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CANADIAN COP YRIGHT SERIES 
 
 THE DREAM 
 
 BY 
 
 EMILE ZOLA 
 
 Author of " L'Assommoir," ''Nana," '' His Masterpiece ' 
 
 Etc., Etc. ' 
 
 TRANSLATED BY ELIZA E. CHASE 
 I _ 
 
 Toronto : 
 WILLIAM BRYCE, 
 
-H 
 
 Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada in the year one 
 thouBaml eight hundred and eighty-eight, by William Bbyob, in the 
 Office of the Minister of Agriculture. 
 
 
THE DREAM 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 During the severe winter of i860 the river Oipe was 
 frozen over and the plains of Lower Picardy were covered 
 with deep snow. On Christmas Day, especially, a heavy 
 squall from the north-east had almost buried the little city 
 of Beaumont. The snow, which began to fall early in the 
 morning, increased towards evening and accumulated 
 during the night. In the upper town, in the Rue des 
 OrfJ^vres, at the end of which, as if enclosed therein, is the 
 northern front of the cathedral transept, this was blown 
 with great force by the wind against the portal of Saint 
 Agnes, the old Romanesque portal, where traces of early 
 Gothic could be seen, contrasting its florid ornamentation 
 with the bare simplicity of the transept gable. 
 
 The inhabitan::^ still slept, wearied by the festive 
 rejoicings of the previous day. The town clock struck six. 
 In the darkness, which was slightly lightened by the slow, 
 persistent fall of the flakes, a vague living form alone was 
 visible ; that of a little girl; nine years of age, who, having 
 taken refuge under the archway of the portal, had passed 
 the night there, shivering and sheltering herself as well as 
 possible. She wore a thin woollen dress, ragged from long 
 use, her head was covered with a torn silk handkerchief, 
 and on her bare feet were heavy shoes much too large for 
 her. Without doubt she had only gone there after having 
 well wandered through the town, for she had fallen down 
 from sheer exhaustion. For her it was the end of the 
 world ; there was no longer anything to' interest her. It 
 was the last surrender ; the hunger that gnaws, the cold 
 which kills; and in her weakness, stifled by the heavy 
 
'S 
 
 l,y* 
 
 2 THE DREAM. 
 
 weight at her heart, slie ceased to struggle, and nothing 
 was left to her but the instinctive movement of preserva- 
 tion, the desire of changing place, of sinking still deeper 
 into these old stones, whenever a sudden gust made the 
 snow whirl about her. 
 
 Hour after hour passed. For a long time, between the 
 divisions of this double door she leaned her back against 
 the abutting pier, on whose column was a stat 2 of Saint 
 Agnes, the martyr of but thirteen years of age, a little girl 
 like herself, who carried a branch of palm, and at wiiose 
 feet was a lamb. And in the tympanum, above the lintel, 
 the whole legend of tlie Virgin Child betrothed to Jesus 
 could be seen in high relief, set forth with a charming 
 simplicity of faith. Her hair, which grew long and covered 
 her like a garment when the Governor, whose son she had 
 refused to marry, gave her up to the soldiers ; the flames 
 of the funeral pile, destined to destroy her, turning aside 
 and burning her executioners as soon as they lighted the 
 wood ; the miracles performed by her relics ; Constance, 
 daughter of the Emperor, cured of leprosy; and the quaint 
 story of one of her painted images, which, when the priest 
 Paulinus offered it a very valuable emerald ring, held out 
 its finger, then withdrew it, keeping the ring, which can be 
 seen at this present day. At the top of the tympanum, in 
 a halo of glory, Agnes is at last received into heaven, 
 where her betrothed, Jesus, marries her, so young and so 
 little, giving her the kiss of eternal happiness. 
 
 But when the wind rushed through the street, the snow 
 was blown in the child's face, and the threshold was almost 
 barred by the white masses ; then she moved away to the 
 side against the virgins placed above the base of the arch. 
 These are the companions of Agnes: the saints who served 
 as her escort ; three at her right — Dorothea, who was fed 
 in prison by miraculous bread, Barbe, who lived in a tower, 
 and Genevieve, whose heroism saved Paris ; and three at 
 her left — Agatha, whose breast was torn, Christine, who 
 was put to torture by her father, and Cecilia, beloved by 
 the angels. Above these were statues and statues ; three 
 close ranks mounting with the curves of the arches, 
 decorating them with chaste, triumphant figures, who, 
 
 I 
 
ling 
 
 :va- 
 
 iper 
 
 the 
 
 I the 
 linst 
 iaint 
 
 'girl 
 iiose 
 Intel, 
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 t snow 
 ilmost 
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 served 
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 tower, 
 iree at 
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 ved by 
 three 
 arches, 
 who, 
 
 tllE hkEANt. 3 
 
 [liter the sufTering and martyrdom of their earthly life, were 
 welcomed by a host of winged cherubim, transported witii 
 ecstacy, into the Celestial Kingdom. 
 
 There had been no shelter for the little waif for a long 
 time, when at last the clock ^ruck eight and daylight came. 
 The snow, had she not trampled it down, would have come 
 to her shoulders. The old door behind her was covered 
 with it, as if hung with ermnie, and it looked as white as 
 an altar, beneath the grey front of the church, so bare and 
 smooth that not even a single flake had clung to it. The 
 great saints, those of the sloping surface especially, were 
 clo'hed in it, and were glistening in purity from their feet, 
 to their white beards. Still higher, in the scenes of the 
 tympanum, the outlines of the little saints of the arches 
 were designed most clearly on a dark background, and 
 this magic effect continued until the final rapture at the 
 marriage of ^.gnes, which the archangels appeared to be 
 celebrating under a shower of white roses. Standing upon 
 her pillar, with her white branch of palm and her white 
 Iamb, the Virgin Child had such purity in the lines of her 
 body of immaculate snow, that the motionless stiffness of 
 cold seemed to congeal around her the mystic transports 
 of victorious youth. And at her feet the other child, so 
 miserable, white with snow, she also grew so stiff and pale 
 that it seemed as if she were turning to stone, and could 
 scarcely be distinguished from the great images above her. 
 
 At last, in one of the long line of houses in which all 
 seemed to be sleeping, the noise from the drawing up of a 
 blind made her raise her eyes. It was at her right hand, 
 in the second story of a house at the side of the cathedral. 
 A very handsome woman, a brunette about forty years of 
 age, with a placid expression of serenity, was just looking 
 out from there, and in spite of the terrible frost she kept 
 her uncovered arm in the air for a moment, having seen 
 the child move. Her calm face grew sad with pity and 
 astonishment. Then, shivering, she hastily closed the 
 window. She carried with her the rapid vision of a fair, 
 little creature, with violet coloured eyes under a head- 
 covering of an old silk handkerchief. The face was oval, 
 the neck long and slender as a lily, and the shoulders 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 drooping; hut she was hhie from cold, her little hands and 
 feet were half dead, and the only thing about her that still 
 showed life, was the slight vapour of her breath. 
 
 The child remained with her eyes upturned, looking at 
 the house mechanically. It was a narrow one, two stories 
 in height, very old, and evidently built towards the end of 
 the fifteenth century. It was almost sealed to the side of 
 the cathedral, between two buttresses, like a wart which 
 had pushed itself between the two toes of a Colossus. 
 And thus supported on each side, it was admirably pre- 
 served, with its stone basement, its second story in wooden 
 panels, ornamented with bricks, its roof, of which the 
 frame-work advanced at least three feet beyond the gable, 
 its turret for the projecting stairway at the left corner, 
 where could still be seen in the little window the leaden 
 setting of long ago. At times repairs had been made on 
 account of its age. The tile roofing dated from the reign 
 of Louis XIV., for one easily recognised the work of that 
 epoch ; a dormer window pierced in the side of the turret, 
 little wooden frames replacing everywhere those of the 
 primitive panes ; the three united openings of the second 
 storey had been reduced to two, that of the middle being 
 closed up with bricks, thus giving to the front the sym- 
 metry of the other buildings on the street of a more recent 
 date. 
 
 In the basement the changes were equally visible ; an 
 oaken door with mouldings having taken the place of the 
 old one with iron trimmings that was under the stairway, 
 and the great central arcade, of which the lower part, the 
 sides, and the point had been plastered over, so as to 
 leave only one rectangular opening, was now a species of 
 large window, instead of the triple-pointed one which 
 formerly came out on to the street. 
 
 Without thinking, the child still looked at this vener- 
 able dwelling of a master builder, so well preserved, and 
 as she read upon a little yellow plate nailed at the left of 
 the door these words: *' Hubert, Chasuble maker," printed 
 in black letters, she was again attracted by the sound of 
 the opening of a shutter. This time it was the blind of 
 the square window of the ground floor, A man in his 
 
THE DRKAM. 
 
 5 
 
 turn looked out ; his face was full, his nose acquiline, his 
 forehead projecting, and his thick, short hair already 
 white, although he was scarcely five-and-forty. lie, too, 
 forgot the air for a moment as he examined her with a sad 
 wrinkle on his great, tender mouth. Then she saw liim, 
 as he remained standing behind the I'ttle greenish-looking 
 panes. He turned, beckoned to some one, and his wife 
 re-appeared. How handsome she was ! They both stood 
 side by side, looking at her earnestly and sadly. 
 
 For four hundred years, the line of Huberts, embroi- 
 derers from father to son, had lived in this house. A 
 noted maker of chasubles had built it under Louis XI., 
 another had repaired it under Louis XIV., and the 
 Hubert who now occupied it still embroidered church 
 vestments, as his ancestors had always done. At twenty 
 years of age he had fallen in love with a young girl of 
 sixteen, Hubertine, and so deep was their affection for 
 each other, that when her mother, widow of a magistrate, 
 refused to give her consent to their union, they ran away 
 together and were married. She was remarkably beauti- 
 ful, and that was their whole romance, their joy, and their 
 misfortune. 
 
 When, a year later, she went to the deathbed of her 
 mother, the latter disinherited her and gave her her curse. 
 So affected was she by the terrible scene, that her infant, 
 born soon after, died, and since then, it seemed as if, 
 even in her coffin in the cemetery, the wilful woman had 
 never pardoned her daughter, for it was, alas, a childless 
 household. After twenty-four years they still mourned 
 the little one they had lost. 
 
 Disturbed by their looks, the stranger tried to hide 
 herself behind the pillar of St. Agnes. She was also 
 annoyed by the movement which now commenced in the 
 street, as the shops were being opened and people began 
 to go out. The Rue des Orfevres, which terminates at 
 the side front of the church, would be almost impas- 
 sable, blocked in as it is on one side by the house of the 
 Huberts, if the Rue du Soleil, a narrow lane, did not 
 relieve it on the other side by running the whole length of 
 the cathedral to the great front on the Place du Cloitre. 
 
TllK DkKAM. 
 
 - ! 
 
 At this hour there were few passers, exccpiin^' one or two 
 persons who were on their way to early service, and they 
 looked with surprise at the poor little girl whom they did 
 not recognize as ever having seen at Beaumont. The 
 slow, persistent fall of snow continued. The cold seemed 
 to increase with the wan daylight, and in the dull thickness 
 of the great white shroud wiiich covered the town one 
 heard, as if from a distanv'-.e, the sound of voices. But 
 timid, ashamed of her aban(!()iuiient, as if it were a fault, 
 the child drew still farther back, when suddenly she 
 recognized before her Hubertine, who having no servant, 
 had gone out to .)uy bread. 
 
 ♦♦ What are you doing there, little one ? Who are 
 you?" 
 
 She did not answer, but hid her face. Then she was 
 no longer conscious of suffering : her whole being seemed 
 to have faded away, as if her heart, turned to ice, had 
 stopped beating. When the good lady turned away with 
 a pitying look, she sank down upon her knees completely 
 exhausted, and slipped listlessly into the snow, whose 
 flakes quickly covered her. 
 
 And the woman, as she returned with her fresh rolls, 
 seeing that she had fallen, again approached her. 
 
 '• Look up, my child ! You cannot remain here on 
 this doorstep." 
 
 Then Hubert, who had also come out, and was stand- 
 ing near the threshold, took the bread from his wife, and 
 said : 
 
 " Take her up and bring her into the house." 
 
 Hubeitine did not reply, but stooping, lifted her in her 
 strong arms. And the child shrank back no longer, but 
 was carried as if inanimate ; her teeth closely set, her eyes 
 shut, chilled through and through, and with the lightness 
 of a little bird that has just fallen from its nest. 
 
 They went in. Hubert shut the door, while Hubertine, 
 bearing her burden, passed through the front room, which 
 served as a parlour, and where some embroidered bands 
 were spread out for show before the great square window. 
 Then she went into the kitchen, the old servants' hall, 
 preserved ahnpst intact, with its heavy beams, its flag- 
 
 '■5 
 
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 3 
 
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tllR DREAM. 
 
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 tr, but 
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 lertine, 
 
 1 which 
 
 bands 
 
 indow. 
 
 hall, 
 
 Is flag- 
 
 stone floor mended in a dozen places, and its great 
 fireplace with its stone mantelpiece. On shelves were 
 the utensils, the pots, kettles and saucepans tiiat dated 
 back one or two centuries ; and the dishes wcr of old 
 stone, or earthenware, and of pewter. But on the middle 
 of the hearth was a modern cooki'ig stove, a laige cast- 
 iron one, whose copper trimmings were wondrously brij^ht. 
 It was red from heat, and the water was bubbling away in 
 its boiler. A large porringer, filled with cofTee and milk, 
 was on one corner of it. 
 
 " Oh ! how much more comfortable it is here than 
 outside," said Hubert, as ho put the bread down on a 
 heavy table of the style of Louis XIII., which was in the 
 centre of the room. " Now, seat this poor little creature 
 near the stove that she may be thawed out ! " 
 
 Hubertine had already placed the child close to the 
 fire, and they both looked at her as she slowly regained 
 consciousness. As the snow that covered her clothes 
 melted, it fell in heavy drops. Through the holes of het 
 great shoes they could see her little bruised feet, whilst 
 the thin woollen dress designed the rigidity of her limbs 
 and her poor body, worn by misery and pain. She had 
 a long attack of nervous trembling, and then opened her 
 frightened eyes with the start of an animal who suddenly 
 awakes from sleep to find himself caught in a snare. Her 
 face seemed to sink away under the silken rag wiiich wns 
 tied under her chin. Her right arm appeared to be help- 
 less, for she pressed it so closely to her breast. 
 
 •• Do not be alarmed, for we will not hurt you. Where 
 did you come from ? Who are you ? " 
 
 But the more she was spoken to the more frightened 
 she became, turning her head as if some one were behind 
 her who would beat her. She examined the kitchen fur- 
 tively, the flaggings, the beams, and the shining utensils ; 
 then her glance passed through the irregular windows 
 which were left in the ancient opening, and saw the gar- 
 den, clear to the trees by the Bishop's house, whose white 
 shadows towered above the wall at the end, while at the 
 left, as if astonished at finding itself there, stretched along 
 the v/hole length of the alley the Cathedral, with its 
 
II 
 
 llil 
 
 8 Tllli DRI.AM. 
 
 Romanesque windows in the chapels of its apsis. And 
 a£cain, from the heat of the stove which began to pene- 
 trate her, she had a long attack of shivering, after which 
 she turned her eyes to the floor and remained quiet. 
 
 " Do you belong to Beaumont ? Who is your father?" 
 
 She was so entirely silent that Hubert thought her 
 throat must be too dry to allow her to speak. 
 
 Instead of questioning her he said, "We would do 
 niiich better to give her a good cup of coffee as hot as she 
 can drink it." 
 
 That was so reasonable that Hubertine immediately 
 handed her the cup she herself held. Whilst she ciit two 
 large slices of bread and buttered them, the child, still 
 mistrustful, coiitirnied to shrink back ; but her hunger was 
 too great, and soon she ate and drank ravenously. That 
 there need not be a restraint upon her, the husband and 
 wife were silent, and were touched to tears on seeing her 
 little hand tremble to such a degree that at times it was 
 dijficult for her to reach her mouth. She made use only 
 of her left hand, for her right arm seemed to be fastened 
 to her chest. When she had finished, she almost broke 
 the cup, which she caught again by an awkward move- 
 ment of her elbow. 
 
 .'* Have you hurt your arm badly ? " Hubertine asked. 
 " Do not be afraid, my dear, but show it to me ? " 
 
 But as she was about to touch it, the child rose up 
 hastily, trying to prevent her, and as in the struggle she 
 moved her arm, a little pasteboard covered book, which 
 she had hidden under her dress, slipped through a large 
 tear in her waist. She tried to take it, and when she saw 
 her unknown hosts open and begin to read it, she clenched 
 her fist in anger. 
 
 It was an official certificate, given by the Admini.stra- 
 tion des Enfants Assist^s in the Department of the Seine. 
 On the first page, under a medallion containing a likeness 
 of Saint Vincent-de-Paul, were the printed prescribed 
 forms. For the family name, a simple black lino filled 
 the allotted space. Then for the Christian names, were 
 ^ those of Angelique Marie ; for the dates, born the 22nd of 
 January, 1851, admitted 23rd of the same month under 
 
 ■H 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 ne- 
 lich 
 
 her 
 
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 two 
 
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 That 
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 Lsked. 
 
 
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 J 
 
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 ^ 
 
 ;2nd of 
 
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 under 
 
 1 
 
 the registered number of 1864. So there was neither 
 father nor mother: there were no papers; not even a state- 
 ment of where she was born ; nothing but this little book 
 of official coldness, with its cover of pale red paste-board. 
 No relative in the v/orld, and even her abandonment num- 
 bered and classed ! 
 
 " Oh ! then she is a foundling! " exclaimed Hiibertine. 
 
 In a paroxysm of rage the child replied : " I am much 
 better than all the others — yes — yes ! I am better, better, 
 better. I have never taken anything that did not belong 
 to me, and yet they stole all I had. Give me back, now, 
 that which you also have stolen from me ! " 
 
 Such powerless passion, such pride to be above the 
 others in goodness, so shook the body of the little girl, 
 that the Huberts were startled. They no longer recog- 
 nized the blonde creature, with violet eyes and graceful 
 figure, Now, her eyes were black, her face dark, and her 
 neck seemed swollen by a rush of blood to it. Since she 
 had become warm, she raised her head and hissed like a 
 serpent that had been picked up on the snow. 
 
 '•Are you then really so naughty? asked Hubert, 
 gently, *• If we wish to know all about you, it is because 
 we wish to help you." 
 
 And looking over the shoulders of his wife, he read, as 
 the latter turned the leaves of the little book. On the 
 second page was the name of the nurse. " The child, 
 Angelique, had been given, on the 25th of JanMary, 1851, 
 to the nurse, Fran^oise, sister of Mr. Hamelin, a farmer 
 by profession, living in the parish of Soulanges, an arron- 
 dissement of Nevers. The aforesaid nurse had received 
 on her departure the pay for the first month of her 3are, 
 in addition to her clothing." Then, there was a certifi- 
 cate of her baptism, signed by the chaplain of the Asylum 
 for Abandoned Children ; also that of the physician on 
 the arrival and on the departure of the infant. Tl.e 
 monthly accounts, paid in quarterly instalments, tilled 
 farther on the columns "^f four pages, and each time there 
 was the illegible signature of the receiver or collector. 
 
 " What ! Nevers ! " asked Hubertine. •* You were 
 brought up near Nevers ? " 
 
10 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 
 f 
 
 Angelique, red with anger that she could not prevent 
 them from reading, had fallen into a sullen silence. But 
 at last she opened her mouth to speak of her r^urse. 
 
 *♦ Ah ! you may be sure that Maman Nini would have 
 beaten you. She always took my part against others, she 
 did. although sometimes she struck me herself. Ah ! it is 
 true I was not so unhappy over 'there, with the cattle and 
 all ! " 
 
 Her voice choked her and she continued, in broken, 
 incoherent sentences, to speak of the meadow where she 
 drove the great red cow, of the broad road where she 
 played, of the cakes they cooked, and of a pet house-dog 
 that had once bitten her. 
 
 Hubert interrupted her as she read aloud : •' In case of 
 illness, or of bad treatment, the superintendent is author- 
 ized to change the nurses oif the children." Below it was 
 written that the child, Angelique Marie, had been given 
 on the 2oth of June to the care of Theresa, wife of Louis 
 Franchomme, both of them makers of artificial flowers in 
 Paris. 
 
 " Ah ! I understand," said Hubertine. " You were ill, 
 and so they took you back to Paris ? " 
 
 But no, that was not the case, and the Huberts did 
 not know the whole history, until they had drawn it, little 
 by little, from Angelique, Louis Franchomme, who was 
 a cousin of Maman Nini, went to pass a month in his 
 village, when recovering from a fever. It was then that 
 his wife, Theresa, became very fond of the child, and 
 obtained permission to take her to Paris, where she could 
 be taught the trade of -making flowers. Three months 
 Inter her husband died, and she herself, being delicate in 
 healtii, was obliged to leave the city and to go to her 
 brother's, the tanner Rabier, who was settled at Beau- 
 mont, She, alas ! died in the early days of Efecember, 
 and confided to her sister-in-law the little girl, who, smce 
 that time, had been injured, beaten and, in short, suffered 
 martyrdom. 
 
 '* The Rab ers ? " said Hubert. " The Rabiers ? Yes, 
 yes ! They a.e tanners on the banks of the Ligneul in the 
 lower town. The hujsband is lame, and the wife is a noted 
 scold." 
 
 l.S. 
 
 f 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 II 
 
 vent 
 But 
 
 have 
 
 , she 
 
 it is 
 
 i and 
 
 oken, 
 e she 
 3 she 
 e-dog 
 
 ase of 
 .ithor- 
 it was 
 given 
 Louis 
 ers in 
 
 ere ill, 
 
 ts did 
 little 
 HO was 
 in his 
 n that 
 i, and 
 could 
 months 
 cate in 
 to her 
 Beau- 
 :ember, 
 o, since 
 suffered 
 
 Yes, 
 il in the 
 a noted 
 
 " They treated me as if I came from the gutter," con- 
 liiiued Angelique, revolted and enraged in her mortified 
 pride. " They said the river was the best place for me. 
 After she had beaten me nearly to deatii, the woman would 
 put something on the floor for me to eat, as if I were a cat, 
 and many a time I vent to bed suffering from hunger. 
 Oh! I cjuld have killed myself at last ! " She made a 
 gesture of furious despair. 
 
 " Yesterday, Christmas morning, they had been drink- 
 ing, and to amuse themselves, they threatened to put out 
 niy eyes. Then, after awhile, they began to fight with each 
 other, and dealt such heavy blows that 1 thought they 
 were dead, as they both fell on the floor of their room. 
 For a long time I had determined to run away. But I was 
 anxious to have my book. Maman Nini had often said, 
 in showing it to me, ' Look, this is all that you own, and 
 if you do not keep this you will not even have a name.' 
 And I know that since the death of Maman Theresa they 
 had hid it in one of the bureau drawers. So stepping over 
 them as quietly as possible, while they were lying on the 
 tloor, I ,',^ot the book, hid it under my dress waist, pressing 
 it against me with my arm. It seemed so large that I 
 fancied everyone must see it, and that it would be taken 
 from me. Oh ! I ran, and ran, and ran, and when night 
 came it was so dark ! Oh ! how cold I was under the poor 
 shelter of that great door ! Oh dear ! I was so cold, it 
 seemed as if I were dead. But never mind now, for I did 
 not once let go of my book, and here it is." And with a 
 sudden movement, as the Huberts closed it to give it back 
 to her, she snatched it from them. Then, sitting down, 
 she put her head on the table, sobbing deeply as she laid 
 her cheek on the light red cover. Her pride seemed con- 
 (juered by an intense liumility. Her whole being appeared 
 to be softened by tlie sight of these few leaves with their 
 rumpled corners — her solitary possession, her one treasure, 
 and the only tie which connected her with the life of this 
 world. She could not relieve her heart of her great 
 despair ; her tears flowed continually, and under this com- 
 plete surrender of herself, she regained her delicate looks 
 and became again a pretty child. Her slightly oval face 
 
12 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 was pure in its outlines, her violet eyes were made a little 
 paler from emotion, and the curve of her neck and shoul- 
 ders made her resemble a little virgin on a church window. 
 At length she seized the hand of Hubertine, pressed it to 
 her lips most caressingly, and kissed it passionately. 
 
 The Huberts were deeply touched, and could scarcely 
 speak. They stammered, '• Dear, dear child ! " 
 
 She was not then in reality bad ! Perhaps with affec- 
 tionate care she could be corrected of this violence of tem- 
 per which had so alarmed them. 
 
 In a tone of entreaty, the poor child exclaimed, *' Do 
 not send me back to those dreadful people ! Oh, do not 
 send me back again ! " 
 
 The husband and wife looked at each other for a few 
 moments. In fact, since the autumn, they had planned 
 taking as an apprentice some young girl who would live 
 with them, and thus bring a little brightness into their 
 house, which seemed so dull without children. And their 
 decision was soon made. 
 
 '• Would you like it, my dear ? " Hubert asked. 
 
 Hubertine replied quietly, in her calm voice : '• I would 
 indeed." 
 
 Immediately they occupied themselves with the neces- 
 sary formalities. The husband went to the Justice of 
 Peace of the northern district of Beaumont, who was 
 cousin to his wife, the only relative with whom she had 
 kept up an acquaintance, and told him all the facts of the 
 case. He took charge of it, wrote to the Horpice of 
 Abandoned Children, where, thanks to the registered num- 
 ber, Angelique was easily recognized, and obtained per- 
 mission for her to remain as apprentice with the Huberts, 
 who were well-known for their honourable position. 
 
 The Sub-Inspector of the Hospice, on coming to verify 
 the little book, signed the new contract as witness for 
 Hubert, by which the latter promised to treat the child 
 kindly, to keep her tidy, to send her to school and to 
 church, and to give her a good bed to herself. On the 
 other side, the Administration agreed to pay him all indem- 
 nities, and to give the child certain stipulated articles of 
 clothing, as was thei" custom. 
 
 
 :l 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 13 
 
 In ten days all was arranged. Angelique slept upstairs 
 in a room under the roof, by the side of tlie garret, and the 
 window of which overlooked the garden. She had already 
 taken her first lessons in embroidery. The first Sunday 
 morning after she was in her new home, before going to 
 Mass, Hubertine opened before her the old chest in the 
 working room, where she kept the fine gold thread. She 
 held up the little book ; then, placing it in the back part of 
 one of the drawers, said : " Look, I have put it here. I 
 will not hide it, but leave it where you can take it if you 
 ever wish to do so. It is best that you should see it and 
 remember where it is." 
 
 On entering the church that day, Angelique found her- 
 self again under the doorway of Saint Agnes. During the 
 week there had been a partial thaw, then the cold weather 
 had returned to sc intense a degree that the snow which 
 had half-melted on the statues had congealed itself in large 
 bunches, or in icicles. Now, the figures seemed dressed 
 in transparent robes of ice, with lace trimmings like spun 
 glass. Dorothea was holding a torch, the liquid droppings 
 of which fell upon her hands. Cecilia wore a silver crown, 
 in which glistened the most brilliant of pearls. Agatha's 
 nude chest was protected by a crystal armour And the 
 scenes in the tympanum, the little virgins in the arches, 
 looked as if they had been there for centuries, behind the 
 glass and jewels of the shrine of a saint. Agnes herself 
 let trail behind her her court mantle, threaderl with light 
 and embroidered with stars. Her lamb had a fleece of 
 diamonds and her palm branch had become the colour of 
 Heaven. The whole door was resplendent in the purity of 
 intense cold. 
 
 Angelique recollected the night she had passed there 
 under the protection of these saints. She raised her head 
 and smiled upon them. 
 
1 
 
 H 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 t;f 
 
 ' ill 
 
 . !li! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Beaumont is composed of two villages, completely sepa- 
 atecl and quite distinct one from the other — Beaumont- 
 1 Eglise, on the hill, with its old Cathedral of the twelfth 
 century, its Bishop's Palace which dates oniy from the 
 seventeenth century, its inhabitants, scarcely one thousand 
 in number, who are crowded together in an almost stifling 
 way in its narrow streets ; and Beaumont-la-Ville, at the 
 foot of the hill on the banks of the Ligneul, an ancient 
 suburb which the success of its manufacturers of lace and 
 of fine cambric has enriched and enlarged to such an 
 extent that it has a population of nearly ten thousand per- 
 sons, several public squares, and an elegant sub-prefecture 
 built in the modern style. These two divisions, the north- 
 ern district and the southern district, have thus no longer 
 anything in common except in an administrative way. 
 Although scarcely thirty leagues from Paris, where one 
 can go by rail in two hours, Beaumont-l'^glise seems to 
 be still immured in its old ramparts, of which, however, 
 only three gates remain. A stationary, peculiar class of 
 people lead there a life similar to that which their ances- 
 tors had led from father to son during the past 500 years. 
 •The Cathedral explains everything, has given birth to 
 and preserved everything. It is the mother, the queen, as 
 it rises in all its majesty in the centre of and above the 
 little collection of low houses, which, like shivering birds, 
 are sheltered under her wings of stone. One lives there 
 simply for it, and only by it. There is no movement of 
 business activity, and the little tradesmen only sell the 
 necessities of life, such as are absolutely required to feed, 
 to clothe, and to maintain the Church and its clergy, and 
 if occasionally one meets some private individuals, they 
 arie merely the last representatives of a scattered crowd of 
 worshippers. The Church dominates all ; each street is 
 one of its veins ; the town has no other breath than its 
 own. On that account this spirit of another age, this 
 religijus torpor from the past, makes the cloistered city 
 
 ^ 
 
 4 
 
 w 
 
tHfi DREAM. 
 
 15 
 
 which surrounds it redolent with a savoury perfume of 
 peace and of faith. 
 
 And in all this mystic place the house of the Huberts, 
 where Angelique was to live in the future, was the one 
 nearest to the Cathedral, and which clung to it as if in 
 reality it were a part thereof. The permission to build 
 there, between two of the great buttresses, must have been 
 cjiven by some vicar long ago, who was desirous of attach- 
 ing to liimself the ancestors of this line of embroiderers as 
 master chasuble makers and furnishers for the Cathedral 
 clergy. On the southern side, the narrow garden was 
 barred by the colossal building ; first, the circumference 
 of the side chapels, whose windows overlooked the flower 
 beds, and then the slender, long nave that the flying but- 
 tresses supported, and afterwards the high roof covered 
 with sheet lead. 
 
 The sun never penetrated to the lower part of this 
 ;:arden, where ivy and box alone grew luxuriantly ; yet 
 the eternal shadow there was ver}'^ soft and pleasant as it 
 fell from the gigantic brow of the apse, a religious shadow, 
 sepulchral and pure, which had a good odour about it. 
 In the greenisli half light of its calm, freshness, the two 
 towers let fall only the sound of their chimes. But the 
 entire house kept the quivering therefrom, sealed as it was 
 to these old stones, melted into them and supported by 
 them. It trembled at the least of the ceremonies at the 
 liigh mass, the rumbling of the organs, the voices of the 
 choristers, even the oppressed sighs of the worshippers, 
 murmured through each one of its rooms, lulled it as if 
 with a holy breath from the Invisible, and at times through 
 the half cool walls seemed to come the vapours from the 
 burning incense. , 
 
 For five years Angelique lived and grew there, as if in 
 a cloister far away from the world. She only went out to 
 attend the seven o'clock mass on Sunday mornings, as 
 Hubertine had obtained permission for her to study at 
 home, fearing that if sent to school she might not always 
 have the best of associates. This old dwelling, so shut in, 
 with its garden of a dead quiet, was her world. She occupied 
 as her chamber a little white-washed room under the roof; 
 
i6 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 
 1 I 'I' 
 
 It 
 
 11 
 
 ! :'i 
 
 m, 
 
 I'liii 
 
 il 
 
 she went down in the morning to her breakfast in the 
 kitchen, she went up again to the working room in the 
 second story to her eml)roidery, and these places, with the 
 turning stone stairway of the turret, were the only corners 
 in which she passed her time ; for she never went into the 
 Huberts' apartments, and only crossed the parlour on the 
 first floor, and they were the two rooms which had been 
 rejuvenated and modernised. In the parlour the beams 
 were plastered over, and the ceiling had been decorated 
 with a palm leaf centre, accompanied by a rose centre : 
 the wall paper dated from the first Empire, as well as the 
 white marble chimney piece and the mahogany furniture, 
 which consisted of a sofa and four arm chairs covered with 
 Utrecht velvet, a centre table, and a cabinet. 
 
 On the lare occasions when she went there to add to 
 the articles exposed for sale some new bands of embroi- 
 dery, if she cast her eyes without, she saw through the 
 window the same unchanging vista, the narrow street end- 
 ing at the portal of Saint Agnes ; a parisliioner pushing 
 open the little lower door which shut itself without any 
 noise, and the shops of the plate worker and wax candle 
 maker opposite, wl ich appeared to be always empty, bui 
 where was a good display of holy sacramental vessels, and 
 long lines of great church tapers. And the cloistral calm 
 of all Beaumont-l'^glise, of the Rue Magloire, back of the 
 Bhshop's Palace, of the Grande Rue where the Rue des 
 Orfevres began, and of the Place du Cloitre, where rose 
 up the two towers, was felt in the drowsy air, and seemed 
 to fall gently with the pale daylight on the deserted 
 pavement. 
 
 Hubertine had taken upon herself the charge of the 
 education of Angelique. Moreover, she was very old- 
 fashioned in her ideas, and maintained that a woman 
 knew enough if she could read well, write correctly, and 
 had studied thoroughly the first four rules of arithmetic. 
 But even for this limited instruction she had constantly to 
 contend with an unwillingness on the part of her pupil, 
 who, instead of giving her attention to her books, preferred 
 looking out of the windows, although the recreation was 
 very limited, as she could see nothing but the garden from 
 
 -# 
 
THE DKKAM. 
 
 17 
 
 ti the 
 n the 
 :h the 
 )rners 
 to the 
 >n the 
 been 
 jeams 
 Dratecl 
 sntre : 
 as the 
 liture, 
 d with 
 
 add to 
 mbroi- 
 ^h the 
 3t end- 
 ushing 
 Lit any 
 candle 
 ty, bill 
 Is, and 
 1 cahii 
 : of the 
 ue des 
 re rose 
 seemed 
 eserted 
 
 of the 
 ry old- 
 woman 
 ly, and 
 hnietic. 
 antly to 
 pupil, 
 referred 
 ion was 
 en from 
 
 4 
 
 'A 
 
 them. In reality, Angeliqne cared only for readinj]^ ; not- 
 withstandmg in her dictations, chosen from some classic 
 writer, she never succeeded in spellin^^ a page correctly, 
 yet her handwriting was exceedingly pretty, graceful and 
 bold, one of those irregular styles which was quite the 
 fashion long ago. As for other studies, of geography and 
 history and cyphering, she was almost completely ignorant 
 of them. What good would knowledge ever do her ? It 
 was really useless, she thought. Later on, when it was 
 time for her to be confirmed, she learned her catechism 
 word lor word, and with so fervent an ardour that she 
 astonished everyone by the exactitude of her memory. 
 
 Notwithstanding their genti ness, during the first year 
 the Huberts were often discouraged. Angelique, who 
 I)romised to be skilful in embroidering, disconcerted them 
 by sudden changes to inexplicable idleness after days of 
 praiseworthy application. She was capricious, seemed to 
 lose her strength, became greedy, would steal sugar to eat 
 when alone, and her cheeks were flushed and her eyes 
 looked wearied under their reddened lids. • If reproved, 
 she would reply with a flood of injurious words. Some 
 days, when they wished to try to subdue her, her foolish 
 pride at being interfered with would throw her into such 
 serious attacks that she would strike her feet and hands 
 together, and seemed ready to tear her clothing, or to bite 
 anyone who approached her. At such moments they drew 
 away from her, for she was like a little monster ruled by 
 the evil spirit within her. 
 
