had passed most peacefully--she was so sure of
being right in her desire to be happy. But now that she was ignorant
of what might happen she turned pale as if guilty, quite frightened at
thinking that she was to see Monseigneur, and that in truth she had
come there expressly to speak to him. She went quietly to the Chapel
Hautecoeur, where she was obliged to remain leaning against the gate.

This chapel was one of the most sunken and dark of the old Romanesque
apse. Like a cave hewn in a rock, straight and bare, with the simple
lines of its low, vaulted ceiling, it had but one window, that of
stained glass, on which was the Legend of St. George, and in whose
panes the red and blue so predominated that they made a lilac-coloured
light, as if it were twilight. The altar, in black and white marble,
was unornamented, and the whole place, with its picture of the
Crucifixion, and its two chandeliers, seemed like a tomb. The walls
were covered with commemorative tablets, a collection from top to
bottom of stones crumbling from age, on which the deeply-cut
inscriptions could still be read.

Almost stifled, Angelique waited, motionless. A beadle passed, who did
not even see her, so closely had she pressed herself against the
interior of the iron railing. She still saw the dress of the penitent
who was at the confessional near the entrance. Her eyes, gradually
accustomed to the half-light, were mechanically fixed upon the
inscriptions, the characters of which she ended by deciphering.
Certain names struck her, calling back to her memory the legends of
the Chateau d'Hautecoeur, of Jean V le Grand, of Raoul III, and of
Herve VII.

She soon found two others, those of Laurette and of Balbine, which
brought tears to her eyes, so nervous was she from trouble and
anxiety--Laurette, who fell from a ray of moonlight, on her way to
rejoin her betrothed, and Balbine, who died from sudden joy at the
return of her husband, whom she thought had been killed in the war.
They both of them came back at night and enveloped the Castle with
their immense, flowing white robes. Had she not seen them herself the
day of their visit to the ruins, as they floated, towards evening,
above the towers in the rosy pallor of the dusk? Ah! how willingly she
would die as they did, although but sixteen years of age, in the
supreme happiness of the realisation of her dream!

A loud noise which reverberated under the arches made her tremble. It
was the priest who came out from the confessional of Saint Joseph and
shut the door after him. She was surprised at no longer seeing the
penitent, who had already gone. And when in his turn the clergyman
went out by way of the sacristy, she realised that she was absolutely
alone in the vast solitude of the Cathedral. At the loud sound of the
door of the confessional, as it creaked on its hinges, she thought
that Monseigneur was coming. It was nearly half an hour since she had
expected him, yet she did not realise it, for her excitement prevented
her from taking any note of time.

Soon a new name drew her eyes towards the tablets--Felicien III, who
went to Palestine, carrying a candle in his hand, to fulfil a vow of
Philippe le Bel. And her heart beat with pride as she saw before her,
mentally, the youthful Felicien VII, the descendant of all these
worthies, the fair-haired nobleman whom she adored, and by whom she
was so tenderly loved. She suddenly became filled with pride and fear.
Was it possible that she herself was there, in the expectation of
bringing about a prodigy? Opposite her there was a fresher plaque of
marble, dating from the last century, the black letters upon which she
could easily read. Norbert Louis Ogier, Marquis d'Hautecoeur, Prince
of Mirande and of Rouvres, Count of Ferrieres, of Montegu and of Saint
Marc, and also of Villemareuil, Chevalier of the four Royal Orders of
Saint Esprit, Saint Michel, Notre Dame de Carmel and Saint Louis,
Lieutenant in the Army of the King, Governor of Normandy, holding
office as Captain-General of the Hunting, and Master of the Hounds.
All these were the titles of Felicien's grandfather, and yet she had
come, so simple, with her working-dress and her fingers worn by the
needle, in hopes of marrying the grandson of this dead dignitary!

There was a slight sound, scarcely a rustling, on the flagstones. She
turned and saw Monseigneur, and remained motionless at this silent
approach without the pomp and surroundings she had vaguely expected.
He entered into the chapel, tall, erect, and noble-looking, dressed in
purple, with his pale face, his rather large nose, and his superb
eyes, which still seemed youthful in their expression. At first he did
not notice her against the black gate. Then, as he was about to kneel
down, he saw her before him at his feet.

With trembling limbs, overcome by respect and fear, Angelique had
fallen upon her knees. He seemed to her at this moment like the
Eternal Father, terrible in aspect and absolute master of her destiny.
But her heart was still courageous, and she spoke at once.

"Oh! Monseigneur, I have come----"

As for the Bishop, he had risen immediately. He had a vague
recollection of her; the young girl, seen first at her window on the
day of the procession, and re-found a little later standing on a chair
in the church; this little embroiderer, with whom his son was so
desperately in love. He uttered no word, he made no gesture. He
waited, stern and stiff.

"Oh! Monseigneur, I have come on purpose that you may see me. You
have, it is true, refused to accept me, but you do not know me. And
now, here I am. Please look at me before you repel me again. I am the
one who loves, and am also beloved, and that is all. Nothing beyond
this affection. Nothing but a poor child, found at the door of this
church. You see me at your feet, little, weak, and humble. If I
trouble you it will be very easy for you to send me away. You have
only to lift your little finger to crush me. But think of my tears!
Were you to know how I have suffered, you would be compassionate. I
wished, Monseigneur, to plead my cause in my turn. I love, and that is
why I kneel before you, to tell you so. I am ignorant in many ways; I
only know I love. All my strength and all my pride is centred in that
fact. Is not that sufficient? It certainly makes one great and good to
be able to say that one really loves."

She continued with sighs, and in broken phrases, to confess everything
to him, in an unaffected outpouring of ardent feeling. It was a true
affection that thus acknowledged itself. She dared to do so because
she was innocent and pure. Little by little she raised her head.

"We love each other, Monseigneur. Without doubt he has already told
you how all this came to pass. As for me, I have often asked myself
the question without being able to reply to it. But we love each
other, and if it is a crime to do so, pardon it, I beseech you, for it
came from afar, from everything in short that surrounded us. When I
realised that I loved him, it was already too late to prevent it. Now,
is it possible to be angry on that account? You can keep him with you,
make him marry some other person, but you cannot prevent him from
giving me his heart. He will die without me, as I shall if obliged to
part from him. When he is not by my side I feel that he is really near
me, and that we will never be entirely separated, since we carry each
other's life with us. I have only to close my eyes to re-see him when
I wish, so firmly is his image impressed upon my soul. Our whole
natures are thus closely united for life. And could you wish to draw
us away from this union? Oh! Monseigneur, it is divine; do not try to
prevent us loving each other!"

He looked at her in her simple working-dress, so fresh, so
unpretending, and attractive. He listened to her as she repeated the
canticle of their love in a voice that both fascinated and troubled
him, and which grew stronger by degrees. But as her garden-hat fell
upon her shoulders, her exquisite hair seemed to make a halo around
her head of fine gold, and she appeared to him, indeed, like one of
those legendary virgins of the old prayer-books, so frail was she, so
primitive, so absorbed in her deep feeling of intense and pure
affection.

"Be good, be merciful, Monseigneur. You are the master. Do allow us to
be happy!"

She implored him, and finding that he remained unmoved, without
speaking, she again bowed down her head.

Oh! this unhappy child at his feet; this odour of youth that came up
from the sweet figure thus bent before him! There he saw, as it were
again, the beautiful light locks he had so fondly caressed in the days
gone by. She, whose memory still distressed him after twenty years of
penitence, had the same fresh youthfulness, the same proud expression,
and the same lily-like grace. She had re-appeared; it was she herself
who now sobbed and besought him to be tender and merciful.

Tears had come to Angelique, yet she continued to outpour her heart.

"And, Monseigneur, it is not only that I love him, but I also love the
nobility of his name, the lustre of his royal fortune. Yes, I know
well that being nothing, that having nothing, it seems as if I were
only desirous of his money. In a way, it is true it is also for his
wealth that I wish to marry him. I tell you this because it is
necessary that you should know me thoroughly. Ah! to become rich by
him and with him, to owe all my happiness to him, to live in the
sweetness and splendour of luxury, to be free in our loving home, and
to have no more sorrow, no misery around us! That is my ideal! Since
he has loved me I fancy myself dressed in heavy brocades, as ladies
wore in olden days; I have on my arms and around my neck strings of
pearls and precious stones; I have horses and carriages; groves in
which I take long walks, followed by pages. Whenever I think of him my
dream recommences, and I say to myself, 'This must all come to pass,
for it perfects my desire to become a queen.' Is it, then,
Monseigneur, a bad thing to love him more because he can gratify all
my childish wishing by showering down miraculous floods of gold upon
me as in fairy-tales?"

He saw then that she rose up proudly, with a charming, stately air of
a true princess, in spite of her real simplicity. And she was always
exactly like the fair maiden of other years, with the same flower-like
delicacy, the same tender tears, clear as smiles. A species of
intoxication came from her, the warm breath of which mounted to his
face--the same shadow of a remembrance which made him at night throw
himself on his devotional chair, sobbing so deeply that he disturbed
the sacred silence of the Palace. Until three o'clock in the morning
of this same day he had contended with himself again, and this long
history of love, this story of passion, would only revive and excite
his incurable wound. But behind his impassiveness nothing was seen,
nothing betrayed his effort at self-control and his attempt to conquer
the beating of his heart. Were he to lose his life's blood, drop by
drop, no one should see it flow, and he now simply became paler, was
silent and immovable.

At last this great persistent silence made Angelique desperate, and
she redoubled her prayers.

"I put myself in your hands, Monseigneur. Do with me whatever you
think best; but have pity when deciding my fate."

Still, as he continued silent, he terrified her, and seemed to grow
taller than ever as he stood before her in his fearful majesty. The
deserted Cathedral, whose aisles were already dark, with its high
vaulted arches where the daylight seemed dying, made the agony of this
silence still harder to bear. In the chapel, where the commemorative
slabs could no longer be seen, there remained only the Bishop in his
purple cassock, that now looked black, and his long white face, which
alone seemed to have absorbed all the light. She saw his bright eyes
fixed upon her with an ever-increasing depth of expression, and shrunk
from them, wondering if it were possible that anger made them shine in
so strange a way.

"Monseigneur, had I not come to-day, I should have eternally
reproached myself for having brought about the unhappiness of us both
from my want of courage. Tell me then, oh, tell me that I was right in
doing so, and that you will give us your consent!"

What use would there be in discussing the matter with this child? He
had already given his son the reasons for his refusal, and that was
all-sufficient. That he had not yet spoken was only because he thought
he had nothing to say. She, no doubt, understood him, and she seemed
to wish to raise herself up that she might be able to kiss his hands.
But he threw them behind him violently, and she was startled at seeing
his white face become suddenly crimson, from a rush of blood to his
head.

"Monseigneur! Monseigneur!"

At last he opened his lips, to say to her just one word, the same he
had said to his son:

"Never!"

And without remaining to pray that day, as was his wont, he left the
chapel, and with slow steps soon disappeared behind the pillars of the
apse.

Falling on the flagstones, Angelique wept for a long time, sobbing
deeply in the great peaceful silence of the empty church.

Chapter XIV


That same evening in the kitchen, after they left the dinner-table,
Angelique confessed everything to Hubert, telling him of her interview
with the Bishop, and of the latter's refusal. She was very pale, but
not at all excited.

Hubert was quite overcome. What? Could it be possible that his dear
child already suffered? That she also had been so deeply wounded in
her affections? His eyes were filled with tears from his sympathy with
her, as they were both of that excessively sensitive nature that at
the least breath they were carried away by their imaginations.

"Ah! my poor darling, why did you not consult me? I would willingly
have accompanied you, and perhaps I might have persuaded Monseigneur
to yield to your prayers."

With a look Hubertine stopped him. He was really unreasonable. Was it
not much better to seize this occasion to put an end at once to all
ideas of a marriage which would be impossible? She took the young girl
in her arms, and tenderly kissed her forehead.

"Then, now it is ended, my dear child; all ended?"

Angelique at first did not appear to understand what was said to her.
Soon the words returned to her as if from a distance. She looked
fixedly before her, seeming anxious to question the empty space, and
at last she replied:

"Without doubt, mother."

Indeed, on the morrow she seated herself at the work-frame and
embroidered as she was wont to do. She took up her usual routine of
daily work, and did not appear to suffer. Moreover, no allusion was
made to the past; she no longer looked from time to time out of the
window into the garden, and gradually losing her paleness, the natural
colour came back to her cheeks. The sacrifice appeared to have been
accomplished.

Hubert himself thought it was so, and, convinced of the wisdom of
Hubertine, did all in his power to keep Felicien at a distance. The
latter, not daring to openly revolt against his father, grew
feverishly impatient, to such a degree that he almost broke the
promise he had made to wait quietly without trying to see Angelique
again. He wrote to her, and the letters were intercepted. He even went
to the house one morning, but it was Hubert alone who received him.
Their explanatory conversation saddened them both to an equal degree,
so much did the young man appear to suffer when the embroiderer told
him of his daughter's calmness and her air of forgetfulness. He
besought him to be loyal, and go to away, that he might not again
throw the child into the fearful trouble of the last few weeks.

Felicien again pledged himself to be patient, but he violently refused
to take back his word, for he was still hopeful that he might persuade
his father in the end. He could wait; he would let affairs remain in
their present state with the Voincourts, where he dined twice a week,
doing so simply to avoid a direct act of open rebellion.

And as he left the house he besought Hubert to explain to Angelique
why he had consented to the torment of not seeing her for the moment;
he thought only of her, and the sole aim of everything he did was to
gain her at last.

When her husband repeated this conversation to her, Hubertine grew
very serious. Then, after a short silence, she asked:

"Shall you tell our daughter what he asked you to say to her?"

"I ought to do so."

She was again silent, but finally added:

"Act according to your conscience. But he is now under a delusion. He
will eventually be obliged to yield to his father's wishes, and then
our poor, dear little girl will die in consequence."

Hubert, overcome with grief, hesitated. But after contending with
himself, he concluded to repeat nothing. Moreover, he became a little
reassured each day when his wife called his attention to Angelique's
tranquil appearance.

"You see well that the wound is healing. She is learning to forget."

But she did not forget; she also was simply waiting. All hope of human
aid having died within her, she now had returned to the idea of some
wonderful prodigy. There would surely be one, if God wished her to be
happy. She had only to give herself up entirely into His hands; she
believed that this new trial had been sent to her as a punishment for
having attempted to force His will in intruding upon Monseigneur.
Without true grace mankind was weak, and incapable of success. Her
need of that grace made her humble, bringing to her as an only hope
the aid of the Invisible; so that she gave up acting for herself, but
left everything to the mysterious forces which surrounded her. Each
evening at lamplight she recommenced her reading of the "Golden
Legend," being as delighted with it as when she was a young child. She
doubted none of the miracles related therein, being convinced that the
power of the Unknown is without limit for the triumph of pure souls.

Just at this time the upholsterer of the Cathedral ordered of the
Huberts a panel of the very richest embroidery for the throne of
Monseigneur the Bishop. This panel, one yard and a half in width and
three yards in length, was to be set in old carved wood, and on it
were to be represented two angels of life-size, holding a crown, on
which were to be the arms of the Hautecoeurs. It was necessary that
the embroidery should be in bas-relief, a work which not only required
great artistic knowledge, but also needed physical strength, to be
well done. When proposed to the Huberts, they at first declined the
offer, being not only fearful of fatiguing Angelique, but especially
dreading that she would be saddened by the remembrances which would be
brought to her mind as she wrought thread after thread during the
several weeks. But she insisted upon accepting the command, and every
morning applied herself to her task with an extraordinary energy. It
seemed as if she found her happiness in tiring herself, and that she
needed to be physically exhausted in order to be calm.

So in the old workroom life continued in the same regular way, as if
their hearts had not even for a moment beaten more quickly than usual.
Whilst Hubert occupied himself with arranging the frames, or drew the
patterns, or stretched or relaxed the materials, Hubertine helped
Angelique, both of them having their hands terribly tired and bruised
when evening came. For the angels and the ornaments it had been
necessary at the beginning to divide each subject into several parts,
which were treated separately. In order to perfect the most salient
points, Angelique first took spools of coarse unbleached thread, which
she re-covered with the strong thread of Brittany in a contrary
direction; and as the need came, making use of a heavy pair of shears,
as well as of a roughing-chisel, she modelled these threads, shaped
the drapery of the angels, and detached the details of the ornaments.
In all this there was a real work of sculpture. At last, when the
desired form was obtained, with the aid of Hubertine she threw on
masses of gold thread, which she fastened down with little stitches of
silk. Thus there was a bas-relief of gold, incomparably soft and
bright, shining like a sun in the centre of this dark, smoky room. The
old tools were arranged in the same lines as they had been for
centuries--the punches, the awls, the mallets, and the hammers; on the
work-frame the little donkey waste-basket and the tinsel, the thimbles
and the needles, moved up and down as usual, while in the different
corners, where they ended by growing rusty, the diligent, the hand
spinning-wheel, and the reel for winding, seemed to sleep in the
peaceful quiet which entered through the open window.