 Who could she be ? WMiere did she come from ? 
 Almost always these abandoned children are the offspring 
 of vice. Twice they had resolved to give her up and send 
 her back to the asylum, so discouraged were they and so 
 deeply did they regret having taken her. But each time 
 these frightful scenes, which ahnost made the house 
 tremble, ended in the same deluge of tears, and the same 
 excited expressions and acts of penitence, when the child 
 would throw herself on the floor, begging them so earnestly 
 to punish her that they were obliged to forgive her. 
 
 Little by little, Hubertine gained great authority over 
 her. She was perfectly adapted for such a task, with her 
 
i8 
 
 TIIK DRKAM. 
 
 il 
 
 kind heart, her gentle firmness, her connnon sense and lier 
 uniform temper. She taught her the duty of obechence 
 and the sin of pride and of passion. To obey was to hve. 
 We must obey God, our parents, and our superiors. 
 Tliere was a whole hierarchy of respect, outside of which 
 existence was unrestrained and disorderly. So, after each 
 lit of passion, that she might learn humility, some menial 
 labour was imposed upon her as a penance, such as wash- 
 ing the cooking utensils or wiping up the kitchen floor ; 
 and until it was finished she would remain stooping over 
 her work, enraged at first, but conquered at last. 
 
 With the little girl excess seemed to be a marked char- 
 acteristic in everything, even in her caresses. Many times 
 Hubertine had seen her kissing her hands with vehemence. ; 
 She would often be in a fever of ecstasy before the little 
 pictures of saints and of the child Jesus, which she had 
 collected ; and one evening she was found in a half-faint- 
 ing state with her head upon the table and her lips pressed 
 to those of the images. When Hubertine confiscated them 
 there was a terrible scene of tears and cries, as if she her- 
 self were being tortured. After that she was held very 
 strictly, was made to obey, and her freaks were at once 
 checked by keeping her busy at her work : as soon as her 
 cheeks grew very red, her eyes dark, and she had nervous 
 tremblings, everything was immediately made quiet about 
 her. 
 
 Moreover, Hubertine had found an unexpected aid in 
 the book given by the Society for the Protection of Aban- 
 doned Children. Every three months when the Collector 
 signed it, Angelique was very low-spirited for the rest of 
 the day. If by chance she saw it when she went to the 
 drawer for a b^U of gold thread, her heart seemed pierced 
 with agony. And one day when in a fit of uncontrollable 
 fury, which nothing had been able to conquer, she turned 
 over the contents of the drawer, she suddenly appeared as 
 if thunderstruck before the red-covered book. Her sobs 
 stifled her. She threw herself at the feet of the Huberts 
 in great humility, stammering that they had made a mis- 
 Jake in giving her shelter, and that she was not worthy of 
 
 
 
THE DKKAM. 
 
 19 
 
 iml her 
 jdicncc 
 to live, 
 pcriors. 
 ; wliich 
 (3r each 
 menial 
 s V ash- 
 i floor ; 
 ig over 
 
 ;(1 char- 
 ly times 
 iineiice. 
 le little 
 ihe had 
 ilf-faint- 
 pressed 
 ?x\ them 
 f^he her- 
 Id very 
 at once 
 n as her 
 nervous 
 it about 
 
 :l aid in 
 
 f Aban- 
 
 ollector 
 
 rest of 
 : to the 
 pierced 
 rollable 
 
 turned 
 
 eared as 
 
 er sobs 
 
 Huberts 
 
 a mis- 
 orthy of 
 
 .'■il tlieir kindness. From tiiat time her anger was frequently 
 restrained by the sight or tlie mention of tlie book. 
 
 In this way Angelique lived until siie was twelve years 
 of age and ready to be contirnied. The calm life of the 
 household, the little old-fashioned building sleeping under 
 the shadow of the Cathedral, perfumed with incense and 
 penetrated with reli^ous music, favoured the slow amelio- 
 ration of tliis untutored nature, this wild flower, taken from 
 no one knew where, and transplanted in the mystic soil of 
 the narrow garden. Added to this was the reguhuity of 
 her daily work and the utter ignorance of what was going 
 on in the world, without even an echo from a sleepy 
 quarter penetrating therein. 
 
 But above all, the gentlest influence came from the 
 great love of the Huberts for each other, which seemed to 
 be enlarged by some unknown, incurable remorse. He 
 passed the days in endeavouring to make his wife forgc^t 
 the injury he had done her in marrying her in s})itc of the 
 opposition of her mother. He had realised at the death of 
 their ciiild that she half accused him of this punishment, 
 and he wished to be forgiven. She had done so years 
 ago, and now she idolised him. Sometimes he was not 
 sure of it and this doubt saddened his life. He wislied 
 they migiit have had another infant, and so feel assured 
 that the obstinate mother had been softened after death 
 and had withdrawn her malediction. That, in fact, was 
 their united desire — a child of pardon ; and he worshipped 
 his wife with a tender love, ardent and pure as that of a 
 betrothed. If i)efore the apprentice he did not even kis> 
 her hand, he never entered their chamber, even after twenty 
 years of marriage, without an emotion of gratitude for all 
 the happiness that had been given him. This was their 
 true home, this room with its tinted j^aintings, its blue 
 wall paper, its pretty hangings, and its walnut furniture. 
 Never was an angry word uttered therein, and, as if from 
 a sanctuary, a sentiment of tenderness went out from its 
 occupants and filled the house. It was thus for Angelique 
 an atmosphere of affection and love, in which she grew 
 and thrived. 
 
 An unexpected event finished the work of forming her 
 
20 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 character. As she was runiniaf^inf]^ one morning in a 
 corner of the workinj,' room, slie found on a shelf, amonLj 
 implements of embroidery which were no longer used, a 
 very old copy of the Golden Legend by Jacques de Vor- 
 aginc. This French translation, dating from 1549, must 
 have been bought in the long ago by some mastc r workman 
 in church vestments, on account of the pictures full ot 
 useful information upon the Saints. It was a great whih; 
 since Angelique had given any attention to the little old 
 carved images, showing such childlike faith, which had once 
 delighted her. But now, as soon as she was allowed to go 
 out and play in the garden, she took the book with her. It 
 had been rebound in yellow calf, and was in a good condi- 
 tion. She slowly turned over some of the leaves, then 
 looked at the title page in red and black, with the address 
 of the bookseller : " h Paris, en la rue Neufre Nostre Dame, 
 h, r enseigne Saint Jehan Baptiste;" and decorated with 
 medallions of the four Evangelists, framed at the bottom ' 
 by the Adoration of the three Magi, and at the top by the 
 triumph of Jesus Christ and His resurrection. And then 
 picture after picture followed ; there were ornamented 
 letters large and small, engravings in the text and at the 
 heading of the chapters ; " The Annunciation," an immense 
 angel inundating with rays of light a slight, delicate-looking 
 Mary ; " The Massacre of the Innocents," where a cruel 
 Herod was seen surrounded by dead bodies of dear little 
 children ; '* The Nativity," where Saint Joseph is holding 
 a candle, the light of which falls upon the face of the Infant 
 Jesus, who sleeps in His mother's arms; Saint John 'the 
 Almoner, giving to the poor ; Saint Matthias, breaking an 
 idol ; Saint Nicholas as a bishop, having at his right hand 
 a little bucket filled with babies. And then, a little farther 
 on, came the female Saints; Agnes, with her neck pierced 
 by a sword ; Christina, torn by pincers ; Genevieve, fol- 
 lowed bj- her lambs ; Juliana, being whipped ; Anastasia, 
 burnt ; Maria the Egyptian, repenting in the desert ; Mary 
 of Magdalene, carrying the vase of precious ointment, and 
 others antl still others followed. There was an increasing 
 terror and a piety in each one of them, making it a history 
 which weighs upon the heart an. I fills the eyes witli tears 
 
THE DKKAM. 
 
 21 
 
 ng in a 
 f, anionic' 
 
 used, a 
 
 de Vor- 
 4.9, must 
 vorkman 
 s full ot 
 jat whih; 
 little old 
 had once 
 red to go 
 1 her. It 
 )d condi- 
 es, then 
 ! address 
 'e Dame, 
 ted with 
 ; hotloiu 
 p by the 
 ^nd then 
 amented 
 id at the 
 immense 
 .'-looking 
 
 a cruel 
 2ar little 
 
 holding 
 le Infant 
 [ohn ^the 
 iking an 
 jht hand 
 e farther 
 : pierced 
 eve, fol- 
 lastasia, 
 t ; Mary 
 ent, and 
 creasing 
 L history 
 th tears 
 
 m 
 
 But little by little Ang(li(iiie was curious to know 
 exactly what these engravings represented. The two col- 
 umns of closely printed text, the impression of which 
 remained very black upon the papers yellowed by time, 
 frightened her by the strange, aini(3st barbaric look of the 
 Gothic letters. Still, she accustomed herself to it, de- 
 ciphered tiiese characters, learned the abbreviations and 
 the contractions, and soon knew how to explain the turning 
 of the phrases and the old-fashioned words. .'Xt last, she 
 couid read it easily, and was as enchanted as if she were 
 penetrating a mystery, and she triunipiied over each new 
 difficulty that she conquered. 
 
 Under these labori.)Us shades a whole world of light 
 revealed itself. She entered as it were into a celestial 
 splendour. For now, the few classic l)ooks they owned, 
 so cold and dry, existed no longer. The Lcgc-nd alone 
 interested her. She bent over it, witli her forehe.id resting 
 on her hands, studying it so intently, that she no longer 
 lived in the real life, but unconscious of time she seemed 
 to see, mounting from the depths of the unknown, tlu^ 
 broad expansion of a dream. 
 
 How wonderful it all was ! These saints and virgins ! 
 They are born predestined ; solemn voices announce their 
 coming, and their mothers have marvellous dreams about 
 them. All are beautiful, strong, and victorious. Great 
 lights surround them, and their countenances are resplend- 
 ent. Dominic has a star on his forehead. They lead the 
 minds of men and repeat their thoughts aloud. They have 
 the gift of prophecy, and their predictions are always 
 realised. Their number is infinite. Among them are 
 bishops and monks, virgins and fallen women, beggars and 
 nobles of a royal race, unclothed hermits who live on roots, 
 and old men who inhabit caverns witli goats. Their his- 
 tory is always the same. They grow up for Christ, believe 
 fervently in Him, refuse to sacrifice to false gods, are 
 tortured and die filled with glory. Emperors were at last 
 weary of persecuting them. Andrew, after being attached 
 to the cross, preached during two days to twenty thousand 
 persons. Conversions were made in masses, forty thous- 
 and men being baptised at one time When the multitudes 
 
22 
 
 THE IDRKAM. 
 
 ! ,iilil' 
 
 W^ 
 
 were not converted by the miracles, they fled terrified. 
 The saints were accused of sorcery ; enigmas were pro- 
 posed to them, which they solved at once ; they were 
 obliged to dispute questions with learned men, who 
 remained speechless before them. As soon as they entered 
 the temples of sacrifice, the idols were overthrown with a 
 breath, and were broken to pieces. A virgin tied her sash 
 around the neck of a statue of Venus, which at once fell 
 in powder. The earth trembled. The temple of Diaiia 
 was struck by lightning and destroyed ; and the people 
 revolting, civil wars ensued. Then often the executioners 
 asked to be baptised ; kings knelt at the feet of saints in 
 rags, who had devoted themselves to poverty. Sabina 
 flees from the paternal roof. Paula abandons her five 
 children. Mortifications ot the flesh and fasts purify, not 
 oil or water. Germanus covers his food with ashes. Ber- 
 nard cares not to eat, but delights only in the taste of fresh 
 water. Agatha keeps for three years a pebble in her 
 mouth. Augustmus is in despair for the sin he has com- 
 mitted in turning to look after a dog who was running. 
 Prosperity and health are despised, and joy begins with 
 piivations which kill the body. And it is thus that, sub- 
 duing all things, they live at last in gardens where the 
 flowers are stars and where the leaves of the trees sing. 
 They exterminate dragons, they raise and appease tem- 
 pests, they seem in their ecstatic visions to be borne above 
 the earth. Their wants are provided for while living, and 
 after death their friends are advised by dreams to go and 
 bury them. Extraordinary things happen to them, and 
 adventures far more marvellous than those in a work of 
 fiction. And when their tombs are opened after hundreds 
 of years, sweet odours escape therefrom. 
 
 Then opposite the saints behold the evil spirits. *' They 
 often fly about us like insects, and fill the air without 
 number. The air is also full of demon^, as the rays of the 
 sun are full of atoms. It is even like powder." And the 
 eternal contest begins. The saints are always victorious, 
 and 3^et they are constantly obliged to renew the battle. 
 The more the demons are driven away, the more they 
 return. There were counted six thousand six hundred and 
 
 .'«• 
 ''^ 
 
 ,'",5' 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 23 
 
 errified. 
 ;re pro- 
 jy were 
 n, who 
 entered 
 
 with a 
 ler sash 
 nee fell 
 f Diana 
 : people 
 utioners 
 aints in 
 
 Sabina 
 her five 
 rify, not 
 s. Ber- 
 
 of fresh 
 ! in her 
 as com- 
 'unning. 
 ins with 
 lat, sub- 
 lere the 
 
 es sing, 
 .se tem- 
 le above 
 ing, and 
 go and 
 
 :m, and 
 
 work of 
 
 undreds 
 
 " They 
 without 
 
 s of the 
 And the 
 :torious, 
 2 battle. 
 )re they 
 Ired and 
 
 m 
 
 sixty-six in the body of a woman whom Fortunatus deliv- 
 ered. They moved, they talked and cried, by the voice of 
 the person possessed, wliose body they shook as if by a 
 tempest. At each corner of the highways an afflicted one 
 is seen, and the first saint who passes contends with the 
 evil spirits. They enter by the eyes, the ears, and by the 
 mouth, and after days of fearful strugghng they go out with 
 loud groanings. Basilus, to save a young man contends 
 personally with the Evil one. Macarius was attacked 
 when in a cemetery, and passed a whole night in defending 
 himself The angels even at death beds, in order to secure 
 the soul of the dying, were obliged to beat the demons. 
 At other times the contests are only of the intellect and 
 the mind, but are equally remarkable. Satan, who prowls 
 about, assumes many forms, sometimes disguising himself as 
 a woman and again even as a saint. But once overthrown, 
 lie appears in all his ugliness : " a black cat, larger than a 
 dog, his huge eyes emitting flame, his tongue long, large 
 .uid bloody, his tail twisted and raised in the air, and his 
 whole body disgusting to the last degree." He is the one 
 thing that is hated, and the only preoccupation. People 
 fear him, yet ridicule him. One is not even honest with 
 him. In reahty, notwithstanding the ferocious appearance 
 of his furnaces, he is the eternal dupe. All the treaties he 
 makes are forced from him by violence or cunning. Feeble 
 women throw him down ; Margaret crushes his head with 
 lier feet, and Juliana beats him with her chain. From all 
 this a serenity disengages itself, a disdain of evil, since it 
 is powerless, and a certainty of good, since virtue triumphs. 
 It is only necessary to cross one's self and the Devil can 
 do no harm, but yells and disappears, while the infernal 
 regions tremble. 
 
 Then in this combat of legions of saints against Satan 
 are developed the fearful sufferings from persecution. The 
 executioners expose to the flies the martyrs whose bodies 
 are covered with honey ; they make them walk with bare 
 feet over broken glass, or red hot coals ; put them in 
 ditches with reptiles : chastise them with whips, whose 
 thongs are weighted with leaden balls ; nail them when 
 alive in coftns, which they throw into the sea ; hang them 
 
ii 
 
 24 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 !i P 
 
 
 by their hair and then set fire to them ; moisten their 
 wounds with quicklime, boihng pitch or molten lead ; 
 make them sit on red hot iron stools ; burn their sides with 
 torches ; break their bones on wheels, and torture them in 
 every conceivable way. And with all this, physical pain 
 counts for nothing ; indeed it seems to be desired. More- 
 ov^er, a continual miracle protects them. John drinks 
 poison, but is unharmed. Sebastian smiles although 
 pierced with arrows. Sometimes they remain in the air at 
 the right or left of the martyr, or, launched by the archer, 
 they return upon himself and put out his eyes. Molten 
 lead is swallowed as if it were ice water. Lions prostrate 
 themselves and lick their hands as gently as lambs. The 
 gridiron of Saint Lawrence is of an agreeable freshness to 
 him. He cries, *• Unhappy man, you have roasted one 
 side, turn the other and then eat, for it is sufficiently 
 cooked." Cecilia, placed in a boiling bath, is refreshed by 
 it. Christina exhorts those who would torture her. Her 
 father had her whipped by twelve men, who at last drop 
 from fatigue ; she is then attached to a wheel, under which 
 a fire is kindled, and the flame turning to one side, devours 
 fifteen hundred persons. She is then thrown into the sea, 
 but the angels support her ; Jesus comes to baptise her in 
 person, then gives her to the charge of Saint Michael, that 
 he may conduct her back to the earth ; after that she is 
 ■ placed for five days in a heated oven, where she suffers 
 not, but sings constantly. Vincent, who was exposed to 
 still greater tortures, feels them not. His limbs are brol'en, 
 he is covered with red hot irons, he is pricked with needles, 
 he is placed on a brazier of live coals and then taken back 
 to prison, where his feet are nailed to a post. Yet he still 
 lives, and his pains are changed into a sweetness of flowers, 
 a great light fills his dungeon and angels sing with him, 
 giving him rest as if he were on a bed of roses. The sweet 
 sound of singing and the fresh odour of flowers spread 
 without in the room, and when the guards saw the miracle 
 they were converted to the faith, and when Dacian heard 
 of it he was greatly enraged, and said, " Do nothing more 
 to him, for we are conquered." Such was the excitement 
 among the persecutors it could only end either by their 
 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 25 
 
 ten their 
 en lead ; 
 sides with 
 2 them in 
 ical pain 
 I. More- 
 m drinks 
 although 
 the air at 
 le archer, 
 , Mohen 
 prostrate 
 lbs. The 
 3shness to 
 asted one 
 ufficiently 
 reshed by 
 her. Her 
 : last drop 
 der which 
 e, devours 
 :o the sea, 
 tise her in 
 :hael, that 
 lat she is 
 he suffers 
 xposed to 
 re brol'en, 
 :h needles, 
 aken back 
 et he still 
 oi flowers, 
 with him, 
 The sweet 
 2rs spread 
 le miracle 
 ian heard 
 hing more 
 xcitement 
 by their 
 
 conversion or by their death. Their hands are paralyzed : 
 they perish violently; they are choked by fish bones; they 
 are struck by lightning, and their chariots are broken. In 
 the meanwhile the cells of the martyrs are resplendent. 
 Mary and the Apostles enter them at will, although the 
 doors are bolted. Constant aid is given apparitions 
 descend from the skies, where angels are waiting, holding 
 crovais of precious stones. Since death seems joyous it is 
 not feared, and their friends are glad when they succumb 
 to it. On Mount Ararat ten thousand are crucified, and 
 at Cologne eleven thousand virgins are massacred by the 
 Huns. In the circuses they are devoured by wild beasts. 
 Quirique, who, by the influence of the Holy Spirit, taught 
 like a man, suff^ered martyrdom when but three years of 
 age. Nursing children reproved the executioners. The 
 hope for celestial happiness deadened the physical senses 
 and softened pain. Were they torn to pieces, or burnt, 
 they minded it not. They never yielded, and they called 
 for the sword, which alone could kill them. Eulalie, when 
 at the stake, breathes the flame that she may die the more 
 quickly. Her prayer is granted, and a white dove flies 
 from her mouth and bears her soul to heaven. 
 
 Angelique marvelled greatly at all these accounts. So 
 many abominations and such triumphant joy delighted 
 her and carried her out of herself. 
 
 But other points in this Legend, of quite a diff'erent 
 nature, also interested her ; the animals, for instance, of 
 which there were enough to fill an Ark of Noah. She liked 
 the ravens and the eagles who fed the hermits. 
 
 Then what lovely stories there were about the Hon?, 
 The serviceable one who found a resting-place in a field 
 for Mary the Egyptian ; the flam.ing lion who protected 
 virgins or maidens in danger ; and then the lion of Saint 
 Jerome, to whose care an ass had been confided, and when 
 the animal was stolen, went in search of him and hiought 
 him back. There was also the penitent wolf, who had 
 restored a little pig he had intended eating. Then there 
 was Bernard, who excommunicates the flies, and they drop 
 dead. Remi and Blaise feed birds at their table, bless 
 them, and make them strong. Francis, '« filled with a 
 
 'W 
 
26 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 i!illil!l!! 
 
 :! II 
 
 i 
 
 lllillll! 
 
 ill 
 
 i! 
 
 I! 
 
 li I 
 
 I 
 
 iiil 
 
 i ill 
 
 
 m 
 
 dove-like simplicity," preaches to them, and exhorts them 
 to love God. A bird was on a branch of a fig tree, and 
 Francis, holding out his hand, beckoned to it, and soon it 
 obeyed and lighted on his hand. And he said to it, " Sing, 
 my sister, and praise the Lord." And immediately the 
 bird began to sing, and did not go away until it was told 
 to do so. 
 
 All this was a continual source of recreation to Ange- 
 lique, and gave her the idea of calling to the swallows, and 
 hoping they might come to her. 
 
 Afterwards, there were certain accounts which she 
 could not re-read without almost feeling ill, so much did 
 she laugh. 
 
 The good giant Christopher, who carried the Infant 
 Christ on his shoulders, delighted her so much as to bring 
 tears to her eyes. 
 
 She was very merry over the misadventures of a certain 
 Governor with the three chambermaids of Anastasia, whom 
 he hoped to have found in the kitchen, where he kissed 
 the stove and the kettles, thinking he was embracing them. 
 "He went out therefrom very black and ugly, and his 
 clothes quite smutched. And when his servants, who were 
 waiting, saw him in such a state, they thought he was the 
 Devil. Then they beat him with birch rods, and, running 
 away, left him alone." 
 
 But that which convulsed her most with laughter was 
 the account of the blows given to the Evil One himself, 
 especially when Julienne, having been tempted by him in 
 her prison cell, administered such an extraordinary chas- 
 tisement with her chain. '• Then the Provost commanded 
 that Juliana should be brought before him ; and when she 
 came into his presence she was drawing the Devil after 
 her, and he cried out, saying, ' My good lady Juliana, do 
 not hurt me any more ! ' She led him in this way around 
 the public square, and afterwards threw him into a deep 
 ditcn. 
 
 Often Angelique would repeat to the Huberts, as they 
 were all at work together, legends far more interesting 
 than any fairytale. She had read them over so often that 
 she knew them by heart, and she told in a charming way 
 
TriE DRfcAM. 
 
 27 
 
 rts them 
 ree, and 
 \ soon it 
 :, "Sing, 
 tely the 
 was told 
 
 to Ange- 
 ovvs, and 
 
 hich she 
 Liuch did 
 
 le Infant 
 ; to bring 
 
 a certain 
 ;ia, whom 
 he kissed 
 ing them. 
 , and his 
 
 who were 
 e was the 
 i, running 
 
 sfhter was 
 himself, 
 by him in 
 lary chas- 
 mmanded 
 when she 
 3evil after 
 uliana, do 
 ay around 
 ito a deep 
 
 ts, as they 
 
 interesting 
 
 often that 
 
 rming way 
 
 the story of the Seven Slerpers, wlio, to escape persecution, 
 walled themselves up in a cavern, where they slept three 
 hundred and seventy-seven j^ears, and whose awakening 
 greatly astonished the Emperor Theodosius. Then the 
 Legend of Saint Clement, with its endless adventures, so 
 unexpected and touching, where the whole family, father, 
 mother and three sons, separated by terrible misfortunes, 
 are finally re-united in the midst of the most beautiful 
 miracles. 
 J Her tears would flow at these recitals. She dreamed 
 
 of them at night, she lived as it were only in this tragic 
 and triumphant world of prodigy, in a supernatural coun- 
 try where all virtues are recompensed by all imaginable 
 joys. 
 
 When Angelique partook of her first communion, it 
 % seemed as if she were walking like the saints, a little above 
 the earth. She was a young Christian of the Primitive 
 Church ; she gave herself into the hands of God, having 
 learned from her book that she could not be saved 
 without grace. 
 
 The Huberts were simple in their profession of faith. 
 They went every Sunday to mass, and to communion on 
 fete days, and this was done with the tranquil humility of 
 true belief, aided a little by tradition, as the chasubliers 
 had from father to son always observed the Church cere- 
 monies, particularly those of Easter. 
 
 Hubert himself had a tendency to imaginative fancies. 
 He would at time stop his work and let fall his frame, to 
 listen to the child as she read or repeated the legends, and 
 carried away for the moment by her enthusiasm, it seemed 
 as if his hair were blown about by the light breath of some 
 invisible power. He was so in sympathy with Angelique, 
 and associated her to such a degree with the youthful 
 saints of the past, that he wept when he saw her in her 
 white dress and veil. This day at church was like a 
 dream, and they returned home quite exhausted. Huber- 
 tine was obliged to scold them both, for, with her excellent 
 common sense, she disliked exaggeration even in good 
 things. 
 
 From that time she had to restrain the zeal of Ansa- 
 
28 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 
 ' 1 't' 
 
 lique, especially her tendency to what she thought was 
 charity, and to whicli she wished to devote herself. Saint 
 Francis had wedded poverty, Julien the Chaplain had 
 called the poor his superiors, Gervasius and Protigs 
 had washed the feet of the most indigent, and Martin had 
 divided his cloak with them. So she, following the 
 example of Lucy, wished to sell everything that she might 
 give. At first she disposed of all her little private posses- 
 sions, then she began to pillage the house. But at last 
 she gave without judgment and foolishly. One evening, 
 two da^^s after her confirmation, being reprimanded for 
 having thrown from the wnidow several articles of under-^ 
 wear to a drunken woman, she had a terrible attack of 
 anger like those when she was young. Then, overcome by 
 shame, she Wi.^ mally ill and forced to keep her bed for a 
 couple of days. 
 
 ;- i 
 
 I 
 
 f 
 
 ilt*i':'" 
 
 P 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 29 
 
 ight was 
 f. Saitit 
 lain had 
 Protiijs 
 rtin had 
 ving the 
 he might 
 s posses- 
 t at last 
 evening, 
 nded for 
 Df under-, 
 attack of 
 rcome by 
 bed for a 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 In the meanwhile, weeks and months went by. Two years 
 had ] assed. Angeliqiie was now fourteen years of age and 
 quite womanly. When she read the Golden Legend, 
 she would have a humming in her ears, the blood circul- 
 ated quickly through the blue veins near her temples, and 
 she felt a deep tenderness towards all these virgin saints. 
 Maidenhood is sister of the angels, the union of all good, 
 the overtiirow of evil, the domain of faith It gives grace, 
 it is perfection, which has only need to show itself to con- 
 quer. The action of the Holy Spirit rendered Lucy so 
 heavy that a thousand men and five pair of oxen could not 
 drag her away from her home. An • fficer who tried to 
 kiss Anastasia was struck blind. Under torture, the purity 
 of the virgins is always powerful ; from their exquisite 
 white limbs, torn by instruments, milk flows idstead of 
 l)lood. Ten different times the story is told of the young 
 convert, who, to escape from her family, who wish her to 
 marry against her will, assumes the garb of a monk, is 
 accused of some misdeed, suffers punishment without 
 indicating herself, and at last triumphs by announcing her 
 name. Eugenia is in this way brought before a Judge, 
 whom she recognizes as her father and reveals herself to 
 him. Externally the combat of chastity recommences ; 
 always the thorns re-appear. Thus the wisest saints shrink 
 from being tempted. As the world is 'filled with snares, 
 hermits flee to the desert, where they scourge themselves, 
 throw themselves on the snow, or in beds of prickly herbs, 
 A solitary monk covers his fingers with his mantle, that he 
 may aid his mother in crossing a creek. A martyr bound 
 to a stake, being teriipted by a young girl, bites off his 
 tongue with his teeth and spits it at her. All glorify the 
 state of single blessedness. Alexis, very wealthy and in a 
 high position, marries, but leaves his wife at the church 
 door. One weds, only to die. Justina, in love with Cypri- 
 anus, converts him, and they walk together to their punish- 
 ment. Cecilia, beloved by an angel, reveals the secret to 
 
 i^ 
 
 ms 
 
30 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 i ) il 
 
 ■ I 
 
 Valerian on their wedding day, and he, that he may see the 
 spirit, consents to be baptised. He found in his room 
 Cecilia talking with the angel, who held in his hand two 
 wreaths of roses, and, giving one to Cecilia and one to 
 Valerian, he said " Keep these crowns like your hearts, 
 pure and unspotted." In many cases it was proved that 
 death was stronger than love, and couples were united only 
 as a challenge to existence. It was said that even the 
 Virgin Mary at times prevented betrothals from ending in 
 a marriage. A nobleman, a relative of the King of Hun- 
 gary, renounced his clamis to a young girl of marvellous 
 beauty on this account. " Suddenly our Blessed Lady 
 appeared, and said to him : * If I am indeed so beauti- 
 ful as you have called me, why do you leave me for 
 another ? ' And he became a most devout man for the rest 
 of his life." 
 
 Among all this saintly company, Angelique had her per- 
 ferences, and there were those whose experiences touched 
 her to the heart, and helped her to correct her failings. 
 Thus the learned Catherine, of high birth, enchanted her 
 by her great scientific knowledge, when, only eighteen 
 years of age, she was called by the Emperor Maximus to 
 discuss certain questions with fifty rhetoricians and gram- 
 marians. She astonished and coxivinced them. *' They 
 were amazed and knew not what to say, but they remained 
 ■quiet. And the Emperor blamed them for their weakness 
 in allowing themselves to be so easily conquered by a young 
 girl." The fifty professors then declared that they were 
 converted. *' And as soon as the tyrant heard that, he had 
 so terrible a fit of anger that he commanded they should 
 all be burned to death in the public square." In her eyes 
 Catherine was the invincible learned woman, as proud and 
 dazzhng in intellect as in beauty, just as she would have 
 liked to be, that she might convert men, and be fed in 
 prison by a dove before having her head cut off. But Saint 
 Elizabeth, the daughter of the King of Hungary, was for 
 her a constant teacher and guide. Whenever she was in- 
 clined to yield to her violent temper, she thought of this 
 model of gentleness and simplicity, who was at five years 
 of age very devout, refusing to join her playmates in their 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 31 
 
 see tVie 
 is room 
 ind two 
 
 one to 
 
 hearts, 
 ved that 
 ted only 
 iven the 
 nding in 
 of Hun- 
 arvellous 
 ed Lady 
 beauti- 
 : me for 
 r the rest 
 
 d her per- 
 s touched 
 r faihngs. 
 anted her 
 eighteen 
 aximus to 
 md gram- 
 " They 
 remained 
 weakness 
 y a young 
 they were 
 at, he had 
 ey should 
 |n her eyes 
 proud and 
 ould have 
 be fed in 
 But Saint 
 y, was for 
 ihe was in- 
 ht of this 
 five years 
 es in their 
 
 ,;| 
 
 I 
 
 
 sports, and sleeping on the ground, that, in abasing herself, 
 she might all the better render homage to God. Later, 
 she was the faithful, obedient wife of the Landgrave of 
 Thuringia, always showing to her husband a smiling face, 
 ahhough she passed her nights in tears. When she 
 became a widow she was driven from her estates, but was 
 liappy to lead the life of poverty. " Her dress was so thin 
 from use, that she wore a gray mantle, lengthened out by 
 cloth of a different shade. The sleeves of her jacket had 
 been torn and were mended with a material of another 
 colour. The king, her father, wishing lier to come to him, 
 sent for her by a Count. And when the Coimt saw her 
 clothed in such a way and spinning, overcome with sur- 
 prise and grief, he exclaimed : " Never before did one see 
 the (laughter of a Royal House in so miserable a garb, and 
 never was one known to spin wool until now." So Christ- 
 ian and sincere was her humility that she ate black bread 
 with the poorest peasants, nursed them when ill, dressed 
 their sores without repugnance, put on coarse garments 
 like theirs, and followed them in the church processipns 
 with bare feet. She was once washing the porringers and 
 the utensils of the kitchen, when the maids, seeing her out 
 of place, urged her to desist, but she replied, " Could I 
 find another task more menial even than this, I would do 
 it." Influenced by her example, Angelique, who was 
 formerly angry when obliged to do any cleaning in the 
 kitchen, now tried to invent some extremely disagreeable 
 task when she felt nervous and in need of control. 
 
 But more than Catherine, more than Elizabeth, far 
 
 nearer and dearer to her than all the other Saints, was 
 
 Agnes, the child martyr ; and her heart leape'd with joy 
 
 on refinding in the Golden Legend this virgin, clothed with 
 
 her own hair, who had protected her under the cathedral 
 
 portal. What ardour of pure love, as she repelled the son 
 
 of the Governor when he accosted her on her way from 
 
 school! "Go — leave me, minister of death, commence- 
 
 iment of sin, and child of treason ! " How exquisitely she 
 
 Idescribed her beloved ! *' I love the one whose mother 
 
 .was a Virgin, and whose father was faithful to her, at 
 
 |whose beauty the Sun and Moon' marvelled, and at whose 
 
32 
 
 TIIL DKKAM. 
 
 : ''i! 
 
 ■'!il: ■:( 
 
 touch the dead were made alive." And when Aspasien 
 commanded that " her throat should be cut by the sword," 
 she ascended into Paradise to be united to her betrothed, 
 whiter and purer than silver gilt. 
 
 Always, when weary or disturbed, Angelique called 
 upon lier and implored her, and it seemed as if peace came 
 to her at once. Slic saw her constantly near her, and often 
 she regretted having done or thought things which would 
 have displeased her. 
 
 One evening as she was kissing her hands, a habit 
 which she still at times indulged in, she suddenly blushed 
 and turned away, although she was quite alone, for it 
 seemed as if the little Saint must have seen her. Agnes 
 was her guardian Angel." 
 
 Thus, at fifteen, Angelique was an adorable child. 
 Certainly, neither the quiet, laborious life, nor the sooth- 
 ing shadows of the Cathedral, iioi the legends of the beau- 
 tiful Saints, had made her an angel, a creature of absolute 
 perfection. She was often angry, and certain weaknesses 
 of character showed themselves, which had never been 
 sufficiently guarded against. But she was always ashamed 
 and penitent if she had done wrong, for she wished so 
 much to be perfect ! And she was so human, so full of 
 life, so ignorant, and withal so pure in reality ! 
 
 One day, on returning from a long excursion which the 
 Huberts allowed her to take twice a year, on Pentecost 
 Monday and on Assumption-day, she took home with her 
 a sweet-briar bush, and then amused herself by re-planting 
 it in the narrow garden. She trimmed it and watered it 
 well : it grew and sent out long branches, filled with odour. 
 With her usual intensity, she watched it daily, but was 
 unwilling to have it grafted, as she wished to see if, by 
 some miracle, it could not be made to bear roses. She 
 danced around it, she repeated constantly : ** This bush 
 is like me ; it is like me ! " And if one joked her upon her 
 great wild rose bush, she joined them in their laughter, 
 although a little pale, and with tears almost ready to fall. 
 Her violet -coloured eyes were softer than ever, her half- 
 opened lips revealed little white teeth, and her oval face 
 had a golden aureole from her light wavy hair. She had 
 
 m 
 
TIIK DKF.AM. 
 
 33 
 
 ispasien 
 
 sworci, 
 
 jtrothed, 
 
 te called 
 ace came 
 ind often 
 ch would 
 
 ,, a habit 
 y blushed 
 me, for it 
 r. Agnes 
 
 ible child, 
 the sooth - 
 f the beau- 
 3i absolute 
 weaknesses 
 never been 
 U ashamed 
 wished so 
 1, so full of 
 
 n which the 
 ^ Pentecost 
 ne with her 
 re-planting 
 , watered it 
 with odour, 
 ly, but was 
 o see if, by 
 roses. She 
 "This bush 
 ler upon her 
 iir laughter, 
 eady to fall, 
 er, her half- 
 ler oval face 
 She had 
 
 grown tall without being too slight ; licr neck anfl shoulders 
 were exquisitely graceful; her chest was full hrr waist 
 flexible; and gay, healthy, of a rare beauty, i,he had an 
 infinite charm, arising from the innocence and purity of 
 
 I of her soul. 
 
 i Every day the affection of the Huberts for her increased. 
 