Days passed. Angelique broke many needles between morning and evening,
so difficult was it to sew down the gold, through the thickness of the
waxed threads. To have seen her, one would have said she was so
thoroughly absorbed by her hard work that she could think of nothing
else. At nine o'clock she was exhausted by fatigue, and, going to bed,
she sank at once into a heavy, dreamless sleep. When her embroidery
gave her mind a moment's leisure, she was astonished not to see
Felicien. Although she took no step towards seeking him, it seemed to
her that he ought to have tried every possible way to come to her. Yet
she approved of his wisdom in acting as he did, and would have scolded
him had he tried to hasten matters. No doubt he also looked for
something supernatural to happen. It was this expectation upon which
she now lived, thinking each night that it would certainly come on the
morrow. Until now she had never rebelled. Still, at times she lifted
up her head inquiringly, as if asking "What! Has nothing yet come to
pass?" And then she pricked her finger so deeply that her hand bled,
and she was obliged to take the pincers to draw the needle out. When
her needle would break with a sharp little sound, as if of glass, she
did not even make a movement of impatience.

Hubertine was very anxious on seeing her apply herself so desperately
to her work, and as the time for the great washing had come again, she
forced her to leave her panel of embroidery, that she might have four
good days of active outdoor life in the broad sunlight. The _mere_
Gabet, now free of her rheumatism, was able to help in the soaping and
rinsing. It was a regular fete in the Clos-Marie, these last August
days, in which the weather was splendid, the sky almost cloudless,
while a delicious fragrance came up from the Chevrotte, the water of
which as it passed under the willows was almost icy cold. The first
day Angelique was very gay, as she beat the linen after plunging it in
the stream; enjoying to the full the river, the elms, the old ruined
mill, the wild herbs, and all those friendly surroundings, so filled
with pleasant memories. Was it not there she had become acquainted
with Felicien, who under the moonlight had at first seemed so
mysterious a being, and who, later on, had been so adorably awkward
the morning when he ran after the dressing-sacque that was being
carried away by the current? As she rinsed each article, she could not
refrain from glancing at the gateway of the Bishop's garden, which
until recently had been nailed up. One evening she had passed through
it on his arm, and who could tell but he might suddenly now open it
and come to take her as she applied herself to her work in the midst
of the frothy foam that at times almost covered her.

But the next day, as the _mere_ Gabet brought the last barrow of
linen, which she spread out on the grass with Angelique, she
interrupted her interminable chattering upon the gossip of the
neighbourhood to say maliciously:

"By the way, you know that Monseigneur is to marry his son?"

The young girl, who was just smoothing out a sheet, knelt down in the
grass, her strength leaving her all at once, from the rudeness of the
shock.

"Yes, everyone is talking of it. The son of Monseigneur will in the
autumn marry Mademoiselle de Voincourt. It seems that everything was
decided upon and arranged yesterday."

She remained on her knees, as a flood of confused ideas passed through
her brain, and a strange humming was in her ears. She was not at all
surprised at the news, and she realised it must be true. Her mother
had already warned her, so she ought to have been prepared for it. She
did not yet even doubt Felicien's love for her, as that was her faith
and her strength. But at the present moment, that which weakened her
so greatly and excited her to the very depths of her being was the
thought that, trembling before the commands of his father, he could at
last yield from weariness, and consent to wed one whom he did not
love. Then he would be lost to her whom he really adored. Never had
she thought such an act on his part possible; but now she saw him
obliged by his filial duty and his sense of obedience to make them
both unhappy for ever. Still motionless, her eyes fixed upon the
little gate, she at last revolted against the facts, feeling as if she
must go and shake the bars, force them open with her hands, run to
Felicien, and, aiding him by her own courage, persuade him not to
yield. She was surprised to hear herself reply to the _mere_ Gabet, in
the purely mechanical instinct of hiding her trouble:

"Ah! then he is to marry Mademoiselle Claire. She is not only very
beautiful, but it is said she is also very good."

Certainly, as soon as the old woman went away, she must go and find
him. She had waited long enough; she would break her promise of not
seeing him as if it were a troublesome obstacle. What right had anyone
to separate them in this way? Everything spoke to her of their
affection--the Cathedral, the fresh water, and the old elm-trees under
which they had been so happy. Since their affection had grown on this
spot, it was there that she wished to find him again, to go with him
arm-in-arm far away, so far that no one would ever see them.

"That is all," said at last the _mere_ Gabet, as she hung the last
napkins on a bush. "In two hours they will be dry. Good-night,
mademoiselle, as you no longer have need of me."

Now, standing in the midst of this efflorescence of linen that shone
on the green grass, Angelique thought of that other day, when, in the
tempest of wind, among the flapping of the sheets and tablecloths,
they unfolded so ingenuously the secrets of their lives to each other.
Why had he discontinued his visits to her? Why had he not come to meet
her during her healthy exercise of the past three days? But it would
not be long before she would run to him, and when he had clasped her
in his arms, he would know well that he was hers, and hers only. She
would not even need to reproach him for his apparent weakness; it
would be enough for her to show herself to make him realise that their
happiness was in being together.

He would dare everything for her sake when once she had rejoined him.

An hour passed, and Angelique walked slowly between the pieces of
linen, all white herself from the blinding reflection of the sun; and
a confused sentiment awoke in her breast, which, growing stronger and
stronger, prevented her from going over to the gate, as she had wished
to do. She was frightened before this commencement of a struggle. What
did it mean? She certainly could act according to her own will. Yet
something new, inexplicable, thwarted her and changed the simplicity
of her passion. It was such a simple thing to go to a beloved one; yet
she could not possibly do so now, being kept back by a tormenting
doubt. Also, since she had given her promise, perhaps it would be
wrong to break it. In the evening, when the whole "wash" was dry, and
Hubertine came to help her to take it to the house, she was still
undecided what to do, and concluded to reflect upon it during the
night. With her arms filled to overflowing with linen, white as snow,
and smelling fresh and clean, she cast an anxious look towards the
Clos-Marie, already bathed in the twilight, as if it were a friendly
corner of Nature refusing to be her accomplice.

In the morning Angelique was greatly troubled when she awoke. Several
other nights passed without her having come to any decision. She could
not recover her ease of mind until she had the certainty that she was
still beloved. Were her faith in that unshaken she would be perfectly
at rest. If loved, she could bear anything. A fit of being charitable
had again taken possession of her, so that she was touched by the
slightest suffering, and her eyes were filled with tears ready to
overflow at any moment. The old man Mascart made her give him tobacco,
and the Chouarts drew from her everything they wished, even to
preserved fruits. But the Lemballeuses also profited by her gifts, and
Tiennette had been seen dancing at the fetes, dressed in one of "the
good young lady's" gowns. And one day, as she was taking to the
grandmother some chemises promised her the previous evening, she saw
from a distance, in the midst of the poor family, Madame de Voincourt
and her daughter Claire, accompanied by Felicien. The latter, no
doubt, had taken them there. She did not show herself, but returned
home at once, chilled to the heart. Two days later she saw the two
again as they came out from the Chateau; then one morning the old man
Mascart told her of a visit he had received from the handsome young
gentleman and two ladies. Then she abandoned her poor people, who
seemed no longer to have claims upon her, since Felicien had taken
them and given them to his new friends. She gave up her walks for fear
she might see them, and thus be so deeply wounded that her sufferings
would be increased tenfold. She felt as if something were dying within
her, as if, little by little, her very life was passing away.

One evening, after one of these meetings, when alone in her chamber,
stifling from anguish, she uttered this cry:

"But he loves me no longer."

She saw before her, mentally, Claire de Voincourt, tall, beautiful,
with her crown of black hair, and he was at her side, slight, proud,
and handsome. Were they not really created for each other, of the same
race, so well mated that one might think they were already married?

"He no longer loves me! Oh! he no longer loves me!"

This exclamation broke from her lips as if it were the ruin of all her
hopes, and, her faith once shaken, everything gave way without her
being able to examine the facts of the case or to regard them calmly.
The previous evening she believed in something, but that had now
passed by. A breath, coming from she knew not where, had been
sufficient, and all at once by a single blow she had fallen into the
greatest despair--that of thinking she was not beloved. He had indeed
spoken wisely when he told her once that this was the only real grief,
the one insupportable torture. Now her turn had come. Until then she
had been resigned, she felt so strong and confident as she awaited the
miracle. But her strength passed away with her faith; she was
tormented by her distress like a child; her whole being seemed to be
only an open wound. And a painful struggle commenced in her soul.

At first she called upon her pride to help her; she was too proud to
care for him any more. She tried to deceive herself, she pretended to
be free from all care, as she sang while embroidering the Hautecoeur
coat of arms, upon which she was at work. But her heart was so full it
almost stifled her, and she was ashamed to acknowledge to herself that
she was weak enough to love him still in spite of all, and even to
love him more than ever. For a week these armorial bearings, as they
grew thread by thread under her fingers, filled her with a terrible
sorrow. Quartered one and four, two and three, of Jerusalem and
d'Hautecoeur; of Jerusalem, which is argent, a cross potence, or,
between four cross-crosslets of the last; and d'Hautecoeur, azure, on
a castle, or, a shield, sable, charged with a human heart, argent; the
whole accompanied by three fleurs-de-lys, or, two at the top and one
in the point. The enamels were made of twist, the metals of gold and
silver thread. What misery it was to feel that her hands trembled, and
to be obliged to lower her head to hide her eyes, that were blinded
with tears, from all this brightness. She thought only of him; she
adored him in the lustre of his legendary nobility. And when she
embroidered the motto of the family, "_Si Dieu veult, je veux_," in
black silk on a streamer of silver, she realised that she was his
slave, and that never again could she reclaim him. Then tears
prevented her from seeing, while mechanically she continued to make
little stitches in her work.

After this it was indeed pitiable. Angelique loved in despair, fought
against this hopeless affection, which she could not destroy. She
still wished to go to Felicien, to reconquer him by throwing her arms
around his neck; and thus the contest was daily renewed. Sometimes she
thought she had gained control over her feelings, so great a silence
appeared to have fallen within and around her. She seemed to see
herself as if in a vision, a stranger in reality, very little, very
cold, and kneeling like an obedient child in the humility of
renunciation. Then it was no longer herself, but a sensible young
girl, made so by her education and her home life. Soon a rush of blood
mounted to her face, making her dizzy; her perfect health, the ardent
feelings of her youth, seemed to gallop like runaway colts, and she
resaw herself, proud and passionate, in all the reality of her unknown
origin. Why, then, had she been so obedient? There was no true duty to
consult, only free-will. Already she had planned her flight, and
calculated the most favourable hour for forcing open the gate of the
Bishop's garden. But already, also, the agony, the grave uneasiness,
the torment of a doubt had come back to her. Were she to yield to evil
she would suffer eternal remorse in consequence. Hours, most
abominable hours, passed in this uncertainty as to what part she
should take under this tempestuous wind, which constantly threw her
from the revolt of her love to the horror of a fault. And she came out
of the contest weakened by each victory over her heart.

One evening, as she was about leaving the house to go to join
Felicien, she suddenly thought of her little book from the Society of
Aid to Abandoned Children. She was so distressed to find that she no
longer had strength to resist her pride. She took it from the depths
of the chest of drawers, turned over its leaves, whispered to herself
at each page the lowness of her birth, so eager was she in her need of
humility. Father and mother unknown; no name; nothing but a date and a
number; a complete neglect, like that of a wild plant that grows by
the roadside! Then crowds of memories came to her: the rich pastures
of the Mievre and the cows she had watched there; the flat route of
Soulanges, where she had so often walked barefooted; and Maman Nini,
who boxed her ears when she stole apples. Certain pages specially
attracted her by their painful associations:--those which certified
every three months to the visits of the under-inspector and of the
physician, whose signatures were sometimes accompanied by observations
or information, as, for instance, a severe illness, during which she
had almost died; a claim from her nurse on the subject of a pair of
shoes that had been burnt; and bad marks that had been given her for
her uncontrollable temper. It was, in short, the journal of her
misery. But one thing disturbed her above all others--the report in
reference to the breaking of the necklace she had worn until she was
six years of age. She recollected that she had instinctively hated it,
this string of beads of bone, cut in the shape of little olives,
strung on a silken cord, and fastened by a medallion of plaited
silver, bearing the date of her entrance into the "Home" and her
number. She considered it as a badge of slavery, and tried several
times to break it with her little hands, without any fear as to the
consequences of doing so. Then, when older, she complained that it
choked her. For a year longer she was obliged to wear it. Great,
indeed, was her joy when, in the presence of the mayor of the parish,
the inspector's aid had cut the cord, replacing this sign of
individuality by a formal description, in which allusion was made to
her violet-coloured eyes and her fine golden hair. Yet she always
seemed to feel around her neck this collar, as if she were an animal
that was marked in order that she might be recognised if she went
astray; it cut into her flesh and stifled her. When she came to that
page on this day, her humility came back to her, she was frightened,
and went up to her chamber, sobbing as if unworthy of being loved. At
two other times this little book saved her. At last it lost its power,
and could not help her in checking her rebellious thoughts.

Now, her greatest temptation came to her at night. Before going to
bed, that her sleep might be calm, she imposed upon herself the task
of resuming reading the Legends. But, resting her forehead on her
hands, notwithstanding all her efforts she could understand nothing.
The miracles stupefied her; she saw only a discoloured flight of
phantoms. Then in her great bed, after a most intense prostration, she
started suddenly from her sleep, in agony, in the midst of the
darkness. She sat upright, distracted; then knelt among the half
thrown-back clothes, as the perspiration started from her forehead,
while she trembled from head to foot. Clasping her hands together, she
stammered in prayer, "Oh! my God! Why have You forsaken me?"

Her great distress was to realise that she was alone in the obscurity
at such moments. She had dreamed of Felicien, she was eager to dress
herself and go to join him, before anyone could come to prevent her
from fleeing. It was as if the Divine grace were leaving her, as if
God ceased to protect her, and even the elements abandoned her. In
despair, she called upon the unknown, she listened attentively, hoping
for some sign from the Invisible. But there was no reply; the air
seemed empty. There were no more whispering voices, no more mysterious
rustlings. Everything seemed to be dead--the Clos-Marie, with the
Chevrotte, the willows, the elm-trees in the Bishop's garden, and the
Cathedral itself. Nothing remained of the dreams she had placed there;
the white flight of her friends in passing away left behind them only
their sepulchre. She was in agony at her powerlessness, disarmed, like
a Christian of the Primitive Church overcome by original sin, as soon
as the aid of the supernatural had departed. In the dull silence of
this protected corner she heard this evil inheritance come back,
howling triumphant over everything. If in ten minutes more no help
came to her from figurative forces, if things around her did not rouse
up and sustain her, she would certainly succumb and go to her ruin.
"My God! My God! Why have You abandoned me?" Still kneeling on her
bed, slight and delicate, it seemed to her as if she were dying.

Each time, until now, at the moment of her greatest distress she had
been sustained by a certain freshness. It was the Eternal Grace which
had pity upon her, and restored her illusions. She jumped out on to
the floor with her bare feet, and ran eagerly to the window. Then at
last she heard the voices rising again; invisible wings brushed
against her hair, the people of the "Golden Legend" came out from the
trees and the stones, and crowded around her. Her purity, her
goodness, all that which resembled her in Nature, returned to her and
saved her. Now she was no longer afraid, for she knew that she was
watched over. Agnes had come back with the wandering, gentle virgins,
and in the air she breathed was a sweet calmness, which,
notwithstanding her intense sadness, strengthened her in her resolve
to die rather than fail in her duty or break her promise. At last,
quite exhausted, she crept back into her bed, falling asleep again
with the fear of the morrow's trials, constantly tormented by the idea
that she must succumb in the end, if her weakness thus increased each
day.

In fact, a languor gained fearfully upon Angelique since she thought
Felicien no longer loved her. She was deeply wounded and silent,
uncomplaining; she seemed to be dying hourly. At first it showed
itself by weariness. She would have an attack of want of breath, when
she was forced to drop her thread, and for a moment remain with her
eyes half closed, seeing nothing, although apparently looking straight
before her. Then she left off eating, scarcely taking even a little
milk; and she either hid her bread or gave it to the neighbours'
chickens, that she need not make her parents anxious. A physician
having been called, found no acute disease, but considering her life
too solitary, simply recommended a great deal of exercise. It was like
a gradual fading away of her whole being; a disappearing by slow
degrees, an obliterating of her physique from its immaterial beauty.
Her form floated like the swaying of two great wings; a strong light
seemed to come from her thin face, where the soul was burning. She
could now come down from her chamber only in tottering steps, as she
supported herself by putting her two hands against the wall of the
stairway. But as soon as she realised she was being looked at, she
made a great effort, and even persisted in wishing to finish the panel
of heavy embroidery for the Bishop's seat. Her little, slender hands
had no more strength, and when she broke a needle she could not draw
it from the work with the pincers.

One morning, when Hubert and Hubertine had been obliged to go out, and
had left her alone at her work, the embroiderer, coming back first,
had found her on the floor near the frame, where she had fallen from
her chair after having fainted away. She had at last succumbed before
her task, one of the great golden angels being still unfinished.
Hubert took her in his arms, and tried to place her on her feet. But
she fell back again, and did not recover consciousness.

"My darling! My darling! Speak to me! Have pity on me!"

At last she opened her eyes and looked at him in despair. Why had he
wished her to come back to life! She would so gladly die!

"What is the matter with you, my dear child? Have you really deceived
us? Do you still love him?"

She made no answer, but simply looked at him with intense sadness.
Then he embraced her gently, took her in his arms, and carried her up
to her room. Having placed her upon her bed, when he saw how white and
frail she was he wept that he had had so cruel a task to perform as to
keep away from her the one whom she so loved.

"But I would have given him to you, my dear! Why did you say nothing
to me?"

She did not speak; her eyelids closed, and she appeared to fall
asleep. He remained standing, his looks fixed upon the thin, lily-
white countenance, his heart bleeding with pity. Then, as her
breathing had become quiet, he went downstairs, as he heard his wife
come in.

He explained everything to her in the working-room. Hubertine had just
taken off her hat and gloves, and he at once told her of his having
found the child on the floor in a dead faint, that she was now
sleeping on her bed, overcome with weakness, and almost lifeless.

"We have really been greatly mistaken. She thinks constantly of this
young man, and it is killing her by inches. Ah! if you knew what a
shock it gave me, and the remorse which has made me almost distracted,
since I have realised the truth of the case, and carried her upstairs
in so pitiable a state. It is our fault. We have separated them by
falsehoods, and I am not only ashamed, but so angry with myself it
makes me ill. But what? Will you let her suffer so, without saying
anything to save her?"

Still Hubertine was as silent as Angelique, and, pale from anxiety,
looked at him calmly and soothingly. But he, always an excitable man,
was now so overcome by what he had just seen that, forgetting his
usual submission, he was almost beside himself, could not keep still,
but threw his hands up and down in his feverish agitation.

"Very well, then! I will speak, and I will tell her that Felicien
loves her, and that it is we who have had the cruelty to prevent him
from returning, in deceiving him also. Now, every tear she sheds cuts
me to the heart. Were she to die, I should consider myself as having
been her murderer. I wish her to be happy. Yes! happy at any cost, no
matter how, but by all possible means."

He had approached his wife, and he dared to cry out in the revolt of
his tenderness, being doubly irritated by the sad silence she still
maintained.

"Since they love each other, it is they alone who should be masters of
the situation. There is surely nothing in the world greater than to
love and be loved. Yes, happiness is always legitimate."

At length Hubertine, standing motionless, spoke slowly:

"You are willing, then, that he should take her from us, are you not?
That he should marry her notwithstanding our opposition, and without
the consent of his father? Would you advise them to do so? Do you
think that they would be happy afterwards, and that love would suffice
them?"

And without changing her manner she continued in the same heart-broken
voice:

"On my way home I passed by the cemetery, and an undefinable hope made
me enter there again. I knelt once more on the spot that is worn by
our knees, and I prayed there for a long time."

Hubert had turned very pale, and a cold chill replaced the fever of a
few moments before. Certainly he knew well the tomb of the unforgiving
mother, where they had so often been in tears and in submission, as
they accused themselves of their disobedience, and besought the dead
to send them her pardon from the depths of the earth. They had
remained there for hours, sure that if the grace they demanded were
ever granted them they would be cognisant of it at once. That for
which they pleaded, that for which they hoped, was for another infant,
a child of pardon, the only sign which would assure them that at last
they themselves had been forgiven. But all was in vain. The cold, hard
mother was deaf to all their entreaties, and left them under the
inexorable punishment of the death of their firstborn, whom she had
taken and carried away, and whom she refused to restore to them.

"I prayed there for a long time," repeated Hubertine. "I listened
eagerly to know if there would not be some slight movement."

Hubert questioned her with an anxious look.

"But there was nothing--no! no sound came up to me from the earth, and
within me there was no feeling of relief. Ah! yes, it is useless to
hope any longer. It is too late. We brought about our own
unhappiness."

Then, trembling, he asked:

"Do you accuse me of it?"

"Yes, you are to blame, and I also did wrong in following you. We
disobeyed in the beginning, and all our life has been spoiled in
consequence of that one false step."

"But are you not happy?"

"No, I am not happy. A woman who has no child can never be happy. To
love merely is not enough. That love must be crowned and blest."

He had fallen into a chair, faint and overcome, as tears came to his
eyes. Never before had she reproached him for the ever-open wound
which marred their lives, and she who always after having grieved him
by an involuntary allusion to the past had quickly recovered herself
and consoled him, this time let him suffer, looking at him as she
stood near, but making no sign, taking no step towards him. He wept
bitterly, exclaiming in the midst of his tears:

"Ah! the dear child upstairs--it is she you condemn. You are not
willing that Felicien should marry her, as I married you, and that she
should suffer as you have done."

She answered simply by a look: a clear, affectionate glance, in which
he read the strength and simplicity of her heart.

"But you said yourself, my dear, that our sweet daughter would die of
grief if matters were not changed. Do you, then, wish for her death?"

"Yes. Her death now would be preferable to an unhappy life."

He left his seat, and clasped her in his arms as they both sobbed
bitterly. For some minutes they embraced each other. Then he conquered
himself, and she in her turn was obliged to lean upon his shoulder,
that he might comfort her and renew her courage. They were indeed
distressed, but were firm in their decision to keep perfectly silent,
and, if it were God's will that their child must die in consequence,
they must accept it submissively, rather than advise her to do wrong.

From that day Angelique was obliged to keep in her room. Her weakness
increased so rapidly and to such a degree that she could no longer go
down to the workroom. Did she attempt to walk, her head became dizzy
at once and her limbs bent under her. At first, by the aid of the
furniture, she was able to get to the balcony. Later, she was obliged
to content herself with going from her armchair to her bed. Even that
distance seemed long to her, and she only tried it in the morning and
evening, she was so exhausted.

However, she still worked, giving up the embroidery in bas-relief as
being too difficult, and simply making use of coloured silks. She
copied flowers after Nature, from a bunch of hydrangeas and
hollyhocks, which, having no odour, she could keep in her room. The
bouquet was in full bloom in a large vase, and often she would rest
for several minutes as she looked at it with pleasure, for even the
light silks were too heavy for her fingers. In two days she had made
one flower, which was fresh and bright as it shone upon the satin; but
this occupation was her life, and she would use her needle until her
last breath. Softened by suffering, emaciated by the inner fever that
was consuming her, she seemed now to be but a spirit, a pure and
beautiful flame that would soon be extinguished.

Why was it necessary to struggle any longer if Felicien did not love
her? Now she was dying with this conviction; not only had he no love
for her to-day, but perhaps he had never really cared for her. So long
as her strength lasted she had contended against her heart, her
health, and her youth, all of which urged her to go and join him. But
now that she was unable to move, she must resign herself and accept
her fate.

One morning, as Hubert placed her in her easy chair, and put a cushion
under her little, motionless feet, she said, with a smile:

"Ah! I am sure of being good now, and not trying to run away."

Hubert hastened to go downstairs, that she might not see his tears.

Chapter XV


It was impossible for Angelique to sleep that night. A nervous
wakefulness kept her burning eyelids from closing, and her extreme
weakness seemed greater than ever. The Huberts had gone to their room,
and at last, when it was near midnight, so great a fear came over her
that she would die if she were to remain longer in bed, she preferred
to get up, notwithstanding the immense effort required to do so.

She was almost stifled. Putting on a dressing-gown and warm slippers,
she crept along slowly as far as the window, which she opened wide.
The winter was somewhat rainy, but of a mild dampness; so the air was
pleasant to breathe. She sank back into her great armchair, after
having turned up the wick of a lamp which was on a table near her, and
which was always allowed to be kept burning during the entire night.
There, by the side of the volume of the "Golden Legend," was the
bouquet of hydrangeas and hollyhocks which she had begun to copy. That
she might once more attach herself to the life which she realised was
fast passing from her she had a sudden fancy to work, and drawing her
frame forward, she made a few stitches with her trembling fingers. The
red silk of the rose-tremiere seemed of a deeper hue than ever, in
contrast with her white hands: it was almost as if it were the blood
from her veins which was quietly flowing away drop by drop.

But she, who for two hours had turned in vain from side to side in the
burning bedclothes, yielded almost immediately to sleep as soon as she
was seated. Her head drooped a little toward her right shoulder, being
supported by the back of her chair, and the silk remaining in her
motionless hands, a looker-on would have thought she was still
embroidering. White as snow, perfectly calm, she slept under the light
of the lamp in the chamber, still and quiet as a tomb. The faded, rosy
draperies of the great royal couch were paler than ever in their shady
corner, and the gloom of the walls of the room was only relieved by
the great chest of drawers, the wardrobe, and the chairs of old carved
oak. Minutes passed; her slumber was deep and dreamless.

At last there was a slight sound, and Felicien suddenly appeared on
the balcony, pale, trembling, and, like herself, looking very worn and
thin, and his countenance distressed. When he saw her reclining in the
easy chair, pitiable and yet so beautiful to look at, he rushed at
once into the chamber, and his heart grew heavy with infinite grief as
he went forward, and, falling on his knees before her, gazed at her
with an expression of utter despair. Could it be that she was so
hopelessly ill? Was it unhappiness that had caused her to be so weak,
and to have wasted way to such a degree that she appeared to him light
as air while she lay there, like a feather which the slightest breath
would blow away? In her sleep, her suffering and her patient
resignation were clearly seen. He in fact would have known her only by
her lily-like grace, the delicate outlines of her neck, her drooping
shoulders, and her oval face, transfigured like that of a youthful
virgin mounting towards heaven. Her exquisite hair was now only a mass
of light, and her pure soul shone under the soft transparency of her
skin. She had all the ethereal beauty of the saints relieved from
their bodies. He was both dazzled and distressed; the violent shock
rendered him incapable of moving, and, with hands clasped, he remained
silent. She did not awake as he continued to watch her.

A little air from the half-closed lips of Felicien must have passed
across Angelique's face, as all at once she opened her great eyes. Yet
she did not start, but in her turn looked at him with a smile, as if
he were a vision. Yes, it was he! She recognised him well, although he
was greatly changed. But she did not think she was awake, for she
often saw him thus in her dreams, and her trouble was increased when,
rousing from her sleep, she realised the truth.

He held his hands out towards her and spoke:

"My dearest, I love you. I was told that you were ill, and came to you
immediately. Look at me! Here I am, and I love you."

She straightened herself up quickly. She shuddered, as with a
mechanical movement she passed her fingers over her eyes.

"Doubt no longer, then. See me at your feet, and realise that I love
you now, as I have ever done."

Then she exclaimed:

"Oh! is it you? I had given up expecting you, and yet you are here."

With her feeble, trembling hands, she had taken his, thus assuring
herself that he was not a fanciful vision of her sleep.

He continued:

"You have always loved me, and I love you for ever. Yes,
notwithstanding everything; and more deeply even than I should have
ever thought it possible to do."

It was an unhoped-for excess of happiness, and in this first minute of
absolute joy they forgot everything else in the world, giving
themselves up to the delightful certainty of their mutual affection,
and their ability to declare it. The sufferings of the past, the
obstacles of the future, had disappeared as if by magic. They did not
even think of asking how it was that they had thus come together. But
there they were, mingling their tears of joy together as they embraced
each other with the purest of feelings: he was overcome with pity that
she was so worn by grief and illness that she seemed like a mere
shadow in his arms. In the enchantment of her surprise she remained
half-paralysed, trembling from exhaustion, radiant with spiritual
beauty, as she lay back in her great easy chair, so physically weary
that she could not raise herself without falling again, but
intoxicated with this supreme contentment.

"Ah, dear Seigneur, my only remaining wish is gratified. I longed to
see you before death came."

He lifted up his head, as with a despairing movement, and said:

"Do not speak of dying. It shall not be. I am here, and I love you."

She smiled angelically.

"I am not afraid to die now that you have assured me of your
affection. The idea no longer terrifies me. I could easily fall asleep
in this way, while leaning on your shoulders. Tell me once more that
you love me."

"I love you as deeply to-day as I loved you yesterday, and as I will
love you on the morrow. Do not doubt it for one moment, for it is for
eternity! Oh, yes, we will love each other for ever and ever."

Angelique was enraptured, and with vague eyes looked directly before
her, as if seeing something beyond the cold whiteness of the chamber.
But evidently she aroused herself, as if just awaking from sleep. In
the midst of this great felicity which had appeased her, she had now
had time for reflection. The true facts of the case astonished her.

"You have loved me! Yet why did you not at once come to see me?"

"Your parents said that you cared for me no longer. I also nearly died
when learning that. At last, I was determined to know the whole truth,
and was sent away from the house, the door being absolutely closed
against me, and I was forbidden to return."

"Then they shut the door in your face? Yet my mother told me that you
did not love me, and I could but believe her, since having seen you
several times with that young lady, Mademoiselle Claire, I thought
naturally you were obeying your father."

"No. I was waiting. But it was cowardly on my part thus to tremble
before him. My great mistake has been to allow the matter to go so
far; for my duty was to have trusted only in you, to have insisted
upon seeing you personally, and to have acted with you."

There was a short silence. Angelique sat erect for an instant, as if
she had received a blow, and her expression grew cold and hard, and
her forehead was cut by an angry wrinkle.

"So we have both of us been deceived. Falsehoods have been told in
order to separate us from each other. Notwithstanding our mutual love,
we have been tortured to such a degree that they have almost killed us
both. Very well, then! It is abominable, and it frees us from the
promises we made. We are now at liberty to act as we will."

An intense feeling of contempt so excited her that she stood up on her
feet. She no longer realised that she was ill, but appeared to have
regained her strength miraculously in the reawakening of all the
passion and pride of her nature. To have thought her dream ended, and
all at once to have re-found it in its full beauty and vitality,
delighted her. To be able to say that they had done nothing unworthy
of their love, but that it was other persons who had been the guilty
ones, was a comfort. This growth of herself, this at last certain
triumph, exalted her and threw her into a supreme rebellion.

She simply said:

"Come, let us go."

And she walked around the room, brave in the return of her energy and
her will. She had already selected a mantle to throw over her
shoulders. A lace scarf would be sufficient for her head.

Felicien uttered one cry of joy as she thus anticipated his desire. He
had merely thought of this flight, but had not had the boldness to
dare propose it; and how delightful indeed it would be to go away
together, to disappear, and thus put an end to all cares, to overcome
all obstacles. The sooner it was done the better, for then they would
avoid having to contend with reflection or afterthought.

"Yes, darling, let us go immediately. I was coming to take you. I know
where we can find a carriage. Before daylight we will be far away: so
far that no one will ever be able to overtake us."

She opened her drawers, but closed them again violently, without
taking anything therefrom, as her excitement increased. Could it be
possible that she had suffered such torture for so many weeks! She had
done everything in her power to drive him from her mind, to try to
convince herself that he cared no more for her, until at last she
thought she had succeeded in doing so. But it was of no use, and all
this abominable work must be done over again. No! she could never have
strength sufficient for that. Since they loved each other, the
simplest thing in the world to do was to be married, and then no power
on earth could separate them.

"Let me see. What ought I to take? Oh! how foolish I have been with
all my childish scruples, when I think that others have lowered
themselves so much as even to tell us falsehoods! Yes! even were I to
have died, they would not have called you to me. But, tell me, must I
take linen and dresses? See, here is a warmer gown. What strange
ideas, what unnumbered obstacles, they put in my head. There was good
on one side and evil on the other: things which one might do, and
again that which one should never do; in short, such a complication of
matters, it was enough to make one wild. They were all falsehoods:
there was no truth in any of them. The only real happiness is to live
to love the one who loves you, and to obey the promptings of the
heart. You are the personification of fortune, of beauty, and of
youth, my dear Seigneur; my only pleasure is in you. I give myself to
you freely, and you may do with me what you wish."