 They often talked together of their mutual wish to adopt 
 her. Yet they took no active measures in that waj', lest 
 they might have cause to regret it. One morning when 
 the husband announced hij-. final decision, his wife sud- 
 denly began to weep lutterly. To adopt a child ? Was 
 not that the same as giving up all hope of having one of 
 their own ? Yet it was useless for them to expect one now 
 after so many years of waiting, and she gave her consent, 
 in reality delighted that she could call her her daughter. 
 When Angelique was sj)oken to on the subject, she threw 
 
 •I her arms around their necks, kissed them both, and was 
 almost choked with tears of joy. 
 
 So it was agreed upon that she was always to remain 
 with them in this house, which now seemed to be filled 
 with her presence, rejuvenated by her youth and penetrated 
 by her laughter. But an unexpected obstacle was met 
 with at the first step. The Justice of the Peace, Monsieur 
 Grandsire, on being consulted, explained to them the 
 radical impossibility of adoption, since by law the adopted 
 must be ** of age." Then, seeing their disappointment, he 
 suggested the expedient of a legal guardianship : an}' indi- 
 vidual over fifty years of age can attach to himself a minor 
 of fifteen years or less by a legal claim, on becoming their 
 official protector. The ages were all right, so they were 
 delighted and accepted. It was even arranged that they 
 should afterwards confer the title of adoption upon their 
 ward by way of their united last will and testament, as 
 such a thing would be permitted by the Code. Monsieur 
 Grandsire, furnished with the demand of the husband and 
 the authorization of the wife, then put himself in commu- 
 nication with the Director of Public Aid, the general guar- 
 dian for all abandoned children, whose consent it was 
 necessary to have. Great inquiries were made, and at last 
 the necessary papers were placed in Paris with a certain 
 
34 
 
 THK DREAM. 
 
 ''Wiiiii 
 
 !l|l|l, 
 
 
 Justice of the Peace chosen for tlie purpose. And all was 
 ready except the official report which constitutes tlu; 
 Icf^ality of guardianship, when the Huberts suddenly were 
 taken with certain st:ruples. 
 
 Before receiving; Angelique into their family, ought not 
 they to ascertain if she had any relatives on her side? 
 Was her mother still alive ? 1 lad they the right to dispose 
 of the daughter without being absolutely >i:ic that she had 
 willingly been given up and deserted ? Then, in reality, 
 the unknown origin of the child, which had troubled them 
 long ago, came back to them now and made them hesitate. 
 They were so tormented by this anxiety that they couKl 
 not sleep. 
 
 Without any more talk, Hubert unexpectedly announced 
 that he was going to Paris. Such a journey seemed like a 
 catastrophe in his calm existence. He explained the 
 necessity of it to Angelique, by speaking of the guardian- 
 ship. He hoped to arrange everything in twenty-four 
 hours. But once in the city, days passed ; obstacles arose 
 on every side. He spent a week there, sent from one to 
 another, really doing nothing, and quite discouraged. In 
 the first place, he was received very coldly at the Office of 
 Public Assistance. The rule of the Administration is that 
 children shall not be told of their parents until they are of 
 age. So for two mornings in succession he .was sent away 
 from the office. He persisted, he w ver, explained the 
 matter to three secretaries, made hinisiilf hoarse in talking 
 to an under officer, who wished to counsel him that he had 
 no official papers. The administration were quite ignorant. 
 A nurse had left the child there, •' Angelique Marie," 
 without naming the -mother. In despair he was about to 
 return to Beaumonv^ when a new idea impelled him to 
 return for the fourth time to the office, to see the book in 
 which the arrival of the infant had been noted down, and 
 in that way to have the address of the nurse. That proved 
 to be quite an undertaking. But at last he succeeded, and 
 found it was a Madame Foucart, and that in 1850 she 
 lived on the Rue des Deux-^^cus. 
 
 Then he recommenced his hunting up and down. The 
 end of the Rue des Deux-6cus had been demolished, and 
 
THE dkfam. 
 
 ti 
 
 aU was 
 
 i\y wore ' 
 
 n^ht not 
 
 er suli'!' 
 
 3 dispose 
 
 L she b;u\ f 
 
 11 reality' 
 
 ,lcd them v, 
 
 1 hesitate. 4 
 
 hey couUl | 
 
 innounced "j 
 
 med hke a j 
 
 lained the :j 
 
 B guardian - 
 
 twenty-four 
 
 tacles arose 
 
 rom one to 
 
 uraged. ^^\ 
 he Office ot 
 
 ation is that 
 I they are ot 
 IS sent away 
 mlained the 
 se in talking 
 1 that he had 
 lite ignorant, 
 que Mane, 
 was ahout to 
 ,elled him to 
 
 ■- the book m 
 I down, and 
 That proved 
 ^cceeded, and 
 in 1850 she 
 
 ^ down. The 
 ImoUshed, and 
 
 id 
 
 no shopkeeper in the neighbourhood recollected evei 
 havuig heard of Madame I'oucart. He consulted the 
 directory, but there was no sucii iianie. Looking at every 
 sign as he walked along, he called on one after another, 
 and at last, in tiiis way lie had the good fortune to find an 
 old woman whu exrlaimucl, in answer to his questions, 
 •' What ! do I know M.uiamc Foucart ? A most honour- 
 able person, but one who has had many misfortunes. She 
 lives on the Rue de Censier, quite at the other end of 
 Paris.' He hastened there at once. 
 
 Warned by experience, he determined now to be diplo- 
 matic. Hut Madame Foucart, an enormous woman, would 
 not allow him to ask qu'^stions in the good order he had 
 arranged them before going there. As soon as he men- 
 tioned the two names of the child, she seemed to be eager 
 to talk, and she rehited its whole history in a most spiteful 
 way. " Ah ! the child was alive ! Ver)' well ; she might 
 flatter herself that she had for a mother a most famous 
 hussy ! Yes, Madame Sidonie, as she was called since she 
 becatue a widow, was a woman of a good family, having, 
 it is said, a brother who was a minister, but that diil not 
 prevent her from being very bad ! " And she explained 
 that she had made her acquaintance when she kept on the 
 Rue Saint-Honore a little shop, where they dealt in fruit 
 and oil from Provence, she and her husband, when they 
 1 came from Plassans, hoping to make their fortune in the 
 city. The husband died and was buried, and soon after 
 
 ' Madame Sidonie had a little daughter, which she sent at 
 once to the hospital, and never after even enquired for her, 
 as she was a heartless woman, cold as a protest and brutal 
 as a sheriff's aid." A fault can be pardoned, but not 
 ingratitude 1 Was not it true that, obliged to leave her 
 shop as she was so heavily in debt, she had been received 
 
 ^iand cared for by Madame Foucart ? And when, in her 
 !|urn, she herself had fallen into ci.fficulties, she had never 
 ien able to obtain from Madame Sidonie even the month's 
 )ard she owed her, nor the fifteen francs she had once 
 ;nt her. To-day the " hateful thing " lived on the Rue de 
 i^aubourg-Poissonnifere, where she had a little apartment 
 three rooms. She pretended to be a cleaner and 
 
36 
 
 THE OR F.AM. 
 
 ■«':'' 
 
 ftu 
 
 !!ft '^ 
 
 mender of lace, hut she sold a good many other things. 
 Ah yes ! such a mother as that it was hest to ki.ow nothing 
 about ! 
 
 An hour later, Hubert was walking round the house 
 where Madame Sidonie lived. He saw through the win- 
 dow a woman, thin, pale, coarse-looking, wearing an old 
 l-lack gown, stained and greased. Never could the heart 
 of such a person be touched by the recollection -of a 
 daughter whom she had only seen on the day of its birth. 
 He concluded it would be best not to repeat even to his 
 wife many things that he had just learned. Still he hesi- 
 tated. Once more he passed by the place and looked 
 again. Ought not he to go in, to introduce himself, and to 
 ask ih2 consent of the unnatural parent ? As an honest 
 man, it was for him to judge if he had the right of cutting 
 the tie there and for ever. Brusquely he turned his back, 
 hurri<?d away, and returned that evening to Beaumont. 
 
 1 J libertine had just learned that the proces-verbal at 
 Mo:isieur Grandsire's, for the guardianship of the child, 
 had been signed. And when Angelique threw herself into 
 Hubert's arms, he clearly saw by the look of supplication 
 in her eyes that she had understood the true reason of his 
 journey. 
 
 Then he said quietly: " My child, your mother is not 
 living." Angelique wept, as she kissed him most affec- 
 tionately. After this the subject was not refened to. She 
 was their daughter. 
 
 At Whitsuntide this year, the Huberts had taken 
 Angelique with them to lunch at the ruir . of the Chateau 
 d'Hautecoeur, which overlooks the Ligneul, two leagues 
 below Beaumont ; and, after the day spent in running and 
 laughing in the open air, the young girl still slept when, 
 the next morning, the old house clock struck eight. 
 
 Hubertine svas obliged lo go up and rap at her door. 
 
 ** Ah, well ! little lazy child ! We have already had our 
 breakfast, and it is late." 
 
 Angelique dressed herself quickly and went down to 
 the kitchen, where she took her rolls and coffee alone. 
 Then, when she entered the workroom, where Hubert and 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 37 
 
 things, 
 nothing 
 
 Q house 
 the win- 
 r an old 
 he heart 
 ion of a 
 its birth, 
 /en to his 
 [ he hesi- 
 :id looked 
 ,el{, andto 
 an honest 
 of cutting 
 i his back, 
 Lumont. 
 s-verbal at 
 • the child, 
 Iherself into 
 iuppli<^ation 
 
 ;ason of his 
 
 )ther is "o^ 
 most affec- 
 ted to. She 
 
 had taken 
 the Chateau 
 ' two leagues 
 1 running and 
 I slept when, 
 leight. 
 It her door, 
 leady had our 
 
 lent down to 
 
 coffee alone. 
 
 le Hubert and 
 
 his wife had just seated themselves, after having arranged 
 tlieir frames for ciiiui«.)idery. she said : 
 
 " Oh ! how soundly I did sleep ! I had quite forgotten 
 that we had promised to finish this chasuble for next 
 Sunday." 
 
 This workroom, the windows of which opened upon the 
 garden, was a larf^e apartment, preserved almost entirely 
 in its original state. The two principal beams of the ceil- 
 ing and the three visible cross-beams of support had not 
 even been whitewashed, and they were blackened by smoke 
 and worm-eaten, while through the openings of the broken 
 plaster, here and there, tiio laths of the inner joists could 
 be seen. On one of the stone corbels which supported 
 the beams was the date 1463, without doubt the date of 
 the construction of the building. The chimney-piece, also 
 in stone, broken and disjointed, had traces of its original 
 elegance, with its slender uprights, its brackets, its frieze 
 with a cornice, and its basket-shaped funnel terminating 
 in a crown. On the frieze could be seen even now, as if 
 softened by age, an ingenious attempt at sculpture, in the 
 way of a likeness of Saint Clair, the patron of eni'j>roiderers. 
 But this chimney was no longer used, and the fireplace 
 had been turned into an open closet by putting shelves 
 therein, on whicii were piles of designs and patterns. The 
 room was now heated by a great bell- shaped cast-iron 
 stove, the pipe of which, after going the whole length of 
 the ceiling, entered an opening made expressly for it in the 
 wall. The doors, already shaky, were of the time of Louis 
 XIV. The original tiles of the floor were nearly all gone, 
 and had been replaced, one by one, by those of a later 
 ' style. It was nearly a hundred years since the yellow 
 walls had been coloured, and at the top of the room they 
 were almost of a graj'ish white, and, lower down, were 
 scratched and spotted with saltpetre. Each year there 
 -was talk of repainting them, but nothing had yet been done, 
 from a dislike of change. 
 
 ; Hubertirie, busy at her work, raised her head as Ange- 
 .lique spoke and said : 
 
 " You know, that if our work is done on Sunday, I ha\ie 
 promised to give you a basket of pansies for your garden." 
 
 The young girl exclaimed gaily: "Oh, yes! that is 
 
38 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 true. Ah, well ! I will do my best then. But where is my 
 thimble ? It seems as if all workinf:^ implements take to 
 themselves wings and fly away, if not in constant use." 
 
 She slipped the old doigtier of ivory on the second joint 
 of her little finger, and took her place on the other side of 
 the frame, opposite to the window. 
 
 Since the middle of the last century there had not been 
 the slightest modification in the fittings and arrangements 
 of the workroom. Fashions changed, the art of the em- 
 broiderer was transformed, but there was still seen fastened 
 to the wall the chantlate, the great piece of wood, where 
 was placed one end of the frame or work, while the other 
 end was supported by a moveable trestle. In the corners 
 were many ancient tools — a little machine called a '* dili- 
 gent," with its wheels and its long pins, to wind the gold 
 thread on the reels without touching it ; a hand spinning 
 wheel ; a species of pulley to twist the threads which were 
 attached to the wall; rollers of various sizes coven .i >,vith 
 silks and threads used in tlie crochet embroidery. Upon a 
 shelf was spread out an old collection of punches for the 
 spangles, and there was also to be seen a valuable relic in 
 the sliape of the classic chandelier of hammered brass, 
 which belonged to some ancient master workman. On the , 
 rings of a rack made of a nailed leather sttap were hung 
 awls, mallets, hammers, irons to cut the vellum, and 
 roughing chisels of bog wood which were used to smooth 
 the threads as fast as they were employed. And yet again, 
 at the foot of the heavy oaken table on which the cutting 
 out was done, was a great winder, whose two moveable 
 reels of wicker held the skeins. Long chains of spools of 
 bright coloured silks, strung on cords, were hung near thu 
 case of drawers. On the floor was a large basket lili* ' 
 with empty bobbins. A pair of great shears rested on the 
 straw seat of one of the chairs, and a ball of cord had just 
 fallen on the floor half unwound. 
 
 *♦ Oh ! what lovely weather ! What perfect weaiher ! " 
 continued Angelique. *' It is a pleasure simply to live and 
 to breathe." 
 
 , And before stooping to apply herself to her work, she 
 dela\^ed another moment before the open window, through 
 \vbi9h cn|;ered all the beauty of a radi^^nt May njorrjipgr 
 
tHE DREAM. 
 
 3d 
 
 re is my 
 
 take to * 
 
 use. ' 
 
 md joint 
 
 r side oi -, 
 
 not been 
 ngenients 
 
 [ the em- 
 
 1 fastened 
 
 od, where 
 the other 
 
 ^e corners 
 
 id a " dili- 
 
 d the gold 
 
 d spinning 
 
 which were 
 
 )verf^ vith 
 
 v. Upon a 
 
 bhes for the 
 
 ible relic in 
 
 ,ered brass, 
 
 Ian. On the. 
 were hung 
 ellum, and 
 
 A to smooth 
 
 [nd yet again, 
 the cutting 
 o moveable 
 of spools ;'; 
 ^ungnear m 
 basket lih^ 
 .rested on the 
 [cord had just 
 
 Let weaiher \ " 
 kly to live and 
 
 lier work, she 
 Idow, through 
 fy morning* 
 
 I- 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The sun shone brightly on the roof of the Cathedral, a 
 fresh odour of lilacs came up from the bushes in the garden 
 of the Bishop. Angelique smiled, as she stood there, dazzled 
 as if bathed in the spring tide. Then starting, as if sud- 
 denly awakened from sleep, she said, 
 
 " Father, I have no more gold thread for my work." 
 
 Hubert, who had just finished pricking the tracing of 
 the pattern of a cope, went to get a skein from the case of 
 drawers, cut it, tapered off the two ends by scratching the 
 gold which covered the silk, and he brought it to her rolled 
 up in parchment. 
 
 •♦ Is that all you need ? " 
 
 '• Yes, thanks." 
 
 With a quick glance she had assured herself that nothing 
 more was wanting ; the needles were supplied with the 
 different golds, the red, the green, and the blue ; there 
 were spools of every shade of silk ; the spangles were 
 ready ; and the twisted wires for the gold lace were in the 
 crown of a hat which served as a box, with the long fine 
 needles, and steel pincers, the thimbles, the scissors, and 
 the ball of wax. All these were on the frame even, or on 
 the material stretched therein, which was protected by a 
 thick brown paper. 
 
 She had threaded a needle with the gold thread. But 
 at the first stitch it broke, and she was obliged to thread 
 it again, brraking off tiny bits of the gold, which she threw 
 immediately into the pa teboard waste basket which was 
 near her. 
 
 " Now at last I am ready," she said, as she finished her 
 first stitch. 
 
 ^ Perfect silence followed. Hubert was preparing to 
 Itretch some material on another frame. He had placed 
 i^e two heavy ends on the chantlate and the trestle directly 
 opposite in such a way as to talco len|:(thwise the red silk of 
 the cope, the breadths of which Hubertine had just stitched 
 together, and fitting the laths into the mortice of the 
 
'l' 
 
 40 
 
 TIIK DREAM. 
 
 beams, he fastened them with fciir Httle nails. Then, after 
 smoothing the material many times from right to left, he 
 finished stretching it and tacked on the nails. To assure 
 himself that it was thoroughly tight and firm, he tapped on 
 the cloth with his fingers and it sounded like a drum. 
 
 Angelique had become a most skilful worker, and the 
 Huberts were c.stonished at her cleverness and taste. In 
 addition to what they had taught, she carried into all she 
 did her personal enthusiasm, which gave life to flowers and 
 faith to symbols. Under her hands, silk and gold seemed 
 animated ; the smaller ornaments were full of mystic mean- 
 ing : she gave herself up to it entirely, with her imagination 
 constantly active and her firm belief in the infinitude of the 
 invisible world. 
 
 The Diocese of Beaumont had been so c1 ;rmed with 
 certain pieces of her embroidery, that a clergyman who 
 was an archaeologist, and another who was an admirer of 
 pictures, had come to see her, and were in raptures before 
 her Virgins, which they compared to the simple, gracious 
 figures of the earliest masters. There was the same sin- 
 cerity, the same sentiment of the beyond, as if encircled in 
 the minutest perfection of detail. She had the real gift of 
 design, a miraculous one indeed, which, without a teacher, 
 with nothing but her evening studies by lamplight, enabled 
 her often to correct her models, to deviate entirely from 
 them, and to follow her own fancies, creating beautiful 
 things with ^.he point of her needle. So the Huberts, who 
 had always insisted that a thorough knowledge of the 
 science of drawing was necessary to make a good embroid- 
 erer, were obliged to yield before her, notwithstanding their 
 long experience. And, little by little they modestly with- 
 drew into the background, becoming simply her aids, 
 surrendering to her all the most elaborate work, the under 
 part of which they prepci'-ed for her. 
 
 From one end of the year to the other, what brilliant 
 and sacred marvels passed through her hands ? She was 
 always occupied with silks, satins, velvets, or cloths of 
 gold or silver. She embroidered chasubles, stoles, mani- 
 ples, copes, dalmatics, mitres, banners, and veils for the 
 chalice and the pyx. But above all, their orders for chas- 
 
s 
 
 TUF. DREAM. 
 
 41 
 
 en, after 
 D left, be 
 :o assure 
 apped on 
 
 um. 
 
 •, and the 
 
 :aste. I^ 
 ito all she 
 owers and 
 ,ld seemed 
 Stic mean- ,^ 
 nagination 
 tude of the 
 
 .rmed with 
 ryinan who 
 ' admirer of 
 tures before 
 )le, gracious 
 le same sm- 
 encircledm 
 
 2 real gift ot 
 at a teacher, 
 ight, enabled 
 entirely from 
 ng beautiful 
 luberts, who 
 /ledge of the 
 ood embroid- 
 tanding their 
 lodestly with- 
 ply her aids, 
 >rk, the under 
 
 what briUiant 
 ;is ? She was 
 or cloths of 
 , stoles, mani- 
 i veils for the 
 rders for chas- 
 
 ■:* 
 
 ubles never failed, and they worked constantly at those 
 vestments, with their hv(; colours : the white, for Confessors 
 and Virgins ; the red, for Apostles and Martyrs ; the black, 
 for the days of fasting and for tlie dead ; the violet, for the 
 Innocents; and the green, for the fete days. Gold was 
 also often used in place of white or of green. The same 
 symbols were always in the centre of the cross : the mono- 
 grams of Jesus and of the Virgin Mary, the triangle sur- 
 rounded with rays, the lamb, the pelican, the dove, a 
 chalice, a monstrance, and a bleeding heart pierced with 
 thorns ; while higher up and on the arms, were designs, or 
 flowers, all the ornamentation being in the ancient style, 
 and all the flora in large blossoms, like anemones, tulips, 
 peonies, pomegranates, or hortcnsias. No season passed 
 in which she did not remake the grapes and thorns sym- 
 bolic, putting silver on black, and gold on red. For the 
 most costly vestments, she varied the pictures of the heads 
 of Saints, having, as a central design, the Annunciation, 
 the Last Supper, or the Crucifixion. Sometimes the orfreys 
 were worked on the original material itself ; at others, she 
 applied bands of silk or satin on brocades of gold cloth, or 
 of velv*Jt. And all this efflorescence of sacred splendour 
 was created little by little by her deft fingers. At this 
 moment the vestment on which Angeiique was at work was 
 a chasuble of white satin, the cross of which was made by 
 a sheaf of golden lilies, intertwined with bright roses, in 
 various shades of silk. In the centre, in a wreath of little 
 roses of dead gold, was the monogram of t\\e Blessed Virgin 
 in red and green gold, with a great variety of ornaments. 
 
 For an hour, during which she skilfully finished the 
 little roses, the silence had not been broken even by a 
 single word. But her thread broke again, and she re- 
 threaded her needle by feeling carefully under the frame, 
 as only an adroit person can do. Then, as she raised her 
 head, she again inhaled with satisfaction the pure, fresh air 
 that came in from the garden. 
 
 " Ah ! " she said softly, how beautiful it was yesterday ! 
 
 :The sunshine is always perfect." 
 
 I Hubertine shook her head as she stopped to wax her 
 
 thread. 
 
 \ 
 
43 
 
 Tlir: DKF-AM. 
 
 im 
 
 '• As for iiio. 1 am so woan'cd, it sr(Mns ns if T had no 
 arms, ami it tirrs mc to work. But that is not slranj^o, for 
 I so st^hlom };o out and am no lon{;(?r young and strong as 
 you at sixt(H'n." 
 
 Anp^ohtjur had reseated herself and resumed her work. 
 Siic pre])ared the hlies by sevvinjjj l)its of vc'lhnn on certain 
 phiees that had been marked, so as to give the rehcf, but 
 tlie flowers themselves were not to be made until later, for 
 fear the gold be tarnished were the hands moved much 
 over it. 
 
 Hubert, who having finishe<l arranging the material in 
 its frame was about drawing with pumice the pattern of 
 the cope, joined in die conversation and said : •' These first 
 warm days of spring are sure to give me a terrible head- 
 ache." 
 
 Angelique's eyes seemed to be vaguely lost in the rays 
 which now fell upon one of the H^'ing buttresses of the 
 Church, as she dreamily added : " c3h, no, father, I do not 
 think so. One day in the lively air like yesterday docs mc 
 a world of good." 
 
 Having finished the little golden leaves, she began one 
 of the large roses, near the lilies. Already slie had threaded 
 several needles with the, silks required, and she embroidered 
 in stitches varying in length, according to the natural posi- 
 tion and movement of the petals, and notwithstanding the 
 extreme delicacy and absorbing nature of this work, the 
 recollections of the previous day, which she lived over 
 again in thouglU and in silence, now came to her lips and 
 crowded so closely upon each other, that she no longer 
 tried to keep them back. So she talked of their setting out 
 upon their expedition, of the beautiful fields they crossed, 
 of their lunch over there in the ruins of Hautecoeur, upon 
 the fiag-stones of a little room whose tumble-down walls 
 towered far above the Ligneul, which rolled gently among 
 the willows fifty yards below them. 
 
 She was enthusiastic over these crumbling ruins, and 
 the scattered blocks of stone among the brambles, which 
 showed how enormous the colossal structure must have 
 been, as when first built it commanded the two valleys. 
 The donjon remained, nearly two hundred feet in height, 
 
Till': DREAM. 
 
 43 
 
 1 bad no 
 liiiif^e, for 
 strong as ^ 
 
 her work, 
 on certain 
 relief, but 
 il later, for 
 )vcd mucb 
 
 material in 
 pattern of 
 ' Tbese first 
 rrible bead- 
 
 in tbe rays 
 esses of tbc 
 her, I do not 
 day docs me 
 
 16 began one 
 bad tbreaded 
 embroidered 
 natural posi- 
 istanding tbe 
 bis work, tbe 
 le lived over 
 o ber lips and 
 be no longer 
 eir setting out 
 ; tbey crossed. 
 Litecoeur, upon 
 )le-down walls 
 gently among 
 
 ing ruins, and 
 rambles, wbich 
 are must bave 
 le two valleys, 
 feet in height, 
 
 i-'? 
 
 discoloured, cracked, liut nc^verliieless firin, upon its foiiti- 
 dation pillars fifteen feet thick. Two of its towers had also 
 resist(Ml the attacks of Time — that of ('harleinagne and 
 that of David united by a heavy wall almost intact. In 
 the interior, the chapel, the court-room, and c(;rlain 
 (diamlu^rs were still easily n;cognized; and all this appcar(;d 
 to have l)(.'en built by g^nts, for the st(^ps of the stairways, 
 th(^ sills of the windows, and the benches on the terraces, 
 were all on a scale far out of proportion for the geiu;ration 
 of to-day. It was, in fact, (^uite a little fortified city, l-'ive 
 hundnul men could have sustained there a siege of thirty- 
 months without suffering from want of auununition or of 
 provisions. For two centuries the bricks of the low( st 
 storey had been disjointed by the wild roses ; lilacs and 
 laburnums covered with blossoms the rubbish of the falleu 
 ceilings; a plane tree had even grown uj) in the fireplace 
 of the guardroom. But when at sun^ift^ the outline of the 
 tlonjon cast its long shadow over three leagues of cultivated 
 ground, and the colossal chateau seemed to be rebuilt in the 
 evening mists, one still felt the great strength and the old 
 soveriMgnty which had made of it so impregnable a fortress 
 that even the kings of France trembled before it, 
 
 " And 1 am sure," continued Angelique, " that it is 
 inhabiteil by the souls of the dead who return at night. 
 All kinds of noises are heard there ; in every direction are 
 monsters who look at you, and when I turned, ro' nd as 
 I we were coming away, I saw great white figures fl Ueriug 
 ! above the wall. But, mother, you know all the history of 
 the castle, do you not ? " 
 
 Ilubertine rej^ied, as she smiled in an amused way: 
 
 " Oh, as for ghosts, I have never seen any of them myself." 
 
 J^ut in reality, she remembered perfectly the history 
 
 which she had read long ago, and to satisfy the eager 
 
 questionings of the young girl, she was obliged to relate it 
 
 ■ over &gain. 
 
 i The land belonged to the Bishopric of Rheims, since 
 Ithe days of Saint Remi, who had received it from Clovis. 
 I An Archbishop, Severin, in the early years of the 
 ^|tenth century, had erected at' Hautecceur a fortress to 
 % 
 
44 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ! Ill 
 
 liiil: 
 
 'U 
 
 defend the country against the Normans, who were coming 
 up the river Oise, into which the Ligneul flows. 
 
 In the following century a successor of Severin gave it 
 in fief to Norbert, a younger son of the house of Normandy, 
 in consideration of an annual quit-rent of sixty sous, and 
 on the condition that the City of Beaumont and its 
 Church should remain free and unencumbered. It was in 
 this way that Norbert I. became the head of the Mar- 
 quesses of Hautecoeur, whose famous line from that date 
 became so well known in history. Hervd IV., excommuni- 
 cated twice for his robbery of ecclesiaslicn.l property, became 
 a noted highwayman, who killed on a certain occasion with 
 his own hands thirty citizens, and his tower was razed to 
 the ground by Louis le Gros, against whom he had dared 
 to declare war. Raoul I., who went to the Crusades with 
 Philip Augustus, perished before Saint Jean d'Acre, 
 having been pierced through the heart by a lance. But 
 the most illustrious of the race was John V. the Great, 
 who in 1225 built the fortress, finishing in less than five 
 years this formidable Chateau of Hautecoeur, under whose 
 shelter he for a moment dreamed of aspiring to the throne 
 of France, and after having escaped from being killed in 
 twenty battles, he at last dyed quietly in his bed, brother- 
 in-law to the King of Scotland. Then came Felician III., 
 who made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem barefooted ; Herve 
 VII., who asserted his claims to the throne of Scotland; 
 and still many others, noble and powerful in their day and 
 generation, down to Jean IX., who, under Mazarin, had 
 the grief of assisting at the dismantling of the Castle. 
 After a desperate siege, the vaults of the towers and of 
 the donjon were blown up with powder, and the different 
 constructions were set on fire ; where Charles VI. had 
 been sent to rest and to turn his attention from his 
 vagaries, and where, nearly two hundred years later, 
 Henri IV. had passed a week as Gabrielle D'Estress. 
 Thenceforth, all these royal souvenirs had passed into 
 oblivion. 
 
 Angelique, without stopping the movement of her 
 needle, listened eagerly, as if the vision of these past 
 grandeurs rose up from her frame, in proportion as the 
 
TIIF DREAM. 
 
 45 
 
 re coming 
 
 in gave it 
 ormandy, 
 
 sous, and 
 t and its 
 
 It was in 
 
 the Mar- 
 
 that date 
 ^communi- 
 ty, became 
 :asion with 
 IS razed to 
 
 had dared 
 isades with 
 an d'Acre, 
 ance. But 
 
 the Great, 
 ;s than five 
 mder whose 
 , the throne 
 ig killed in 
 ,ed, brother- 
 elician lll.f 
 >ted ; Herve 
 »f Scotland; 
 leir day and 
 [azarin, had 
 
 the Castle, 
 wers and of 
 the different 
 rles VI. had 
 3n from his 
 
 years later, 
 
 ; D'Estress. 
 
 passed into 
 
 nent of her 
 f these past 
 (rtion as the 
 
 
 'i 
 
 .'A 
 
 rose grew there in its delicate life of colour, ller ignor- 
 ance of general history enlarged facts, and she received 
 them as if they were the basis of a marvellous legend. 
 She trembled with delight, and transported by her faith, 
 it seemed as if the reconstructed chateau mounted to the 
 very gates of heaven, and the Hautecceurs were cousins to 
 the Virgin Mary. 
 
 When there was a pause in the recital, she asked, '* Is 
 not our new Bishop, Monseigneur d'Hautecceur, a descen- 
 dant of this noted family ? " 
 
 Hubertine replied that Monseigneur must belong to 
 ths younger branch of the family, as the elder branch had 
 bcv^n extinct for a very long time. It was indeed a most 
 singular return, as for centuries the Marquesses of Haute- 
 coeur and the clergy of Beaumont had been hostile to each 
 other. Towards 1150, an Abbot undertook to build a 
 church, with no other resources than those of his Order ; 
 so his funds soon gave out, when the edifice was no hii.')ier 
 than the arches of ihe side chapels, and they were obliged 
 to cover the nave with a wooden roof. Eighty years 
 passed and Jean V. came to rebuild the chateau, when lie 
 gave three hundred thousand pounds, which, added to 
 other sums, enabled the work on the church to be con- 
 tinued. The nave was finished, but the two towers 
 and the great front were terminated much later, U wards 
 1430, in the full fifteenth century. To recompense Joan 
 V. for his liberality, the clergy accorded to him, for him- 
 self and his descendants, the right of burial in a chapel of 
 the apse, consecrated to St. George, and which since that 
 time had been called the Chapel Hautecceur. But these 
 good terms were not of long duration. The freedom of 
 Beaumont was put in constant peril by the chateau, and 
 there were continual hostilities on the questions of tribute 
 and of precedence. One especially, the right of paying 
 toll, which the nobles demanded for the navigation of the 
 Ligneul, perpetuated the quarrels. Then it was that the 
 great prosperity of the lower town began, with ils manu- 
 facturing of fine linen and lace, and from this epoch the 
 fortune of Beaumont increased daily, while that of Haute- 
 cceur diminished until the time when the castle was 
 
— -f*' 
 
 4<5 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 mm 
 
 dismantled and the chnrcli triumphed. Louis XIV. made 
 ot it a Cathedral, a Bishop's Palace was built in the old 
 enclosure of the monks, and, by a singular chain of cir- 
 cumstances, to-day a member of the family of Hautecceur 
 had returned as a bishop to command the clergy, who, 
 always powerful, had conquered his ancestors, after a 
 contest of four hundred years. 
 
 " But," said Angelique, *• Monseigneur has been married, 
 and has not he a son at least twenty years of age ? " 
 
 Hubertine had taken up the shears to remodel cue of 
 the pieces of vellum. 
 
 '♦ Yes," she replied," " the Abbot Cornille told me the 
 whole story, and it is a very sad history. When but 
 twenty-two years of age, Monseigneur was a captain, under 
 Charles X. In 1830, when only four and twenty, he 
 resigned his position in the army, and it is said that from 
 that time until he was forty years of age, he led an 
 adventurous life, travelling everywhere and having many 
 strange experiences. At last, one evening, he met, at the 
 house of a friend in the country, the daughter of Count de 
 Valencay, Mademoiselle Pauline, very wealthy, marvel- 
 lously beautiful, and scarcely nineteen years of age ; 
 twenty-two years younger than himself. -He fell violently 
 in love with her, and as she returned his affection there 
 was no reason why the marriage should not take place at 
 once. He then bought the ruins of Hautecceur for a mere 
 song — ten thousand francs, I believe — with the intention 
 of repairing the chateau, and installing his wife therein, 
 when all would be in order and in readiness to receive her. 
 In the meanwhile they went to live on one of his family 
 estates in Anjou, scarcely seeing any of their friends, and 
 finding in their united happiness the days all too short. 
 But, alas ! at the end of a year Pauline had a son and 
 died. 
 
 Hubert, who was still occupied with marking out his 
 pattern, raised his head, showing a very pale face as he 
 said in a fow voice : " Oh ! the unhappy man ! " 
 
 " It was said that he himself almost died from his great 
 grief," continued Hubertine. 
 
 At all events, a fortnight later, he entered into Holy 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 4; 
 
 IV. made 
 n the old 
 lin of cir- 
 [autecoeur 
 ;rgy, who, 
 after a 
 
 «»> 
 
 n married, 
 
 e ? 
 
 del cue of 
 
 )ld me the 
 When but 
 >tain, under 
 twenty, he 
 d that from 
 he led an 
 iving many 
 met, at the 
 of Count de 
 hy, marvel- 
 irs of age; 
 fell violently 
 ection there 
 ike place at 
 ir for a mere 
 he intention 
 wife therein, 
 ) receive her. 
 Df his family 
 friends, and 
 ill too short, 
 d a son and 
 
 rking out his 
 le face as he 
 
 1!" 
 
 rom his great 
 
 •ed into Holy 
 
 I 
 
 f 
 
 1 
 
 
 Hi 
 
 Orders, and soon became a Priest; that was twenty years 
 ago, and now he is a Bishop. But I liave also been told 
 that during all this time lie has refused to see Iris son, the 
 child whose birth cost the life of its mother. He had 
 placed him with an uncle of his wife's, an old Abbot, not 
 wishing even to hear of him, and trying to forget his 
 existence. One day a picture of the boy was sent him, 
 but in looking at it he four.d so strong a resemblance to 
 his beloved dead, that he fell on the floor unconscious anil 
 stiff, as if he had received a blow from a hammer. . . . 
 Now, age and prayer have helped to soften his deep grief, 
 for yesterday the good Father Cornille told me that 
 Monseigneur had just decided to send for his son to come 
 to him. 
 