She rejoiced in this breaking-out of all the hereditary tendencies of
her nature, which she thought had died within her. Sounds of distant
music excited her. She saw as it were their royal departure: this son
of a prince carrying her away as in a fairy-tale, and making her queen
of some imaginary realm; and she was ready to follow him with her arms
clasped around his neck, her head upon his breast, with such a
trembling from intense feeling that her whole body grew weak from
happiness. To be alone together, just they two, to abandon themselves
to the galloping of horses, to flee away, and to disappear in each
other's arms. What perfect bliss it would be!

"Is it not better for me to take nothing? What good would it do in
reality?"

He, partaking of her feverishness, was already at the door, as he
replied:

"No, no! Take nothing whatever. Let us go at once."

"Yes, let us go. That is the best thing to do."

And she rejoined him. But she turned round, wishing to give a last
look at the chamber. The lamp was burning with the same soft light,
the bouquet of hydrangeas and hollyhocks was blooming as ever, and in
her work-frame the unfinished rose, bright and natural as life, seemed
to be waiting for her. But the room itself especially affected her.
Never before had it seemed so white and pure to her; the walls, the
bed, the air even, appeared as if filled with a clear, white breath.

Something within her wavered, and she was obliged to lean heavily
against the back of a chair that was near her and not far from the
door.

"What is the matter?" asked Felicien anxiously.

She did not reply, but breathed with great difficulty. Then, seized
with a trembling, she could no longer bear her weight on her feet, but
was forced to sit down.

"Do not be anxious; it is nothing. I only want to rest for a minute
and then we will go."

They were silent. She continued to look round the room as if she had
forgotten some valuable object there, but could not tell what it was.
It was a regret, at first slight, but which rapidly increased and
filled her heart by degrees, until it almost stifled her. She could no
longer collect her thoughts. Was it this mass of whiteness that kept
her back? She had always adored white, even to such a degree as to
collect bits of silk and revel over them in secret.

"One moment, just one moment more, and we will go away, my dear
Seigneur."

But she did not even make an effort to rise. Very anxious, he again
knelt before her.

"Are you suffering, my dear? Cannot I do something to make you feel
better? If you are shivering because you are cold, I will take your
little feet in my hands, and will so warm them that they will grow
strong and be able to run."

She shook her head as she replied:

"No, no, I am not cold. I could walk. But please wait a little, just a
single minute."

He saw well that invisible chains seemed again to have taken
possession of her limbs, and, little by little, were attaching
themselves so strongly to her that very soon, perhaps, it would be
quite impossible for him to draw her away. Yet, if he did not take her
from there at once, if they did not flee together, he thought of the
inevitable contest with his father on the morrow, of the distressing
interview before which he had recoiled for weeks past. Then he became
pressing, and besought her most ardently.

"Come, dear, the highways are not light at this hour; the carriage
will bear us away in the darkness, and we will go on and on, cradled
in each other's arms, sleeping as if warmly covered with down, not
fearing the night's freshness; and when the day dawns we will continue
our route in the sunshine, as we go still farther on, until we reach
the country where people are always happy. No one will know us there;
we will live by ourselves, lost in some great garden, having no other
care than to love each other more deeply than ever at the coming of
each new day. We shall find flowers as large as trees, fruits sweeter
than honey. And we will live on nothing, for in the midst of this
eternal spring, dear soul, we will live on our kisses."

She trembled under these burning words, with which he heated her face,
and her whole being seemed to be fainting away at the representation
of these promised joys.

"Oh! in a few minutes I will be ready; but wait a little longer."

"Then, if journeying fatigues us, we will come back here. We will
rebuild the Chateau d'Hautecoeur, and we will pass the rest of our
lives there. That is my ideal dream. If it is necessary, we will spend
willingly all our fortune therein. Once more shall its donjon overlook
from its height the two valleys. We will make our home in the Pavilion
d'Honneur, between the Tower of David and the Tower of Charlemagne.
The colossal edifice shall be restored as in the days of its primitive
power: the galleries, the dwellings, the chapels, shall appear in the
same barbaric luxury as before. And I shall wish for us to lead the
life of olden times; you a princess and I a prince, surrounded by a
large company of armed vassals and of pages. Our walls of fifteen feet
of thickness will isolate us, and we shall be as our ancestors were,
of whom it is written in the Legend. When the sun goes down behind the
hills we will return from hunting, mounted on great white horses,
greeted respectfully by the peasants as they kneel before us. The horn
will resound in welcome, the drawbridge will be lowered for us. In the
evening, kings will dine at our table. At night, our couch will be on
a platform surmounted by a canopy like a throne. While we sleep
peacefully in purple and gold, soft music will be played in the
distance."

Quivering with pride and pleasure, she smiled now, but soon, overcome
by the great suffering that again took possession of her, her lips
assumed a mournful expression and the smile disappeared. As with a
mechanical movement of her hands she drove away the tempting pictures
he called forth, he redoubled his ardour, and wished to make her his
by seizing her and carrying her away in his arms.

"Come, dear. Come with me. Let us go, and forget everything but our
united happiness."

Disengaging herself brusquely, she escaped him, with an instinctive
rebellion, and trying to stand up, this cry came at last from her:

"No, no! I cannot go. I no longer have the power to do so."

However, again lamenting her fate, still torn by the contest in her
soul, hesitating and stammering, she again turned towards him
imploringly.

"I beg you to be good and not hurry me too much, but wait awhile. I
would so gladly obey you, in order to prove to you my love; I would
like above all to go away on your arm to that beautiful far-away
country, where we could live royally in the castle of your dreams. It
seems to me an easy thing to do, so often have I myself planned our
flight. Yet now, what shall I say to you? It appears to me quite an
impossibility; it is as if a door had suddenly been walled up between
us and prevented me from going out."

He wished to try to fascinate her again, but she quieted him with a
movement of her hands.

"No; do not say anything more. It is very singular, but in proportion
as you utter such sweet, such tender words, which ought to convince
me, fear takes possession of me and chills me to the heart. My God!
What is the matter with me? It is really that which you say which
drives me from you. If you continue, I can no longer listen to you;
you will be obliged to go away. Yet wait--wait a little longer!"

She walked very slowly about the room, anxiously seeking to resume her
self-control, while he looked at her in despair.

"I thought to have loved you no longer; but it was certainly only a
feeling of pique, since just now, as soon as I found you again at my
feet, my heart beat rapidly, and my first impulse was to follow you as
if I were your slave. Then, if I love you, why am I afraid of you?
What is it that prevents me from leaving this room, as if invisible
hands were holding me back by my whole body, and even by each hair of
my head?"

She had stopped near her bed; then she went as far as the wardrobe,
then to the different articles of furniture, one after the other. They
all seemed united to her person by invisible ties. Especially the
walls of the room, the grand whiteness of the mansard roof, enveloped
her with a robe of purity, that she could leave behind her only with
tears; and henceforth all this would be a part of her being; the
spirit of her surroundings had entered into her. And she realised this
fact stronger than ever when she found herself opposite her working-
frame, which was resting at the side of the table under the lamplight.
Her heart softened as she saw the half-made rose, which she would
never finish were she to go away in this secret, criminal manner. The
years of work were brought back to her mind: those quiet, happy years,
during which life had been one long experience of peace and honesty,
so that now she rebelled at the thought of committing a fault and of
thus fleeing in the arms of her lover. Each day in this little, fresh
house of the embroiderers, the active and pure life she had led there,
away from all worldly temptations, had, as it were, made over all the
blood in her veins.

Then Felicien, realising that in some inexplicable way Angelique was
being reconquered and brought to her better self, felt the necessity
of hastening their departure. He seized her hands and said:

"Come, dear. Time passes quickly. If we wait much longer it will be
too late."

She looked at him an instant, and then in a flash realised her true
position. Freeing herself from his grasp she exclaimed, resolutely and
frankly:

"It is already too late. You can see for yourself that I am unable now
to follow you. Once my nature was so proud and passionate that I could
have thrown my two arms around your neck in order that you might carry
me away all the more quickly. But now I am no longer the same person.
I am so changed that I do not recognise myself. Yes, I realise now
that it is this quiet corner where I have been brought up, and the
education that has been given me, that has made me what I am at
present. Do you then yourself hear nothing? Do you not know that
everything in this chamber calls upon me to stay? And I do not rebel
in the least against this demand, for my joy at last is to obey."

Without speaking, without attempting to discuss the question with her,
he tried to take her hands again, and to lead her like an intractable
child. Again she avoided him and turned slowly toward the window.

"No, I beseech you to leave me. It is not my hand that you wish for,
it is my heart; and also that, of my own free will, I shall at once go
away with you. But I tell you plainly that I do not wish to do so. A
while ago I thought to have been as eager for flight as you are. But
sure of my true self now, I know it was only the last rebellion, the
agony of the old nature within me, that has just died. Little by
little, without my knowledge, the good traits of my character have
been drawn together and strongly united: humility, duty, and
renunciation. So at each return of hereditary tendency to excess, the
struggle has been less severe, and I have triumphed over temptation
more easily. Now, at last, everything assures me that the supreme
contest has just taken place; that henceforth it is finished for ever.
I have conquered myself, and my nature is freed from the evil
tendencies it had. Ah! dear Seigneur, I love you so much! Do not let
us do the slightest thing to mar our happiness. To be happy it is
always necessary to submit."

As he took another step towards her, she was at the threshold of the
great window, which was now wide open on to the balcony. She had
stopped him with a half-smile as she said:

"You would not like to force me to throw myself down from here.
Listen, and understand me when I say to you that everything which
surrounds me is on my side. I have already told you that for a long
time objects themselves have spoken to me. I hear voices in all
directions, and never have they been so distinct as at this moment.
Hear! It is the whole Clos-Marie that encourages me not to spoil my
life and yours by giving myself to you without the consent of your
father. This singing voice is the Chevrotte, so clear and so fresh
that it seems to have put within me a purity like crystal since I have
lived so near it. This other voice, like that of a crowd, tender and
deep, it is that of the entire earth--the grasses, the trees, all the
peaceable life of this sacred corner which has so constantly worked
for the good of my soul.

"And there are other voices which come from still farther away, from
the elms of the garden of Monseigneur, and from this horizon of
branches, the smallest of which interests itself in me, and wishes for
me to be victorious.

"Then, again, this great, sovereign voice, it is that of my old
friend, the Cathedral, who, eternally awake, both day and night, has
taught me many important things. Each one of the stones in the immense
building, the little columns in the windows, the bell-towers of its
piers, the flying buttresses of its apse, all have a murmur which I
can distinguish, a language which I understand. Listen to what they
say: that hope remains even in death. When one is really humble, love
alone remains and triumphs. And at last, look! The air itself is
filled with the whisperings of spirits. See, here are my invisible
companions, the virgins, who are ever near me and aid me. Listen,
listen!"

Smiling, she had lifted up her hand with an air of the deepest
attention, and her whole being was in ecstasy from the scattered
breathings she heard. They were the virgins of the "Golden Legend"
that her imagination called forth, as in her early childhood, and
whose mystic flight came from the old book with its quaint pictures,
that was placed on the little table. Agnes was first, clothed with her
beautiful hair, having on her finger the ring of betrothal to the
Priest Paulin. Then all the others came in turn. Barbara with her
tower; Genevieve with her sheep; Cecilia with her viol; Agatha with
her wounded breast; Elizabeth begging on the highways, and Catherine
triumphing over the learned doctors. She did not forget the miracle
that made Lucy so heavy that a thousand men and five yoke of oxen
could not carry her away: nor the Governor who became blind as he
tried to embrace Anastasia. Then others who seemed flying through the
quiet night, still bearing marks of the wounds inflicted upon them by
their cruel martyrdom, and from which rivers of milk were flowing
instead of blood. Ah! to die from love like them, to die in the purity
of youth at the first kiss of a beloved one!

Felicien had approached her.

"I am the one person who really lives, Angelique, and you cannot give
me up for mere fancies."

"Dreams!--fancies!" she murmured.

"Yes; for if in reality these visions seem to surround you, it is
simply that you yourself have created them all. Come, dear; no longer
put a part of your life into objects about you, and they will be
quiet."

She gave way to a burst of enthusiastic feeling.

"Oh no! Let them speak. Let them call out louder still! They are my
strength; they give me the courage to resist you. It is a
manifestation of the Eternal Grace, and never has it overpowered me so
energetically as now. If it is but a dream, a dream which I have
placed in my surroundings, and which comes back to me at will, what of
it? It saves me, it carries me away spotless in the midst of dangers.
Listen yourself. Yield, and obey like me. I no longer have even a wish
to follow you."

In spite of her weakness, she made a great effort and stood up,
resolute and firm.

"But you have been deceived," he said. "Even falsehood has been
resorted to in order to separate us!"

"The faults of others will not excuse our own."

"Ah! You have withdrawn your heart from me, and you love me no
longer."

"I love you. I oppose you only on account of our love and for our
mutual happiness. Obtain the consent of your father; then come for me,
and I will follow you no matter where."

"My father! You do not know him. God only could ever make him yield.
Tell me, then, is this really to be the end of everything? If my
father orders me to marry Claire de Voincourt, must I in that case
obey him?"

At this last blow Angelique tottered. Was no torture to be spared her?
She could not restrain this heartbroken cry:

"Oh! that is too much! My sufferings are greater than I can bear. I
beseech you go away quickly and do not be so cruel. Why did you come
at all? I was resigned. I had learned to accept the misfortune of
being no longer loved by you. Yet the moment that I am reassured of
your affection, all my martyrdom recommences; and how can you expect
me to live now?"

Felicien, not aware of the depth of her despair, and thinking that she
had yielded simply to a momentary feeling, repeated his question:

"If my father wishes me to marry her----"

She struggled heroically against her intense suffering; she succeeded
in standing up, notwithstanding that her heart was crushed, and
dragging herself slowly towards the table, as if to make room for him
to pass her, she said:

"Marry her, for it is always necessary to obey."

In his turn he was now before the window, ready to take his departure,
because she had sent him away from her.

"But it will make you die if I do so."

She had regained her calmness, and, smiling sadly, she replied:

"Oh! that work is nearly done already."

For one moment more he looked at her, so pale, so thin, so wan; light
as a feather, to be carried away by the faintest breath. Then, with a
brusque movement of furious resolution, he disappeared in the night.

When he was no longer there, Angelique, leaning against the back of
her armchair, stretched her hands out in agony towards the darkness,
and her frail body was shaken by heavy sobs, and cold perspiration
came out upon her face and neck.

"My God!" This, then, was the end, and she would never see him again.
All her weakness and pain had come back to her. Her exhausted limbs no
longer supported her. It was with great difficulty that she could
regain her bed, upon which she fell helpless, but calm in spirit from
the assurance that she had done right.

The next morning they found her there, dying. The lamp had just gone
out of itself, at the dawn of day, and everything in the chamber was
of a triumphal whiteness.

Chapter XVI


Angelique was dying.

It was ten o'clock one cold morning towards the end of the winter, the
air was sharp, and the clear heavens were brightened up by the
beautiful sunshine. In her great royal bed, draped with its old,
faded, rose-coloured chintz, she lay motionless, having been
unconscious during the whole night. Stretched upon her back, her
little ivory-like hands carelessly thrown upon the sheet, she no
longer even opened her eyes, and her finely-cut profile looked more
delicate than ever under the golden halo of her hair; in fact, anyone
who had seen her would have thought her already dead, had it not been
for the slight breathing movement of her lips.

The day before, Angelique, realising that she was very ill, had
confessed, and partaken of the Communion. Towards three o'clock in the
afternoon the good Abbe Cornille had brought to her the sacred
_Viaticum_. Then in the evening, as the chill of death gradually crept
over her, a great desire came to her to receive the Extreme Unction,
that celestial remedy, instituted for the cure of both the soul and
body. Before losing consciousness, her last words, scarcely murmured,
were understood by Hubertine, as in hesitating sentences she expressed
her wish for the holy oils. "Yes--oh yes!--as quickly--as possible--
before it is too late."

But death advanced. They had waited until day, and the Abbe, having
been notified, was about to come.

Everything was now ready to receive the clergyman. The Huberts had
just finished arranging the room. Under the gay sunlight, which at
this early morning hour struck fully upon the window-panes, it looked
pure as the dawn in the nudity of its great white walls. The table had
been covered with a fresh damask cloth. At the right and the left of
the crucifix two large wax-tapers were burning in the silver
candelabrum which had been brought up from the parlour, and there were
also there the consecrated wafers, the asperges brush, an ewer of
water with its basin and a napkin, and two plates of white porcelain,
one of which was filled with long bits of cotton, and the other with
little _cornets_ of paper. The greenhouses of the lower town had been
thoroughly searched, but the only inodorous flowers that had been
found were the peonies--great white peonies, enormous tufts of which
adorned the table, like a shimmering of white lace. And in the midst
of this intense whiteness, Angelique, dying, with closed eyes, still
breathed gently with a half-perceptible breath.

The doctor, who had made his first morning visit, had said that she
could not live through the day. She might, indeed, pass away at any
moment, without even having come to her senses at all. The Huberts,
resolute and grave, waited in silent despair. Notwithstanding their
grief and tears, it was evidently necessary that this should be the
end. If they had ever wished for this death, preferring to lose their
dear child rather than to have her rebellious, it was evident that God
also wished it with them, and now, that in this last trying moment
they were quite powerless, they could only submit themselves to the
inevitable. They regretted nothing, although their sorrow seemed
greater than they could bear. Since she, their darling, had been
there, suffering from her long illness, they had taken the entire care
of her day and night, refusing all aid offered them from outside. They
were still there alone in this supreme hour, and they waited.

Hubert, scarcely knowing what he did, walked mechanically to the
porcelain stove, the door of which he opened, for the gentle roaring
of the flaming wood sounded to him like a plaintive moan; then there
was a perfect silence. The peonies seemed even to turn paler in the
soft heat of the room.

Hubertine, stronger than her husband, and still fully conscious of all
she did, listened to the sounds of the Cathedral as they came to her
from behind the walls. During the past moment the old stones had
vibrated from the swinging of the bell of the great tower. It must
certainly be the Abbe Cornille leaving the church with the sacred
oils, she thought; so she went downstairs, that she might receive him
at the door of the house.

Two minutes later, the narrow stairway of the little tower was filled
with a great murmuring sound. Then in the warm chamber, Hubert, struck
with astonishment, suddenly began to tremble, whilst a religious fear,
mingled with a faint hope, made him fall upon his knees. Instead of
the old clergyman whom they had expected, it was Monseigneur who
entered. Yes! Monseigneur, in lace surplice, having the violet stole,
and carrying the silver vessel in which was the oil for the sick,
which he himself had blessed on Holy Thursday. His eagle-like eyes
were fixed, as he looked straight before him; his beautiful pale face
was really majestic under the thick, curly masses of his white hair.
Behind him walked the Abbe Cornille, like a simple clerk, carrying in
one hand a crucifix, and under the other a book of ritual service.

Standing for a moment upon the threshold, the bishop said in a deep,
grave voice:

"_Pax huic domui_." ("Peace be to this house.")

"_Et omnibus habitantibus in ea_," replied the priest in a lower tone.
("And to all the inhabitants thereof.")

When they had entered, Hubertine, who had come up the stairs after
them, she also trembling from surprise and emotion, went and knelt by
the side of her husband. Both of them prostrated themselves most
humbly, and prayed fervently from the depths of their souls.

A few hours after his last visit to Angelique, Felicien had had the
terrible and dreaded explanation with his father. Early in the morning
of that same day he had found open the doors, he had penetrated even
into the Oratory, where the Bishop was still at prayer, after one of
those nights of frightful struggling against the memories of the past,
which would so constantly reappear before him. In the soul of this
hitherto always respectful son, until now kept submissive by fear,
rebellion against authority, so long a time stifled, suddenly broke
forth, and the collision of these two men of the same blood, with
natures equally prompt to violence, was intense. The old man had left
his devotional chair, and with cheeks growing purple by degrees, he
listened silently as he stood there in his proud obstinacy. The young
man, with face equally inflamed, poured out everything that was in his
heart, speaking in a voice that little by little grew louder and
rebuking. He said that Angelique was not only ill, but dying. He told
him that in a pressing moment of temptation, overcome by his deep
affection, he had wished to take her away with him that they might
flee together, and that she, with the submissive humility of a saint,
and chaste as a lily, had refused to accompany him. Would it not be a
most abominable murder to allow this obedient young girl to die,
because she had been unwilling to accept him unless when offered to
her by the hand of his father? She loved him so sincerely that she
could die for him. In fact, she could have had him, with his name and
his fortune, but she had said "No," and, triumphant over her feelings,
she had struggled with herself in order to do her duty. Now, after
such a proof of her goodness, could he permit her to suffer so much
grief? Like her, he would be willing to give up everything, to die
even, if it might be, and he realised that he was cowardly. He
despised himself for not being at her side, that they might pass out
of life together, by the same breath. Was it possible that anyone
could be so cruel as to wish to torment them, that they should both
have so sad a death, when one word, one simple word, would secure them
such bliss? Ah! the pride of name, the glory of wealth, persistence in
one's determination: all these were nothing in comparison to the fact
that by the union of two hearts the eternal happiness of two human
beings was assured. He joined his hands together, he twisted them
feverishly, quite beside himself as he demanded his father's consent,
still supplicating, already almost threatening. But the Bishop, with
face deeply flushed by the mounting of his blood, with swollen lips,
with flaming eyes, terrible in his unexpressed anger, at last opened
his mouth, only to reply by this word of parental authority: "Never!"

Then Felicien, absolutely raving in his rebellion, lost all control
over himself.

He spoke of his mother, he really threatened his father by the
remembrance of the dead. It was she who had come back again in the
shape of her son to vindicate and reclaim the right of affection.
Could it be that his father had never loved her? Had he even rejoiced
in her death, since he showed himself so harsh towards those who loved
each other, and who wished to live? But he might well do all he could
to become cold in the renunciations demanded by the Church; she would
come back to haunt and to torture him, because he was willing to
torture the child they had had, the living witness of their affection
for each other. She would always be there, so long as their son lived.
She wished to reappear in the children of their child for ever. And he
was causing her to die over again, by refusing to her son the
betrothed of his choice, the one through whom the race was to be
continued. When a man had once been married to a woman, he should
never think of wedding the Church. Face to face with his father, who,
motionless, appeared in his fearful silence to grow taller and taller,
he uttered unfilial, almost murderous words. Then, shocked at himself,
he rushed away, shuddering at the extent to which passion had carried
him.

When once more alone, Monseigneur, as if stabbed in the full breast by
a sharp weapon, turned back upon himself and struggled deeply with his
soul, as he knelt upon his prie-Dieu. A half-rattling sound came from
his throat. Oh! these frightful heart contests, these invincible
weaknesses of the flesh. This woman, and his beloved dead, who was
constantly coming back to life, he adored her now, as he did the first
evening when he kissed her white feet; and this son, he idolised him
as belonging to her, as a part of her life, which she had left to him.
And even the young girl, the little working girl whom he had repulsed,
he loved her also with a tenderness like that of his son for her. Now
his nights were inexpressibly agitated by all three. Without his
having been willing to acknowledge it, had she then touched him so
deeply as he saw her in the great Cathedral, this little embroiderer,
with her golden hair, her fresh pure neck, in all the perfume of her
youth? He saw her again; she passed before him, so delicate, so pure
in her victorious submission. No remorse could have come to him with a
step more certain or more conquering. He might reject her with a loud
voice. He knew well that henceforth she held him strongly by the heart
with her humble hands that bore the signs of work. Whilst Felicien was
so violently beseeching him, he seemed to see them both behind the
blonde head of the petitioner--these two idolised women, the one for
whom his son prayed, and the one who had died for her child. They were
there in all their physical beauty, in all their loving devotion, and
he could not tell where he had found strength to resist, so entirely
did his whole being go out towards them. Overcome, sobbing, not
knowing how he could again become calm, he demanded from Heaven the
courage to tear out his heart, since this heart belonged no longer to
God alone.

Until evening Monseigneur continued at prayer. When he at last
reappeared he was white as wax, distressed, anxious, but still
resolute. He could do nothing more, but he repeated to his son the
terrible word--"Never!" It was God alone who had the right to relieve
him from his promise; and God, although implored, gave him no sign of
change. It was necessary to suffer.

Some days had passed. Felicien constantly wandered round the little
house, wild with grief, eager for news. Each time that he saw anyone
come out he almost fainted from fear. Thus it happened that on the
morning when Hubertine ran to the church to ask for the sacred oils,
he learned that Angelique could not live through the day. The Abbe
Cornille was not at the Sacristy, and he rushed about the town to find
him, still having a last hope that through the intervention of the
good man some Divine aid might come. Then, as he brought back with him
the sought-for clergyman, his hope left him, and he had a frightful
attack of doubt and anger. What should he do? In what way could he
force Heaven to come to his assistance? He went away, hastened to the
Bishop's palace, the doors of which he again forced open, and before
his incoherent words his father was for a moment frightened. At last
he understood. Angelique was dying! She awaited the Extreme Unction,
and now God alone could save her. The young man had only come to cry
out all his agony, to break all relations with this cruel, unnatural
father, and to accuse him to his face of willingly allowing this
death. But Monseigneur listened to him without anger: upright and very
serious, his eyes suddenly brightened with a strange clearness, as if
an inner voice had spoken to him. Motioning to his son to lead the
way, he followed him, simply saying at last:

"If God wishes it, I also wish it."

Felicien trembled so that he could scarcely move. His father
consented, freed from his personal vow, to submit himself to the
goodwill of the hoped-for miracle. Henceforth they, as individuals,
counted for nothing. God must act for himself. Tears blinded him.
Whilst in the Sacristy Monseigneur took the sacred oils from the hands
of the Abbe Cornille. He accompanied them, almost staggering; he did
not dare to enter into the chamber, but fell upon his knees at the
threshold of the door, which was open wide.

The voice of the Bishop was firm, as he said:

"_Pax huic domui_."

"_Et omnibus habitantibus in ea_," the priest replied.

Monseigneur had just placed on the white table, between the two wax-
candles, the sacred oils, making in the air the sign of the cross,
with the silver vase. Then he took from the hands of the Abbe the
crucifix, and approached the sufferer that he might make her kiss it.
But Angelique was still unconscious: her eyes were closed, her mouth
shut, her hands rigid, and looking like the little stiff figures of
stone placed upon tombs. He examined her for a moment, and, seeing by
the slight movement of her chest that she was not dead, he placed upon
her lips the crucifix. He waited. His face preserved the majesty of a
minister of penitence, and no signs of emotion were visible when he
realised that not even a quivering had passed over the exquisite
profile of the young girl, nor in her beautiful hair. She still lived,
however, and that was sufficient for the redemption of her sins.

The Abbe then gave to Monseigneur the vessel of holy water and the
asperges brush, and while he held open before him the ritual book, he
threw the holy water upon the dying girl, as he read the Latin words,
_Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem
dealbabor_. ("Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, and I shall be
clean: thou shalt wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.")

The drops sprang forth in every direction, and the whole bed was
refreshed by them as if sprinkled with dew. It rained upon her hands
and upon her cheeks; but one by one the drops rolled away as if from
insensible marble. At last the Bishop turned towards the assistants
and sprinkled them in their turn. Hubert and Hubertine, kneeling side
by side, in the full union of their perfect faith, bent humbly under
the shower of this benediction. Then Monseigneur blessed also the
chamber, the furniture, the white walls in all their bare purity, and
as he passed near the door he found himself before his son, who had
fallen down on the threshold, and was sobbing violently, having
covered his face with his burning hands. With a slow movement, he
raised three times the asperges brush, and he purified him with a
gentle rain. This holy water, spread everywhere, was intended at first
to drive away all evil spirits, who were flying by crowds, although
invisible. Just at this moment a pale ray of the winter sun passed
over the bed, and a multitude of atoms, light specks of dust, seemed
to be living therein. They were innumerable as they came down from an
angle of the window, as if to bathe with their warmth the cold hands
of the dying.

Going again towards the table, Monseigneur repeated the prayer,
"_Exaudi nos_." ("Give ear to us.")

He made no haste. It was true that death was there, hovering near the
old, faded chintz curtains, but he knew that it was patient, and that
it would wait. And although in her state of utter prostration the
child could not hear him, he addressed her as he asked her:

"Is there nothing upon your conscience which distresses you? Confess
all your doubts and fears, my daughter; relieve your mind."

She was still in the same position, and she was always silent. When,
in vain, he had given time for a reply, he commenced the exhortation
with the same full voice, without appearing to notice that none of his
words reached her ear.

"Collect your thoughts, meditate, demand from the depths of your soul
pardon from God. The Sacrament will purify you, and will strengthen
you anew. Your eyes will become clear, your ears chaste, your nostrils
fresh, your mouth pure, your hands innocent."

With eyes fixed upon her, he continued reading to the end all that was
necessary for him to say; while she scarcely breathed, nor did one of
her closed eyelids move. Then he said:

"Recite the Creed."

And having waited awhile, he repeated it himself:

"_Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem_." ("I believe in one God,
the Father Almighty.")

"Amen," replied the Abbe Cornille.

All this time the heavy sobbing of Felicien was heard, as upon the
landing-place he wept in the enervation of hope. Hubert and Hubertine
still prayed fervently, with the same anxious waiting and desire, as
if they had felt descend upon them all the invisible powers of the
Unknown. A change now came in the service, from the murmur of half-
spoken prayers. Then the litanies of the ritual were unfolded, the
invocation to all the Saints, the flight of the Kyrie Eleison, calling
Heaven to the aid of miserable humanity, mounting each time with great
outbursts, like the fume of incense.

Then the voices suddenly fell, and there was a deep silence.
Monseigneur washed his fingers in the few drops of water that the Abbe
poured out from the ewer. At length he took the vessel of sacred oil,
opened the cover thereof, and placed himself before the bed. It was
the solemn approach of the Sacrament of this last religious ceremony,
by the efficacy of which are effaced all mortal or venial sins not
pardoned, which rest in the soul after having received the other
sacraments, old remains of forgotten sins, sins committed unwittingly,
sins of languor which prevented one from being firmly re-established
in the grace of God. The pure white chamber seemed to be like the
individuals collected therein, motionless, and in a state of surprise
and expectation. Where could all these sins be found? They must
certainly come from outside in this great band of sun's rays, filled
with dancing specks of dust, which appeared to bring germs of life
even to this great royal couch, so white and cold from the coming of
death to a pure young maiden.

Monseigneur meditated a moment, fixing his looks again upon Angelique,
assuring himself that the slight breath had not ceased, struggling
against all human emotion, as he saw how thin she was, with the beauty
of an archangel, already immaterial. His voice retained the authority
of a divine disinterestedness, and his thumb did not tremble when he
dipped it into the sacred oils as he commenced the unctions on the
five parts of the body where dwell the senses: the five windows by
which evil enters into the soul.

First upon the eyes, upon the closed eyelids, the right and then the
left; and slowly, lightly, he traced with his thumb the sign of the
Cross.

"_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum deliquisti_." ("By this holy
anointing and His gracious mercy, the Lord forgive whatever sins thou
hast committed through _seeing_.")

This formula is repeated with reference to the other senses--
    hearing, smell, taste, and touch.

And the sins of the sight were redeemed; lascivious looks, immodest
curiosity, the pride of spectacles, unwholesome readings, tears shed
for guilty troubles.

And she, dear child, knew no other book than the "Golden Legend," no
other horizon than the apse of the Cathedral, which hid from view all
the rest of the world. She had wept only in the struggle of obedience
and the renunciation of passion.

The Abbe Cornille wiped both her eyes with a bit of cotton, which he
afterwards put into one of the little cornets of paper.

Then Monseigneur anointed the ears, with their lobes as delicate and
transparent as pearl, first the right ear, afterwards the left,
scarcely moistened with the sign of the cross.

"_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per auditum deliquisti_."

So all the abominations of hearing were atoned for: all the words and
music which corrupt, the slanders, the calumnies, the blasphemies, the
sinful propositions listened to with complacency, the falsehoods of
love which aided the forgetfulness of duty, the profane songs which
excited the senses, the violins of the orchestra which, as it were,
wept voluptuously under the brilliant lights.

She in her isolated life, like that of a cloistered nun--she had never
even heard the free gossip of the neighbours, or the oath of a carman
as he whips his horses. The only music that had ever entered her ears
was that of the sacred hymns, the rumblings of the organs, the
confused murmurings of prayers, with which at times vibrated all this
fresh little house, so close to the side of the great church.

The Abbe, after having dried the ears with cotton, put that bit also
into one of the white cornets.