 Angelique, having finished her rose, so fresh and 
 natural that a perfume seemed to be exhaled from it, 
 looked again through the window into the sunny garden, 
 and as if in a reverie, she said in a loud voice: " The son 
 of Monseigneur." 
 
 Hubertine continued her story. 
 
 " It seems that the young man is handsome as a god, 
 and his father wished him to be educated for the priest- 
 hood. But the old Abbot would not consent to that, 
 saying that the youth had not the slightest inclination in 
 that direction. And then, to crown all, his wealth, it is 
 said, is enormous. Two million pounds sterling ! Yes, 
 indeed ! His mother left him a tenth of that sum, which 
 was invested in land in Paris, where the increase in the 
 price of real estate has been so great, that to-day it 
 represents fifty millions of francs. In short, rich as a 
 king!" 
 
 *' Rich as a king, beautiful as a god," repeated Ange- 
 hque unconsciously, in her dreamy voice. 
 
 And with one hand she mechanically took from the 
 frame a bobbin, wound with gold thread, in order to make 
 the open work centre of one of the large lilies. After 
 having loosened the end from the point of the reel, she 
 fastened it with a double stitch of silk to the edge of the 
 vellum which was to give a thickness to the embroidery. 
 Then, continuing her work, she said again, without finish- 
 
48 
 
 Tiiic hkeam. 
 
 1 1: 
 
 \n^ hiir tliouglit, which srnncd lost in the vnj^Micncss of its 
 desire, " Oli ! as for nic, what I would hkc, that whicli I 
 
 would like? above all else " 
 
 The silence fell again, deep and profound, broken only 
 by tile dull sound of chantinj; which came from the 
 Church. Hubert arranj^ed his desij^n by repassing with a 
 little brush all the perforated lines of the drawing, and 
 thus the ornamentation of the cope appeared in white on 
 the red silk. It was he who first resumed speaking. 
 
 "Ah ! those ancient days were magnificent ! Noble- 
 men then wore costumes weighted with embroidery. At 
 Lyons, material was sometimes sold for as much as six 
 hundred francs an ell. One ought to read the bylaws and 
 regulations of the (juild '^f Master workmen, where it is 
 laid down that ' The embioiderers of the King have 
 always the right to summon by armed force, if necessary, 
 the workmen of other masters.' .... And then we 
 had coats of arms, too ! Azure, a fesse engrailed or, 
 between three fleurs-de-lys of the same, two of them being 
 near the top and the third in the point. Ah ! it was 
 indeed beautiful in the days of long ago ! " 
 
 He stopped a moment, tapping the frame 'th his 
 fingers, to sliake off the dust. Then he continu 
 
 "At Beaumjnt they still have a legend about the 
 Hautecoeurs, which my mother often related to me when I 
 was a child. . . . A frightful plague ravaged the town, 
 and half of the inhabitants had already fallen victims to it, 
 when Jean V., he who had rebuilt the fortress, perceived 
 that God had given him the power to contend against the 
 scourge. Then, he we?it on foot to the houses of the sick, 
 fell on his knees, kissed them, and as soon as his lips had 
 touched them, while he said, * If God is willing, I wish it,' 
 the sufferers were healed. And lo, that is why these words 
 have remained the device of the Hautecceurs, who all have 
 since that day been able to cure the plague. . . . Ah ! 
 what a proud race of men ! A noble dynasty ! Monseig- 
 neur himself is called Jean XII., and the first name of his 
 son must also be followed by a number, like that of a 
 prince." 
 
 He stopped. Each one of his words lulled and pro- 
 
TIIL DKI.AM. 
 
 49 
 
 CSS of its 
 : wliicli 1 
 
 [)kcn only 
 from the 
 n^' with a 
 wing, and 
 1 white on 
 
 1 Nohlc- 
 idery. At 
 ach as six 
 )ylaws and 
 vhcrc it is 
 Cing have 
 necessary, 
 id then we 
 gr ailed or, 
 them being 
 W\\ it was 
 
 ;th his 
 
 about the 
 me when I 
 id the town, 
 ictims to it, 
 s, perceived 
 against the 
 of the sick, 
 his lips had 
 r, I wish it,' 
 these words 
 vho all have 
 . Ah! 
 Monseig- 
 name of his 
 ce that of a 
 
 ed and pro- 
 
 y 
 
 
 
 longed tlie reverie of Ai)g(li(iue. She conttnufHl. in a half- 
 singing tone: "Oh! what I wish for myself! Tiiat whicli 
 I woui<i like above all I'lse." 
 
 Holding the bobbin, without touching the thread, she 
 twisted the gold by moving it from left to right alternately 
 on the vellum, fastening it at each turn with a stitch in 
 silk. Littit; by little the great golden lily blossomed out. 
 
 Soon she continued : " Yes, what I would like above 
 all, would be to marry a jirince — a prince whom I had 
 never seen ; who would come towards sunset, just before 
 the waning daylight, and would take me by the hand and 
 lead me to his palace. And I should wish him to be very 
 handsome, as well as very rich ! Yes, the most beautiful 
 and the wealthiest man that had ever been seen on the 
 earth ! He should have supirb horses that I could hear 
 neighing under my windows, and jewels which he would 
 pour in streams into my lap, and gold that would fall from 
 my hands in a deluge when I opened them. And what I 
 wish still farther is that this prince of mine should love nie 
 to distraction ; so that I might also love him desperately. 
 We would then remain very young, very good, and very 
 noble, for ever !" 
 
 Hubert, leaving his work, had approached her smilingly; 
 whilst Hubertine, in a friendly way, shook her finger at 
 the young girl. 
 
 "Oh, what a vain little creature! Ah! ambitious child, 
 you are quite incorrigible. Now, you are quite beside 
 yourself with your need of being a qiieen. At all events 
 such a dream is much better than to steal sugar and to be 
 impertinent. But really, you must not inclulge in such 
 fancies. It is the Evil One who prompts them, and it is 
 pride that speaks, as well as passion." 
 
 Gay and candid, Angelicjue looked her in the face as 
 she said: "But mother, mother mine, what are yo" "'aying? 
 Is it, then, a sin to love that which is rich and ' ;• Aifui ? 
 I love it because it is rich and beautiful, and so ch;.ers my 
 heart and soul. A beautiful object brightens everything 
 that is near it, and helps one to live, as tlie sun does. You 
 know very well that I am nut selfish. Money? Oh, you 
 would see what a good use I would make of it, if only I 
 
. -r 
 
 50 
 
 THE DRFAM. 
 
 '\ . 
 
 IkhI it in ahuiulanco ! 1 would rain it over the town ; it 
 should be scattered ainonjj^ the miserable. Thiidc what a 
 blessing it would be to have no iuore |)overty ! In the 
 first place, as for you and my father, I would give you 
 everything. You sliould be dressed in robes and garments 
 of brocades, like the lords and ladies of the olden time." 
 
 Ilubertine shrugged her shoulders and .smiled. " It is 
 ridiculous," she said. " Hut my dear child, you mu* t 
 remember that you arc poor, and that you have not a 
 penny for your marriage portion. How can you then for 
 a moment dream of a prince ? Are you then so desirous 
 to marry a prince ?" 
 
 '*Why should not I wish to marry such a man?" And 
 siie looketl quite amazed, as she continued : " Marry him ? 
 Of course I would do so. Since he would have plenty of 
 money, what difT.Tencc would it make if I had none ? I 
 should owe cveryth ng to him, and on that very account I 
 should love him all the more deeply." 
 
 This victorious reasoning enchanted Hubert, who 
 si'emed carried above the earth by Angelique's enthusiasm. 
 He would willingly have accompanied her on the wings of 
 a cloud to the regions of fancy. 
 
 *' She is right," he exclaimed. 
 
 But his wife glanced at him reprovingly. She became 
 (piite stern. 
 
 " My child, you will think difTerently later on, when you 
 know life better." 
 
 ♦' Life — but I know it already.' 
 
 '• ^low is it possible for you to know it ? You are too 
 young ; you are ignc rant of evil. Yet evil exists and is 
 very powerful." 
 
 "Evil— evil?" 
 
 Angelique repeated the word very slowly, as if to pene- 
 trate its meaning. And in her pure eyes was a look of 
 innocent sarprise. Evil? She knew all about it, for she 
 lu.d read of it in the Golden Legend. Was not evil vSatan 
 himself? And had not she seen now, although he con- 
 stantly re-appeared, he was always overthrown ? After 
 every battle, he remained crushed to earth, thoroughly 
 ponquercd and in a most pitiable state. 
 
THE DRKAM. 
 
 51 
 
 town ; it 
 ik what a 
 1 In the 
 ^ivc you 
 garments 
 1 time." 
 a. '• It is 
 you mu' t 
 ave not a 
 ,u then for 
 ^o desirous 
 
 m?" AiH^ 
 larry him ? 
 c plenty of 
 I none ? I 
 y account I 
 
 nbcrt, who 
 MUhusiasm. 
 he wings ot 
 
 She became 
 n, when you 
 
 You are too 
 xists and is 
 
 IS if to pene- 
 is a look of 
 ut it, tor she 
 ot evil Satan 
 ugh he con- 
 own ? After 
 thoroughly 
 
 "Evil; ah, niotluT mine, if you knew l:ow liltle I fear 
 it! It is only lUMCSsary once to coiKiiicr it and aflvrwards 
 life; is all happinrss.'" 
 
 Hnborline a|)p(Mred trouliled and looked anxious. 
 
 " You will niak(^ me almost regret having bronght you 
 up in this lunise, alone with us two, and away from the 
 world as it were. I am really afraid that some day we 
 shall regret having kept you in such comj)i(,'te ignorance of 
 the realities of life. What Paradise are you looking for? 
 What is your idea of the woild ? " 
 
 A look of hope brightened the face of the young girl, 
 whiU> bending forward, she still moved the bobbin back 
 and forth with a continuous, even motion. 
 
 '• You then really think, mother, that I am very foolish, 
 do yon not ? This world is full of brave peoj)l(\ Wiion 
 on(.' is honest and industrious, one is always rewarded. I 
 know also that there are some bad people, but they do not 
 count. We do not associate with them, and they are soon 
 punisluul for their misdeeds. And then, you see, as for 
 the world, it produces on mc, from a distances the efr(;ct 
 of a great garden ; yes, of an immense park, all filled with 
 flowers and with sunshine. It is such a blessing to live, 
 and life is so sweet that it cannot be bad." 
 
 She grew excited, as if intoxicated by the; brightness of 
 the silks and the gold tiireads she mani{)ulated so well 
 with her skilful fingers. 
 
 " Happiness is a very simple thing. W-e are happy, 
 are we not ? All three of u:. ^ An-i why ? Simply berausci 
 we love each other. Then after all it is no more difficult 
 than that ; it is only nece,ssary to love and be loved. So, 
 you see, when tl'.e one I expect redly comes, we shall 
 recognize each other inunediately. It is true I have not 
 yet seen him, but 1 know exactly what he ought to be. 
 lie will enter here and will say: ' I hnve come m search 
 of vou.' And I shall reply : ' I crxpccted 3'ou, and will go 
 with you.' He will take me with him, and our future will 
 be at once decided uj)on. He will go mto a palace, where 
 all the furniture wiW be of gold, encrusted in diamonds. 
 Oh, it is all very simj)le ! " 
 
 " You are crazy ; sl do not talk any more," interrupted 
 Hubertine, coldly. 
 
53 
 
 THE DKKAM. 
 
 !ii 
 
 And sccinj,' that the young girl was still cxritcd and 
 ready to continue to indulge in her fancies, she continued 
 to reprove her. 
 
 ♦♦ I beg you lo say no more, for j^ou ahsoiutcly make 
 mc tremble. Unhappy child ; when we really marry you 
 to some poor mortal you will he crushed, as you fall to the 
 earth from these heights of the imagination. Hapj)iness, 
 for the greater part of the world, consists in humility and 
 obedience." 
 
 Angeliquc continued to smile with an almost obstinate 
 tranquillity. 
 
 " I expect him, and he will come." 
 
 '* But she is right," exclaimed Hubert, again carried 
 away by enthusiasm. '* Why need you scold her ? She 
 is certainly pretty, and dainty enough for a king. Stranger 
 things than that have happened, and who knows what 
 may couk^ ? " 
 
 Sadly Hubertine looked at him with her calm eyes. 
 
 •' Do not encourage her to do wrong, my dear. You 
 know, better than anyone, what it costs to follow too much 
 the impulses of one's heart." 
 
 He turned deadly pale, and great tears came to the 
 edge of his eyelids. She immediately repented of having 
 reproved him, and rose to oiler him her hands. But 
 gently disengaging himself, he said, stammeringly, — 
 
 ** No, no, my dear ; I was wrong. Angelique, do you 
 understand nxi ? You must always listen to your mother. 
 She alone is wise, and we are both ot us very foolish. I 
 am wrong ; yes, I acknowledge it." 
 
 Too disturbed to sit down, leaving the cope upon 
 which he had been working, he occupied himself in past- 
 ing a banner that was finished, although still in its frame. 
 After having taken the pot of Flemish glue from the chest 
 of drawers, he moistened with a brush the und>3r side of the 
 the material, to make the embroidery firmer. His lips still 
 trembled, and he remained quiet. 
 
 But if Angelique, in her obedience, was also still, she 
 allowed her thoughts to follow their course, and her 
 fancies mounted higher and still higher. She showed it in 
 every feature — in her mouth, that ecstasy had half opened, 
 
TlIK I)Ur.AM. 
 
 53 
 
 xcitrd and 
 continued 
 
 itcly make 
 marry you 
 1 fall to the 
 Happiness, 
 imility and 
 
 st obstinate 
 
 tjain carried 
 
 her ? She 
 
 g. Stranger 
 
 knows what 
 
 ilm eyes. 
 
 dear. You 
 ow too much 
 
 came to the 
 id of having 
 hands. But 
 
 ngiy.— 
 
 iique, do you 
 your mother. 
 :y foolish. I 
 
 g cope upon 
 iiself in past- 
 
 1 in its frame, 
 rom the chest 
 .i^r side of the 
 
 His hps still 
 
 also still, she 
 irse, and her 
 
 2 showed it in 
 d half opened, 
 
 as well as in her eyes, where the infinite depth of her 
 visions seemed reflected. Now, this dream of a poor girl, 
 she wove it into the golden embroidery. It was for this 
 unknown hero that little by little there seemed to grow on 
 the white satin the beautiful great lilies inu\ the roses, and 
 the monogram of the blessed Virgin. The stems of the 
 lilies had all the gracious pointings of a jet of light, whilst 
 the long slender leaves, made of spangles, each one being 
 sewed on with gold twist, fell in a shower of stars. In the 
 centre, the initials of Mary were like the dazzling of a 
 relief in massive gold, a marvellous blending of lacework 
 and of embossing, or goffering, which burnt like the 
 glory of a tabernacle in the mystic fire of its rays. And 
 the roses of delicately coloured silks seemed real, and 
 the whole chasuble was resplendent in its whiteness of 
 satin, which appeared covered almost miraculously with its 
 golden blossoms. 
 
 After a long silence, Angelique, whose cheeks were 
 flushed by the blood which mounted into them from her 
 excitement, raised her head, and looking at Ilubertine 
 said again, a little maliciously, 
 
 •' I expect him, and he will come," 
 
 It was absurd for her thus to give loose reins to her 
 imagination. But she was wilful. She was convinced in 
 her own mind that everything would come to pass eventu- 
 ally, as she wished it might. Nothing could weaken her 
 happy conviction. 
 
 ♦• Mother," she added, " why do you not believe me, 
 since I assure you it must be as I say ? " 
 
 Hubertine shrugged her shoulders, and concluded the 
 best thing to do was to tease her. 
 
 •♦ But I thought my child, that you never intended 
 being married. Your saints, who seemed to have turned 
 your head, they led single lives. Rather than do other- 
 wise they converted their lovers, ran away from their 
 homes, and were put to death." 
 
 The young girl listened and was confused. But soon 
 
 she laughed merrily. Her perfect health, and all her love 
 
 of life, rang out in this sonorous gaiety. " The histories of 
 
 [the saints ! But that was ages ago ! Times have entirely 
 
54 
 
 tllK DKKAM. 
 
 '! ■ 
 
 chaufjod since then. God liavinj^ so coinplotely triumpliecl 
 no longer deniamls that anyone shonld iVw. for Him." 
 
 Wlien reading tlie l^cgeiids, it was the marvels which 
 fascinated her, not the contempt of the world and the 
 desire for death. She added : " Most certanily I expect to 
 be married ; to love anil to be loved, and thus be very 
 happy." 
 
 ♦' lie careful, my dear," said Hubertine, continning to 
 tease her. " You will make your guardian angel, Saint 
 Agnes, weep. \^o not you know that she refused I lie son 
 of the Governor and preferred to die, that she might be 
 wedded to Jesus ? " 
 
 The great clock of the belfry began to strike, numbers 
 of sparrows flew down from an enormous ivy plant which 
 framed one of the windows of tlie apse. In the workroom, 
 Hubert, still silent, had just hung up the banner, moist 
 from the glue, that it might dry on one of the great iron 
 hooks fastened to the wall. 
 
 The sun in the course of the morning had lightened up 
 different parts of the room, and now it shone brightly upon 
 the old tools, the diligent, the wicker winder, and the brass 
 chandelier, and as its rays fell upon the two workers, the 
 frame at which they were seated seemed almost on fire, 
 with its bands polished by use and with the various 
 objects placed upon it, the reels of gold cord, the spangles, 
 and the bobbins of silk. 
 
 Then, in this soft, charming air of spring, Angelique 
 looked at the beautiful symbolic lily she had just finished. 
 Opening wide her ingenuous eyes, she replied with an air of 
 confiding happiness to Hubertine's last remark in regard 
 to the child-martyr. Saint Agnes : 
 
 *' Ah, yesl But it was Jesus who wished it to be so." 
 

 'II IK DKKAM. 
 
 55 
 
 lriuin]ihccl 
 
 In 
 iin. 
 
 rvols which 
 
 1(1 and the 
 
 I expect to 
 
 ms be very 
 
 mtimiin}; to 
 \\\\:,c\. Saint 
 ised the son 
 le niiglit be 
 
 kc, minibcrs 
 plant which 
 Li workroom, 
 inner, moist 
 c great iron 
 
 lightened up 
 )rightly upon 
 md tlie brass 
 workers, the 
 most on fire, 
 the various 
 the spangles, 
 
 ig, Angelique 
 
 just finished. 
 
 with an air of 
 
 ark in regard 
 
 i it to be so." 
 
 CHAPTKK V. 
 
 Notwithstanding her thoroughly cheerful nature, Ange- 
 lique lilvcd solitude; and it way to her the greatest of 
 recreations to he alone in her room, morning and evening. 
 There, sIk; gave herself up to her thoughts; there, she 
 indulged to the full scope in her most joyous fancies. 
 Sometimes even during the day when she could go there 
 for a moment, she was as happy as if, in full freedom, she 
 had committed some childish prank. 
 
 The ch.unber was very large, taking in at least half of 
 the upper story, the other half being the garret. It was 
 whit(;washed everywhere; not only the walls and the 
 beams, but the joists, even to the visible copings of the 
 uiansard part of the roof; and in this bare whiteness, the 
 old oakeu furniture seemed almost as black as ebony. At 
 the time of llie decoration of the sleeping-room below, and 
 the improvi'intiuts made in the parlour, the ancient furni- 
 ture, which had been bought at various epochs, had been 
 carried upstairs. There was a great carved chest of the 
 Renaissance perioci, a table and chairs which dated from 
 the reif^^n of Louis XIII., an enormous bedstead, style 
 Louis A'lV., and a very handsome wardrobe, Louis XV. 
 In the middle of these venerable old things a white porce- 
 lain stove, and the little toilette tnbk covered with a pretty 
 o Icloth, seemed out of place and to mar the dull harmony. 
 C'lrtained with an old-fashioned rose-coloured chintz, on 
 which were bouquets of heather, so faded that the colour 
 had become a scarcely perceptible pink, the enormous 
 bedstead preserved above all the majesty of its great age. 
 
 But what pleased Angelique more than anything else 
 was the little balcony on which the window opened. Of 
 the twooriginal windows, one of them, that at the left, had 
 been closed by snnply fastening it with nails, and the 
 balcony which formerly extended across the front of the 
 building, was now only before the window at the right. 
 As the lower beams were still strong, a new floor had been 
 made, and above it an iron railinj^ was firmly attache4 j{j 
 
 1^ 
 

 56 
 
 TIIK UKKAM. 
 
 place of the old worni-catcn wooden balustrade. This 
 made a charming little coiner, a quiet nook under the 
 f^able point, the leaden laths of which had been renewed 
 at the beginninj; of the century. By bending over a little 
 the whole garden front of the house could be seen in a very 
 dilapidated state, with its sub-basenicnt of little cut stones, 
 its panels ornamented with imitation bricks, and its large 
 bay window, which to-day had been made somewhat 
 smaller. The roof of the great porch of the kitchen door 
 was covered with zinc. And above, the interduces of the 
 top, which projected three feet or more, were strengthened 
 by large, upright pieces of wood, the (>nds of which rested 
 on the string course of the first floor. All this gave to the 
 balcony an appearance of being in a perfect vegetation of 
 timber, as if in the midst of a forest of old wood, which 
 was green with wall ilowers and moss. 
 
 Since she occupied the chamber, Angelique had spent 
 many hours there, leaning over the balustrade and simply 
 looking. At first, directly under her was the garden, dark- 
 ened by the eternal shade of the evergreen box trees ; in 
 the corner nearest the church, a cluster of small l^lac 
 bushes surrounded an old granite bench ; while in the 
 opposite corner, half hidden by a beautiful ivy which 
 covered the whole wall at the end as if with a mantle, was 
 a little door opening upon the Clos-Marie, a vast, unculti- 
 vated field. This Clos-Marie was the old orchard of the 
 monks. A rivulet of purest spring water crossed it, the 
 Chevrotte, where the women who occupied the houses in 
 the neighbourhood had the privilege of washing their linen ; 
 certain poor people sheltered themselves in the ruins of an 
 old tumble-down mill; and no other persons inhabited this 
 field, which was connected with the Rue Magloire simply 
 by the narrow lane of the Gueidaches which passes between 
 the high walls of the Bishop's Palace and those of the 
 Hotel Voincourt. In summer, the centenarian elms of the 
 two parks barred with their green-leaved tops the straight 
 limited horizon, which in the centre was cut off by. the 
 gigantic brow of the cathedral. Thus shut in on all sides, 
 the Clos-Marie slept in the quiet peace of its abandonment, 
 overrun with weeds and vvild grass, planted with poplars 
 
TIIK I)RKAM. 
 
 57 
 
 stradc. This 
 ok under the 
 been renewed 
 g over a little 
 iieen in a very 
 tic cut stones, 
 
 and its lar^^' 
 dc somewhat 
 ; kitchen door 
 irduces of the 
 ; strengtlicned 
 ■ which rested 
 lis gave to the 
 : vegetation of 
 
 wood, which 
 
 lue had spent 
 :le and simply 
 garden, dark- 
 box trees ; in 
 of small lilac 
 
 while in the 
 ul ivy which 
 a mantle, was 
 
 vast, unculti- 
 orchard of thc 
 crossed it, thf 
 the houses in 
 ng their linen ; 
 he ruins of an 
 inhabited this 
 agloire simply 
 )asses between 
 I those of the 
 an elms of the 
 ps the straight 
 cut off by. the 
 in on all sides, 
 abandonment, 
 
 with poplars 
 
 and willows sown by the wind. Among irfie great pebbles 
 the C:hevrotte leaped, singing as it went, and making a 
 continuous music as if of crystal. 
 
 Angrlicjue was never weary of this out-of-the-way nook. 
 Yet for seven years she had seen there each morning only 
 what she had looked at on th(r previous evening. The 
 trees in the little park of the Hotel Voincourt, whose front 
 was on the (irantl Rue, were so tufted and bushy that it 
 was only in the winter she could occasionally catch a 
 glimpse of the daughter of uie ('ountess. Mademoiselle 
 Claire, a young girl of her own age. 
 
 In the garden of the liishop was a still more dense 
 thickness of branches, and she had often tried in vain to 
 distinguish there the violet coloured cassock of Monseig- 
 neur, and the old gate, with its Venetian slats above and 
 at the sides, must have been fastened up for a very long 
 time, for she never remembered to have seen it opened not 
 even for a gardener to pass through. Besides the wasu.^r- 
 woman in the Clos, she always saw the same poor, ragged 
 little children playing or sleeping in the grass. 
 
 The spring this year was unusually mild. She was just 
 sixteen years of age, and until now she had been glad to 
 welcome with her eyes alone the growing green again of 
 the Clos-Marie under the April sunshine. The shooting 
 out of the tender leaves, the transparency of the warm 
 evenings, and all the reviving odours of the earth had 
 simply amused her heretofore. But this year, at the first 
 bud, her heart seemed to beat more quickly. As the grass 
 grew higher and the wind brought to her all the strong 
 perfumes of the fresh verdure, there was in her whole being 
 an increasing agitation. Sudden inexplicable pain woulil 
 at times seize her throat and almost choke her. One even- 
 ing she threw herself, weeping, into Hubertine's arms, 
 having no cause vhacever for grief, but, on the contrary, 
 overwhelmed with so great, unknown a happiness, that 
 her heart was too full for restraint. In the night her 
 dreams were delightful. Shadows seemed to pass before 
 |her, and she fell into such an ecstatic state that on awak- 
 ening she did not dare to recall them, so confused was she 
 (by the angelic visions of bliss. Sometimes, in the middle 
 
■-r^ 
 
 :!;;,!} i?<BRv: 
 
 58 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 of her great bei^, she would rouse herself suddenly, het 
 two hands joined and pressed against her breast as if a 
 heavy burden were weighing her down and almost suffo- 
 cating her. She would then jump up, rush across the 
 room in her bare feet, and, opening the window wide, 
 would stand there, trembling slightly, until at last the 
 pure fresh air calmed her. She was continually surprised 
 at this great change in herself, as if the knowledge of joys 
 and griefs hitherto unknown had been revealed to her in 
 the enchantment of dreams, and that her eyes had been 
 opened to natural beauties which surrounded her. 
 
 What ? Was it really true that the unseen lilacs and 
 laburnums of the Bishop's garden had so sweet an odour 
 that she could no longer breathe it without a flush of 
 colour mounting to her cheeks ? Never before had she 
 perceived this warmth of perfume which now touched her 
 as if with a living breath. 
 
 And again, why had she never remarked in preceding 
 years a great Japanese Paulownia in blossom, which looked 
 like an immense violet bouquet as it appeared between 
 two elm trees in the garden of the Voincourts.? This year, 
 as soon as she looked at it, her eyes grew moist, so much 
 was she affected by the delicate tints of the pale purple 
 flowers. She also fancied that the Chevrot^e had never 
 chattered so gaily over the pebbles among the willows on 
 its banks. The river certainly talked ; she listened to its 
 vague words, constantly repeated, which filled her hearv 
 with trouble. Was it then no longer the field of othe ■ 
 days that everything in it so astonished her and affected 
 her senses in so unusual a way ? Or rather, was not she 
 herself so changed, that for the first time she appreciated 
 the beauty of the coming into life of the trees and plants ? 
 
 But the cathedral at her right, the enormous mass 
 which obstructed the sky, surprised her yet more. Each 
 morning she seemed to see it for the first time ; she made 
 constant discoveries in it, and was delighted to think that 
 these old stones lived and had lived like herself. She did 
 not reason at all on the subject, she had very little know- 
 ledge, but she gave herself up to the mystic flight of the 
 giant whose coming into existence had demanded three 
 
The drkam. 
 
 59 
 
 idenly, het 
 jast as if a 
 most suffo- 
 across the 
 kIow wide, 
 at last the 
 iy surprised 
 xlge of joys 
 ;d to her in 
 s had been 
 ler. 
 
 in hlacs and 
 ;et an odour 
 t a flush of 
 ore had she 
 touched her 
 
 in preceding 
 which looked 
 red between 
 ' This year, 
 3ist, so much 
 
 pale purple 
 »;e had never 
 le willows on 
 istened to its 
 ed her hearv 
 leld of othe- 
 
 and affected 
 
 was not she 
 e appreciated 
 5 and plants ? 
 ormous mass 
 
 more. Each 
 |ne ; she made 
 
 to think that 
 self. She did 
 y little know- 
 z flight of the 
 manded three 
 
 ■r 
 
 m 
 
 centuries of time, and where were placed one above the 
 other the faitli and the belief of generations. At thi; foun- 
 dation, it was kneeling as if crusiied by prayer, with the 
 Romanesque chapels of the nave, and with the round 
 arclied windows, plain, unornamented, except by slender 
 colunnis under the arclii volts. Then, it seemrd to rise, 
 lifting its face and liands towards heaven, with the pointed 
 windows of its nave, built eighty years later ; high, delicate 
 windows divided by muUions on which were broken bows 
 and roses. Tlien again it sprung from the earth as if in 
 ecstacy, erect, with the piers and flying buttresses of the 
 clioir finished and ornamented two centuries after in the 
 fullest flamboyant gothic, charged with its bell turrets, 
 spires, and pinnacles. A balustrade had been added, 
 ornamented with trefofls bordering the terrace on the 
 chapels of tlie apse. Gargoyles, at tlie foot of the flying 
 l)uttresses, carried off the water from the roofs. The top 
 was also decorated with flowery emblems. The whole 
 edifice seemed to burst into blossom in proportion as it 
 approached the sky in a continual upward flight, as if, 
 relieved at being delivered from the ancient sacerdotal 
 terror, it was about to lose itself in the bosom of a God of 
 pardon and of love. It seemed to have a physical sensa- 
 tion which permeated it, made it light and happy, like a 
 sacred hymn it had just heard sung, very pure and holy, 
 as it passed into the upper air. 
 
 Moreover, the Cathedral was alive. Hundreds of swal- 
 lows had constructed their nests under the borders of 
 trefoil, and even in the hollows of the bell turrets and the 
 pinnacles, and they were continually brushing their wings 
 against the flying buttresses and the piers which they 
 inhabited. There were also the wood pigeons of the elms 
 in the Bishop's garden, who held themselves up proudly 
 on the borders of the terraces, going slowly, as if walking 
 merely to show themselves off. Soi..etimes, half lost in 
 the blue sky, looking scarcely larger than a fly, a crow 
 alighted on the point of a spire to smooth its wings. The 
 old stones themselves v/ere animated by the quiet working 
 of the roots of a whole flora of plants, the lichens and the 
 grasses, which pushed themselves through t^>e openings in 
 
r,o 
 
 rilK- DkKAM. 
 
 the walls. Oil very stormy days the entire apse seemed to 
 awak(! and to f^rumbli' imder th(; iiois(; of the rain as it 
 beat aj^ainst the leaden tiles of the roof, rnnninj( off by the 
 {^ntters of the cornices and rollinj^ from storey to storey 
 with the clangour of an ovcrllovvin}^' torrent. Even the 
 terrible winds of October and of March ^^'lve to it a sonl, 
 a double voice of an;;cr and of supplication, as they 
 whistled throuf^h its lorestsof gables and arcades of roseat(! 
 ornaments and of little cohunns. The sun also filled it 
 with life from the chanj^ing play of its rays; from the early 
 morninf^ which rt^juvenated it with a delicate gaiety, even 
 to the evening, when under the slightly lengthened out 
 shadows it basked in the unknown. 
 
 And it had its interior existence. The ceremonies with 
 which it was ever vibrating, the constant swinging of its 
 bells, the music of the organs, and the chanting of the 
 priests, all these were like the pulsation of its veins. There 
 was a living murmur in it : half lost sounds, like the faint 
 echo of a low Mass ; the rustling of the kneeling penitents, 
 a slight, scarcely perceptible shivering, nothing but the 
 devout ardour of a prayer said without words and with 
 closed lips. 
 
 Now, as the days grew longer,, Angelique passed more 
 and more time in the morning and evening with her elbows 
 on the balustrade of the balcony, side by side with her 
 great friend the Cathedral. She loved it best at night, 
 when she saw the enormous mass detach itself like a huge 
 block on the starry skies. The form of the building was 
 lost. It was with difficulty that she could even distinguish 
 the flying buttresses, which were thrown like bridges into 
 the empty space. It was nevertheless awake in the dark- 
 ness, filled with a dream of seven centuries, made grand 
 by the multitude who had hoped or despaired b jfore its 
 altars. It was a continual watch, coming from the infinite 
 of the past, going to the eternity of the future ; the mys- 
 terious and terrifying wakefulness of a house where God 
 Himself never sleeps. And in the dark, motionless, living 
 mass, her looks were sure to seek the window of a chapel 
 of the choir, on the level of the bushes of the Clos-Marie, 
 the only one which was lighted up, and which seemed like 
 
TIIK DkKAM. 
 
 6l 
 
 c secmcc^ to 
 le rain as it 
 \^ olT by the 
 cy to storey 
 Even the 
 
 to it a soul, 
 on, as they 
 cs of roseatt; 
 also filled it 
 om the early 
 
 ^'aiety, even 
 igthened out 
 
 enionies with 
 /inj^ing of its 
 inting of the 
 veins. There 
 like the faint 
 ing penitents, 
 hing but the 
 ords and with 
 
 passed more 
 th her elbows 
 side with her 
 best at night, 
 2lf like a huge 
 i building was 
 en distinguish 
 :e bridges into 
 ie in the dark- 
 3, made grand 
 ired b jfore its 
 om the infinite 
 ture ; the mys- 
 iise where God 
 )tionless, living 
 )w of a chapel 
 _he Clos-Maiie, 
 ich seemed like 
 
 an eye which was kept op(;n all the night. Hehirul it, at 
 the corner of a pillar, was an fvi-r-buriiiiig altar lamp. In 
 fact, it was the same cliapcl which the Abbots of old had 
 given to Jean V^, (ril.iulccour, and to his descendants, 
 with the right of being buried there, in return for their 
 liberality. Dedicated to Saint (n;orge, it had a stained 
 glass window of the tw(!lfth century, on which was painted 
 the legend of the Saint. From the momunt of the coming 
 on of twilight, this historic representation came out from 
 shade, lighted up as if it were an apparition, and that was 
 why Angelique was fascinat((l, and loved this particular 
 [ioint, as she ga/ed at it with her drt^amy eyes. 
 
 The background of the window was blue and the edges 
 red. Upon this sombre richness of colouring, the person- 
 ages, whose ilyin:^ draperies allowed their hmbs to be seen, 
 stood out in relief in clear light on the glass. Three scenes 
 of the legend, placed one above the other, filled the space 
 quite to the upper arch. At the bottom, the daughter of 
 the king, dressed in costly royal robes, on her way from 
 the city to be eaten by the dreadful monster, meets Saint 
 George near the pond, from which the head of the dragon 
 already appears : and a streamer of silk bears these words : 
 •'Good Knight, do not run any danger for me, as you can 
 neither helj) me nor deliver me, but will have to perish 
 with me." Then in the middle the combat takes place, 
 and the Saint on horseback cuts the beast througli and 
 through. This is ex})lained by the following words : 
 " George wielded so well his lance that he wounded the 
 enemy and threw him upon the earth." At last, at the 
 top, the princess is seen leading back into the city the 
 conquered dragon : "George said, 'Tie your scarf around 
 his neck and do not be afraid of anything, oh, beautiful 
 maiden, for when you have done so, he will follow you like 
 a well trained dog." 
 
 When the window was new, it must have been sur- 
 mounted in the middle of the arch by an ornamental design. 
 But later, when the chapel belonged to the Haiilccceurs, 
 ihey replaced the original work by their family coat of 
 arms. And that was why in the (jbscure nights armorial 
 bearings of a more recent tlatc shone out above the painted 
 
62 
 
 THK DRKAM. 
 