Monseigneur now passed to the nostrils, the right and then the left,
like two petals of a white rose, which he purified by touching them
with the sacred oil and making on them the sign of the cross.

"_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per odoratum deliquisti_."

And the sense of smell returned to its primitive innocence, cleansed
from all stain: not only from the carnal disgrace of perfumes, from
the seduction of flowers with breath too sweet, from the scattered
fragrances of the air which put the soul to sleep; but yet again from
the faults of the interior sense, the bad examples given to others,
and the contagious pestilence of scandal. Erect and pure, she had at
last become a lily among the lilies, a great lily whose perfume
fortified the weak and delighted the strong. In fact, she was so truly
delicate that she could never endure the powerful odour of carnations,
the musk of lilacs, the feverish sweetness of hyacinths, and was only
at ease with the scentless blossoms, like the marguerites and the
periwinkles.

Once more the Abbe, with the cotton, dried the anointed parts, and
slipped the little tuft into another of the cornets.

Then Monseigneur, descending to the closed mouth, through which the
faint breath was now scarcely perceptible, made upon the lower lip the
sign of the cross.

"_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per gustum deliquisti_."

This time it was the pardon for the base gratifications of taste,
greediness, too great a desire for wine, or for sweets; but especially
the forgiveness for sins of the tongue, that universally guilty
member, the provoker, the poisoner, the inventor of quarrels, the
inciter to wars, which makes one utter words of error and falsehood
which at length obscure even the heavens. Yet her whole mouth was only
a chalice of innocence. She had never had the vice of gluttony, for
she had taught herself, like Elizabeth, to eat whatever was set before
her, without paying great attention to her food. And if it were true
that she lived in error, it was the fault of her dream which had
placed her there, the hope of a beyond, the consolation of what was
invisible, and all the world of enchantment which her ignorance had
created and which had made of her a saint.

The Abbe having dried the lips, folded the bit of cotton in the fourth
white cornet.

At last Monseigneur anointed first the right and then the left palms
of the two little ivory-like hands, lying open upon the sheet, and
cleansed them from their sins with the sign of the cross.

"_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per tactum deliquisti_."

And the whole body was purified, being washed from its last spots--
those of the touch the most repugnant of all. Pilfering, fighting,
murder, without counting other sins of the breast, the body, and the
feet, which were also redeemed by this unction. All which burns in the
flesh, our anger, our desires, our unruled passions, the snares and
pitfalls into which we run, and all forbidden joys by which we are
tempted. Since she had been there, dying from her victory over
herself, she had conquered her few failings, her pride and her
passion, as if she had inherited original sin simply for the glory of
triumphing over it. She knew not, even, that she had had other wishes,
that love had drawn her towards disobedience, so armed was she with
the breastplate of ignorance of evil, so pure and white was her soul.

The Abbe wiped the little motionless hands, and putting the last puff
of cotton in the remaining cornet, he threw the five papers into the
fire at the back of the stove.

The ceremony was finished. Monseigneur washed his fingers before
saying the final prayer. He had now only to again exhort the dying, in
placing in her hand the symbolic taper, to drive away the demons, and
to show that she had just recovered her baptismal innocence. But she
remained rigid, her eyes closed, her mouth shut as if dead. The holy
oils had purified her body, the signs of the cross had left their
traces on the five windows of the soul, without making the slightest
wave of colour, or of life, mount to her cheeks.

Although implored and hoped for, the prodigy did not appear, and the
room was silent and anxious. Hubert and Hubertine, still kneeling side
by side, no longer prayed, but, with their eyes fixed upon their
darling, gazed so earnestly that they both seemed motionless for ever,
like the figures of the _donataires_ who await the Resurrection in a
corner of an old painted glass window. Felicien had drawn himself up
on his knees and was now at the door, having ceased from sobbing, as
with head erect he also might see if God would always remain deaf to
their prayers. Was it then a mere lure? Would not this holy Sacrament
bring her back to life?

For the last time Monseigneur approached the bed, followed by the Abbe
Cornille, who held, already lighted, the wax-taper which was to be
placed in the hand of the young girl. And the Bishop, not willing to
acknowledge the state of unconsciousness in which she remained,
determining to go even to the end of the rite, that God might have
time in which to work, pronounced the formula:--

"_Accipe lampadem ardentem, custodi unctionem tuam, ut cum Dominus ad
judicandum venerit, possis occurrere ei cum omnibus sanctis et vivas
in saecula saeculorum_." ("Receive this light, and keep the unction
thou hast received, that when the Lord shall come to judgment thou
mayest meet Him with all His saints, and live with Him for ever and
ever.")

"Amen," replied the Abbe.

But when they endeavoured to open Angelique's hand and to press it
round the taper, the hand, powerless, as if already dead, escaped them
and fell back upon her breast.

Then, little by little, Monseigneur yielded to a great nervous
trembling. It was the emotion which, for a long time restrained, now
broke out within him, carrying away with it the last rigidity of
priesthood. He dearly loved her, this child, from the day when she had
come to sob at his feet, so innocent, and showing so plainly the pure
freshness of her youth. Since then, in his nights of distress, he had
contended chiefly against her, to defend himself from the overwhelming
tenderness with which she inspired him. At this moment she was worthy
of pity, with this pallor of death, with an ethereal beauty which
showed, however, so deep a suffering that he could not look at her
without his heart being secretly overwhelmed with distress.

He could no longer control himself. His eyelids were swollen by the
great tears which at last rolled down his cheeks. She must not die in
this way: he was conquered by her touching charms even in death, and
all his paternal feelings went out towards her.

Then Monseigneur, recalling to mind the numerous miracles of his race,
the power which had been given them by Heaven to heal, thought that
doubtless God awaited his consent as a father. He invoked Saint Agnes,
before whom all his ancestors had offered up their devotions, and as
Jean V d'Hautecoeur prayed at the bedside of those smitten by the
plague and kissed them, so now he prayed and kissed Angelique upon her
lips.

"If God wishes, I also wish it."

Immediately Angelique opened her eyelids. She looked at the Bishop
without surprise as she awoke from her long trance, and, her lips
still warm from the kiss, smiled upon him. These things were not
strange to her, for they certainly must have been realised sooner or
later, and it might be that she was coming out of one dream only to
have another still; but it seemed to her perfectly natural that
Monseigneur should have come to betroth her to Felicien, since the
hour for that ceremony had arrived. In a few minutes, unaided, she sat
up in the middle of her great royal bed.

The Bishop, radiant, showing by his expression his clear appreciation
of the remarkable prodigy, repeated the formula:--

"_Accipe lampadem ardentem, custodi unctionem tuam, ut cum Dominus ad
judicandum venerit, possis occurrere ei cum omnibus sanctis et vivas
in saecula saeculorum_."

"Amen," replied the Abbe.

Angelique had taken the lighted taper, and held it up with a firm
hand. Life had come back to her, like the flame of the candle, which
was burning clear and bright, driving away the spirits of the night.

A great cry resounded through the room. Felicien was standing up, as
if raised by the power of the miracle, while the Huberts, overwhelmed
by the same feeling, remained upon their knees, with wonder-stricken
eyes, with delighted countenances, before that which they had seen.
The bed had appeared to them enveloped with a brilliant light; white
masses seemed still to be mounting up on the rays of the sunlight, and
the great walls, the whole room in fact, kept a white lustre, as that
of snow.

In the midst of all, Angelique, like a refreshed lily, replaced upon
its branch, appeared in the clear light. Her fine golden hair was like
a halo of glory around her head, her violet-coloured eyes shone
divinely, and her pure face beamed with a living splendour.

Felicien, seeing that she was saved, touched by the Divine grace that
Heaven had vouchsafed them, approached her, and knelt by the side of
the bed.

"Ah! dear soul, you recognise us now, and you will live. I am yours.
My father wishes it to be so, since God has desired it."

She bowed her head, smiling sweetly as she said, "Oh! I knew it must
be so, and waited for it. All that I have foreseen will come to pass."

Monseigneur, who had regained his usual proud serenity, placed the
crucifix once more on her lips, and this time she kissed it as a
submissive servant. Then, with a full movement of his hands, through
the room, above the heads of all present, the Bishop gave the final
benediction, while the Huberts and the Abbe Cornille wept.

Felicien had taken one of the little hands of Angelique, while in the
other little hand the taper of innocence burned bright and clear.

Chapter XVII


The marriage was fixed for the early part of March. But Angelique
remained very feeble, notwithstanding the joy which radiated from her
whole person. She had wished after the first week of her convalescence
to go down to the workroom, persisting in her determination to finish
the panel of embroidery in bas-relief which was to be used for the
Bishop's chair.

"It would be," she said cheerfully, "her last, best piece of work; and
besides, no one ever leaves," she added, "an order only half-
completed."

Then exhausted by the effort, she was again forced to keep her
chamber. She lived there, happy and smiling, without regaining the
full health of former times, always white and immaterial as the sacred
sacramental oils; going and coming with a gentle step like that of a
vision, and after having occasionally made the exertion of walking as
far as from her table to the window, finding herself obliged to rest
quietly for hours and give herself up to her sweet thoughts. At length
they deferred the wedding-day, thinking it better to wait for her
complete recovery, which must certainly come if she were well nursed
and cared for.

Every afternoon Felicien went up to see her. Hubert and Hubertine were
there, and they passed together most delightful hours, during which
they continually made and re-made the same bright projects. Seated in
her great chair she laughed gaily, seemed trembling with life and
vivacity, as she was the first to talk of the days which would be so
well filled when together they could take long journeys; and of all
the unknown joys that would come to them after they had restored the
old Chateau d'Hautecoeur. Anyone, to have seen her then, would have
considered her saved and regaining her strength in the backward
spring, the air of which, growing warmer and warmer daily, entered by
the open window. In fact, she never fell back into the deep gravities
of her dreams, except when she was entirely alone and was not afraid
of being seen. In the night, voices still appeared to be near her:
then it seemed as if the earth were calling to her; and at last the
truth was clearly revealed to her, so that she fully understood that
the miracle was being continued only for the realisation of her dream.
Was she not already dead, having simply the appearance of living,
thanks to the respite which had been granted her from Divine Grace?
This idea soothed her with deep gentleness in her hours of solitude,
and she did not feel a moment's regret at the thought of being called
away from life in the midst of her happiness, so certain was she of
always realising to its fullest extent her anticipated joy. The
cheerfulness she had hitherto shown became simply a little more
serious; she abandoned herself to it quietly, forgetting her physical
weakness as she indulged in the pure delights of fancy. It was only
when she heard the Huberts open the door, or when Felicien came to see
her, that she was able to sit upright, to bring her thoughts back to
her surroundings, and to appear as if she were regaining her health,
laughing pleasantly while she talked of their years of happy
housekeeping far away, in the days to come.

Towards the end of March Angelique grew very restless and much weaker.
Twice, when by herself, she had long fainting fits. One morning she
fell at the foot of her bed, just as Hubert was bringing her up a cup
of milk; by a great effort of will she conquered herself, and, that
she might deceive him, she remained on the floor and smiled, as she
pretended to be looking for a needle that had been dropped. The
following day she was gayer than usual, and proposed hastening the
marriage, suggesting that at all events it should not be put off any
later than the middle of April. All the others exclaimed at this idea,
asking if it would not be advisable to wait awhile, since she was
still so delicate. There was no need of being in such a hurry. She,
however, seemed feverishly nervous, and insisted that the ceremony
should take place immediately--yes, as soon as possible. Hubertine,
surprised at the request, having a suspicion as to the true motive of
this eagerness, looked at her earnestly for a moment, and turned very
pale as she realised how slight was the cold breath which still
attached her daughter to life. The dear invalid had already grown
calm, in her tender need of consoling others and keeping them under an
illusion, although she knew personally that her case was hopeless.
Hubert and Felicien, in continual adoration before their idol, had
neither seen nor felt anything unusual. Then Angelique, exerting
herself almost supernaturally, rose up, and was more charming than
ever, as she slowly moved back and forth with the light step of former
days. She continued to speak of her wish, saying if it were granted
she would be so happy, and that after the wedding she would certainly
be cured. Moreover, the question should be left to Monseigneur; he
alone should decide it. That same evening, when the Bishop was there,
she explained her desire to him, fixing her eyes on his, regarding him
steadily and beseechingly, and speaking in her sweet, earnest voice,
under which there was hidden an ardent supplication, unexpressed in
words. Monseigneur realised it, and understood the truth, and he
appointed a day in the middle of April for the ceremony.

Then they lived in great commotion from the necessary bustle attendant
upon the preparations for the marriage. Notwithstanding his official
position as guardian, Hubert was obliged to ask permission, or rather
the consent of the Director of Public Assistance, who always
represented the family council, Angelique not yet being of age; and
Monsieur Grandsire, the Justice of the Peace, was charged with all
legal details, in order to avoid as much as possible the painful side
of the position to the young girl and to Felicien. But the dear child,
realising that something was being kept back, asked one day to have
her little book brought up to her, wishing to put it herself into the
hands of her betrothed. She was now, and would henceforth remain, in a
state of such sincere humility that she wished him to know thoroughly
from what a low position he had drawn her, to elevate her to the glory
of his well-honoured name and his great fortune. These were her
parchments, her titles to nobility; her position was explained by this
official document, this entry on the calendar where there was only a
date followed by a number. She turned over all the leaves once more,
then gave it to him without being confused, happy in thinking that in
herself she was nothing, but that she owed everything to him. So
deeply touched was he by this act, that he knelt down, kissed her
hands while tears came to his eyes, as if it were she who had made him
the one gift, the royal gift of her heart.

For two weeks the preparations occupied all Beaumont, both the upper
and the lower town being in a state of great excitement therefrom. It
was said that twenty working-girls were engaged day and night upon the
trousseau. The wedding-dress alone required three persons to make it,
and there was to be a _corbeille_, or present from the bridegroom, to
the value of a million of francs: a fluttering of laces, of velvets,
of silks and satins, a flood of precious stones--diamonds worthy a
Queen. But that which excited the people more than all else was the
great amount given in charity, the bride having wished to distribute
to the poor as much as she had received herself. So another million
was showered down upon the country in a rain of gold. At length she
was able to gratify all her old longings of benevolence, all the
prodigalities of her most exaggerated dreams, as with open hands she
let fall upon the wretched and needy a stream of riches, an overflow
of comforts. In her little, white, bare chamber, confined to her old
armchair, she laughed with delight when the Abbe Cornille brought to
her the list of the distributions he had made. "Give more! Give more!"
she cried, as it seemed to her as if not enough were done. She would,
in reality, have liked to have seen the Pere Mascart seated for ever
at a table before a princely banquet; the Chouteaux living in palatial
luxury; the _mere_ Gabet cured of her rheumatism, and by the aid of
money to have renewed her youth. As for the Lemballeuse, the mother
and daughters, she absolutely wished to load them with silk dresses
and jewellery. The hail of golden pieces redoubled over the town as in
fairy-tales, far beyond the daily necessities, as if merely for the
beauty and joy of seeing the triumphal golden glory, thrown from full
hands, falling into the street and glittering in the great sunlight of
charity.

At last, on the eve of the happy day, everything was in readiness.
Felicien had bought a large house on the Rue Magloire, at the back of
the Bishop's palace, which had been fitted up and furnished most
luxuriously. There were great rooms hung with admirable tapestries,
filled with the most beautiful articles imaginable; a salon in old,
rare pieces of hand embroidery; a boudoir in blue, soft as the early
morning sky; and a sleeping-room, which was particularly attractive: a
perfect little corner of white silk and lace--nothing, in short, but
white, airy, and light--an exquisite shimmering of purity. But
Angelique had constantly refused to go to see all these wonderful
things, although a carriage was always ready to convey her there. She
listened to the recital of that which had been done with an enchanted
smile, but she gave no orders, and did not appear to wish to occupy
herself with any of the arrangements. "No, no," she said, for all
these things seemed so far away in the unknown of that vast world of
which she was as yet totally ignorant. Since those who loved her had
prepared for her so tenderly this happiness, she desired to partake
thereof, and to enter therein like a princess coming from some
chimerical country, who approaches the real kingdom where she is to
reign for ever. In the same way she preferred to know nothing, except
by hearsay, of the _corbeille_, which also was waiting for her--a
superb gift from her betrothed, the wedding outfit of fine linen,
embroidered with her cipher as marchioness, the full-dress costumes
tastefully trimmed, the old family jewels valuable as the richest
treasures of a cathedral, and the modern jewels in their marvellous
yet delicate mountings, precious stones of every kind, and diamonds of
the purest water. It was sufficient to her that her dream had come to
pass, and that this good future awaited her in her new home, radiant
in the reality of the new life that was opening before her. The only
thing she saw was her wedding-dress, which was brought to her on the
marriage morning.