 < ^ II' 
 
 \i»< 
 
 li > 
 
 (•I 
 
 loj^cnd. Tlicy were the old family arms of IIaiitcc<rur. 
 (juartered with the well-known shield of Jerusakm; tlu 
 latter beiii}^' arf^'eiit, a cross poteiicee, or, between four 
 crosselettes of the same ; and those of the family, azure, 
 a castle, or, on it a shield, sable, charged with a human 
 heart, ar,L,'ent, the whole between the fleurs-de-lys, or ; the 
 shield was supported on tlu' dexter and sinister side by two 
 wyverns, or ; and surmounted by the silver helmet with its 
 [)lue feathers, embossed in gold, placed frontwise, and 
 closed by eleven bars, which belonj^s only to Dukes, 
 Marshals of France, titled I^ords, and heads of Sovereign 
 Corjiorations. And for motto were these words : " Si Dicn 
 volt, ie vueil." 
 
 Little by little, from having seen him piercing the 
 the monster with his lance, whilst the kings daughter 
 raised her clasped hands in supplication, Angelique became 
 enamoured of Saint George. He was her hero. At the 
 distance where she was, she could not well distinguish the 
 figures, and she looked at them as if in the aggrandisement 
 of a dream ; the young girl was slight, was a blonde, and, 
 in short, had a face not unlike her own, while the saint 
 was frank and noble looking, with the beauty of an arch- 
 angel. It was as if she herself had just been saved, and she 
 could have kissed his hands with gratitude. And to this 
 adventure of which she dreamed confusedly, of a meeting 
 on the border of a lake, and of being rescued from a great 
 danger by a young mar Tiore beautiful than the d y, was 
 added the recollection Oi her excursion to the Chateau of 
 Hautecoeur, and a calling up to view of the feudal donjon, 
 in its original state, peopled with the noble lords of olden 
 times. 
 
 The arms glistened like the stars on summer nights ; 
 she knew them well, she read them easily, with their 
 sonorous words, for she was so in the habit of embroider- 
 ing heraldic symbols. There was Jean V., who stopped 
 from door to door in the town ravaged by the plague, and 
 went in to kiss the lips of the dying, and cured them by 
 saying, *' S/ Dieu volt, ie viieil.'' And Felician III., who, 
 forewarned that a severe illness prevented Philippe Ie Bel 
 from §oing to Palestine, went there in his place, barefooted 
 
 im 
 
TlIK DKLAM. 
 
 03 
 
 ll.'iutcc(rur. 
 riisali 111 ; tlif 
 between four 
 aiiiily, a/.urc, 
 itii a human 
 ;-lys, or ; the 
 r side l)y two 
 •lnu>t witli its 
 Dutwisi', antl 
 y to Dukes, 
 of Sovereif^u 
 [Is : " Si Dieii 
 
 piercinj^ tlie 
 
 if^^'s (lauf^hter 
 
 'licjue l)ecainc 
 
 lero. At the 
 
 istinj^uish tlie 
 
 gran(Hsenient 
 
 \. blonde, and, 
 
 ■hile the saint 
 
 of an arch- 
 
 ved, and she 
 
 And to this 
 
 )f a meeting 
 
 from a p^reat 
 
 the (1 y, was 
 
 e Cliateau of 
 
 iidal donjon, 
 
 )rds of olden 
 
 imer nights ; 
 
 with their 
 f cmbroider- 
 vho stopped 
 
 plague, and 
 red them by 
 n III., who, 
 lippe le Bel 
 
 , barefooted 
 
 and holding a candle in his hand, and for that he had the 
 right of (juarteriug the arms of Jerusalem with his own. 
 Other and yet other historii^s (ame to her miiul, especially 
 those of the ladies of Hautecdur, the " Happy Dead," as 
 they were called in the legend. In that family the women 
 die yoimg, in the midst of some great happiness. Some- 
 times two or three generations would he spared, then sud- 
 denly Heath would appear, smiling, as with gentle hands 
 he carried away the ilaughter or the wife of a Hauteccjeur, 
 the' oUU^st of tlum being scarcely twenty years of age, at 
 the moment when the)- were at the height of earthly love 
 and bliss, h'or instance, Laiireite, daughter of Raoul I., 
 on the t;vening of her betrothal to her cousin Richard, who 
 lived in tlu; castle, having seated herself at her wintiow in 
 the towtr of David, saw him at his window in the tower of 
 Charlemagne, aiul thinking that she heard him call her, as 
 at that moment a ray of moonlight seemed to throw a 
 bridge between them, she walked toward him. But when 
 in the middle, she made in her haste a false step and over- 
 passed the ray, she fell and was crushed at the foot of the 
 lower. So since that day, each night when the moon is 
 bright and clear, she can be seen walking in the air around 
 ihe chrtteau, which is bathed in white by the silent touch 
 of her immense robe. Then Balbine, wife of Ilervfe VII., 
 thought for six months that her husband had been killed 
 in the wars. But unwilling t( give up all hope, she 
 watched for him daily from the top of the donjon, and 
 when at last she saw him one morning on the highway, 
 returning to his home, she ran down quickly to meet him, 
 but was so overcome with joy that she fell dead at the 
 entrance of the castle. Even at this day, notwithstanding 
 the ruins, as soon as twilight falls, it is said she still 
 descends the steps, runs from story to storey, glides 
 through the corridors and the rooms, and passes like a 
 j^antom through the gaping windows which open into the 
 acsert void. All return. Isabeau, Gudule, Vonne, Aus- 
 tfeberthe, all these " happy dead," loved by the stern 
 messenger who spared them from the vicissitudes of life by 
 taking them suddenly when in early youth they thought 
 only of happiness. On certain nights this white-robed 
 
64 
 
 TIIK -DRKAM. 
 
 l)ancl fill the house as if with a flight of doves. To their 
 number had lately been added the mother of the son of 
 Monseigneur, who was found lifeless on the floor by the 
 cradle of her infant, where, although ill, she dragged her- 
 self to die, in the fulness of her delight at embracing him. 
 These had haunted the imagination of Angelique ; she 
 spoke of them as if they were facts of recent occurrence, 
 which might have happened the Hay before. She had read 
 the names of Laurette and Balbine on old memorial tablets 
 let into the walls of the chapei. Then why should not she 
 also die young and very happy, as they had ? The armor 
 ies would glisten as now, the saint would come down from 
 Ins place in the stained glass window, and she would Ik 
 carried away to Heaven on the sweet breath of a kiss, 
 Why not ? 
 
 The Golden Legend had taught her this ; Was not it 
 true that the miracle is really the conmion law, and follows 
 the natural course of events? It exists, is active, work 
 with an extreme facility on every occasion, multiplies 
 itself, sprearls itself out, overflows itself uselessly, as if for 
 the pleasure of contradicting the self-evident rules c 
 nature. Its power seems to be on the same plane as tha: 
 of the Creator. Abrigan, King of Edeese, writes to Jesus 
 who replies to him. Ignatius receives letters from tlit 
 Blessed Virgin. In all places the Mother and ihe Sor 
 appear, disguise themselves and talk with an air of smilim 
 good nature. When Stephen meets them they are vcn 
 faniiliar with him. All the Virgms are wed to Jesus, aiii 
 the Martyrs mount to heaven, where they are to be unit(: 
 to Mary. And as for the angels and saints, they are tlit 
 ordinary companions ot men. They come, they go, the 
 pass through walls, they appear in dreams, they s})ea 
 from the height of clouds, they assist at births and deatb 
 they support those who are tortured, they deliver tlios 
 who are in prison, and they go on dangerous mission; 
 Following in their footsteps is an inexhaustible effloresccnc 
 of prodigies. Sylvester binds the mouth of a dragon wit 
 a thread. The earth rises to make a seat for Hilarv, whos 
 companions wished to humiliate him. A precious stor 
 falls into the chalice of Saint Loup, A tree crushes tl; 
 
 ■ '^mtmammmmmm 
 
vcs. To their 
 of the son ol 
 e floor by the 
 e dra{?ged her- 
 mbracing him. 
 ^ngeUque; shi 
 jnt occurrenrc, 
 She had read 
 lemorial tablets 
 should not slu 
 I ? The armor 
 ome down from 
 d she would Ik 
 reath of a kiss. 
 
 his ; Was not it 
 law, and follows 
 is active, work- 
 asion, muhiplic- 
 selessly, as if foi 
 evident rules o 
 tne plane as tlia 
 , writes to jesu^ 
 letters from th< 
 ler and ihe Soi 
 an air of smilin: 
 3m they are vcr\ 
 red to Jesus, aiv 
 I are to be unit< 
 ints, they are tl 
 lie, they go, the; 
 3anis, they spca.' 
 :)irths and dcatb 
 „y deliver thos 
 .igerous mission- 
 itible effloresccnc 
 of a dragon wit 
 for Hilary, who^ 
 A precious stor 
 tree crushes ti 
 
 'r 
 
 THK drkam. 
 
 65 
 
 enemies of Saint Martin; a do^ lets loose a hare, and a 
 
 freal fire ceases to burn at his ronimand. Mary the 
 Egyptian walks upon the sea ; iioncy-bees tly from the 
 mouth of Ambrosius at his birth, (x^ntinually saints cure 
 diseases of the eye, withered limbs, paralysis, iej^iosy, and 
 especially the plague. There is no disease tiiat resists the 
 sign of the Cross. In a crowd the suffering and the feeble 
 are placed together, that they may be cured in a mass, as 
 if by a thundi rboit. Death itself is conquiMcd, and resur- 
 rections are so frequent that they become quitt; an every- 
 day affair. And when the saints themselves are dead the 
 wonders do not cease, but are redoubled, and are like 
 peremual flowers \vhicli spring from tiieir tombs. It is 
 said that from the head and the feet of Nicholas flowed 
 two fountains of oil which cured t very ill. When the 
 tomb of Saint Cecilia was opened an jdour of roses came 
 l|p from her coffin. That of Dorotliea was hlled with 
 ipanna. All the bones c-f virgins and of martyrs performed 
 
 tarvels : they confounded liars, they forced robbers to 
 re back their stolen goods, they granted the prayers of 
 
 ^ildless wives, they brought the dying back to life. 
 
 fothing was impossible for them ; in fact the invisible 
 reigned, and the only law was the caprice of tiie super- 
 natural. In the temples the sorcerers mix themselves up 
 with the popular idea, and scythes cut the grass without 
 being held, brass serpents move, and one hears 'i)ronze 
 statues laugh and wolves sing. Immediately tiie saints 
 reply and overwhelm them. The Host is changed into 
 lining food, sacred Cliristian im;iges shed drops of blood. 
 sticks set upright in th<- j^round l)lossom into flower, springs 
 of pure water appear m <lry plac«'s, warm loaves of bread 
 multiply themselves at the f^-^it 01 the needy, a tree bows 
 down before some holy persot), and so on. Tlien again, 
 decapitated heads speak, broken chalices mend themselves, 
 tiki rain turns aside from ;< churrli to sul»merge a neij^h- 
 beift'ing palace, the robes of h^ rnnts never wear out, l)ut 
 reijpw themselves like the skin f/f a beast. In Armenia at 
 time the persecutors threw into the sea the leaden 
 Ins of five martyrs, and the one conrair^ng the body of 
 \X Bartholomew the Apostle took tlu lead, and the four 
 
66 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 11 
 
 others accompaniV'l it as a guard of honour. So altop^ether, 
 in regular order, hke a hue scjuadron, they floated slowly 
 along, urged by the breeze, through the whole length of 
 the sea until they reached the shores of Sicily. 
 
 Angelique was a firm believer in miracles. In her 
 ignorance she lived surroundeil by wonders. The risint; 
 of the stars, or the opening of a violet — each fact was a 
 surprise to her. It would have appeared to her simply 
 ridiculous to have imagmed the world so mechanical as to 
 be governed by fixed laws. There were so many things 
 far beyond her comprehension, she felt herself so weak and 
 helpless in the midst of forces whose power it was impos- 
 sible to measure, that she would not even have susj)ect«(l 
 they existed, had it not been for the great questioninir 
 breath which at tunes passed over her face. So, trustini,^ 
 and as thoroughly Christian as if belonging to the Primitive 
 Church, spiritually fed by her reailings from the Golden 
 Legend, she g ivt herself up entirely into the hands of God. 
 with only the spot of original sin to be cleansed from her 
 soul. She had no libt^rty of action or freedom of will; 
 God alone could secure her salvation by giving her the gift 
 of His grace. Tkat grace had been already manifested by 
 bringing her to the hospitable roof of the Hul>erts, where, 
 under the shadow of the cathedral, she could lead a life o! 
 submission, of purity and of faith. She often heard witliii 
 her soui the grumbimgs of hereditary tendency to evil, an 
 asked herself what would have become of her had she hcvi 
 left on her native soil ? Without doubt she would havt 
 been bad ; while here, in this blessed corner of the earti 
 she hail grown up free from temptation, strong and healtfu 
 Was it not Grace that had given her this home, where shf 
 was surrounded by such charming histories she had s 
 easily commrted to memory, where she had learned sue 
 perfect faith in the present and hope in the future, an 
 where the invisible and unknown, or the miracles of agi ^ 
 seemed natural to her and quite on a level with her da; 
 life ? It had armed her for all combats, as heretofor( 
 had armed the martyrs. And she created an imagin.i: 
 experience for herself almost unknowingly. It was, 
 fact, the inevitable result of a mind overcharged andexritt 
 
m 
 
 1 
 
 tllE DRKAN*. 
 
 67 
 
 ^o alto,[^Gther. 
 loated slowly 
 ole leii^tli o{ 
 
 ;les. In her 
 ., The risitv^' 
 :h fact was a 
 to her simply 
 chanical as lo 
 D many thm.i:^ 
 ilf so weak and 
 it was impos- 
 lave suspectttl 
 at questionini: 
 So, truslint,^ 
 o the Primitive 
 )m the Goklen 
 2 hands of God. 
 aiised from her 
 eedom of will. 
 in^ her the {^ift 
 y manifested by 
 iul>erts, whero, 
 Id lead a life 0! 
 n heard withir 
 ncy to evil, an 
 er had she bcii. 
 ihe would havi 
 er of the earti 
 Dnjjjand healthy 
 lome, where she 
 ies she had s 
 d learned siu 
 the future, an 
 ..racles of a^'t« 
 I with her da: 
 as heretofore 
 d an imagina: 
 ^ly. It was. 
 rged and exritt. 
 
 3 
 
 I by fables ; it was increased by her ignorance of the life 
 within and about her, as well as from her loneliness. She 
 had not had many companions, so all desires went from 
 her only to return to her. 
 
 Sometimes she was in such a peculiar state that she 
 would put iier liands over her face, as if doubting her own 
 identity. Was she herself only an illusion, and would she 
 suddenly disappear some tlay, and vanish into nothingness ? 
 Who would tell her the truth ? 
 
 One evening in the following May, on this same balcony, 
 where she had spent so much time in vague dreams, she 
 suddenly In ».- into tears. She was not low spirited in 
 the least, but it seemed to her as if her anxiety arose from 
 a vain expectation of a visit from some one ; yet who was 
 there to come ? It was very dark ; the Clos- Marie marked 
 itself out like a great black spot under the sky filled with 
 Stars, and she could but vaguely distinguish the heavy 
 l^asses of the old elm trees of the Bishop's garden and the 
 >ark of the Hotel Vcjincourt. Alone, the window of the 
 lapel sent out a little light. If no one were to come why 
 |id her heart beat so rapidly? It was nothing new, this 
 teling of waiting, or of hope, but it was dated from the 
 long ago, from her early youth ; it was like a desire, a 
 looking forward for something which had grown with her 
 growth, and ended in this feverish anxiety of her seventeen 
 years. Nothing would have surprised her, as for weeks 
 she had heard the sound of voices in this mysterious 
 corner, peopled by h- - imagination. The Golden Legend 
 had left there "ts supei..... ural world of saints and martvrs, 
 and thr miracle was all ready to appear there. She under- 
 stood well that every thing was animated, that the voices 
 came from objects hitherto silent, that the leaves of tlie 
 trees, the waters of the Cht vrotte and the stones of the 
 Cathedral spoke to lier. But what was ir that all these 
 nihisperings from the invisibit wished to explain ? What 
 (Hd these unknown forces above and around her wish to do 
 T«^th her as they floated in tbc air ? She kept her eyes 
 ^Ttfid upon the darkness, as if sne were at an appointed 
 meeting with shr knew not whom, and she waited, still 
 liaited, until she was overcome with sleep, whilst it seeraer.' 
 
 
 
68 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 to lier as if some supernatural power were deciding her 
 destiny, irrespective of her will or wish. 
 
 For four evenings Angehque was nervous, and wept a 
 great deal in the darkness. She remained in her usual 
 place and was patient. The atmosphere seemed to envelop 
 her, and as it increased in density it oppressed her more 
 and more, as if the horizon itself had become smaller and 
 was shutting her in. Everything weighed upon her heart. 
 Now there was a dull murmuring of voices in her brain, 
 yet she was not able to hear them clearly, or to distinguish 
 their meaning. It was as if Nature itself had taken pos- 
 session of her, and the earth, with the vast heavens above 
 it, had penetrated into her being. At the least sound her 
 hands burned, and her eyes tried to pierce the darkness. 
 Was the wonderful event about to take place, the prodigv 
 she awaited ? No, there was nothing yet. It was pro- 
 bably merely the beating of the wings of a night bird. 
 And she listened again attentively until she could distin- 
 guish the difference of sound between the leaves of the 
 elms and the vijlcws. At least twenty times she trembled 
 violently when a little stone rolled in the rivulet, or a 
 prowling animal jumpe'l over the wall. She leaned for- 
 ward ; but there was nothing — still nothing. 
 
 At last, after some days, when at night a warmer dark 
 ne.ss fell from the sky, where no moon was visible, a chanf^c 
 he^RU. Shf felt it, but it was so slight, so almost imper 
 ceptiblc, she feared that she might have been mistaken in 
 ihe little sound she heard, which seemed unlike the usua: 
 noist N she knew -^o veil. She held her breath, as tlu 
 sound seemed very long in returning. At last it cam 
 again, louder than before, but equally confused. Siu 
 would have said it came from a great distance, that it wa- 
 a srareely defined step, and that the trembling of the air 
 announced the approach of something out of sight and (ni: 
 of healing. That which she was expecting came slowly 
 from the invisible slight movement of what surrouiu. 
 her. Little by little it disengaged itself from her dream 
 Uke a realization of the vague longings of her youth. Wa^ 
 it the Saint George of the chapel window, who had conit 
 Juwn from his place and was walking on the grass i: 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 <59 
 
 iecidiiig ber 
 
 , and wept a 
 in her usual 
 ed to envelop 
 sed her more 
 . smaller and 
 )on her heart, 
 in her bram, 
 to distinguish 
 lad taken pos- 
 ncavens abovt 
 'List sound her 
 ' the darkness. 
 ce, the prodiiiy 
 t. It was pro- 
 f a night bird 
 ,e pould distin- 
 >e leaves of the 
 ,es she trembUa 
 l^e rivulet, or a 
 She leaned for 
 
 ^a warmer dark 
 visible, a change 
 -o almost imp^r 
 )een mistaken u 
 unlike the usiuu 
 • breath, as tlu 
 At last it canv 
 confused, i^m 
 tance, that it ^^•a^ 
 nibling of the an 
 ,t of sight and c. 
 ting came sIonvI 
 what surrounu 
 from her dreaiv 
 h(>r youth. ^^'^ 
 vv, who had conv 
 5 on the grass i 
 
 tsil<Mice towards her ? Just tlien by chance the altar light 
 
 ;Was diMiincd. so that she could not distin^aiish the faintest 
 
 outline of the figures on the p.iinted glass, but all seemed 
 
 like a blue cloud of vapoury mist. That was all she heard 
 
 or learned at that time of the mystery. 
 
 But on the morrow, at the same hour, by a like ob- 
 scurity, the noise increased and approached a little nearer. 
 It was certainly the sound of steps, of real steps which 
 walked upon the earth. They would stop for a moment, 
 then recommence here and there, moving up and down, 
 without her being able to say precisely where they were. 
 Perhaps they came from the garden of the Voincourts, 
 where some night pedestrian was lingering under the 
 trees. Or it might be, ratiier, that they were ni the tufted 
 masses of the great lilac bushes of the Park of the Bishop, 
 whose strong perfume made her almost ill. She might do 
 her l)est to try to penetrate the darkness, it was only by 
 her hearing that she was forewarned of the coming events, 
 Itided a little by hf^r sense of smell, as the perfume of the 
 ^wers was increased as if a breath were mingled with it. 
 And so for several nights, the steps resounded under the 
 Iplcony, and she listened as they came nearer, until they 
 |)|iached the walls under her feet. There they stopped, and 
 a long silence followed, until she seemed almost to lose 
 consciousness in this slow embrace of somethmg of which 
 she was ignorant. 
 
 Not long after, she saw one evening the little crescent 
 of the new moon apjiear among the stars. I^ut it soon 
 disappeared behind the brow of the Cathedral, like a bright, 
 living eye that the lid re-covers. She followed it with 
 regret, and at each ni^^^htfall she awaited its appearance, 
 watched its growth, and was impatient fortius torch which 
 would ere long liglit up the invisible. In fact, little by 
 little, the Clos-Marie came out from the obscurity, with the 
 ruins of its old mill, its clusters of trees and its rapid little 
 river. And then in the light Creation continued. That 
 wiftch came from a vision ended in being embodied. For 
 atnfirst she only perceived that a dim shadow was moving 
 uader the moonlight. What was it then ? A branch 
 nuttVing to and fro by the wind ? Or was it a large bat in 
 
 jl^ 
 
.-*l'^^^ 
 
 70 
 
 THE DRKAM. 
 
 i>ii 
 
 I; 
 
 % 
 
 k 
 
 constant motion ? There were moments when everything 
 disappeared and the field slept in so deathly a stillness 
 that she thought her eyes had deceived her. Soon, there 
 was no lon'^r any doubt possible, for a dark object had 
 certainly ju : sed the open space and had glided from 
 one willow tree to another. It appeared, then disappeared, 
 without her being able exactly to define it. 
 
 One evening she thought she distinguished the dim out- 
 line of two shoulders, and at once she turned her eyes 
 towards the chapel window. It had a greyish tint as if 
 empty, for the moon shining directly upon it had deadened 
 the light within. At that moment she noticed that the 
 living shadow grew larger, as it approached continually 
 nearer and nearer, walking in the grass at the side of the 
 Church. In proportion as she realized it was a fact that 
 some one was there, she was overcome by an indefinable 
 sensation, a nervous feeling that one has on being looked 
 at by mysterious unseen eyes. 
 
 Certainly some one was there under the trees who was 
 regarding her fixedly. She had on her hands and face, as 
 it were, a physical impression of those long, ardent, yet 
 timid looks ; but she did not withdraw herself from them, 
 because she knew they were pure and came from the 
 enchanted world of which she had read in the Golden 
 Legend, and in the certainty of a promised happiness her 
 first anxiety was quickly changed into a delicious tran- 
 quillity. 
 
 One night, suddenly, on the ground whitened by the 
 moon's rays, the shadow designed itself plainly and clearly 
 It was indeed that of a man whom she could not see as he 
 was hidden by the willows. As he did not move, she was 
 able to look for a long time at his shadow. 
 
 From that moment Angelique had a secret. Her bare, 
 white-washed chamber was filled with it. She remained 
 there for hours lying on her great bed — where she seemed 
 lost, she was so little — her eyes closed, but not asleep, and 
 seeing continually before her, in her waking dreams, this 
 motionless shadow upon the earth. When she re-opened 
 her eyes at dawn, her looks wandered from the enormous 
 wardrobe to the old carved chest, from the porcelain stove 
 
tlie DREAM. 
 
 71 
 
 I everythinR 
 y a stillness 
 Soon, there 
 k object had 
 1 ghded from 
 disappeared, 
 
 the dim out- 
 ned her eyes 
 ish tint as if 
 had deadened 
 iced that the 
 id continually 
 he side of the 
 ;as a fact that 
 an indefinable 
 1 being looked 
 
 trees who was 
 is and face, as 
 jg, ardent, yet 
 lelf from them, 
 ame from the 
 in the Golden 
 happiness her 
 delicious tran- 
 
 hitened by the 
 
 nly and clearly 
 
 d not see as he 
 
 move, she was 
 
 ret. Her bare, 
 She remained 
 lere she seemeii 
 not asleep, and 
 ng dreams, this 
 a she re-opened 
 the enormous 
 porcelain stove 
 
 n 
 
 lo the little toilette table, as if surprised at not seeing there 
 the mysterious silhouette, which she could have so easily 
 and precisely traced from memory. In her sleep she had 
 seen it gliding among the pale heather blossoms on her 
 curtains. In her dreams, as in her waking hours, her mind 
 was filled with it. It was a companion shadow to her own. 
 She had thus a double being, although she was alone with 
 her fancies. 
 
 This secret she confided to no one, not even to Huber- 
 tine, to whom, until now, she had always told even her 
 thoughts. When the latter, surprised at her gaiety, ques- 
 tioned her, she blushed deeply as she replied that the early 
 Spring had made her very happy. From morning to even- 
 ing she hummed little snatches of song, like a hrr intoxi- 
 cated by the heat of the sun's rays. Never before had the 
 chasubles she embroidered been so resplendent with silk 
 Mid gold. The Huberts smiled as they watched her, think- 
 ing simply that this exuberance of spirits came from her 
 slate of perfect health. As the day waned she grew more 
 dicited, she sang at the rising of the moon, and as soon as 
 tl|e hour arrived she hurried to her. balcony, and waited for 
 tlb shadow to appear. During all the first quarters of the 
 nit>on, she found it exact at each rendezvous, erect and 
 ailent. But that was all. What was the cause of it ? 
 Why was it there ? Was it indeed only a sh?dow ? Was 
 not it perhaps the Saint who had left his window, 01 the 
 angel who had formerly loved St. Cecilia, and who had now 
 come to love her in her turn ? Although she was not vain, 
 these thoughts made her proud, and were as sweet to her 
 as an invisible caress. Then she grew impatient to know 
 more, and her watching recommenced. 
 
 The moon, at its full, lighted up the Clos-Marie. When 
 it was at its zenith, the trees, under the white rays which 
 iell straight upon them in perpendicular lines, cast no more 
 shadows, but were like running fountains of silent bright- 
 ness. The whole garden was bathed and filled with a 
 luiainous wave as limpid as crystal, and the brilliancy of it 
 was so penetrating that everythmg was clearly seen, even 
 to the fine cutting of the willow-leaves. The slightest 
 possible trembling of air seemed to wrinkle this lake ol 
 
^■^ 
 
 ; ,:1 ' '" 
 
 
 t ... 
 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 -§ 
 
 -rees of the neighbouring ^ 
 
 and looking at he . H.s sn» ^^^ alone was here <i,s^ 
 
 disappeared »f^\^ ^,i,tance she «aw-as .1 '' « i^. 
 
 :;L"%:rhe was' tall, sUgnt^^^'j -fi^^reft J'a Sain, 
 ab'out twenty ye-s of ag- He rcsc^_ ^.^ ^ .^ ^,, 
 
 f t'-^Tv^"^> '^"^^^-", ^ ^rpe'^d'to finrhi".: 
 
 fcctly , never ^^^^^ ^^ i,e exP^^ ^ creatioi 
 
 ^SerndTr^^s'at last a.c^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 Siirre:x^i£::;:^t:=^:^ 
 
 -"^"^•.•af 1? iXXov°er tt: Vte-ous ,,joon^uU 
 t4'rh\das hi escort the entire P^^^f °L whosi wou.i 
 
 ^afntslvhose staffs ^^^f^^:^:^^;^^ before th.s * 
 
 ehed milk, and the stars bc 
 
 afl^id, but smiled sweetly. 
 
TIIK DKEAM. 
 
 n 
 
 he great elm 
 intic brow ot 
 
 when on the 
 .r elbow and 
 iudden shock, 
 ing before her 
 the trees, had 
 vas there, d'.s- 
 ; if it were luU 
 nd apparently 
 either a Sanii 
 his cvrly hair, 
 large, and his 
 crnised him per- 
 im ; it was lu'. 
 ted to find hini 
 tie slow creatioi 
 iving apparition 
 the movement 
 Le aciion of tlv 
 until she almo« 
 him as if hewer 
 
 ppeared to be lu 
 surround hun o: 
 
 rious moon nKc 
 
 f the Legend, tr. 
 
 ns whose woiin: 
 
 before this wlu 
 
 h. He raised 1 
 She was not at 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It \\n<; a crrent affair for tlic wlioie liousiliold when every 
 thiL\: UM.iiihs Hubertine prepared the " lye " for tlie wash. 
 A woman was liired to aid iheni, the mother Gabet, as she 
 was called, and for days all embroidery was laid aside, 
 while An^a-lique took her part in the utuisual work, niakinj^' 
 of it a perfect .imiisement, as she soaped and rinsed the 
 clothes in the clean water of the Chevrotte. The linen 
 when taken from the ashes was wheeled to the Clos-Marie 
 throuf^di the little gate of communication in the garden. 
 There, the days were spent in the open air and the sunshine. 
 *• I will do the washing this time, mother, for it is the 
 greatest of delights to me." 
 
 And gaily laughing, with her sleeves drawn up above 
 her elbows, flourishing the beetle, Angelique struck the 
 clothes most heartily in the pleasure of such healthy 
 
 ^ e.xercise. It was hard work, but she thoroughly enjoyed 
 
 ; . it, and only stopped occasionally to say a few words or to 
 
 J|sho\v her shiny face covered with foam. 
 
 M "Look, mother! This makes my arms strong. It 
 
 adoes me a world of good." 
 
 || The Chevrotte crossed the field diagonally, at lirst 
 'drowsily, then its stream became very rapid as it was 
 thrown in great bubbles over a pebbly descent. It came 
 from the garden of the Bishop, through a species of flood- 
 gate left at the foot of the wall, and at the other end it 
 disappeared under an arched vault at the corner of the 
 Hotel \'oincourt, where it was swallowed up in the earth, 
 
 .to reappear two hundred yards further on, as it passetl 
 along the whole length of the Rue Basse to the Ligneul, 
 into which it emptied itself. Therefore, it was very neces- 
 sary to watch the linen constantly, for run as fast as 
 possible, every piece that was once let go was almost 
 Inevitably lost. 
 
 •* Mother, wait, waiv a little ! I will put this heavy 
 Stone on the napkins. V'e shall then see if the river can 
 carry them away. The little thief! " 
 
74 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 A ,U; then returned to draw 
 
 wmmMm 
 
 '; nr[ed liwas a ^e -c'^"'' /'^ li.h poplar trees am 
 aescrtea. i wiUowB, its '"t»" f ,{,,,,.,. rootcii wilil 
 
 tors of pale ^^'-^" ug overBowinU ci "'-'-''; .s 
 
 ir 'o^ru'^f ^^srrTafir rrsl'i^ . pcrru... 
 
 young girl took t nc I ^^^.^^ ^^^^^^„^ "'"near as crystal. 
 
 She aia uui ^ curiosity, navmb , ^^q was 
 
 *°r"""', an^W workn,an in a - '•";,,^''"Xaow of the 
 ishment, a" °^. ,cafroldmf! before *'»- J" al)out to 
 
 P,""'"f Hr«tec-ur- Could it be ^^^^J-^^^T. ,nust be 
 chapel Hautec , ^herew ,, e^. ^^^^ 
 
 repa,r the f^^^J^^ of doing ^°- ^''^j" other places, 
 Snh"adteer:;Ud by ordinary glass. 
 
THE DRi:AM. 
 
 n 
 
 (kaw 
 move 
 /ercly 
 lying. 
 
 them- 
 w the 
 (liiite 
 ts clus- 
 !S, and 
 ed wild 
 o one's 
 D neifih- 
 1. After 
 athcdral 
 perfume 
 
 till, with 
 
 w hiin^^'V 
 that you 
 
 ^» 
 
 lite alone. 
 
 attack of 
 
 u\ Huber- 
 
 straw, the 
 them for a 
 water was 
 as crystal, 
 chad been 
 , V\er aston- 
 .vho was 
 low of the 
 re about to 
 
 it must be 
 pieces- were 
 )ther places, 
 it had been 
 
 Still all this 
 
 was irritating; to her. She was so accustomed to the jjaps 
 of the saint wlio was pier< ing 'lie (ira<;on with his sword, 
 and of the royal princess as she led the conquered beast 
 aloni; with her scarf, tliat she already mourned as if one 
 had the intention of mutilating tliem. It was sacriicgf to 
 think of changing such old venerable things. But when 
 she returni'd to the fuld after her luncli, all lier angry 
 feelings passed awav innnediateiy : for a second workman 
 was upon tlie stag, ig, a young m.tn this time, who also 
 wore a white blouse And she hail recognized him ! It 
 was he ! Her hero ! 
 
 daily, without any embarrassment, Angelique resumed 
 her place on her knees on the straw of her box. Then, 
 with her wrists bare, she put her liaiids in tlu- deep, clear 
 w.iter, and reconunenced shaking the linen back anil forth. 
 Ves, It was he — tall, sUght, a blonde, with his line beard 
 and his hair curled like that of a god, his complexion as 
 fresh as when she had tirst seen liim under the wliite 
 shadow of the moonlight. Since it was lie, there was 
 nothing to be feared for the wintlovv ; were he to touch it 
 he would only embellish it. And it was no disappointmrnt 
 to her whali,'Vi;r tc» find him in this blouse, a workman like 
 herself, a painter on glass, no doubt. On the contrary, 
 this fact made her smile, so absolutely certain was she of 
 the eventual fulfilment of her dream of royal fortuni:. Now, 
 it was simply an ajipearance, a biginning. What good 
 would it do her to know who he was. -from whence he 
 came, or whither he was going ? Some morning he would 
 prove to be that which she ex])ected him to be. A show«T 
 of gold would stream from the roof of the Cathedral, a 
 triumphal r^ ch would break forth in the distant rumb- 
 
 ^ lings ot -' oi^ans, and all would come true ! She did not 
 
 stay to ask liersi-lf how he could always be there, day and 
 
 night. Yet it was evident either that he must live in one 
 
 iof the neighbouring houses, or he must pass by the lane 
 
 -des Guerdaches, which ran by the side of the Bishop's 
 
 /.park to the Rue Magloire. 
 
 Then a charming hour passed by. She bent forward, 
 she rinsed her linen, her f.u e almost touching the fresh 
 _^ater; but each time she took a different piece she raised 
 
76 
 
 TllE DKKAM. 
 
 f 
 
 licr head, and cast towards the church a look, in which, 
 from the agitation of her heart, was a httle, good-natnred 
 mahce. Ar>(\ lie, upon tin; sraflfoiding, with an air of heing 
 closely occupied in examining the state of the window, 
 turned towards her, glancing at her sideways and evidently 
 much disturbed whenever she surprised him doing so. It 
 was astonishing how (juickly he blushed, how dark red his 
 face became. At the slightest emotion, whether of anger 
 or interest, all the blood in his vems seemed to mount to 
 his face. He had flashing eyes, which showed will ; yet 
 he was so diffident, that when he knew he was being criti- 
 cised, he was embarassed as a httle child, did not seem 
 to know what to do with his hands, and stammered out 
 his orders to the old man who accompanied him. 
 
 As for Angelique, that which delighted her most, as she 
 refr(;shed her arms in this turbulent water, was to picture 
 him innocent like herself, ignorant of the world, and with 
 an equally intense desire to have a taste of life. There 
 was no need of his telhng to others who he was : for haxl 
 not invisible messengers and unseen lips made known to 
 her that he was to be her own ? She looked once more, 
 just as he was turning his head, and so the minutes passed, 
 and it was delicious. 
 
 Suddenly she saw that he jumped from the staging, 
 then that he walked backwards quite a distance through 
 the grass, as if to take a certain position from which he 
 could examine the window more easily. But she could 
 not help smiling, so evident was it that he simply wished 
 to approach her. He had made the firm decision, like a 
 man who risks everything, and now it was touching as well 
 as comical, to see that he remained standing a few steps 
 from her, his back towards her, not daring to move, fearing 
 that he had been too hasty in coming so far as he had done. 
 For a moment she thought he would go back again to the 
 chapel window as he had come from it, without paying 
 any attention to her. However, becoming desperate, at 
 last he turned, and as at that moment she was glancing in 
 his direction, their eyes met, and they remained gazing 
 fixedly at each other. They were both deeply con fusiid ; 
 they lost their self-poss'ssion and might never have been 
 
TIIK DRK AM. 
 
 7; 
 
 ,'hich, 
 tiucd 
 being 
 tulow, 
 lenlly 
 o. It 
 ed his 
 anger 
 luit to 
 1 ; yet 
 r criti- 
 seeni 
 ed out 
 
 as she 
 picture 
 i<l witli 
 
 Tliere 
 for hail 
 lown to 
 e more, 
 passed, 
 
 staging, 
 through 
 ;hich he 
 le could 
 r wished 
 n, Hke a 
 y as well 
 ew steps 
 :, fearing 
 ad done, 
 in to the 
 t paying 
 erate, at 
 mcing in 
 d gazing 
 onfusvid ; 
 ave been 
 
 able to regain it, had not a dramatic incidt;nt aroused thrm. 
 
 "Oh dear! Oil dear!" exclaimed the young girl, in 
 distress. 
 
 In her excitement, a dressing sacque, which she had 
 been rinsing unconsciously, had just escaped her, and the 
 stream was fast bearing it away. Yet another minute and 
 it would disappear round the corner of the wall of the 
 Voincourt park, under the arched vault through which the 
 Chevrotte passed. 
 
 There were several seconds of anxious waiting. He saw 
 at once what had happened, and rushed forward. Hut the 
 current, leaping over the pebbles, carried this sacujue, 
 whicli sccwied possessed as it went along, much more 
 rapidly than he. He stooped, thinking he ha 1 caught it, 
 but took up only a handful of soapy foam. Twice he 
 failed. The third time he almost fell. Tiun qnit(i vt-xed, 
 with a brave look as if doing something at ti<e peril of his 
 life, he went into the water, and seized the garmei.t just as 
 it was about being drawn under the ground. 
 
 Angelique, who until now had followed tlie rescue 
 anxiously, quite upset as if threatened by a great mish^r- 
 tune, was so relieved that she had an iiUense desire to 
 laugh. This feeling was partly nervous it is true, but not 
 entirely so. For was not this the adventure of which she 
 had so often dreamed? This meeting on the border of a 
 lake; the terrible danger from which she was to be saved 
 by a young man more beautiful than the day ? Saint 
 George, the tribune, the warrior ! These were simply 
 united in one, and he was this painter of stained glass, 
 this young workman in his white blouse ! When she saw 
 him coming back, his feet wet through and through, as he 
 held the dripping camisole awkwardly in liis hand, realis- 
 ing the ridiculous side of the energy he had employed in 
 saving it from the waves, she was obliged 10 bite her 
 tongue to check the outburst of gaiety which seemed almost 
 to choke her. 
 
 He forgot himself as he looked at her. She was like a 
 most adorable child in this restrained mirth with which 
 all her youth seemed to vibrate. Splashed with water, her 
 arms almost chilled by the stream, she seemed to send 
 
-»7*«* 
 
 7S 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 fortli from herself the purity and clearness of these living 
 springs which rushed from the mossy woods. Slic was an 
 impersonation of health, joy, and freshness, in the fuli sun- 
 light. One could easily fancy that she might be a careful 
 housekeeper and i. queen withal, as she was there in her 
 working dress, witii her slender waist, her regal neck, her 
 oval face, such as one reads of in fairy tales. And he did 
 not know how to give her back the linen, he found her so 
 exquisite, so perfect a representation of the beauty of tlie 
 art he loved. It enraged him, in spite of himself, that he 
 should have the air of an idiot, as he plainly saw the effort 
 she made not to laugh. But he was forced to do some- 
 thing, so at last he gave her back the sacque. 
 
 Then Angelique realized that if she were to open her 
 mouth and try to tliank hiui, she would shout. Poor 
 fellow ! she sympathized with him and pitied him. But it 
 was irresistible : she was happy, and needed to ^^ive 
 expression to it ; she must yield to the gaiety with which 
 her heart overflowed. It was such lovely weather, and all 
 life was so beautiful ! 
 
 At last she thout^dit she might speak, ^vishing simply to 
 say : *' Thank you. Monsieur." 
 
 But the wish to laugh had returned and made her 
 stammer, interrupting her at each word. It was a loud, 
 cheery laugh, -i sonorous outpouring of pearly .iotes, which 
 sang sweetly to the crystalline accompaniment of the 
 Qhevrotte. 
 
 Tl.o young man was so disconcerted that he could find 
 nothing to say. His usually pale face had become very 
 red, the dmid, childlike expression of hise3'es had changed 
 into a fiery one like that of an eagle, and he moved away 
 ruickly. He disappeared with the old workman, and even 
 then she continued to laugh as she bent over the water, 
 again splashing herself as she shook the clothes hither and 
 thither, rejoicing in the brightness of the happy day. 
 
 On the morrow he came an hour earlier. But at five 
 o'clock m the morning the linen, which had been dripping 
 all night, was spread on the grass. There was a brisk 
 wind, which was excellent for dr)ing. But in order that the 
 different articles need not be blown away, they were kept in 
 
1 
 
 K^ 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 79 
 
 place by putting: little pehhlcs on tlioir four cornors. Tlie 
 whole wash was tlurc, lookm*; of a dazzling wiiitcuess 
 among the green herbage, having a strong odour of })iants 
 about it, and making the meadow as if it had suddenly 
 blossomed out into a snowy covering of daisies. 
 
 When Angelique came to look at it after breakfast she 
 was distressed, for so strong iiad become the gusts of wind 
 that all threatened to be carried away. Already a slieet 
 had started, and several napkins had gone to fasten them- 
 selves to the branches of a willow. She fortunately cauglit 
 them, but then the handkerchiefs began to ily. There was 
 no one to help her ; she was so frightened that she lost all 
 her presence of mind. When she tried to spread out the 
 sheet again she had a regular battle, for she was quite lust 
 in it, as it covered her with a great crackhng sound. 
 
 Through all the noise of the wind she heard a voice 
 saying, " Mademoiselle, do you wish me to help you ? "' 
 
 it was he and immediately she cried to him, witli no 
 other thought than her pre-cccupation as a gootl iiousewife. 
 
 "Of course, I wish it. Come and help me, then. Take 
 the end over there, nearest to you. Hold it firm ! ' 
 
 The sheet which they stretched out with their strong 
 arms ilapped 'backwards and forwards like a sail. At last 
 they succeeded in putting it on the ground, and then 
 placed upon it much heavier stones than before. And 
 now that, quite conquered, it sat quietly down, neither of 
 them tliought of leaving their places, but remained on 
 their knees at the opposite corliers, separated by this great 
 piece of pure, white linen. 
 
 She smiled, but this time without malice. It was a 
 silent message of thanks. He became by degrees a little 
 bolder. 
 
 ** My name is Felicien." 
 
 •* And mine is Angelique." 
 
 •' I am a painter on glass and have been charged to 
 repair the stained glass window of the cha^x'i here." 
 
 " I live over there wjtli my father and mother, and I am 
 an embroiderer oi church vestments." 
 
 The wind, winch continued to be strong under the clear 
 blue sky, carried away their words, lasiied them with its 
 
8o 
 
 TIIF, PR F.AM. 
 
 'II' 
 
 |)iiiif\in<^ l>n\TlIi in the midst of llir warm sunshine in 
 wliiiii tlit'y wt'if h.illu'd. 
 
 Tlicy spoke of tliinj^s wliicli tlicy already knew, as i! 
 simply tur the pltNisiirc; of talkiu^^ 
 
 " Is the winilow tht^n to be replaced ?" 
 
 •* No! oh no! it will lu; so well repaired, that the \u \\ 
 part cannot be distinguished fron> the old. 1 love it quite 
 as nuieh as you do." 
 
 "Oh, it is nulei'd true that I love it! I have airead)- 
 end>roitlered a Saint (Jeor;J;(^ but it was not so beaut ihd ;i' 
 this one." 
 
 "Oh, nol so beautiful! How can you say that? 1 
 have seen it, if it is the Saint (ieorj^^e on the ehasublt! 
 which the Abbot Oornille wore last Sunday. It is a 
 ni'ai vellous thiuf^." 
 
 She blushed with pleasure, but cpiickly turned tin 
 convt>rsation as she exclaimed : 
 
 " Hurry and put another stone on the left cor.ier of the 
 sheet or the wind will carry it away from us aj^ain." • 
 
 He made all possible haste, weij^died down the linen, 
 which had been in j^Meat connnotion, like the win^^s of a 
 p^reat wounded bird tryiuf.-^ its best to fly away. Finding 
 that this time it would probably keep its place, the two 
 yoimg people rose up, and now Angelujue went through 
 the narrow jjjreen paths between the pieces of linen, ^lau- 
 cing at each one, while he followed her with an equally 
 busy look, as if preoccupied by the jiossible loss of a dish- 
 towel or an apron. All this seemed quite natural to them 
 both. So she continued to chatter away freely and art- 
 lessly, as she told of her daily life and explained her tastes. 
 
 " For my part, I always wish that everything should be 
 in its place. . . . In the morning I am always awakened 
 at the same hour oy the striking of the cuckoo clock in thi; 
 work-room : and whether it is scarcely daylight or not, I 
 dress myself as quickly as possible ; my shoes and stock- 
 ings are here, my soap and all articles of toilette there — a 
 true mania for order. Yet you may well believe that I was 
 not born so ! Oh no I On the contrary, I was the most 
 careless person possible. Mother was obliged to repeat to 
 me the same words over and i ver again, tliat T might not 
 
THI': DKIAM. 
 
 81 
 
 isliino in 
 i;w, as il 
 
 tlu; IK \v 
 /{• it quit*' 
 
 V alrciuly 
 aiiliiiil iv 
 
 llial? 1 
 
 cliasiiblf 
 
 It is <> 
 
 I tlu 
 
 innw 
 
 r.inr of tin 
 in. 
 
 {ho linen, 
 vvin^s of a 
 . Finding 
 :e, the two 
 nt tlirough 
 linen, >:<lan- 
 an eciually 
 ;s of a disli- 
 iral to them 
 ly and art- 
 l her tastes, 
 g should be 
 s awakened 
 clock in the 
 hi or not, I 
 
 and stock- 
 tte th{;re — a 
 e that I was 
 as the most 
 to repeat to 
 I might not 
 
 leave my things in rvcry coriur »)f the lionse, for I loinul it 
 easier to s( alter tliem ahout. And now, when 1 am at 
 work from morning to evening, 1 < an never do anything 
 right if my chair is not in the same place, dirt ctly opjK)site 
 the lij^'lit. I^'ortimately, I am neitlu^r riglit nor left handed, 
 hut can use hoth hands ( (jually well at emlnoideririg, wlnrli 
 is a great hel}) to me, for it is not every one wlio can i!o 
 that. . . . Then, I adore (hnvers, hut I cannot k( ( j) 
 a houqiiet near me without having a terrible headac he. 
 Violets alone I can bear, and that is surprising. But their 
 odour seems to calm me, and at the least indisposition I 
 have only nerd to smell them and I am at once cured." 
 
 He was enraptured while listening to her prattle. He 
 r(;velled in the b(;autihil ring of her voice, which had an 
 extremely penetrating, prolon;(ed charm, and h(; must have- 
 been peculiarly sensitive to this human music, for the 
 caressing inflection on certain words moistened his eyelids. 
 
 Suddenly returning to her household cares she 
 ex''daimed : 
 
 " Oh, now the shirts will soon be dry." 
 
 Then in the unconscious and ample need of making 
 herself known, she continued her confidences. 
 
 "For colouring, the white is always beauiiful, is il not? 
 I tire at times of l)liie, of rid, and of all other shades ; but 
 white is a constant joy of which I am never wear3^ There 
 is nothing in it to trouble you ; on the contrary, you would 
 like to lose yourself in it. We had a white cat, with yellow 
 spots, which I painted white. It did very well for a while, 
 but it did not last long. Listen a minute. Mother does 
 not know it, but I keep all the waste bits of white silk and 
 have a drawer full of them, for just nothing except th«.' 
 pleasure of looking at them and smoothing tlu rn over from 
 linu! to lime. And I have another secret, but this is a very 
 serious one I When I wake up, there is every morning 
 near my bed a great white object which gently fhes away." 
 
 He did not smile, but appeared firmly to believe her. 
 Was not all she said, in her sim])le way, quite natural ? \ 
 Queen in the magnificence «)f her courtly surroundings 
 could not have conquered him^o quickly. She liad, in the 
 midst of this white linen on the green grass, a charming. 
 
S2 
 
 Till DKIAM. 
 
 i 
 
 jii.uul ;\ir. Ii.ipi»\ .iiul sii|'ii me. which lfiurh«'(| liitn In Ihc 
 h(\\il. vvilh .u» (•v<M iiicrcji Mil/; |»t>\v<i. Mr was <<)m|»l(lrly 
 sulxliK'd. Slu- w.is rv<'rv(hinj4 lo him Itmn (his inoiixMit, 
 lie would lollow hit (() ihr l.»st (l.i\' ol h" hie. in Hw wot- 
 slup ol h(M li^hl fcrl, Imm tlch( .dr hands, ol liri wlioh- 
 Im nij;, .uloi .il>lc and |)cHi(t .is .» dicain. She contnnicd lo 
 w.ilK Ixlotc hnn, wilh a slioil, (luick si. j), .ind he followed 
 h(M closrK-, sullt^c.iltMJ hy .» thon,i;lil ol (he liappiiicss he 
 M.nrcK d.ncd hope nn^hl \ oine to hiiii. 
 
 Ihit .mothei sudden ;;us( ol wind e.ime np, and llwrr 
 w.is .1 peileii lli};hl into the dist.mee ol (.iinhiie ( oil.trs 
 .nid I nils, ol neelurehiels .and ehennseltes ol nni'lin, 
 whuh, .>s they dis.ippe.ncd. seemed like a lloe.k ot white 
 birds knoek(>d about 1>\ the tempest. 
 
 ,\n,i;ehiiue lu\i;.in to t iin. 
 
 "Oh.de.n ! wh.it sii.dl I do? Von will have to come 
 .ii;.iin .md lu-jp me. Oh, de.ir ! " 
 
 rhe\ both mslied loiw.iid. She e.in;^ht a kerchief on 
 llu' boidt'isof tile ('hevrotl«\ lie had alre.idy s.ived two 
 chemisclles which he lound m the midst of some liif^h 
 thistles. One bv owe the culls .nid the iollais were 
 ri'-l.d\en. Hut in the course of their innninj; .it bill speed, 
 the llvini; folds i>f hex skiit h.id at several dillerent times 
 brushed .i,L;.unst him, .md (\uh time his lace bec.ime siid 
 ilcnly rt>d, .md his luMit bivit violenl"- In his turn, he 
 tt>iicluHl her f.ici' .icciilcnlally, as he jiin., d lo io(\)Ver tin- 
 l.ist fiiliu wl'iich he had c.irelessly li't i^o of. She w.is 
 sI.uIKhI and <.{oo(\ ijuietlx, but breathing more (piiekly. 
 Sho ji>ked no U)nj;tu' ; her lau/^h sounded less ele.ar, and 
 she was mU tiMnp<lt>d to ridicule this };re.it, awkw.ird, but 
 most .ittr.iclivc fellow. The feminine n.itnre so recently 
 .iw.ikiMUul in her softcneil her .ilnu>st to tears, .iiid with 
 tlu- fiH'linjjf of inexplicable tenderness which overpt)wered 
 lier was minj^led a half fear. 
 
 W'h It was the matter with lur that she was less gay 
 and that she was so overcome by this delicious pan;^' ? 
 When he held out the kerchief to her, tluMr hands by 
 chance tonched for a nuinunt. They trembled, as they 
 looked .11 e.ich otlu'r iiKiflirinj^ly. ThcMi she drew back 
 quickly, and for several seconds seemed not to know what 
 
TIIK DKI'AM. 
 
 Hj 
 
 in In tlw 
 .in|»l<t<ly 
 
 thr wor- 
 ld wlioir 
 itinM<'<l t«> 
 < ioll()W»'«l 
 
 (pmrss 
 
 h 
 
 (' 
 
 i\\u\ llun- 
 tie, (oIImts 
 )1' uni'lin. 
 k ol wliilf 
 
 VC to CMUr 
 kcrclnt'f on 
 
 ^ S.lViMl Iwi) 
 
 soim- lii^'' 
 ollius wen' 
 t iiill sprtnl, 
 iVcicnt times 
 KM-aini' siul 
 
 his turn, In- 
 , lof )Vtr tin- 
 )f. She was 
 \o\c (Hiifkly. 
 ss clear, aii«l 
 iwUwaKl, bill 
 ', so rt'<c;ntly 
 ;\rh, and vvitli 
 
 ovi il>owcie(l 
 
 was less gay 
 licious paiiK'? 
 cir liaiuls by 
 ibled, as tliey 
 \ni chew baek 
 
 to know what 
 
 .he <;hnul(l iln uixlii ihe exti aoi ihiiary < ilMllii lanri's 
 whi< h h.iil \\[ A 1)1 < iiiiitl. At last she flailed, (lalheim^ 
 ii|) .ill the Miiahei aidrles (if htieii in Itei aim ., .ni'l leaving 
 the rrst, she tinned low.nd'. hri home. 
 
 I''cli< i-n then wi -h* d tn sp' ik. . , . " ( )h, I \n\'^ 
 yoin |)ar<l(»ii. ... I play yon to — " 
 
 Ihit thr wind, which h.id ^ie;itly iii<;reiisrd. < ill ell Ins 
 w«>rds. In despair If looked at her as sIk Ih vv .ilonjf, ;is 
 if Carried away by th< blast. She i.in and i.oi, in .ind 
 oiil,.imon^' ih'- white sheets and table (lol lis, iindei ih/ 
 (»bli(pn , p. lie ^^olden rays ol the siin. Alre.idy the '.ImiIow 
 of the < ",il hcdi ,il j;erirM(| tociivektp her, and sIm w.i , on 
 tin* point of «nt«rini,' lu-r own f^^aidcn by ihc lilllc j,Mt<: 
 wliK h sip.ii.ited it h(»m till- ( -los, witlioiil Inivinj^ once 
 l^lanced brliiiu! her. Ihit on the thieshold sin tiiriifd 
 quickly, as it sei/fd with a knnl inipnise, not wislnnj.j Ih.it 
 lit; shoiiM think she was an;^'ry, and confused, but smiling', 
 she called out 
 
 " 'I'll. ink you. Thank you very much." 
 
 |)id she wish to say that she was j^ralefnl to hini for 
 havin/4 helped her in recoverin;^' the linen ? Or was il (or 
 somethiiif^' else ? She disappeared and the ;^ale w.is shut 
 after her. 
 
 Ami he r( inainrd alone in the midst of the field, under 
 the {^reat rej^iilar {.;usts, which c<;ntimied to ra^'e, alilMMif^di 
 tile sky was still clear and pure. The elms in tiie i>i hop's 
 garden rustUMl with a lonj.^, billowy sound, an»l a loud vnicc 
 seemed to clamour ihroii^h the t<'rra<:es and the llyin;^ 
 buttresses of the Cathedral. Hut he heard only the li^^dit 
 flappm;^' »)f a little inornin;^' cap, tK;d to a branch of a 
 lilac bush as if it were a buu<[uet, ami which belonged to 
 hcj . 
 
 From that dat(!, (>ach time that Anj^'elifjue o|)en(;d her 
 window she saw l'"(,'hci« n over lher(; in the- rios-Marie. He 
 passed days in the field, liavin;^ the (Chapel windr)w as an 
 excuse tor doiiij^ so, on winch, however, the Wfjrk did n<;t 
 lidvanct; the least in the world. T'or hours he woiiitl 
 ibrt^et himself behind a cluster of iiiislies, where, stretched 
 out on the {^Tass, he watched throuf^di the leaves. And it 
 Vas the greatest of i)lcasiires to smile at eaclj other every 
 
84 
 
 THE DRKAM. 
 
 ' ^ 
 
 ate would seldom be open. J^"' 'f^^^j, other dally, was 
 
 ;.:; quickly, and if tW -^'^^.i, could be m«e 
 
 f Hvit bliss enough? \\n^^' fi,;„kine during' the da> 
 
 iCmit than to ^-v" i^^^,-- (,^^^0! the .K-e o,, 
 
 t''X:-w '' ^'^ tS" A^ Srer.'f '' 
 esired ni""'^"'; "« i°^ f, '" oacl'inK each other and n, 
 o«'l woulcl .here be m apP'°''^;" ^„,„i,ntly beconuuK 
 
 rXng together ? Were they not ^^ , a, a d>8- 
 
 letter acquainted «'*';""' "^'tier perfectly i they pene- 
 ance they understood each o er P ^j^^ j^^ , 
 
 trated into their •n'"^"™^\„rsf filled one with the 
 
 IV ,n-,cv At last they '*""'';. ^" eves without seeuit,' 
 
 X t^at they couhl -f^^ -„f ^LaTuess of d.tai. t . 
 
 ^'^f°" .^^;he,^;■Lw liiend ■; so ufrealUy they were never 
 
 ITpS'ated. ,,, to Angehque that she had 
 
 It was a constant sjrv'. ,r li^ien. At their msi 
 unbosomed herself at on e to 1 U ^^^^ ^^._^ .^erythin, 
 meeting she had confijU. - h m,^^^^ -"^Vj^.f «a 
 
 about her habits, her tastes pelicen, and that wa 
 
 hpirt He. more silent, was ''-,,( that it should be 
 an she knew. Perh.ips .1 was e g ^_^^^^^ ,^^,,j,„j, 
 
 1- he woman givmg ''''"' '^"\^a no premature cun- 
 himself back as a strang.^r. ^"^ .^'^'l,^ thought of things 
 ^ She continued to sm:U at tne "j^ ^^at of 
 
 :iV i. would certainly be re.d^ed^^ So^fo^^_ 
 
 S^tf!;r^.;^'?rtt^wttinp:t^-"rx 
 
 , gaid he wouUi. Mi"- "*^ 
 
 ■ and t'hey loved.each ^;;^«-„,„„ugl.!y this true possession 
 So they eu)oyed "0«^ ; ^^^^^j,,,^ encouraged by th. 
 ftom a distance. Uuyw. 
 
t, 
 
 y 
 
 she askecl 
 cr general 
 tie garden 
 would pass 
 daily, was 
 I be more 
 ing the day 
 glance on 
 ope of that 
 eover, what 
 iher and in 
 becominj^ 
 h at a dis- 
 they pene- 
 the closest 
 He with the 
 thout seeing 
 )f dotail, llu- 
 J were never 
 
 that she had 
 Vt their first 
 im everythinti 
 secrets'of her 
 , and that was 
 it it should hf 
 man holding 
 :e mature curi- 
 Light of thingi^ 
 r her, that of 
 ng. The only 
 iiiacy between 
 .part from tlie 
 ^e was so well 
 ad his thoughts 
 id come, as she 
 ecogruzed him, 
 
 true possession 
 3uraged by the 
 
 ■tm 
 
 THE DRRAM. 
 
 85 
 
 new discoveries they made. Slie had long, slender hands, 
 roughened a little at the ends of the fingers by her constant 
 use of the needle, but lie adored them. She noticed that 
 his fiet were small and was proutl of the fact. Everything 
 about him flattered her ; she was grateful to him for 
 being so handsome ; and she was overcome with joy the 
 evening that she found his beard to be of a lighter shade 
 than his hair, which fact gave a greater softness to his 
 smile. He went away transported, when, one morning as 
 she leaned over the balcony, he saw a little red spot on lur 
 pretty neck. Their hearts being thus laid open, iwnv 
 treasures were daily found, ('ertainly tin; proud and 
 frank manner in which she opened her window showed 
 that even in her ignorance as a little embroidtrer, she had 
 the royal bearing of a princess. In the same way she 
 knew that he was good, from seeing how lighll)' he walked 
 over tht' herbs and the grass. Around them was a ra<li- 
 ance of virlius and graces from the first hour of their 
 meeting. Each interview had its special charm. It 
 seemed to them as if their felicity in seeing each otlu-r 
 rould never be exhausted. 
 
 Nevertheless Felicien soon showed certain signs of 
 impatience, and he wo longer remained for hours c(>ncealed 
 behind a bush in the unmobility of an al)Solute happiness. 
 As soon as Angelique appeared at her window he A'as 
 restless and tried to approach her as he glided from willow 
 to willow. \\. length she was a little disturbed, fearing 
 that some one might see him. (^ne day there was almost 
 a quarrel, for he came even to the wall of the house, so 
 she was obliged to leave the balcony. It was a great 
 shock to him that she should be offended, and he showed 
 in the expression of his face so mute a prayer of submis- 
 sion that the next day she pardoned him and opened her 
 window at the usual hour. 
 
 But although expectation was delightful, it was not 
 sufficient for him, and he began again. Now, he seemed 
 to be everywhere at once. He filled the Clos-Marie with 
 his restlessness. He came out from behind every tree. He 
 appeared above every l)unch of brambles. Like the wood- 
 pigeons of the great elms in the P.ishop's garden, he 
 
86 
 
 THE DRKAM. 
 
 seemed to have his habitation between two branches in 
 the environs. I'he Clicvrotte was an excuse for his pass- 
 ing entire (hiys there, on its willowy banks, bending over 
 the stream, in which he seemed to be watching the floating 
 of th(.' clouds. 
 
 One day, she saw that he had climbed up on the ruins 
 of the old mill and was standing on the framework of a 
 shed, looking happy to have thus approached her a little, 
 in his regret at not being able to fly even so far as her 
 shoulder. 
 
 Anotiier day she stifled a slight scream as she saw him 
 far above her, leaning on an ornamented balustrade of the 
 Cathedral, on the roof of the Chapels of the choir, which 
 formed a terrace. In what way could he have reached 
 this gallery, the door of which was always fastened, and 
 whose key no one had a right to touch but the beadle ? 
 Then again, a little later on, how was it that she should 
 find him up in the air among the flying buitresses of the 
 nave and the pinnacles of the piers ? From these heights 
 he could look into every part of her chamber, as the swal- 
 lows wlio, flying from point to point among the spires, saw 
 everylliing that was therein, without her having the idea 
 of hiding herself from them. But a human eye was 
 dilTeren:, and from that day she shut herself up more, and 
 and an ever increasing trouble came to her at the thought 
 that her privacy was being intruded upon, and that she 
 was no longer alone in the atmosphere of adoration that 
 surrounded her. If she were really not impatient, why 
 was it that her heart beat so strongly, like the bell of the 
 clock tower on great festivals ? 
 
 Three days passed without Angelique showing herself, 
 so alarmed was she by the increasing boldness of Felicien. 
 She vowed in her mind that she would never see him again, 
 and wound herself up to such a degree of resentment that 
 slie thought she hated him. But he had given her his 
 feverishness. She could not keep still, and the slightest 
 pretext was enough for an excuse to leave the chasuble 
 upon wliich she was at work. 
 
 So, having heard that the nih-e Gabet was ill in bed, in 
 the most profound poverty, she went to see het every 
 
TIIK DRI'.AM. 
 
 87 
 
 inches in 
 his pass- 
 ling over 
 e floating 
 
 the ruins 
 work of a 
 er a httle, 
 far as her 
 
 e saw him 
 ade of the 
 loir, which 
 /e reached 
 ;tcned, and 
 he beadle? 
 she should 
 sses of the 
 icse heights 
 is the SNval- 
 spires, saw 
 ng the idea 
 in eye was 
 p more, and 
 the thought 
 lid that she 
 oration that 
 )atient, why 
 J bell of the 
 
 wing herself, 
 3 of Felicien. 
 )e him again, 
 entment that 
 ivon her his 
 ' the slightest 
 the chasuble 
 
 ill in bed, in 
 he her every 
 
 inf»rnitig. Her room was oti the Rue des Orfbvres, only 
 tliree doors away from the Huberts. She would take her 
 tea, sugar and soup, tiien' wiien necessary go to buy her 
 medicine at the druggist's on the (irand Kue. One day, 
 as she returned with her hands full of little vials, she 
 started at seeuig Ft licien at the bedside oT tiit; old sick 
 woman. He turned very red, and slipped away awkwardly 
 after leaving a charital)lc olTering. The next day he came 
 in as she was leaving, and she gave him her place, very 
 much displeased. Did he really intend to prevent her 
 from visiting the poor ? 
 
 In fact she had been taken with one of her fits of 
 charity, which made her give all she owned that she might 
 overwhelm those who had nothing. At the idea of sufler- 
 ing her whole soul melted into a pitiful fral' rnity. She 
 went often to i.ne prrc Mascart's, a blind paralytic on the 
 Hue I^asse, whom she was obliged to feed h.rself with the 
 broth she carried liim ; then to the Chouteaux, a man and 
 his wife, each one over ninety years of age, who lived in a 
 little hut on the Kue Magloire, which she had furnished 
 for them with articl s taken from the attic of her parents. 
 Then there were others and others still whom slu,' saw 
 among the wretched populace of the quarter, and whom 
 she h<lped to support from things that were about her, 
 happy in being able to surprise them and to see them 
 brighten up for a little while. But now, strange to say, 
 wherever she went, she encountered Felicien ! Never 
 befcjre had she seen so much of him ; she, who h.id 
 avoided going to her v»indow for fea.' that he might he 
 near. Her trouble increased and at last she was very 
 an/:j:ry. 
 
 I Jut the worst of all in this matter was that Angeli(iue 
 
 soon despairi'd of her charity. This young man spoilt all 
 
 her pleasure ol giving. In other days he might perhaps 
 
 have been equally generous, but it was not among the 
 
 same people, not her owri particniar poor, of that she was 
 
 |»ure. And he must have watched her and followed her 
 
 ;irery closely to know them all and to take them so regularly 
 
 %ne after the other. 
 
 i Now, ^o when she might with a little basket of pro- 
 
88 
 
 TIIK ItKF:AM. 
 
 visions to the (^houteaux, there was always money on the 
 table. One day when she huiri(!(l to phe Mascart, who 
 was constantly <:onij)lainin^ that he had no tobacco, she 
 founii him very ricli, with a siiiniuf; new loiiis d or on his 
 table. Strangest of all, once when visiting mhe (iabet, 
 the latter gave her a hnndr(-d franc note to change, and 
 with it she was enabled to bny some high priced medicines 
 of which the poor woman had long been in need, but 
 which she ncvt^r lioped to obtain, for wlu.Te could she fnid 
 money to pay for them ? 
 
 Angeliqiie herself could not distribute much money, as 
 she had none. It was heart-breaking to her to realise her 
 powerlessne.ss, when he couhi so easily empty his purse. 
 She was of course happy that such a windfall had come to 
 the poor, bui she felt as if she were greatl)' diminished in 
 her former self-estimation. She no longer had the same 
 happiness in giving, but was disturbed and sad that she 
 had so little to distribute, while he had so nnich. 
 
 The young man, not understanding her feelings, think- 
 ing to concjuer her esteem by an increase of gift, redoubled 
 Ins charity and thus daily made hers seem less. 
 
 Was not it exasperating to run against this fellow 
 everywhere ; to see him give an ox wherever she offered an 
 egg ? In addition to all this, she was obliged to lie.ir his 
 praises sung by all the needy whom he visited : " a joung 
 man so good, so kind, and so well brought up." She was 
 a meri nothing now. They talked only of iiim, spreading 
 out his gifts as if to shame hers. Notwithstanding her fi.ni 
 determination to forget liim, she could not reiram Irom 
 (juestioning them about him. What had he left ? What 
 had he said ? He was very handsome, was he not ? Ten- 
 der and diffi(?ent as a woman ? Perhaps he might' even 
 have spoken of her ? Ah, yes indeed ! That was true, for 
 he always talked of her. Then she was very angry ; yes, 
 she certainly hated him, for at last she realised that he 
 weighed on her breast too heavily. 
 
 But matters could not continue in this way for ever; a 
 change must take place ; and one May evening, at a won- 
 drously beautiful nightfall, it car ;. It was at the home of 
 the Lemballcuse, the family who lived in the ruins of the 
 
iiey on the 
 scart, who 
 bacco, she 
 lor on his 
 ih'e (lal)et, 
 haiiK'c. and 
 1 nil <licines 
 nr'ccl, but 
 ikl she find 
 
 1 money, as 
 
 realise her 
 
 liis purse. 
 
 lad corne to 
 
 ninislicd in 
 1 the same 
 
 id that she 
 
 h. 
 
 iii^s, think- 
 
 t, redoubled 
 
 this fellow 
 
 le offered an 
 
 to hear his 
 
 : •' a young 
 
 She was 
 
 II, sjireadini; 
 
 ing her fi. ni 
 
 leiram Ironi 
 
 eft ? What 
 
 not ? Ten- 
 
 mighf even 
 
 ivas true, for 
 
 angry ; yes, 
 
 sed that he 
 
 ' for ever ; a 
 
 g, at a won- 
 
 the home of 
 
 ruins of the 
 
 TIIK DRKAM. 
 
 •» 
 
 mill. Tliore were only women there ; the old ri andmother, 
 S( aiiK (1 with wrifikles but still acliv*-, her dauijitcr and her 
 graink )jil<lr« 11. Of tlv latter, Tirnnctte, tin ( Idt r, was a 
 large, wild looking girl, twenty years of a^r, and her two 
 liltli- sisters, Rose and Jeanne, had already bold, f< irless 
 eyes, under their inik( nipt mops of red hair. The> all 
 begged during the day on the highwa\ and along the moat, 
 coming back at night, their feet worn out from fa igue in 
 tlieirold shoes fastened with bits of "-tnng. It K d, that 
 very evening Tiennette had been < d to leave hers 
 
 among tin* stones, and had returned \voun*led and with 
 bleeding ankles. Seated before their door, in the midst of 
 the high grass of the Clos-Marie. she tlrew out the thorns 
 from hei flesh, whilst her mother and the two children 
 siniouiuh (1 her and uttere<l lamentations. 
 
 Just then Angeliqu(! arrived, hiding under her apron 
 the bread which she had brought them, as she did once 
 every wt ek. She had entered the field by the little garden 
 gate which she had left open Ix hind her, a.s she niti-nded 
 tc' go back as quickly as possible. Hut she stopped on 
 seeing all tlv famil\ in tears. 
 
 " What IS the matter ? Why are you in such distress? " 
 
 •' Ah, my good lady ! " whmed th<-' mother Lemballeuse, 
 •'do not you see in vvfiat a terrible state this great foolish 
 girl ha^ put herself ? Tu-morrow she will not be able to 
 walk, so that will be a whole day lost. She must have 
 some shoes I " 
 
 Rose and Jeanne, with thefr eyes snapping from under 
 their tangled hair, redoidiled their sobs, as they cried out 
 loudly — 
 
 " Yes, yes ! she must have some shoes ! She must have 
 some shoes ! " 
 
 Tiennette, half lifting up her thin, dark face, looked 
 romul fiirtively. Then, fiercely, without a word, she made 
 one of her feet bleed still more, maddened over a long 
 splinter which she had just drawn out by the aid of a pin, 
 and which uiust have pained her intensely. 
 
 Angelicpie, quite touched by the scene, offered her gift. 
 
 " See, here at least is some bread." 
 
 •' Oh, bread I " said the mother. •' No doubt it is neces- 
 
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 THE DREAM. 
 