That day, when she awoke, Angelique, still alone, had in her great bed
a moment of intense exhaustion, and feared that she would not be able
to get up at all. She attempted to do so, but her knees bent under
her; and in contrast to the brave serenity she had shown for weeks
past, a fearful anguish, the last, perhaps, took utter possession of
her. Then, as in a few minutes Hubertine came into the room, looking
unusually happy, she was surprised to find that she could really walk,
for she certainly did not do so from her own strength, but aid came to
her from the Invisible, and friendly hands sustained and carried her.
They dressed her; she no longer seemed to weigh anything, but was so
slight and frail that her mother was astonished, and laughingly begged
her not to move any more if she did not wish to fly quite away. During
all the time of preparing her toilette, the little fresh house of the
Huberts, so close to the side of the Cathedral, trembled under the
great breath of the Giant, of that which already was humming therein,
of the preparations for the ceremony, the nervous activity of the
clergy, and especially the ringing of the bells, a continuous peal of
joy, with which the old stones were vibrating.

In the upper town, for over an hour there had been a glorious chiming
of bells, as on the greatest holy days. The sun had risen in all its
beauty, and on this limpid April morning a flood of spring rays seemed
living with the sonorous peals which had called together all the
inhabitants of the place. The whole of Beaumont was in a state of
rejoicing on account of the marriage of this little embroiderer, to
whom their hearts were so deeply attached, and they were touched by
the fact of her royal good fortune. This bright sunlight, which
penetrated all the streets, was like the golden rain, the gifts of
fairy-tales, rolling out from her delicate hands. Under this joyful
light, the multitude crowded in masses towards the Cathedral, filling
the side-aisles of the church, and coming out on to the Place du
Cloitre. There the great front of the building rose up, like a huge
bouquet of stone, in full blossom, of the most ornamental Gothic,
above the severe Romanesque of the foundation. In the tower the bells
still rung, and the whole facade seemed to be like a glorification of
these nuptials, expressive of the flight of this poor girl through all
the wonders of the miracle, as it darted up and flamed, with its open
lace-work ornamentations, the lily-like efflorescence of its little
columns, its balustrades, and its arches, the niches of saints
surmounted with canopies, the gable ends hollowed out in trefoil
points, adorned with crossettes and flowers, immense rose-windows
opening out in the mystic radiation of their mullions.

At ten o'clock the organs pealed. Angelique and Felicien were there,
walking with slow steps towards the high altar, between the closely-
pressed ranks of the crowd. A breath of sincere, touching admiration
came from every side. He, deeply moved, passed along proud and
serious, with his blonde beauty of a young god appearing slighter than
ever from his closely-fitting black dress-coat. But she, above all,
struck the hearts of the spectators, so exquisite was she, so divinely
beautiful with a mystic, spiritual charm. Her dress was of white
watered silk, simply covered with rare old Mechlin lace, which was
held by pearls, a whole setting of them designing the ruches of the
waist and the ruffles of the skirt. A veil of old English point was
fastened to her head by a triple crown of pearls, and falling to her
feet, quite covered her. That was all--not a flower, not a jewel,
nothing but this slight vision, this delicate, trembling cloud, which
seemed to have placed her sweet little face between two white wings,
like that of the Virgin of the painted glass window, with her violet
eyes and her golden hair.

Two armchairs, covered with crimson velvet, had been placed for
Felicien and Angelique before the altar; and directly behind them,
while the organs increased their phrases of welcome, Hubert and
Hubertine knelt on the low benches which were destined for the family.
The day before an intense joy had come to them, from the effects of
which they had not yet recovered, and they were incapable of
expressing their deep, heartfelt thanks for their own happiness, which
was so closely connected with that of their daughter. Hubertine,
having gone once more to the cemetery, saddened by the thought of
their loneliness, and the little house, which would seem so empty
after the departure of the dearly-beloved child, had prayed to her
mother for a long time; when suddenly she felt within her an
inexplicable relief and gladness, which convinced her that at last her
petition had been granted. From the depths of the earth, after more
than twenty years, the obstinate mother had forgiven them, and sent
them the child of pardon so ardently desired and longed for. Was this
the recompense of their charity towards the poor forlorn little
creature whom they had found one snowy day at the Cathedral entrance,
and who to-day was to wed a prince with all the show and pomp of the
greatest ceremony? They remained on their knees, without praying in
formulated words, enraptured with gratitude, their whole souls
overflowing with an excess of infinite thanksgiving. And on the other
side of the nave, seated on his high, official throne, Monseigneur was
also one of the family group. He seemed filled with the majesty of the
God whom he represented; he was resplendent in the glory of his sacred
vestments, and the expression of his countenance was that of a proud
serenity, as if he were entirely freed from all worldly passions.
Above his head, on the panel of wonderful embroidery, were two angels
supporting the brilliant coat of arms of Hautecoeur.

Then the solemn service began. All the clergy connected with the
cathedral were present to do honour to their Bishop, and priests had
come from the different parishes to assist them. Among the crowd of
white surplices which seemed to overflow the grating, shone the golden
capes of the choristers, and the red robes of the singing-boys. The
almost eternal night of the side-aisles, crushed down by the weight of
the heavy Romanesque chapels, was this morning slightly brightened by
the limpid April sunlight, which struck the painted glass of the
windows so that they seemed to be a burning of gems, a sacred bursting
into blossom of luminous flowers. But the background of the nave
particularly blazed with a swarming of wax-tapers, tapers as
innumerable as the stars of evening in a summer sky. In the centre,
the high altar seemed on fire from them, a true "burning bush,"
symbolic of the flame that consumes souls; and there were also candles
in large candelabra and in chandeliers, while before the plighted
couple, two enormous lustres with round branches looked like two suns.
About them was a garden of masses of green plants and of living
blossoms, where were in flower great tufts of white azaleas, of white
camellias, and of lilacs. Away to the back of the apse sparkled bits
of gold and silver, half-seen skirts of velvet and of silk, a distant
dazzling of the tabernacle among the sombre surroundings of green
verdure. Above all this burning the nave sprang out, and the four
enormous pillars of the transept mounted upward to support the arched
vaulting, in the trembling movement of these myriads of little flames,
which almost seemed to pale at times in the full daylight which
entered by the high Gothic windows.

Angelique had wished to be married by the good Abbe Cornille, and when
she saw him come forward in his surplice, and with the white stole,
followed by two clerks, she smiled. This was at last the triumphant
realisation of her dream--she was wedding fortune, beauty, and power
far beyond her wildest hopes. The church itself was singing by the
organs, radiant with its wax-tapers, and alive with the crowd of
believers and priests, whom she knew to be around her on every side.
Never had the old building been more brilliant or filled with a more
regal pomp, enlarged as it were in its holy, sacred luxury, by an
expansion of happiness. Angelique smiled again in the full knowledge
that death was at her heart, celebrating its victory over her, in the
midst of this glorious joy. In entering the Cathedral she had glanced
at the Chapel d'Hautecoeur, where slept Laurette and Balbine, the
"Happy Dead," who passed away when very young, in the full happiness
of their love. At this last hour she was indeed perfect. Victorious
over herself, reclaimed, renewed, having no longer any feeling of
passion or of pride at her triumph, resigned at the knowledge that her
life was fast leaving her, in this beautiful Hosanna of her great
friend, the blessed old church. When she fell upon her knees, it was
as a most humble, most submissive servant, entirely free from the
stain of original sin; and in her renunciation she was thoroughly
content.

The Abbe Cornille, having mounted to the altar, had just come down
again. In a loud voice he made the exhortation; he cited as an example
the marriage which Jesus had contracted with the Church; he spoke of
the future, of days to come when they would live and govern themselves
in the true faith; of children whom they must bring up as Christians;
and then, once more, in face of this hope, Angelique again smiled
sweetly, while Felicien trembled at the idea of all this happiness,
which he believed to be assured. Then came the consecrated demands of
the ritual, the replies which united them together for their entire
existence, the decisive "Yes"--which she pronounced in a voice filled
with emotion from the depths of her heart, and which he said in a much
louder tone, and with a tender earnestness. The irrevocable step was
taken, the clergyman had placed their right hands together, one
clasping the other, as he repeated the prescribed formula: "I unite
you in matrimony, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of
the holy Ghost." But there were still rings to be blessed, the symbols
of inviolable fidelity, and of the eternity of the union, which is
lasting. In the silver basin, above the rings of gold, the priest
shook back and forth the asperges brush, and making the sign of the
Cross over each one, said, "Bless, O Lord, this ring."

Then he presented them to the young couple, to testify to them that
the Church sanctified their union; that for the husband henceforth his
heart was sealed, and no other woman could ever enter therein; and the
husband was to place the ring upon his wife's finger in order to show
her, in his turn, that henceforth he alone among all men existed for
her. This was the strict union, without end, the sign of her
dependence upon him, which would recall to her constantly the vows she
had made; it was also the promise of a long series of years, to be
passed together, as if by this little circle of gold they were
attached to each other even to the grave.

And while the priest, after the final prayers, exhorted them once
more, Angelique wore always the sweet expression of renunciation; she,
the pure soul, who knew the truth.

Then, as the Abbe Cornille withdrew, accompanied by his clerks, the
organs again burst forth with peals of joy. Monseigneur, motionless
until now, bent towards the young couple with an expression of great
mildness in his eagle-like eyes. Still on their knees, the Huberts
lifted their heads, blinded by their tears of joy. And the enormous
depths of the organs' peals rolled and lost themselves by degrees in a
hail of little sharp notes, which were swept away under the high
arches, like the morning song of the lark. There was a long waving
movement, a half-hushed sound amongst the reverential crowd, who
filled to overflowing even the side-aisles and the nave. The church,
decorated with flowers, glittering with the taper lights, seemed
beaming with joy from the Sacrament.

Then there were nearly two hours more of solemn pomp; the Mass being
sung and the incense being burnt.

The officiating clergyman had appeared, dressed in his white chasuble,
accompanied by the director of the ceremonies, two censer-bearers
carrying the censer and the vase of incense, and two acolytes bearing
the great golden candlesticks, in which were lighted tapers.

The presence of Monseigneur complicated the rites, the salutations,
and the kisses. Every moment there were bowings, or bendings of the
knee, which kept the wings of the surplices in constant motion. In the
old stalls, with their backs of carved wood, the whole chapter of
canons rose; and then again, at other times it was as if a breath from
heaven prostrated at once the clergy, by whom the whole apse was
filled. The officiating priest chanted at the altar. When he had
finished, he went to one side, and took his seat while the choir in
its turn for a long time continued the solemn phrases of the services
in the fine, clear notes of the young choristers, light and delicate
as the flutes of archangels. Among these voices was a very beautiful
one, unusually pure and crystalline, that of a young girl, and most
delicious to hear. It was said to be that of Mademoiselle Claire de
Voincourt, who had wished and obtained permission to sing at this
marriage, which had been so wonderfully secured by a miracle. The
organ which accompanied her appeared to sigh in a softened manner,
with the peaceful calm of a soul at ease and perfectly happy.

There were occasionally short spells of silence. Then the music burst
out again with formidable rollings, while the master of the ceremonies
summoned the acolytes with their chandeliers, and conducted the
censer-bearers to the officiating clergyman, who blessed the incenses
in the vases. Now there was constantly heard the movements of the
censer, with the silvery sound of the little chains as they swung back
and forth in the clear light. There was in the air a bluish, sweet-
scented cloud, as they incensed the Bishop, the clergy, the altar, the
Gospel, each person and each thing in its turn, even the close crowd
of people, making the three movements, to the right, to the left, and
in front, to mark the Cross.

In the meantime Angelique and Felicien, on their knees, listened
devoutly to the Mass, which is significant of the mysterious
consummation of the marriage of Jesus and the Church. There had been
given into the hands of each a lighted candle, symbol of the purity
preserved since their baptism. After the Lord's Prayer they had
remained under the veil, which is a sign of submission, of
bashfulness, and of modesty; and during this time the priest, standing
at the right-hand side of the altar, read the prescribed prayers. They
still held the lighted tapers, which serve also as a sign of
remembrance of death, even in the joy of a happy marriage. And now it
was finished, the offering was made, the officiating clergyman went
away, accompanied by the director of the ceremonies, the incense-
bearers, and the acolytes, after having prayed God to bless the newly-
wedded couple, in order that they might live to see and multiply their
children, even to the third and fourth generation.

At this moment the entire Cathedral seemed living and exulting with
joy. The March Triumphal was being played upon the organs with such
thunder-like peals that they made the old edifice fairly tremble. The
entire crowd of people now rose, quite excited, and straining
themselves to see everything; women even mounted on the chairs, and
there were closely-pressed rows of heads as far back as the dark
chapels of the outer side-aisles. In this vast multitude every face
was smiling, every heart beat with sympathetic joy. In this final
adieu the thousands of tapers appeared to burn still higher,
stretching out their flames like tongues of fire, vacillating under
the vaulted arches. A last Hosanna from the clergy rose up through the
flowers and the verdure in the midst of the luxury of the ornaments
and the sacred vessels. But suddenly the great portal under the organs
was opened wide, and the sombre walls of the church were marked as if
by great sheets of daylight. It was the clear April morning, the
living sun of the spring-tide, the Place du Cloitre, which was now
seen with its tidy-looking, white houses; and there another crowd,
still more numerous, awaited the coming of the bride and bridegroom,
with a more impatient eagerness, which already showed itself by
gestures and acclamations. The candles had grown paler, and the noises
of the street were drowned in the music of the organs.

With a slow step, between the double hedge of the worshippers,
Angelique and Felicien turned towards the entrance-door. After the
triumphant carrying out of her dream, she was now about to enter into
the reality of life. This porch of broad sunlight opened into the
world of which as yet she was entirely ignorant. She retarded her
steps as she looked earnestly at the rows of houses, at the tumultuous
crowd, at all which greeted and acclaimed her. Her weakness was so
intense that her husband was obliged to almost carry her. However, she
was still able to look pleased, as she thought of the princely house,
filled with jewels and with queenly toilettes, where the nuptial
chamber awaited her, all decorated with white silk and lace. Almost
suffocated, she was obliged to stop when halfway down the aisle; then
she had sufficient strength to take a few steps more. She glanced at
her wedding ring, so recently placed upon her finger, and smiled at
this sign of eternal union. Then, on the threshold of the great door,
at the top of the steps which went down into the Place du Cloitre, she
tottered. Had she not really arrived at the summit of her happiness?
Was not it there that the joy of her life, being perfected, was to
end? With a last effort she raised herself as much as possible, that
she might put her lips upon the lips of Felicien. And in that kiss of
love she passed away for ever.

But her death was without sadness. Monseigneur, with his habitual
movement of pastoral benediction, aided this pure soul to free itself
from the frail body. He had regained his calmness, and had once more
found in the fulfillment of his sacred calling the desired-for peace.

The Huberts, unconscious of what had taken place, were still kneeling,
grateful for the pardon at last granted them, and feeling as if
re-entering into existence. For them, as well as for their beloved
daughter, the dream was accomplished. All the Cathedral and the whole
town were _en fete_. The organs sounded louder than ever; the bells
pealed joyously; the multitude waited to greet the loving couple on
the threshold of the mystic church under the glorious spring sunlight.

It was indeed a beautiful death. Angelique, happy and pure, carried
away suddenly at the moment of the realisation of her fondest dream,
taken into the heavenly life from the dark Romanesque chapels with the
flamboyant, Gothic-vaulted ceiling, from among the gilded decorations
and paintings of ancient times, in the full Paradise of Golden
Legends. What more could she have asked for?

Felicien held in his arms simply a soft and tender form, from which
life had departed; this bridal robe of lace and pearls seemed like the
light wings of a bird, still warm to the touch. For a long time he had
well known that he could claim but a shadow. The exquisite vision that
came from the Invisible had returned to the Invisible.

It was merely a semblance, which effaced itself; the vanishing of an
illusion.

Everything is only a dream.

And so, at the moment of supreme earthly happiness, Angelique had
disappeared in the slight breath of a loving kiss.

 


 Let me have men about me that are fat:
  Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights:
  Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
  He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
      Shakespeare: /Julius Caesar/, act i, sc. 2.




Introduction


"The Fat and the Thin," or, to use the French title, "Le Ventre de
Paris," is a story of life in and around those vast Central Markets
which form a distinctive feature of modern Paris. Even the reader who
has never crossed the Channel must have heard of the Parisian
/Halles/, for much has been written about them, not only in English
books on the French metropolis, but also in English newspapers,
magazines, and reviews; so that few, I fancy, will commence the
perusal of the present volume without having, at all events, some
knowledge of its subject matter.