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 sary to eat. But it is not with bread that she will be able 
 to walk ag'iin. of that I am certain ! And we were to go 
 to tlie fair at Bligny, a fair where every year she makes at 
 least two francs. Oh, good heavens 1 VVhat will become 
 of us if she cannot go there ? " 
 
 Pity and embarrassment rendered Angelique mute. 
 She had exactly five sous in her pocket. It surely was not 
 with five sous that one could buy a pair of shoes, even at 
 an auction sale. As it had often done before, her want of 
 money now paralysed her. And that which exasperated 
 her still more and made her lose her self-control was that 
 at this moment, as she looked behind her, she saw Felicien 
 standing a few feet from her in the darkening shadow. 
 Without doubt he had heard all that had been said ; per- 
 haps even he had been there for a great while, for he 
 always appeared to her in this way when least expected, 
 witliout her ever kno\\ing from whence he came or whither 
 he was going. 
 
 She thought to herself, *' He will give the shoes." 
 
 Indeed he had already rome forward. The first stars 
 were appearing in the paie sky. A sweet, gentle quiet 
 seemed to fall down, from on high, soothing to sleep the 
 Clos-Marie, whose willows were lost in the dusk. The 
 Cathedral itself was 'only a great black bar in the West. 
 
 " Yes, certainly, now he will offer to give the shoes." 
 
 And at this probability she was really quite discouraged. 
 Was he always then to give everything ? Could she never, 
 oven once, conquer him ? • Never ! Her heart beat so 
 rapidly that it pained her. She wished that she might be 
 very rich, to show him that she too could make others 
 happy. • 
 
 But the Lemballeuse had seen the good gentleman. 
 The mother had rushed forward, the two little sisters 
 moaned as they held out their hands for alms, whilst the 
 elder one, letting go of her wounded ankles, looked at the 
 new-comer inquiringly with her wild eyes. 
 
 ♦• Listen, my noisy children," said Felicien. Then ad- 
 dressing the mother, he continued, " You may go to the 
 Grand Rue, at tlie corner of the Rue Basse " 
 
 Angelique had understood immediately, for the shoe- 
 
tllF DREAM. 
 
 9? 
 
 maker had his sho'p thfro. vSlic interrupted him quickly, 
 and was so agitated that she stammered her words at 
 random. 
 
 " But that is a useless thing to do 1 What would be 
 the good of it ? It is much more simple " 
 
 Yet she could not find in her /own mind the more simple 
 thing she desired. What could she do ? What could she 
 invent, so as to be before him in giving her charity ? Never 
 had it seemed to her possible she could detest him as she 
 did now. 
 
 " You will say from me, that it is I who have sent you," 
 continued Felicien. " You will ask " 
 
 Again she interrupted him. The contest lasted a 
 moment longer. She repeated in an anxious way : 
 
 *' It is indeed much more simple ; it is much easier 
 
 Suddenly she was calm. She seated herself upon a 
 stone, thoughtfully examined her shoes, took them off, and 
 then drew off her stockuigs, saying : 
 
 " Look. This is the best thing to do after all ! Why 
 should you have any trouble about the matter ? " 
 
 *' Oh, my good young lady ! God will reward you ! " 
 exclaimed the mother Lemballeuse, as she turned over the 
 shoes and found they were not only excellent and strong, 
 but almost new. " I will cut them a trifle on the top, to 
 
 make them a little larger . Tiennette, why do 3'ou not 
 
 thank her, stupid c- ;ature ? " 
 
 Tiennette snatched from the h nds of Rose and Jeanne 
 the stockings they were coveting. She did not open he- 
 lips ; she only gave one long, fixed, hard look. 
 
 But now Angelique realizetl that her feet were bare, and 
 that Felicien saw them. She blushed deeply, and knew 
 not what to do. She dared not move, for were she to rise 
 to get up he would only see them all the more. Then, 
 frightened, she rose quickly, and without realising what 
 she was doing began to run. In the grass, her flying feet 
 were very white and small. The darkness of the evening 
 had increased, and the Clos- Marie was a lake of shadow 
 between the great trees on one side and the Cathedral on 
 the other. And on the ground the only visible light came 
 
92 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 from those same little feet, white and satiny as the wing of 
 a dove. 
 
 Startled, and afraid of the water, Angelique followed 
 the bank of the Chevrotte, that she might cross it on a 
 plank which served as a bridge. But ]'\'licien had gone a 
 shorter way through the brambles and brushwood. Until 
 now he had always been overcome by his timidity, and he 
 had turned redder than she as he saw her bare feet, pure 
 and chaste as herself. Now, in the overflow of his ignor- 
 ant youth, passionately fond of beauty and desirous of love, 
 he was impatient to cry out and tell her of the feeling 
 which had entirely taken possession of him since he had 
 first seen her. But yet, when she brushed by him in her 
 tiight, he could only stammer with a trembling voice the 
 acknowledgement so long delayed and which burnt his 
 lips : 
 
 *• I love you." 
 
 She stopped m surprise. For an instant she stood still, 
 and slightly trembling, looked at him. Her anger and the 
 hate she thought she had for him all vanished at once, and 
 melted into a most delicious sentiment of astonishment. 
 What had he said, what was the word he had just pro- 
 nounced, that she should be so overcome by it ? She 
 knew that he loved her ; yet when he said so, the sound of 
 it in her ear overwhelmed her with an inexplicable joy. It 
 resounded so deeply through her whole being, that her 
 fears came back and were enlarged. She never would dare 
 reply to him : it was really more than she could bear ; she 
 was oppressed. 
 
 He, grown more bold, his heart touched and drawn 
 nearer to hers by tlieir united deeds of charity, repeated : 
 
 " I love you." 
 
 And she, fearing the lover, began to run. That was 
 surely the only way to escape such a danger ; yet it was 
 also a hapiiiness, it was all so strange. The Chevrotte was 
 gaily singing, and she plunged into it like a startled fawn. 
 Among its pebbles her feet still ran on, under the chill of 
 the icy water. The garden gate was at last reached, it 
 closed, and she disappeared. 
 
 ^«ia 
 
THE DKI^\M. 
 
 93 
 
 ing of 
 
 owed 
 on a 
 fone a 
 Until 
 nd he 
 pure 
 ignor- 
 f love, 
 eeling 
 e had 
 in her 
 ce the 
 nt his 
 
 )d still, 
 nd the 
 ce, and 
 hment. 
 st pro- 
 ? She 
 )und of 
 joy. It 
 lat her 
 id dare 
 
 ir 
 
 she 
 
 drawn 
 Deated : 
 
 lat was 
 it was 
 itte was 
 d fawn, 
 chill of 
 ched, it 
 
 m 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 For two days Angelique was conscience-smitten. As soon 
 as she was alone, she sobbed as if she had done soniethinj:; 
 wrong. And this question, which she could not answer, 
 came constantly to her mind : Had she sinned in listening 
 to this young man ? Was she lost, like the dreadful woman 
 in the Legend, who, having been tempted, had yielded to 
 the Devil ? Was life to day as it was centuries ago ? The 
 words, so softly uttered, '* I love you," still resounded with 
 such a tumult in her ears, and she was confused, yet pleased, 
 by them to such a degree, that they must certainly have 
 come from some terrible power hidden in the depth of the 
 in^'isible. But she kne-^r not — in fact, how could she have 
 known anything in the ignorance and solitude in which she 
 had grown up ? Her anguish was redoubled by this mysteri- 
 ous and inexplicable struggle within her. 
 
 Had she sinned in making the acquaintance of Felicien, 
 and then in keeping it a secret ? She recalled to her mind, 
 one by one, all the details of her daily experience during 
 the past few weeks ; she argued with her innocent scruples. 
 
 What was sin, in short? Was it simply to meet-to 
 talk — and afterwards to tell a falsehood to one's parents ? 
 But that could not be the extent of the evil. Then why 
 was she so oppressed ? Why, if not guilty, did she suddenly 
 seem to have become quite another person — as agitated as 
 if a new soul had been given her ? Perhaps it was sin that 
 had made her so weak and uncomfortable. Her heart was 
 full of vague, undefined longings — so strange a medley of 
 words, and also of acts, in the future, that she was fright- 
 ened by them, without in the least understanding them. 
 The blood mounted to her face, and exquisitely coloured her 
 cheeks, as she heard again the sweet, yet appalling words, 
 '* I love you ; " and she reasoned no longer, but sobbed 
 again, doubting evident facts, fearing the commission of a 
 fault in the beyond — 'ii that which had neither name 
 nor form. 
 
 But that which especially distressed her now, was that 
 
■i 
 
 
 94 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ^.:.i 
 
 jii^i : t 
 
 : ll 
 
 she had not made a confic'.aiitc of riiil)ertine. Could she 
 only liave asked her whj.t she wished to know, no doubt 
 the hitter with a word would have explained the wliole 
 mystery to her. Then it seemed to her as if the mere fact 
 of speaking to someone of her trouble would have cured 
 her. But the secret had become to weighty ; to reveal it 
 would be more than she could bear, for the shan^e wouh! 
 be too great. She became quite artful for the moment, af- 
 fected an air of calmness, when in the depths of her soul 
 a tempest was raging. If asked why she was so pre-occu- 
 pied, she lifted her eyes with a look of surprise as she replied 
 she was thinking of nothing. Seated before the working 
 frame, her hands mechanically drawing the needle back 
 and forth, very quiet to all outward appearance, she was 
 from morning till evening distracted by one thought. To 
 be loved ! to be loved ! And for herself on her side, was 
 she in love ? This was still an obscure question, to which 
 in her inexperience she found no answer. She repeated it 
 so constantly that at last it made her giddy, the words lost 
 all their usual meaning and everytning seemed to be in a 
 whirl which carried her away. With an effort she recov- 
 ered herself, and realized that with needle in hand she was 
 sti41embroideringwith her accustomed application, although 
 mechanically, as if in a half dream. Perhaps these strange 
 symptoms were a sign that she was about to have a severe 
 illness. One evening she had such an attack of shivering 
 when she went to bed that she thought she would never be 
 able to recover from it. That idea was at the same time 
 both cruel and sweet. She suffered from it as if it were too 
 great a joy. Even the next day her heart beat as if it 
 would break, and her ears were filled with a singing sound, 
 like the ringing of a distant bell. What could it mean ? 
 Was she in love or was she about to die? Thinking thus, 
 she smiled sweetly at Hubertine, who in the act of wax- 
 ing her thread was looking at her anxiously. 
 
 Moreover, Angelique had made a vow that she would 
 never again see Felicien. She no longer ran the risk of 
 meeting him among the brambles and wild grasses in the 
 Clos-Marie, and she had even given up her daily visits to 
 the poor. Her fear was intense iest, were they to find 
 
 :'i-: 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 95 
 
 )uld she 
 lo doubt 
 ic whole 
 nere fact 
 ve cured 
 reveal it 
 nc would, 
 mi cut, af- 
 f her soul 
 pre-occu- 
 he replied 
 I working 
 edle back 
 i, she was 
 ucrht. To 
 side, was 
 I, to which 
 repeated it 
 words lost 
 I to be in a 
 she recov- 
 nd she was 
 n, although 
 ese strange 
 ve a severe 
 )f shivering 
 lid never be 
 i same time 
 f it were too 
 eat as if it 
 ing sound, 
 i it mean ? 
 inking thus, 
 act of wax- 
 
 .t she would 
 the risk of 
 asses in the 
 aily visits to 
 they to find 
 
 theiiiselvcs face to face, something terrible might come to 
 p'.,ss. In her resolution there was mingled besides a feel- 
 mg of pf.nitence, a wish to punish herself for some fault she 
 might unintentionally have conmiitted. So in her days of 
 rigid humiliation she condemned lierself not even to glance 
 once through the window, so sure was she of seeing on the 
 banks of the Chovrotte the one whom she dreaded. But 
 after awhile, being sorely tempted, she looked out, and if it 
 chanced that he was not there, she was sad and low-spirited 
 until the following day. 
 
 One morning, when Hubert was arranging a dalmatic, 
 a ring at the door-bell obliged him to go downstairs. It 
 must be a customer ; no doubt an order for some article, as 
 Hubertine and Angelique heard the hum of voices which 
 came through the doorway at the head of the stairs, which 
 remained open. Then, they looked up in great astonish- 
 ment ; for steps were mountmg, and the embroiderer was 
 bringing some one with him to the work-room, a most 
 unusual occurrence. And the young girl was quite over- 
 come as she recognized Feiicien. He was dressed simply 
 like a journeyman artist, whose hands are white. Since 
 she no longer went to him he had come to her, after days 
 of vain expectation and of anxious uncertainty, during 
 i^hich he had constantly said to himself that she did not 
 yet love him, since she remained hidden from him. 
 
 " Look, my dear child, here is something which will be 
 of particular interest to you," explained Hubert. •' Mon- 
 sieur wishes to give orders for an exceptional piece of work. 
 And upon my word, that we miglit talk of it at our ease, I 
 preferred that he should come up here at once. This is my 
 daughter, sir, to whom you must show your drawing." 
 
 Neither he nor Hubertine had the slightest suspicion 
 that this was not the first time the young people had met. 
 They approached them only from a sentiment of curiosity 
 to see. But Feiicien was like Angelique, almost stifled 
 with emotion and timidity. As he unrolled the design his 
 hands trembled, and he was obliged to speak very slowly 
 to hide the change in his voice. 
 
 " It is to be a mitre, for Monseigneur the Bishop. Yes, 
 certam ladies in the city, who wished to make him this 
 
96 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ■J ■■ 
 
 present, charged me with the drawing of the different parts. 
 as well as with the superintendence of its execution. I am 
 a painter of st-'incd glass, but 1 also occupy my .if a greai 
 deal with ancient art. You will see that I have siniplv 
 reconstituted a gothic mitre." 
 
 Angelique bent over the great sheet of parchment whi( 1 
 he had spread before her, and started shghtly as sli 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh ! it is Saint Agnes." 
 
 It was indeed the youthful martyr of but thirteen year 
 of age ; the naked virgin clothed with her hair, that hai 
 grown so long only her I'ttle hands and feet ^yere scei 
 from under it, just as she was upon the pillar at one of th( 
 doors of the cathedral ; particularly, however, as one fouiK: 
 her in the interior of the church, in an old wooden statiit 
 that formerly was painted, but was to-day a light fawi: 
 colour, all gilded by age. She occupied the entire front o: 
 the mitre, half floating, as she was carried towards Heaver 
 borne by the angels ; while below her, stretched out intc 
 the distance, was a fine, delicate landscape. The other 
 side and the lappets were enriched with lance-shaped orna 
 ments of an exquisite style. 
 
 '* These ladies," continued Felicien, *' wish to make th- 
 present on the occasion of the procession of the Miracle 
 and naturally I thought it my duty to chose Saint Agnes, 
 
 " The idea was a most excellent one," interpose 
 Hubert. 
 
 And Hubertine added, in her turn : 
 
 " Monseigneur will be deeply gratified." 
 
 This so-called procession of the Miracle, which takt 
 place each year on the 28th of July, dates from the time 
 Jean V. d'Hauteca^ur, who instituted it as a thanksgivir. 
 to God for the miraculous power He had given to him ar 
 to his race, to save Beaumont from the plague. Accordir 
 to the legend, the Hautecoeurs are indebted for this remarl 
 able gift to the intervention of Saint Agnes, of whom the 
 were the greatest admirers ; and since the most ancr 
 tmie, it has been the custom on the anniversary of her fc 
 to take down the old statue of the Saint and carry it slow 
 in a solemn procession through the streets of the town,; 
 
THE DKIUM. 
 
 97 
 
 Tcrent parts. 
 
 ition. 1 ^*^' 
 iy,:Jf a portal 
 
 have simply 
 
 •hment whirl 
 ightly as sii 
 
 thirteen year 
 hair, that ha« 
 feet ^yere scev 
 r at one of tlu 
 r, as one fouii> 
 
 wooden statiu 
 ly a light faNVi 
 /entire front o. 
 ovvards Heavei 
 etched out intc 
 
 pe. Theothti 
 ,ce-shaped orna 
 
 dsh to make tlv 
 
 of the Miraclt 
 
 se Saint Agnes. 
 
 )ner interpose 
 
 [cle, which taVt 
 i from the time 
 IS a thanksgivir 
 given to him ar 
 ague. Accordir. 
 .d for this remain 
 ies, of whom tht 
 the most anciet 
 versary of her tc 
 ,nd carry it slo^v 
 
 ^tsof the town, 
 
 the pious belief that she still continues to disperse and 
 drive away all evils. 
 
 " Ah,' at last murmured Angelique, her eyes on the 
 design, " the procession of the Miracle ! But that will 
 come in a few days, and v-e shall not have time enough to 
 finish it." 
 
 The Huberts shook their heads. In truth, so delicate 
 a piece of work required the most minute care and atten- 
 tion. Yet, Hubertine turned towards her daughter as she 
 said : — 
 
 " I could help you. my dear. I might attend to the 
 ornaments, and then you will only have the figure to do." 
 
 Angelique continued to closely examine the figure of 
 Saint, and was deeply troubled. She said to herself, •' No, 
 no." She refused : she would not give herself the pleasure 
 of accepting. It would be inexcusable on her part, thus 
 to be an accomplice in a plan, for it was evident that Feli- 
 «ien was keeping something back. She was perfectly sure 
 ihat he was not poor, and that he wore a workman's dress 
 limply as a disguise ; and this affected simplicity, all this 
 |istory told only that he might approach her, put her on 
 Wer guard, amused and happy though she was in reality, 
 transfiguring him, seeing in him the royal Prince that he 
 should be ; so thoroughly did she live in the absolute cer- 
 tainty of the entire realisation of her dream, sooner or later. 
 
 *' No," she repeated, in a half whisper, " we should not 
 have the needed time." 
 
 And without lifting her eyes she continued, as if speak- 
 ing to herself : — 
 
 •* For the saint, we could use neither the close embroi- 
 dery nor the lace open work. It would not be worthy 
 her. It should be an embroidery in gold, shaded by silk." 
 
 " Exactly," said Felicien. " That is what I had already 
 thought of, for I knew that Mademoiselle had re-found the 
 secret of making it. There is still quite a pretty little frag- 
 mciit of it at the sacristy." 
 
 Hubert was quite excited. 
 ^* Yes, yes ! it was made in the fifteenth century, and 
 tW work was done by one of my 'far-off ancestresses. 
 Shl^ded gold! Ah, Monsieur, there <vas never anything 
 
98 
 
 TIIK DRKAM. 
 
 crjiial to tliat in tlio whole world. But, tinfortiinatcly. 
 it took loo niiicli time, it cost alto/^'ctlicr too dear, 'mil iii 
 addition, only a real artist ever siicrccdcd in it. Think 
 ol it ; it is more; than two hundred years since anyone iias 
 ever atteaipte(l such ( inl)roid(;ry. And il uiy dan^diler 
 retuses, you will be oblif^^ed to t^ive it up (Milncly, for she 
 is the only person who is qualified to undertake it. I do 
 not know ol anyone else who has the delicacy of Inif^^ers. 
 and the clearness of eye, necessary for it." 
 
 Ilubertine, who, snice they had spoken of the style of 
 the work, realised what a }.,'reat undertaking it was, said, 
 in a quiet, decided tone : 
 
 " it would Ix* utterly impossible to do it in a fortni^dit. 
 It would need the patience and skill of a fairy to accc^m 
 plish it." 
 
 But Anfjelique, who had not ceased studying all the 
 features of the beautiful martyr, had ended by making a 
 discovery which delighted her beyond expression. Agnes 
 resembled her. In designing from the old statue, Felicicii 
 certainly thought of her, and this idea — that she was in 
 his mind, always present with him, that he saw her everv 
 where, softened her resolution to avoid him. At last sIk 
 looked up ; she noticed how eager he was, and his eyes 
 glistened with so earnest a supplication that she was con 
 quered. Still, with the intuitive half malice, the love of 
 tormenting, this natural science which comes to all younji 
 girls, even when they are entirely ignorant of life, she did 
 not wish to have the appearance of yielding too readily. 
 
 *'Itis impossible," she repeated. "I could not doi; 
 for anyone." 
 
 Felicien was in despair. He was sure he understooi 
 the hidden meaning in her words. It was he, whom slit 
 had refused, as well as the work. As he was about to gc 
 out of the room, he said to Hub'^-rt : 
 
 " As for the pay, you could have asked any price -yoi 
 wished. These ladies gave me leave to offer as much a- 
 three thousand francs." 
 
 The household of the Huberts was in no way a selfisl 
 one. Yet so great a sum startled each member of it. Tli: 
 husband and wife looked at each other enquiringly. Wa: 
 it not a pity to lose so advantageous an offer ? 
 
\ilV. DKKAM. 
 
 $9 
 
 nfortunalcly. 
 ilcar, Hiul III 
 n it. Tbink 
 e anyoin' Iwis 
 my aau^^lil<'r 
 Hcly, ior slu' 
 iilu; it. I 'l'> 
 ,cy of linu^'is. 
 
 )f tlie stylo of 
 r it was, said. 
 
 in a fortni^'lit. 
 airy to accom 
 
 iidying all tin 
 \ by making a 
 ession. Agnes 
 Btatue, FelicuMi 
 liat she was in 
 
 saw her every 
 n. At last she 
 s, and his eye^ 
 at she was con 
 ice, the love ot 
 nes to all younj; 
 t of life, she dui 
 ig too readily. 
 
 could not dor. 
 
 e he understood 
 IS he, whom slit 
 was about to gc 
 
 id any price yoi 
 offer as much a: 
 
 . no way a selfis: 
 jmber of it. l,"' 
 iquiringly. ^"^^ 
 )ffer? 
 
 " Three thousand francs," repeated Angeliqiic with. 
 her g(Mitle voi(;(.' ; '•did you say three thousa^id francs, 
 Monsieur ? " 
 
 And slir, to whom money was nothing, since she hat! 
 never known its value, kept back a smile, a mocking smile, 
 which scarcely drew the corners of her mouth, rejoicing 
 that she need not seem to yiidd to the pleasure of seeing 
 him, and glad to give him a false opinion of herself. 
 
 ••Oh, Monsieur, if you can give me three thousand 
 francs for it, then 1 acc(,'pt. I would not do it for every 
 one, but from the moment that one is willing to pay so 
 well, why, that is diflerent. If it is necessary I can work 
 on it at night, as well as during the day." 
 
 Hubert and Iluix^rtine thdn objected, wishing to refuse 
 in their turn, for fear the fatigue might be too great for 
 her. 
 
 •' No," she replied. *• It is never wise to send away 
 money that is brought to you. You can depend upon 
 nOe, Monsieur. Your mitre will be ready the evening 
 tllfore the procession." 
 
 ^ Felicien left the design and bade them good day, for 
 h^ was greatly disappointed, and he had no longer the 
 OWirage to give ary new explanations in regard to the 
 Wprk, as an excuse for stopping longer. What would he 
 gain by doing so ? It was certainly true that she did nol 
 like him, for she had pretended not to recognize him and 
 had treated him as she would any ordinary customer, 
 whose money alone is good to take. At first he was 
 angry, as he accused her of being mean spirited and 
 grasping. So much the better ! It was ended between 
 them, this unspoken romance, and he would never think 
 of her again. Then, as he always did think of her, he at 
 last excused her, for was she not dependent upon her 
 work to live, and ought she not to gain her bread ? 
 
 Two days later he was very unhappy, and he began to 
 wander around ihe house, distressed that he could not see 
 her. She no longer went out to walk, she did not not 
 even go to the balcony, or to the window as before. He 
 waft forced to acknowledge that if she cared not for him, 
 if Ufereality she was mercenary, in spite of all, his love for 
 
100 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 \'{ 
 
 !ii 
 
 her increased daily, as one loves when only twenty years of 
 age, witliout ^^'lsoni^J^^ following nu-rely the drawing of 
 cne's heart, simply for the joy and the grief of loving. 
 
 One morning he caugiit a glimpse of her for a monu nt 
 and realised that he could not give her up. Now, she was 
 his chosen axii and no other. Whatever she might In, 
 bad or good, ugly or pretty, poor or rich, he would give 
 up his liife rather than not be able to claim her. 
 
 The third day his sufferings were so great, that not- 
 withstanding all his wise resolves, he returned to the 
 house of the embroiderers. 
 
 After having rung the bell, he was received as before, 
 downstairs, by Hubert, who, on account of the want of 
 clearness in his explanations in regard to his visit, con- 
 cluded the best thing to be done was to allow him to go uj' 
 stairs again. 
 
 ** My daughter, Monsieur wishes to speak to you or. 
 certain points of the work that I do not quite understand. 
 
 Then Felicien stammered, " If it would not distiir! 
 Mademoiselle too nmch, I would like to see how far . 
 These ladies advised me to personally superintend the wor- 
 . . . That is, if by doing so, I would not be in anyone- 
 way." 
 
 Angelique's heart beat violently when she saw him coiut 
 in. She almost choked, but making a great effort, si; 
 controlled herself. The blood did not even mount to lu 
 cheeks, and with an appearance of calm indifference si 
 replied : 
 
 " Oh, nothing ever disturbs me. Monsieur. I can wor: 
 equally well before anyone. As the design is yours, it 
 quite natural that you should wish to follow the executii 
 of it. 
 
 Quite discountenanced by this reception, Felicie 
 would not have dared to have taken a seat, had not HiiK 
 tine welcomed him cordially, as she smiled in her svvec 
 quiet way at this excellent customer. Almost immediate 
 she resumed her work, bending over the frame where s 
 was embroidering on the sides of the mitre the gothic orr. 
 ments in guipure, or open lace work. 
 
 On his side Hubert had just taken down from the wi 
 
TIIK DKI.AM. 
 
 lOl 
 
 ^nty years o{ 
 ; drawing of 
 
 ■ loving- 
 "or a motnint 
 slow, slu' was 
 he miglit lus 
 e would give 
 
 er. 
 
 eat, that not 
 
 ^urned to iIh 
 
 ived as before, 
 
 )f the want ot 
 
 his visit, con- 
 
 ,vv him to go up 
 
 ^,eak to you or. 
 te understand. 
 M not disturl 
 how far . ; 
 rintend the wor^ 
 jt be inanyom- 
 
 he saw him com. 
 
 great effort, s, 
 . mount to iH 
 indifference si 
 
 len 
 
 lieur. Icanwoi: 
 Km is yours, It. 
 low the executK 
 
 ception, Felicic 
 .at;hadnotHuK 
 ailed in her swec 
 Imost immediait 
 ^ frame where n 
 Te the gothic orr^ 
 
 iown from the ^si 
 
 A banner which was finished, had been stifTenod, and for 
 two (lays past liad been luiiif,' up to dry, and which now he 
 wished to relax. No one spoke; die three workers kept at 
 their tasks as if no other person had been in the room 
 witli them. 
 
 In the midst of tliis rharming quiet, the youn^ rnan little 
 by little ^Yvw calmer. When the clock struck three, the 
 shadow of th( ('athedral was already very lon^', and a 
 delicate half lii;ht entered by the window, which was wide 
 open. It was almost like the twili<<ht hour, which com 
 menced early in the afternoon for this little house, so fresh 
 and ;;reen from all the verdure that was about it, as it stood 
 by the side of the colossal church. A slight sound of steps 
 was heard (m the pavement outside; it was a school of 
 youn^' girls bein^' taken to confession. 
 
 In the work room, the old tools, the time-stained walls, 
 ever^thin;; which remained there inunovable, seemed to 
 sleep in tho re|)ose of centuries, and from every corner 
 came frt.->hii(ss and rest. A great square of white li^ht, 
 Mnootli and pure, fell upon the frame over which liuber- 
 tine and An^elique were bcndinj^, with their delicate pro 
 £yfes in the fawn-coloureil n;dection of the gold. 
 
 ' •* Mademoiselle," bej^'an Felicien, feeling very awkward, 
 at he realised that he must j;ive some reason for his visit, 
 "I wish to say. Mademoiselle, that for the hair it seems to 
 me it would be better to employ gold rather than silk." 
 
 She raised her liead, and the laughing expression of her 
 eyes clearly signified that he need not have taken the 
 trouble of coming if he had no other recommendation to 
 make. And she looked down again, as she replied, in a 
 half mocking tone : 
 
 :;*' There is no doubt about that, Monsieur." 
 
 ^e was indeed ridiculous, for he remarked then for the 
 first time that it was exactly what she was doing. Before 
 her was the design he had made, but tinted with water- 
 ccrfoiirs, touched up with gold, with all the delicacy of an 
 Did miniature, a little softened, like what ore sees in some 
 pra^r books of the fifteenth century. And she copied this 
 image with the patience and the skill of an artist working 
 with a magnifying glass After having reproduced it with 
 
102 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 rather heavy strokes upon the white silk, tightly stretched 
 and lined with heavy linen, she covered this silk with 
 threads of gold carried from the bottom to the top, fastened 
 simply at the two ends, so they were left free and close to 
 each other, When using these same threads as a woof, 
 she separated them with the point of her needle to find the 
 design below. She followed this same drawing, recovered 
 the gold threads with stitches of silk across, which she as- 
 sorted according to the colours of the model. In the 
 shaded part the silk completely hid the gold ; in the half- 
 lights the stitches of silk were farther and farther apart, 
 while the real lights were mad_ by gold alone entirely un- 
 covered. It was thus the shaded gold, that most beautiful 
 of all work, the foundation being modified by the silks, 
 niakinf; a picture of mellow colours as if warmed from" be- 
 neath by a glory of mystic light. 
 
 •' Oh ! " suddenly said Hubert, who began to stretch 
 out the banner by separating with his fingers the cords of 
 the trellis, " the masterpiece of a woman who embroidered 
 in the olden time was always in this difficult work. To 
 become a member of the Corpora tion she had to make, as 
 it is written in the statutes, a figure by itself in shaded gold, 
 a sixth part as tall as if life size. You would have been 
 received, my Angelique." 
 
 Again there was an unbroken silence. Felicien watch- 
 ed her constantly, as she stooped farward, absorbed in her 
 task, quite as if she were entirely alone. For the hair of 
 the saint, contrary to the general rule, she had had the 
 same idea as he ; that was +o use no silk, but to re-cover 
 gold with gold, and she kept ten needles at work with this 
 brilliant thread of all shades, from the dark red of dying 
 embers, to the pale, delicate yellow tint of the leaves of the 
 forest trees in the autumn. Agnes was thus covered from her 
 neck to her ankles with a stream of golden hair. It began 
 at the back of her head, covered her body with a thick 
 mantle, flowed in front of her from the shoulders in two 
 waves which united under the chin, and fell down to her 
 feet in one wavy sheet. It was, indeed, the miraculous 
 hair, a fabulous fleece, with heavy twists and curls, a 
 glorious, starry efflorescence, the warm and living robe of 
 the saint, perfumed with its pure nudity. 
 
tHE DRfiAM. 
 
 to;, 
 
 That day Felicien could do nothing but watch Angc- 
 Hque as she embroidered the curls, following the exact 
 direction of their rolling with her little pointed stitches, 
 and he never wearied of seeing the hair grow and radiate 
 under her magic needle. Its weight, and the great quiver- 
 ing with which it seemed to be unrolled at one turn, dis 
 turbed him. 
 
 Hubertine, occupied in sewing on spangles, hiding the 
 thread with wb.ich each one was att: ^hed with a tiny 
 round of gold twist, lifted up her head from time to time 
 and gave him a calm motherly look, whenever s!ie was 
 obliged to throw into the waste-basket a spangle that was 
 not well made. 
 
 Hubert, who had just taken away the side pieces of 
 wood, that he might unstitch the banner from the frame, 
 was about folding it up carefulb/. And at last, Felicien, 
 whose embarrassment was greatly increased by this un- 
 broken silence, realised that it was beat for him to take 
 leave, since as yet he had not been able to think of any of 
 the suggestions which he had said he intended to make. 
 
 He rose, blushed, and stammered : 
 
 •' I will return another day. I findth 1 I have so badly 
 succeeded in reproducing the charming design of the head 
 of the saint that you may perhaps have need of some 
 explanations from me*" 
 
 Angelique looked him fully in the face with her sweet, 
 great eyes. 
 
 *' Ch, no, not all. . . . But, come again, monsieur. 
 Do not hesitate to do so, if you are in the least anxious 
 about the execution of the work." 
 
 He went away, happy from the permission given him, 
 but chilled by the coldness of manner of the young girl. 
 Yes, he realised that she did not now, and never would, 
 love him. That being the case, what use was there in his 
 seeing her ? Yet, on the morrow, as well as on the following 
 days, he did not fail to go to the little house on the E le 
 des Orf^vres. The hours which he could not pass there 
 were sad enough, tortured as he was by his uncertainties, 
 distressed by his mental struggles. He was never calm, 
 except when he was near her as she sat at her frame. 
 
■04 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 I'rovided that she was by his side, it seemed to him that Ik 
 :ould resign himself to the acceptance of the fact that he 
 was disagreeable to her. 
 
 Ever}' morning he arrived a^ an early hour, spoke of 
 ".he work, then seated himself as if his presence there were 
 absolutely necessary. Then he was in a state of enchant- 
 ment simply to look at her, with her finely-cut features, her 
 motionless profile, which seemed bathed in the liquid 
 golden tints of her hair ; and he watched in ecstasy the 
 skilful play play of her flexible hands, as she moved them 
 up and down in the midst of the needlefuls of gold or silk. 
 She had become so habituated to his presence that she was 
 quite at her ease, and treated him as a comrade. Never- 
 theless he always felt that there was between them some 
 thing unexpressed which grieved him to the heart, hi' 
 knew not why. Occasionally she looked up, regarding 
 him with an amused, half-mocking air, and with an inquir- 
 ing, impatient expression in her face. Then, finding he 
 was intensely embarrassed, she at once became very cold 
 and distant. 
 
 But Felicien had discovered one way in. which he coukl 
 rouse her, and he took advantage of it. It was this — tc 
 talk to her of her art, of the ancient masterpieces of em 
 broidery he had seen, either preserved among the treasure 
 of Cathedrals, or copies of which were engraved in book> 
 For instance, there were the superb copes ; that of Chad* 
 magne, iri red silk, with the great eagles with unfurlec 
 wings; and the cope of Sion, which is decorated with : 
 multitude of saintly figures. Then, the dalmatic, which b 
 said to be the most beautiful piece of embroidery in the 
 whole world ; the Imperial dalmatic, on which is celebrate^ 
 the glory of Jesus Christ upon the earth and in heaven, tlit 
 Transfiguration, and the Last Judgment, in which the 
 different personages are embroidered in silks of varioi;; 
 colours, and in silver and gold. Also, there is a wonderfi 
 tree of Jesse, an orfray of silk upon satin, which is ? 
 perfect it seems as if it were detached from a window of th 
 fifteenth century ; Abraham at the foot, then David, Solo 
 mon, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and at the very top th: 
 Saviour. 
 
 M ^ -!lv.:; 
 
 II 
 
V'.,,' 
 
 ]■:>%.■ 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 105 
 
 him that b*- 
 [act that be 
 
 ur, spoke of 
 e there were 
 
 of enchant- 
 
 features,her 
 
 :i the liquitl 
 
 ecstasy the 
 
 moved them 
 f gold or silk, 
 s that shew a? 
 ^ade. Never- 
 n them some- 
 the heart, lu 
 up, regarding 
 vith an mquir- 
 en, finding he 
 ame very cold 
 
 .la 
 
 which he couk 
 It was this— tc 
 srpieces of env 
 ^g the treasure 
 raved in books 
 that of Chark 
 with unfurlei 
 icorated with, 
 dmatic, which u 
 
 ibroidery m the 
 ich is celebratec 
 
 d in heaven, tK 
 t, in which th; 
 
 silks of various 
 re is a wonderfi: 
 .tin, which is ?^ 
 1 a window ot tn 
 len David, Solo 
 the very top tli: 
 
 Among the admirable chasubles he had seen, one in 
 *"articuiaT was touching m its simpHcity. It represented 
 Clirist on the Cross, and the drops of blood from His sitle 
 and His feet were made by little splashes of red silk on the 
 cloth of gold, while ni the foreground was Mary, tenderly 
 supported by Saint John. 
 