The Paris markets form such a world of their own, and teem at certain
hours of the day and night with such exuberance of life, that it was
only natural they should attract the attention of a novelist like M.
Zola, who, to use his own words, delights "in any subject in which
vast masses of people can be shown in motion." Mr. Sherard tells us

that the idea of "Le Ventre de Paris" first occurred to M. Zola in
1872, when he used continually to take his friend Paul Alexis for a
ramble through the Halles. I have in my possession, however, an
article written by M. Zola some five or six years before that time,
and in this one can already detect the germ of the present work; just
as the motif of another of M. Zola's novels, "La Joie de Vivre," can
be traced to a short story written for a Russian review.

/Emile Zola: a Biographical and Critical Study/, by Robert
    Harborough Sherard, pp. 103, 104. London, Chatto & Windus, 1893.

Similar instances are frequently to be found in the writings of
English as well as French novelists, and are, of course, easily
explained. A young man unknown to fame, and unable to procure the
publication of a long novel, often contents himself with embodying
some particular idea in a short sketch or story, which finds its way
into one or another periodical, where it lies buried and forgotten by
everybody--excepting its author. Time goes by, however, the writer
achieves some measure of success, and one day it occurs to him to
elaborate and perfect that old idea of his, only a faint /apercu/ of
which, for lack of opportunity, he had been able to give in the past.
With a little research, no doubt, an interesting essay might be
written on these literary resuscitations; but if one except certain
novelists who are so deficient in ideas that they continue writing and
rewriting the same story throughout their lives, it will, I think, be
generally found that the revivals in question are due to some such
reason as that given above.

It should be mentioned that the article of M. Zola's young days to
which I have referred is not one on market life in particular, but one
on violets. It contains, however, a vigorous, if brief, picture of the
Halles in the small hours of the morning, and is instinct with that
realistic descriptive power of which M. Zola has since given so many
proofs. We hear the rumbling and clattering of the market carts, we
see the piles of red meat, the baskets of silvery fish, the mountains
of vegetables, green and white; in a few paragraphs the whole market
world passes in kaleidoscopic fashion before our eyes by the pale,
dancing light of the gas lamps and the lanterns. Several years after
the paper I speak of was published, when M. Zola began to issue "Le
Ventre de Paris," M. Tournachon, better known as Nadar, the aeronaut
and photographer, rushed into print to proclaim that the realistic
novelist had simply pilfered his ideas from an account of the Halles
which he (Tournachon) had but lately written. M. Zola, as is so often
his wont, scorned to reply to this charge of plagiarism; but, had he
chosen, he could have promptly settled the matter by producing his own
forgotten article.

At the risk of passing for a literary ghoul, I propose to exhume some
portion of the paper in question, as, so far as translation can avail,
it will show how M. Zola wrote and what he thought in 1867. After the
description of the markets to which I have alluded, there comes the
following passage:--


  I was gazing at the preparations for the great daily orgy of Paris
  when I espied a throng of people bustling suspiciously in a
  corner. A few lanterns threw a yellow light upon this crowd.
  Children, women, and men with outstretched hands were fumbling in
  dark piles which extended along the footway. I thought that those
  piles must be remnants of meat sold for a trifling price, and that
  all those wretched people were rushing upon them to feed. I drew
  near, and discovered my mistake. The heaps were not heaps of meat,
  but heaps of violets. All the flowery poesy of the streets of
  Paris lay there, on that muddy pavement, amidst mountains of food.
  The gardeners of the suburbs had brought their sweet-scented
  harvests to the markets and were disposing of them to the hawkers.
  From the rough fingers of their peasant growers the violets were
  passing to the dirty hands of those who would cry them in the
  streets. At winter time it is between four and six o'clock in the
  morning that the flowers of Paris are thus sold at the Halles.
  Whilst the city sleeps and its butchers are getting all ready for
  its daily attack of indigestion, a trade in poetry is plied in
  dark, dank corners. When the sun rises the bright red meat will be
  displayed in trim, carefully dressed joints, and the violets,
  mounted on bits of osier, will gleam softly within their elegant
  collars of green leaves. But when they arrive, in the dark night,
  the bullocks, already ripped open, discharge black blood, and the
  trodden flowers lie prone upon the footways. . . . I noticed just
  in front of me one large bunch which had slipped off a
  neighbouring mound and was almost bathing in the gutter. I picked
  it up. Underneath, it was soiled with mud; the greasy, fetid sewer
  water had left black stains upon the flowers. And then, gazing at
  these exquisite daughters of our gardens and our woods, astray
  amidst all the filth of the city, I began to ponder. On what
  woman's bosom would those wretched flowerets open and bloom? Some
  hawker would dip them in a pail of water, and of all the bitter
  odours of the Paris mud they would retain but a slight pungency,
  which would remain mingled with their own sweet perfume. The water
  would remove their stains, they would pale somewhat, and become a
  joy both for the smell and for the sight. Nevertheless, in the
  depths of each corolla there would still remain some particle of
  mud suggestive of impurity. And I asked myself how much love and
  passion was represented by all those heaps of flowers shivering in
  the bleak wind. To how many loving ones, and how many indifferent
  ones, and how many egotistical ones, would all those thousands and
  thousands of violets go! In a few hours' time they would be
  scattered to the four corners of Paris, and for a paltry copper
  the passers-by would purchase a glimpse and a whiff of springtide
  in the muddy streets.


Imperfect as the rendering may be, I think that the above passage will
show that M. Zola was already possessed of a large amount of his
acknowledged realistic power at the early date I have mentioned. I
should also have liked to quote a rather amusing story of a priggish
Philistine who ate violets with oil and vinegar, strongly peppered,
but considerations of space forbid; so I will pass to another passage,
which is of more interest and importance. Both French and English
critics have often contended that although M. Zola is a married man,
he knows very little of women, as there has virtually never been any
/feminine romance/ in his life. There are those who are aware of the
contrary, but whose tongues are stayed by considerations of delicacy
and respect. Still, as the passage I am now about to reproduce is
signed and acknowledged as fact by M. Zola himself, I see no harm in
slightly raising the veil from a long-past episode in the master's
life:--


  The light was rising, and as I stood there before that footway
  transformed into a bed of flowers my strange night-fancies gave
  place to recollections at once sweet and sad. I thought of my last
  excursion to Fontenay-aux-Roses, with the loved one, the good
  fairy of my twentieth year. Springtime was budding into birth, the
  tender foliage gleamed in the pale April sunshine. The little
  pathway skirting the hill was bordered by large fields of violets.
  As one passed along, a strong perfume seemed to penetrate one and
  make one languid. /She/ was leaning on my arm, faint with love
  from the sweet odour of the flowers. A whiteness hovered over the
  country-side, little insects buzzed in the sunshine, deep silence
  fell from the heavens, and so low was the sound of our kisses that
  not a bird in all the hedges showed sign of fear. At a turn of the
  path we perceived some old bent women, who with dry, withered
  hands were hurriedly gathering violets and throwing them into
  large baskets. She who was with me glanced longingly at the
  flowers, and I called one of the women. "You want some violets?"
  said she. "How much? A pound?"

  God of Heaven! She sold her flowers by the pound! We fled in deep
  distress. It seemed as though the country-side had been
  transformed into a huge grocer's shop. . . . Then we ascended to
  the woods of Verrieres, and there, in the grass, under the soft,
  fresh foliage, we found some tiny violets which seemed to be
  dreadfully afraid, and contrived to hide themselves with all sorts
  of artful ruses. During two long hours I scoured the grass and
  peered into every nook, and as soon as ever I found a fresh violet
  I carried it to her. She bought it of me, and the price that I
  exacted was a kiss. . . . And I thought of all those things, of
  all that happiness, amidst the hubbub of the markets of Paris,
  before those poor dead flowers whose graveyard the footway had
  become. I remembered my good fairy, who is now dead and gone, and
  the little bouquet of dry violets which I still preserve in a
  drawer. When I returned home I counted their withered stems: there
  were twenty of them, and over my lips there passed the gentle
  warmth of my loved one's twenty kisses.


And now from violets I must, with a brutality akin to that which M.
Zola himself displays in some of his transitions, pass to very
different things, for some time back a well-known English poet and
essayist wrote of the present work that it was redolent of pork,
onions, and cheese. To one of his sensitive temperament, with a muse
strictly nourished on sugar and water, such gross edibles as pork and
cheese and onions were peculiarly offensive. That humble plant the
onion, employed to flavour wellnigh every savoury dish, can assuredly
need no defence; in most European countries, too, cheese has long been
known as the poor man's friend; whilst as for pork, apart from all
other considerations, I can claim for it a distinct place in English
literature. A greater essayist by far than the critic to whom I am
referring, a certain Mr. Charles Lamb, of the India House, has left us
an immortal page on the origin of roast pig and crackling. And, when
everything is considered, I should much like to know why novels should
be confined to the aspirations of the soul, and why they should not
also treat of the requirements of our physical nature? From the days
of antiquity we have all known what befell the members when, guided by
the brain, they were foolish enough to revolt against the stomach. The
latter plays a considerable part not only in each individual organism,
but also in the life of the world. Over and over again--I could adduce
a score of historical examples--it has thwarted the mightiest designs
of the human mind. We mortals are much addicted to talking of our
minds and our souls and treating our bodies as mere dross. But I hold
--it is a personal opinion--that in the vast majority of cases the
former are largely governed by the last. I conceive, therefore, that a
novel which takes our daily sustenance as one of its themes has the
best of all /raisons d'etre/. A foreign writer of far more consequence
and ability than myself--Signor Edmondo de Amicis--has proclaimed the
present book to be "one of the most original and happiest inventions
of French genius," and I am strongly inclined to share his opinion.

It should be observed that the work does not merely treat of the
provisioning of a great city. That provisioning is its /scenario/; but
it also embraces a powerful allegory, the prose song of "the eternal
battle between the lean of this world and the fat--a battle in which,
as the author shows, the latter always come off successful. It is,
too, in its way an allegory of the triumph of the fat bourgeois, who
lives well and beds softly, over the gaunt and Ishmael artist--an
allegory which M. Zola has more than once introduced into his pages,
another notable instance thereof being found in 'Germinal,' with the
fat, well-fed Gregoires on the one hand, and the starving Maheus on
the other."

From this quotation from Mr. Sherard's pages it will be gathered that
M. Zola had a distinct social aim in writing this book. Wellnigh the
whole social question may, indeed, be summed up in the words "food and
comfort"; and in a series of novels like "Les Rougon-Macquart,"
dealing firstly with different conditions and grades of society, and,
secondly, with the influence which the Second Empire exercised on
France, the present volume necessarily had its place marked out from
the very first.

Mr. Sherard has told us of all the labour which M. Zola expended on
the preparation of the work, of his multitudinous visits to the Paris
markets, his patient investigation of their organism, and his keen
artistic interest in their manifold phases of life. And bred as I was
in Paris, a partaker as I have been of her exultations and her woes
they have always had for me a strong attraction. My memory goes back
to the earlier years of their existence, and I can well remember many
of the old surroundings which have now disappeared. I can recollect
the last vestiges of the antique /piliers/, built by Francis I, facing
the Rue de la Tonnellerie. Paul Niquet's, with its "bowel-twisting
brandy" and its crew of drunken ragpickers, was certainly before my
time; but I can readily recall Baratte's and Bordier's and all the
folly and prodigality which raged there; I knew, too, several of the
noted thieves' haunts which took the place of Niquet's, and which one
was careful never to enter without due precaution. And then, when the
German armies were beleaguering Paris, and two millions of people were
shut off from the world, I often strolled to the Halles to view their
strangely altered aspect. The fish pavilion, of which M. Zola has so
much to say, was bare and deserted. The railway drays, laden with the
comestible treasures of the ocean, no longer thundered through the
covered ways. At the most one found an auction going on in one or
another corner, and a few Seine eels or gudgeons fetching wellnigh
their weight in gold. Then, in the butter and cheese pavilions, one
could only procure some nauseous melted fat, while in the meat
department horse and mule and donkey took the place of beef and veal
and mutton. Mule and donkey were very scarce, and commanded high
prices, but both were of better flavour than horse; mule, indeed,
being quite a delicacy. I also well remember a stall at which dog was
sold, and, hunger knowing no law, I once purchased, cooked, and ate a
couple of canine cutlets which cost me two francs apiece. The flesh
was pinky and very tender, yet I would not willingly make such a
repast again. However, peace and plenty at last came round once more,
the Halles regained their old-time aspect, and in the years which
followed I more than once saw the dawn rise slowly over the mounds of
cabbages, carrots, leeks, and pumpkins, even as M. Zola describes in
the following pages. He has, I think, depicted with remarkable
accuracy and artistic skill the many varying effects of colour that
are produced as the climbing sun casts its early beams on the giant
larder and its masses of food--effects of colour which, to quote a
famous saying of the first Napoleon, show that "the markets of Paris
are the Louvre of the people" in more senses than one.

The reader will bear in mind that the period dealt with by the author
in this work is that of 1857-60, when the new Halles Centrales were
yet young, and indeed not altogether complete. Still, although many
old landmarks have long since been swept away, the picture of life in
all essential particulars remained the same. Prior to 1860 the limits
of Paris were the so-called /boulevards exterieurs/, from which a
girdle of suburbs, such as Montmartre, Belleville, Passy, and
Montrouge, extended to the fortifications; and the population of the
city was then only 1,400,000 souls. Some of the figures which will be
found scattered through M. Zola's work must therefore be taken as
applying entirely to the past.

Nowadays the amount of business transacted at the Halles has very
largely increased, in spite of the multiplication of district markets.
Paris seems to have an insatiable appetite, though, on the other hand,
its cuisine is fast becoming all simplicity. To my thinking, few more
remarkable changes have come over the Parisians of recent years than
this change of diet. One by one great restaurants, formerly renowned
for particular dishes and special wines, have been compelled through
lack of custom to close their doors; and this has not been caused so
much by inability to defray the cost of high feeding as by inability
to indulge in it with impunity in a physical sense. In fact, Paris has
become a city of impaired digestions, which nowadays seek the
simplicity without the heaviness of the old English cuisine; and,
should things continue in their present course, I fancy that Parisians
anxious for high feeding will ultimately have to cross over to our
side of the Channel.

These remarks, I trust, will not be considered out of place in an
introduction to a work which to no small extent treats of the appetite
of Paris. The reader will find that the characters portrayed by M.
Zola are all types of humble life, but I fail to see that their
circumstances should render them any the less interesting. A faithful
portrait of a shopkeeper, a workman, or a workgirl is artistically of
far more value than all the imaginary sketches of impossible dukes and
good and wicked baronets in which so many English novels abound.
Several of M. Zola's personages seem to me extremely lifelike--Gavard,
indeed, is a /chef-d'oeuvre/ of portraiture: I have known many men
like him; and no one who lived in Paris under the Empire can deny the
accuracy with which the author has delineated his hero Florent, the
dreamy and hapless revolutionary caught in the toils of others. In
those days, too, there was many such a plot as M. Zola describes,
instigated by agents like Logre and Lebigre, and allowed to mature
till the eve of an election or some other important event which
rendered its exposure desirable for the purpose of influencing public
opinion. In fact, in all that relates to the so-called "conspiracy of
the markets," M. Zola, whilst changing time and place to suit the
requirements of his story, has simply followed historical lines. As
for the Quenus, who play such prominent parts in the narrative, the
husband is a weakling with no soul above his stewpans, whilst his
wife, the beautiful Lisa, in reality wears the breeches and rules the
roast. The manner in which she cures Quenu of his political
proclivities, though savouring of persuasiveness rather than violence,
is worthy of the immortal Mrs. Caudle: Douglas Jerrold might have
signed a certain lecture which she administers to her astounded
helpmate. Of Pauline, the Quenus' daughter, we see but little in the
story, but she becomes the heroine of another of M. Zola's novels, "La
Joie de Vivre," and instead of inheriting the egotism of her parents,
develops a passionate love and devotion for others. In a like way
Claude Lantier, Florent's artist friend and son of Gervaise of the
"Assommoir," figures more particularly in "L'Oeuvre," which tells how
his painful struggle for fame resulted in madness and suicide. With
reference to the beautiful Norman and the other fishwives and gossips
scattered through the present volume, and those genuine types of
Parisian /gaminerie/, Muche, Marjolin, and Cadine, I may mention that
I have frequently chastened their language in deference to English
susceptibilities, so that the story, whilst retaining every essential
feature, contains nothing to which exception can reasonably be taken.

E. A. V