 On another one, which is called the chasuble of Naintrb, 
 the Virgin is seated in majesty, with richly-wrought snn- 
 dals on her feet, and holding the Infant Jesus on her knees. 
 Others, and still others of marvellous worknuAiship were 
 alluded to, ve-nerable not only from their great age anil the 
 beautiful faith that they expressed, but from a richness 
 unknown in our time, preserving the odour of the incense 
 of tabernacles and the mystic light which seemed to come 
 from the slightly faded gold. 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed Angelique, '* all those exquisite things 
 are finished now. We can only find certain tones to 
 remind us of their perfection." 
 
 With feverish hands and sparkling eyes she stopped 
 working when Felicien related to her the history of the 
 ■most noted men and women who were embroiderers in the 
 lolden time — Simonne de Gaules, Colin Jolye, and others 
 flvhose names have come down to us through the ages, 
 ^ff'hen, after a few moments, she took up her needles again, 
 ||nd made them fly vigorously, as she appeared transfigured 
 ind guarded on her face the traces of delight her artist 
 'nature had received in listening to all these accounts. 
 Never had she seemed to him more beautiful, so enthusi- 
 astic was she, so maidenly and so pure, seated there in the 
 brighter surroundings of so many coloured silks, applying 
 herself with unfailing exactitude to her work, into the 
 slightest details of which she put her whole soul. When 
 he had left off speaking he looked at her earnestly, until 
 roused by the silence, she realised the excited state into 
 which all these histories had thrown her, and became as 
 embarrassed as if she had done something wrong. 
 
 " Oh, dear, look : all my silks are entangled again ! 
 • • Mother, please noL to move about so much." 
 ' Hubertine, who had no stirred at all, was amused, but 
 ^ply smiled without sayin ( anything. At first, she had 
 
r-*S»l«(tef6'. 
 
 io6 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 been rather disturbed by the constant attentions of the 
 young man, and had talked the matter over thoroughly 
 with Hubert one evening in their room. But they could 
 not help being drawn towards him, and as in every respect 
 his appearance was good and his manners perfectly re- 
 spectful, they concluded it was not necessary to object to 
 interviews from which Angelique derived so much hap- 
 piness. So matters were allowed to take their way, and 
 she watched over the young people with a loving air of 
 protection! 
 
 Moreover, she herself for many days had been oppressed 
 by the lamenting caresses of her husband, who seemed 
 never to weary of asking her if he had been forgiven. This 
 month was the anniversary of the time when they had lost 
 their child, and each year at this date they had the same 
 regrets and the same longings ; he, trembling at her feet, 
 happy to realise that he was pardoned ; she, loving and 
 distressed, blaming herself for everything, and despairing 
 that Fiite had been inexorable to all their prayers. They 
 spoke of all this to no one, were the same to outsiders in 
 every way, but this increase of tenderness between them 
 came from their room like a silent perfume, disengaged 
 itself from their persons at the least movement, by each 
 word, and by their way of looking at each other, when it 
 seemed as if for the moment they almost exchanged souls. 
 All this was like the grave accompaniment, the deep con- 
 tinuous bass, upon which sang in clear notes the two 
 hearts of the young couple. 
 
 One week had passed and the work on the mitre ad- 
 vanced. These daily meetings had assumed a great and 
 sweet familiarity. 
 
 '* The forehead should be very high, should it not } 
 Without any trace of eyebrows ? " 
 
 ♦* Yes, very high, and not the slightest shade. Quite 
 like an old miniature." 
 
 ** Will you pass me the white silk ? " 
 
 " Wait a minute that I may thread it." 
 
 He helped her, and this union of work put them at 
 their ease. It made the occupation of each day seem 
 perfectly n itural to them both, and without a word of love 
 
 'i,'i 
 
liiE DKiiAAL 
 
 107 
 
 ns of the 
 loroughly 
 ley could 
 :y respect 
 •fectly re- 
 object to 
 luch hap- 
 way, and 
 ing air of 
 
 oppressed 
 10 seemed 
 ven. This 
 iy had lost 
 
 the same 
 t her feet, 
 oving and 
 despairing 
 2rs. They 
 utsiders in 
 ween them 
 disengaged 
 It, by each 
 er, when it 
 nged souls. 
 
 deep con- 
 es the two 
 
 e mitre ad- 
 a great and 
 
 lid it not? 
 
 ade. Quite 
 
 )ut them at 
 1 day seem 
 word of love 
 
 
 ever having been spoken, without their hands having once 
 met by a voluntary touch, the bond between them grew 
 stronger each hour, and they were henceforth eternally 
 united one to the other. It was sufficient for them to have 
 lived until now. 
 
 " Father, what are you doing that we no longer hear 
 
 She turned and saw Hubert, who was occupied in 
 winding a long spool, as his eyes were fixed abstractedly 
 on his wife. 
 
 '* I am preparing some gold thread for your mother." 
 
 And from the reel taken to his wife, from the mute 
 thanks ofHubertine, from the constant little attentions her 
 husband gave her, there was a warm, caressing breath 
 which surrc^r.ded and enveloped Angelique and FeUcien 
 as they both bent again over the frame. The workroom 
 itself, this anci'nt hall, as it might almost be called, with 
 its old tools and its peace of other ages, was an unconscious 
 accomplice in this work of union. It seemed so far away 
 from the noise of the street, remote as if in dreamy depths, 
 in this country of good, simple souls, where miracles reign, 
 the easy realisation of all joys. 
 
 In five days the mitre was to be finished ; and Ange- 
 lique, now sure that it would be ready to be delivered, and 
 that she would even have twenty-four hours to spare, took 
 a long breath of satisfaction, and seemed suddenly aston- 
 ished at finding Felicien so near her, with his elbows on the 
 trestle. Had they really become such intimate friends ? 
 She no longer attempted to struggle against what she 
 realised was his conquering power ; her half malicious 
 smiles ceased at what he tried to keep back and which she 
 so well understood, in spite of his subterfuges. What was 
 it then that had made her as if asleep, in her late restless 
 waiting ? And the eternal question returned, the question 
 that she asked herself every evening when she went to her 
 room. Did she love him ? For hours, in the middle of 
 her great bed, she had turned over again and again these 
 words, seeking for meanings she could not find, and think- 
 ing she was too ignorant to explain them. But that night, 
 all at once, she felt her heart was softened by some inex- 
 
io8 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ii 
 
 
 1 : ' il 
 
 I V 
 
 ki • i''rt- ..:',■. 
 
 j)licable happiness. She cried nervously, without reason, 
 and hid her head in her pillow that no one might hear her. 
 
 Yes, now she loved him ; she loved him enough to be 
 willling to die for him. But why ? But how ? She could 
 not tell, she never would know : simply from her whole 
 heart came the cry that she did indeed love him. The 
 light had come to her at last ; this new, overpowering joy 
 overwhelmed her like the most ardeiit rays of the sun. 
 
 For a long t Jne her tears flowed, but not from sorrow. 
 On the contrary, she was filled with an inexplicable con- 
 fusion of happiness that was indefinable, regretting now, 
 more deeply than ever, that she had not made a confidante 
 of Hubertine. To-day her secret burdened her, and she 
 made an earnest vow to herself that henceforth she would 
 be as cold as an icicle towards Felicien, and would 
 suffer everything rather than allow him to see her tender- 
 ness. He should never know it. To love him, merely to 
 love him, without even acknowledging it, that was the 
 punishment, the trial she must undergo to pardon her 
 fault. It would be to her in reality a delicious suffering ; 
 she thought of the martyrs of whom she had read in the 
 Golden Legend, and it seemed to her that she was their 
 sister in torturing herself in this way, and that her guardian 
 angel, Agnes, would look at her h( nceforward with sadder, 
 sweeter eyes than ever. 
 
 The following day, Angelique finished the mitfe. She 
 had embroidered with split silk, light as gossamer, the 
 little hands and feet, which were the only points of white, 
 naked flesh that came out from the royal mantle of golden 
 hair. She perfected the face with all the delicacy of the 
 purest lily, wherein the gold seemed like the blood in the 
 vems under the delicate, silken skin. And this face, 
 radiant as the sun, was turned heavenward, as the youth- 
 ful saint was borne upward by the angels toward the dis- 
 tant horizon of the blue plain. 
 
 When Felicien entered that day, he exclaimed with 
 admiration : 
 
 •' Oh, how exactly she looks like you ! " 
 
 It was an involuntary expression ; an acknowledgment 
 of the resemblance he had purposely put in the design. 
 
f^ 
 
 THE DRFAM. 
 
 it reason, 
 hear lier. 
 igh to be 
 She could 
 ler whole 
 lim. The 
 ivering joy 
 e sun. 
 )m sorrow, 
 cable con- 
 tting now, 
 confidante 
 r, and she 
 she would 
 and would 
 her tender- 
 1, merely to 
 lat was the 
 pardon her 
 IS suffering ; 
 read in the 
 le was their 
 ler guardian 
 with sadder, 
 
 mitfe. She 
 Dssamer, the 
 nts of white, 
 itle of golden 
 iUcacy of the 
 blood in the 
 d this face, 
 as the youth- 
 vvard the dis- 
 claimed with 
 
 :nowledgment 
 n the design. 
 
 109 
 
 Me realised the fact, after he had spoken, and blushed 
 deeply. 
 
 " That is indeed true, my little one; she has the same 
 beautiful eyes that you have," said Hubert, who had come 
 forward to examine the work. 
 
 Hubertine merely smiled now, having made a similar 
 remark many days before, and she was surprised and 
 grieved when she heard Angelique reply in a harsh, dis 
 agreeable tone of voice, like what she sometimes had in 
 her fits of obstinacy years ago. 
 
 " My beautiful eyes ! Why will you make fun of nit 
 in that way? I know as well as you do that I am very 
 ugly." 
 
 Then, getting up, she shook out her dress, over-actinj^ 
 her assumed character of a liprsh, avaricious girl. 
 
 ••Ah, at last! It is really finished! I am thankful, 
 for it was too much of a task, too heavy a burden on my 
 shoulders. Do you know, 1 would never undertake to 
 make another for the same price ? " 
 
 Felicien listened to her in amazement. Could it be 
 that after all she still cared only for money ? Had he been 
 mistaken when he thought at times she was so exquisitely- 
 tender, and so passionatt^ly devoted to her artistic work ? 
 Did sh' in reality wish for the pay her labour brought her. 
 and was she so indifferent that she rejoiced at the com- 
 pletion of her task, wishing neither to see, nor to hear of 
 it pgain ? For several days he had been discouraged as 
 he sought in vain for some pretext of continuing, later on, 
 visits that gave him such pleasure. But alas ! it was plain 
 that she did not care for him in the least, and that she 
 never A^ould love him. His suffering was so great that he 
 grew very pale and could scarcely speak. 
 
 ♦• But, mademoiselle, will you not make up the mitre ? " 
 
 *• No, mother can do it so much better than I can. I 
 am too happy at the thought that I hav.' nothing more to 
 do with it." 
 
 '• But do you not like the work which you do so well ? " 
 
 •• I ? I do not like anything in the wo Id." 
 
 Hubertine was obliged to speak to her sternly, and fell 
 her to be quiet. She then begged Felicie 1 to be so good 
 
no 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ( 
 
 1 ■ 
 
 1 ' 
 ■1 
 ■ I 
 
 ^4l 
 
 
 as to pardon her nervous child, who was a little weary 
 from her long-continued application. She added that the 
 mitre would be at his disposal at an early hour on the fol- 
 lowing morning. It was the same as if she had asked him 
 to go away, but he could not leave. He stood and looked 
 around him in this old work-room, filled with shade and 
 with peace, and it seemed to him as if he were being driven 
 from Paradise. He had spent so many sweet hours there 
 in the illusion of his brightest fancies, that it was like tear- 
 ing his very heart-strings to think all this was at an end. 
 What troubled him the worst was his inability to explain 
 matters and that he could only take with him such a fear- 
 ful uncertainty. At last he said good day, resolved to risk 
 everything at the first opportunity rather than not to know 
 the truth. 
 
 Scarcely had he closed the door when Hubert asked :— 
 
 "What is the matter with you, my dear child? Are 
 you ill ? " ^ 
 
 *• No, indeed. It is simply that I am tired of having 
 that voiin^ ni'^n here. I do not wish to see him again." 
 
 Then Hubertine added : " Very well ; you will not see 
 him again. But nothing should ever prevent one from 
 being polite." 
 
 Angelique, making some trivial excuse, hurried up to 
 her room as quickly as possible. Then she gave free 
 course to her tears. Ah, how intensely happy she was, 
 yet how she suffered ! Her poor, dear beloved ; he was 
 sad enough when he found he must leave her ! But she 
 must not forget that she had made a vow to the saints, that 
 although she loved him better than life he should never 
 know it. 
 
 S 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 til 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 On the eveninpf of this same day, immediately after leaving' 
 the dinner table, Angelique complained of not bein^ at all 
 well, and went up at once to her room. The agitation and 
 excitement of the morning, her struggles against her triu; 
 self, had quite exhausted her. She made haste to go to 
 bed, and covering her head with the sheet, with a desper- 
 ate feeling of disappearir-^ for ever»if she could, again the 
 tears came to her relief. 
 
 The hours passed slowly, and soon it was night ; a 
 warm July night, the heavy oppressive quiet of which 
 entered through the window, which had been left wide 
 open. In the dark heavens glistened a multitude of stars. 
 It must have been nearly eleven o'clock, and the moon, 
 already grown quite thin in its last quarter, would not rise 
 until midnight. 
 
 And in the obscure chamber, Angelique still wept 
 nervously a flow of mexhaustible tears, seemingly without 
 reason, when a slight noise at her door caused her to lift 
 up her head. 
 
 There was a short silence, when a voice called her 
 tenderly. ' 
 
 " Angel' que — Angelique — my darling child/' 
 
 She recognised the voice of Hubertine. Without doubt 
 the latter in her room with her husband had just heard the 
 distant sound of sobbing, and anxious, half-undressed, she 
 had come upstairs to find out what was the matter with 
 her daughter. 
 
 " Angelique, are you ill, my dear ? " 
 
 Retaining her breath, the young girl made no answer. 
 She did not wish to be unkind, but her one absorbing idea 
 at this moment was of solitude. To be alone was the only 
 possible alleviation of her trouble. A word of consolation, 
 a caress, even from her mother, would have distressed her. 
 She imagined that she saw her standing at the other side 
 of the door, and from the delicacy of the rustling movement 
 on the tiled floor, she thought she must be barefooted. 
 
112 
 
 TIIK DREAM. 
 
 J . 
 
 Two or three minutes passed, and she knew the kind 
 watcher had not left lier place, but that stooping and hold 
 inf( with her beautiful hands the clothing so careless! 
 thrown over her, she still listened at the keyhole. 
 
 Hubertine, hearing nothing more, not even a sigh, did 
 not like to call again. She was very sure that she had 
 heard sobs ; but, if the child had at last been able to sleep 
 what good would it do to awaken her ? She waited, how- 
 ever, another moment, troubled by the thought of a griel 
 wliich her daughter hid from her, confusedly imagining 
 what it might be from ^he tender emotion with which her 
 heart seemed filled from sympathy. At last she concluded 
 to go down as she had come up, quietly, her hands being 
 so familiar with every turning that she needed no candle, 
 and leaving behind her no other sound than the soft, Hght 
 touch of her bare feet. 
 
 Then, sitting up in bed, Angelique in her turn listened. 
 So profound was the outward silence, that she could clearly 
 distinguish the slight pressure of the heel on the edge of 
 each step of the stairway. At the foot, the door of the 
 chamber was opened, then closed again ; afterward, she 
 heard a scarcely distinct murmur, an affectionate, yet sad 
 blending of voices in a half whisper ; no doubt it was what 
 her father and mother were saying of her : the fears and 
 hopes they had in regard to her. For a long time that 
 continued, although they must have put out their light and 
 gone to bed. 
 
 Never before had any night sounds in this old house 
 mounted in this way to her ears. Ordinarily, she slept the 
 heavy, tranquil sleep of youth : she heard nothing whatever 
 after placing her head upon her pillow ; whilst now, in the 
 wakefulness caused by the inner combat against an almost 
 overpowering sentiment of affection which she was deter- 
 mined to conquer, it seemed to her as if the whole house 
 were in unison with her, that it was also in love and 
 mourned like herself. Were not the Huberts, too, sad, as 
 they stifled their tears and thought of the child they had 
 lost long ago, whose place, alas, had never been filled ? 
 She knew nothing of this in reality, but she had a sensation 
 in this warm night, of the watch of her parents below her, 
 
Till-: DKKAM. 
 
 I»3 
 
 did 
 
 and of the disappointment in their Hves, which tliey could 
 not forget, notwithstanding their great love for each otlier, 
 which was always as fresh as when they were young. 
 
 Whilst she was seated in this way, listening in the 
 house that trembled and sighed, Angelique lost all self- 
 control, and again the tears rolled down her face, silently, 
 but warm and living, as if they were her life's blood. One 
 question above all others had troubled her since the early 
 morning and had grieved her deeply. Was she right in 
 having sent away Felicien in despair, stabbed to the heart 
 by her coldness, and with the thought that she did not 
 love him ? She knew that she did love him, yet she had 
 willingly caused him to suffer, and now in her turn she 
 was suffering intensely. Why should there be so much 
 pain connected with love ? Did the saints wish for tears ? 
 Could it be that Agnes, her guardian angel, was angry in 
 the knowledge that she was happy ? Now, for the first 
 time, she was distracted by a doubt. Before this, when- 
 ever she thought of the hero she awaited, and who must 
 come sooner or later, she had arranged everything much 
 more satisfactorily When the right time arrived he was 
 to enter her very room, where she would immediately 
 recognise and welcome him, when they would both go 
 away together, to be united for evermore. But how dif- 
 ferent was the reality ! He had come and, instead of wliat 
 she had foreseen, their meeting was most unsatisfactory ; 
 they were equally unhappy, and were eternally separated. 
 To what « urpose ? Why had this result come to pass? 
 Who had exacted from her so strange a vow, that although 
 he might be very dear to her, she was never to let him 
 know it ? 
 
 But yet again, Angelique was especially grieved from 
 the fear that she might nave been bad and done some very 
 wrong thing. Perhaps the original sin that was in her had 
 manifested itself again as when she v/as a little girl ! She 
 thought over all her acts of pretended indifference ; the 
 mocking air with which she had received Felicien, and the 
 malicious pleasure she took in giving him a false idea of 
 herself. And the astonishment at what she had done, 
 added to a cutting remorse for her cruelty, increased her 
 
114 
 
 TIIK DKKAM. 
 
 distress. Now, her whole heart was filled with a deep 
 infinite pity for the suffering she had caused him without 
 really meaning to do so. 
 
 She saw him constantly before her, as he w.is when he 
 left the house in the morning ; the despairing expression of 
 his face, his troubled eyes, his trembling lips; and in 
 imagination she followecl him through the streets, as he 
 went home, pale, utterly desolate, and wounded to the 
 heart's core by her. Where was he now ? Perhaps at 
 this hour he was really ill I 
 
 She wrung her hands in agony, distressed that she 
 could not at once repair the evil she had done. Ah ! how 
 she revolted at the idea of having made another suffer, for 
 she liad always wished to be good, and to render those 
 about her as happy as possible 
 
 i welve o'clock would ere long ring out from the old 
 church tower ; the great elms of the garden of the bishop's 
 palace hid the moon, which was just appearing above the 
 horizon, and the chamber was still dark. Then, letting 
 her head fall back upon the pillow, Angelicpie dwelt no 
 longer upon these disturbing questions, as she wished to go 
 to skc}). But this she could not do ; although she kept 
 her eyes closed her mind was still active ; she thought of 
 the flowers which every night during' the last fortnight she 
 had found when she went upstairs upon the balcony before 
 her window- Each evening it was a lovely bouquet of 
 violets, which Felicien had certainly thrown tliere from 
 the Clos-Marie. She recollected having told him that 
 flowers generally gave her a sick headache, whilst violets 
 alone had the singular virtue of calming her, and so he had 
 sent her quiet nights, a perfumed sleep refreshed by plea- 
 sant dreams. This evening she had placed the bouquet 
 by her bedside. All at once she had the happy thought of 
 taking it into her bed with her, putting it near her cheek, 
 and little by little being soothed with its sweet breath. 
 The purple blossoms did indeed do her good. Not that 
 she slept, however ; but she lay there with closed eyes, 
 penetrated by the refreshing odour that came from his gift ; 
 happy to await events, in a repose and confident abandon- 
 mmt of her whole being. 
 
TlIK DUKAM. 
 
 115 
 
 a deep 
 without 
 
 when he 
 cssioii ol 
 and in 
 ts, as he 
 d to the 
 •rhaps at 
 
 that she 
 Ahl how 
 suffer, for 
 der those 
 
 m the old 
 le bishop's 
 above the 
 icn, letting 
 i dwelt no 
 ished to go 
 h she kept 
 thougiit ol 
 irtnight she 
 :ony beiore 
 bouquet ol 
 there from 
 1 him that 
 hilst violets 
 d so he had 
 led by plea- 
 the bouquet 
 y thought ol 
 ir her cheek, 
 ^eet breath. 
 I. Not that 
 closed eyes, 
 rom his gift ; 
 bnt abandon- 
 
 Put suddenly she started. It was past !ni(hiight. Slu 
 opened her t;y«s and was astonished to find lur < liamlui 
 filk'd with a clear bright light. Above the great ehiis tli< 
 moon rose slowly, dimming the stars in the paU; sky. 
 Through the window she saw the apse of tlie catliedral. 
 ahnost white, and it seemed to her as if it were the reflec- 
 tion of this wliiteness whicli (;ntered her room, like the 
 light of the dawn, fresh and pure. The whitewashed walls 
 and beams, all thi:; blank nudity was increased by it, 
 enlarged anil moved back as if it were unreal as a dream. 
 
 She still recognized, however, the old, dark, oaken 
 furniture, the wardrobe, the chest and the chairs, witii the 
 shinmg edges of their elaborate carvings. The bedstead 
 alone — this great square, royal couch— seemed new to lier 
 as if she saw it for the first time, with its high colunms 
 supporting its canopy of old-fashioned, rose tinted crctotnie, 
 now bathed with such a sheet of deep moonligiit that she 
 half thought she was on a cloud in the midst of the 
 heavens, borne along by a flight of silent, invisible wings. 
 For a moment she f.'lt the full swinging of it ; it did not 
 seem at ail strange or unnatural to her. But her sight 
 soon grew accustomed to the reality ; her bed was again 
 in its usual corner, and she was in it, not moving her head, 
 her eyes alone turning from side to side, as she lay in the 
 midst of this lake of beaming rays, with the bouquet of 
 violets upon her lips. 
 
 Why WcU. it that she was thus in a state of waiting ? 
 Why could sh'.; not sleep ? She was now sure she ex{)ected 
 some one. Tliat she had grown quite calm, was a sign that 
 her hero was about to appear. This consoling light, which 
 put to flight the darkness of all bad dreams, announced 
 his arrival. He was on his way, and the moon, whose 
 brightness almost equalled that of the sun, was simply 
 his forerunner. She must be ready to greet him. 
 
 The chamber was as if hung with white velvet now, so 
 they could see each other well. Then she got up, dressed 
 herself thoroughly, putting on a simple white gown of 
 foulard, the same she had worn the day of their excur- 
 sion to the ruins of Hautecceur. She did not braid her 
 hair, but let it tang over her shoulders. She put a pair 
 

 k^H 
 
 m - 
 
 M r, 
 
 
 i>.r 
 
 
 
 ii6 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 of slippers upon her bare feet, and drawing an arm- 
 chair in front of the window, seated herself and waited 
 in patience. 
 
 Angelique did not pretend to know how he would 
 appear. Without doubt he would not come up the stairs, 
 and it might be that she would simply see him over the 
 Clos-Marie, while she leaned from the balcony. Still she 
 kept her place on the thresiiold of the window, as it 
 seemed to her useless to go and watch for him just yet. 
 So vague was her idea of real life, so mystic was love, 
 that she did not understand in her imagmative nature 
 why he might not pass through the walls, like the Saints 
 in the Legends. Why should miracles come now, as in 
 the olden days, for had not all this been ordained from 
 the beginning ? 
 
 Not for a moment did she thmk she was alone to 
 receive him. No indeed 1 she felt as if she were sur- 
 rounded by the crowd of virgins who had always been 
 near her, since her early youth. They entered on the 
 rays of the moonlight, they came from the great dark 
 trees witii their blue green tops in the Bishop's garden, 
 from the most intricate corners of the entanglement of the 
 stone front of the Cathedral. From all the familiar and 
 beloved horizon of the Chevrotte, from the willows, the 
 grasses, and bushes, the young girl heard the dreams 
 which came back to her, the hopes, the desires, the 
 visions, all that which she had put of herself into inani- 
 mate objects as she saw them daily, and which they now 
 returned to her. Never had the voices of the invisible 
 unknown spoken so clearly. She listened to them as 
 they came from afar, recognising particularly in this warm, 
 beautiful night, so calm that there was not the slightest 
 movement in the air, the delicate sound which she was 
 wont to call the fluttering of the robe of Agnes, when 
 her dear guardian angel came to her side. She laughed 
 quietly to know that she was now by her and waiting 
 with the others who were near her. 
 
 Time passed, but it did not seem long to Angelique. 
 She was quite unconscious of what was passing around 
 her. It appeared to her perfectly natural, and exactly as 
 
 I'i > 
 
 li 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 117 
 
 it had been foretold, when at last she saw Felicien strid- 
 ing over the balustrade of the balcony. 
 
 His tall figure came out in full rehef before the back- 
 ground of the white sky ; he did not approach the open 
 window, but remained in its luminous shadow. 
 
 " Do not be afraid ... It is I ... I have 
 comi to see you." 
 
 She was not in the slightest way alarmed ; she simply 
 lliought that he was exact to the hour of meeting, and 
 ;:ud calmly : 
 
 "You mounted by the timber framework did you not?" 
 
 '* Yes, by the framework." 
 
 The idea of this way made her laugh, and he himself 
 was amused by it. He had in fact pulled himself up by 
 tlie pent house shed ; then, climbing along the principal 
 rafters from there, whose ends were supported by tiio 
 string course of the first story, he had without difficulty 
 reached the balcony. 
 
 "I was expecting you. Will you not come nearer me?" 
 
 Felicien, who had arrived in a state 01 anger, not know- 
 ing how he had dared to come, but with many wild ideas 
 in his head, did not move, so surprised and delighted was 
 he by this unexpected reception. As he had come at last 
 Angelique was now certain that the Saints did not pro- 
 hibit her from loving, for she heard them welcoming him 
 with her, by a laugh as delicate as a breath of the night. 
 Where in the world had she ever found so ridiculous an 
 idea as to think that Agnes would be angry with her ? 
 On the contrary, Acrnes was radiant with a joy that she 
 felt as it descended on her shoulders and enveloped her 
 like a caress from two great wings. All those who had 
 died for love showed great compassion for youthful 
 troubles, and only returned to earth on summer nights, 
 that, although invisible, they might watch those young 
 hearts v/ho were sorrowful from affection. 
 
 •* But why do you not come to me ? I was waiting for 
 you." 
 
 Then, hesitatingly, Felicien approached. He had been 
 so excited, so carried away by anger at her indiflfercnce, 
 that he had said she should be made to love him, and 
 
 I 
 
 s.r 
 
ti8 
 
 TIIR PRftAM. 
 
 I: 'I 
 
 1 ;ii ■« 
 
 that, were it necessary, he would carry her away eveil 
 against her will. And lo ! now finding her so gentle as 
 he penetrated almost to the entrance of this chamber, so 
 pure and white, he became subdued at once, and as gentle 
 and submissive as a child. 
 
 He took three steps forward. But he was afraid, and 
 not daring to go further, he fell on his knees at the efid of 
 the balcony. 
 
 " Could you but know," he said, '* the abominable tor- 
 tures I have passed through. I have never imagined a 
 worse suffering. Really the only true grief is to think 
 that you are not beloved by the person to whom you have 
 given your affection. I would willingly give up all else; 
 would consent to be poor, dying from hunger, or racked 
 by pain : but I will not pass another day With this terrible 
 doubt gnawing at my heart, of thinking that you do not 
 love me. Be good, I pray you, and pity me." 
 
 She listened to him, silent, overcome with compassion, 
 yet very happy withal. 
 
 " This morning, you sent me away in such a dreadful 
 manner! I had fancied to myself that you had changed 
 your feelings towards me, and that, appreciating my affec- 
 tion, you liked me better. But, alas ! I found you exactly 
 as you had been on the first day, cold, indifferent, treating 
 me as you would have done any other simple customer 
 who passed, recalling me harshly to the commonplaces of 
 life. On the stairway I staggered. Once outside, I ran, 
 and was afraid I might scream aloud. Then, the moment 
 I reached home, it seemed to me I should stifle were I to 
 enter the house. So I rushed out into the fields, walk- 
 ing by chance first on one side of the road and then on 
 another. Evening came, and I was still wandering up 
 and down. But thfe torment of spirit moved faster than 
 ever and devoured me. When one is hopelessly in love, 
 it is impossible to escape from the pains accompanying 
 one's affection. Listen!" he said, and he touched his 
 breast. ** It is here that you stabbed me, and the point 
 of the knife stiU continues to penetrate deeper and deeper." 
 
 He gave a long sigh at the keen recollection of his 
 torture. 
 
 11 
 
 i& 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 I IQ 
 
 '* I found myself at last in, a thicket, ovcrcomo b)- my 
 distress, like a tree that has been drawn up by the roots. 
 . . To me, the only thir.g that existed in life, in the 
 future, was you. The thought tliat you might never be 
 mine was more than I could bear. Already m}- feet were 
 so weary that they would no longer support me. I f(;lt 
 that my hands were growing icy cold, and uiy head was 
 hlled witli the strangest fancies. . . And that is why I 
 am here. I do not know at all how I came or where I found 
 the necessary strength to bring me to j'ou. You must t.y 
 to forgive me ; but had I been forced to do so I would 
 have broken open doors with my fists, I would have 
 clambered up to this balcony in broad daylight, for my 
 will was no longer under my control, and I was quite 
 wild. . . Now, will you not pardon me ? " 
 
 She was a little in the shadow, and he, on his knees in 
 the full moonlight, could not see that she had grown very 
 pale in her tender repentance, and was too touchetl by his 
 story to be able to speak. He thought that she was still 
 insensible to his pleadings and he joined his hands together 
 most beseechingly. 
 
 *' All my interest in you commenced long ago. It was 
 one night when I saw you for the first time, here at your 
 window. You were only a vague, white shadow ; I could 
 scarcely distinguish one of your features, yet I saw you 
 and imagined you just as you are in reality. But 1 was 
 timid and afraid, so for several days I wandered about here, 
 never daring to meet you in the open day. . . And in 
 .iddition, since this is a confession, I must tell you every- 
 thing : you pleased mc particularly in this half mystery ; it 
 would have disturbed me to have you come out from it, for 
 my great happiness was to dream of you as if you were an 
 apparition, or an unknown something to be worshipped 
 from afar, without ever hoping to become acquainted with 
 you. . . Later on, I knew who you were, for after all it 
 IS difficult to resist the temptation to know what may be 
 the realisation of one's dream. It was then that my rest; 
 lessness commenced. It has increased at each meeting. 
 Do you recollect the first time that we spoke to each other 
 10 the field near by, on that forenopn when I was examirj- 
 
I20 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ,i:| . 
 
 iM-^' 1^- 
 
 ing the painted window ? Never in my life did I feel so 
 awkward as then, and it was not strange that you ridiculed 
 me so. Afterwards I frightened you, and realised that I 
 continued to be very unfortunate in following you, even ii] 
 the visits you made to the poor people. Already I ceased 
 to be master of my own actions, and did things that aston- 
 ished me beyond measure, and which, under usual circum- 
 stances, I would not have dared attempt. For instance, 
 when I presented myself there with the order for a mitre, 
 I was pushed forward by an involuntary force, as, person- 
 ally, I dared not do it, knowing that I might make you 
 angry. But at present I cannot regain my old self, I can 
 only oliey my impulses. I know that you do not like me, 
 and 3^et, as you see, in spite of it all I have come back to 
 you, that I ma}- hear 3'ou tell me so. If you would but try 
 to understand how miserable I am. Do not love me if it 
 is not in your heart to do so. I must accept my fate. But 
 at least allow me to love you. Be as cold as you please, 
 be hateful if you will — I shall adore you whatever you may 
 choose to be. I onl}- ask to be able to see you, even with- 
 out any hope ; merely for the joy of living thus at your 
 feet." 
 
 Felicien stopped, disheartened, losing all courage as he 
 thought he would never find any v^y of touching her 
 heart. And he did not see that An;i:elique smiled, half 
 hidden as slie was by the open window sash. It was an 
 invincible smile, taut little by little spread over her whole 
 face. Ah ! the dear fellow ! How simple and trusting he 
 was as he outpoured the prayer of his heart, filled with 
 new longings and love, in bowing before her, as before the 
 highest ideal of all his earthly dreams. 
 
 To think that she had ever been so ^oolish as at first to 
 try to avoid all meetings with him, and then, later on, had 
 determined that although she could not help loving him, 
 he should never know it ! Such folly on her part was 
 quite inexplicable. Since love is right and is the fate of 
 all, what good could be gained by making martyrs of them 
 both ? 
 
 A complete silence ensued, and in her enthusiastic, 
 imaginative, nervous state, she heard, louder than ever in 
 
TIIK DREAM. 
 
 121 
 
 ihe quiet of the warm night, the voices of the Saints al^out 
 !ier, who said love was never forbidden, when it was so 
 ardent and true a&this. Behind her back a briglit flash of 
 light had suddenly appeared ; scarcely a breath, but a 
 lelicate wave from the moon upon the chamber floor. An 
 invisible finger, no doubt that of her guardian angel, wa: 
 i)laced upon her mouth, as if to unseal her lips, and re- 
 iieve her from lier vow. Henceforth she could freely un- 
 !)iirdcn herself and tell the truth. All that which was 
 ■powerful and tender in her surroundings now whispered 
 to her words which seemed to come from the infinite 
 unknown. 
 
 Then, at last, Angelique spoke. 
 
 ** Ah ! yes, I recollect, I recollect it all." 
 
 And Felirien was at once carried away with delight by 
 the music of this voice, whose extreme charm was so great 
 over him that his love seemed to increase simply from 
 listening to it. 
 
 "Yes, I remember well when you came in the night. 
 You were so far away those first evenings that the little 
 sound you made in walking left me in quite an uncertain 
 state. At laLt I realized perfectly that it was you who 
 approached me, and a little later I recognized your shadow. 
 At length one evening you showed yourself boldly, on a 
 beautiful, bright night like this, in the full white light of 
 the moon. You came out so slowly from the inanimate 
 objects near you, like a creation fro.n all the mysteries 
 that surrounded me, exactly as I had expected to see you 
 for a long time, and punctual to the meeting. 
 
 '• I have never forgotten the great desire to laugh, 
 which I kept back, but which broke forth in spite of me, 
 when you saved the linen that was being carried away by 
 the Chevrotte. I recollect my anger when you robbed me 
 of my poor people, by givi'ng them so much money and 
 thus making me appear as a miser. I can still recall m)' 
 fear on the evening when yon forced me to run so fast 
 through the grass with my bare feet. Oh, yes, I have not 
 forgotten anything — not the slightest thing." 
 
 At this last sentence her voice, pure and crystalline, 
 was c\ httle broken by the thought of those magic words of 
 
i:>i 
 
 THE DRRAM. 
 
 tlie young man, the power of which she felt so deeply 
 when he said, ** I love you," and a deep blush passed over 
 licr face. And he — he listened to her with delight. 
 
 •' It is indeed true that I did wrong to tease you. When 
 one is ignorant, one is often so foolish. One does many 
 tilings which seem necessar}-, simply from the fear of being 
 found fault with if following the impulses of the heart. 
 Hut my remorse for all this was deep, and my suffcings, 
 in consequence, were as great as yours. Were I to try to 
 explain all tiii? +o you, it would be quite impossible for me 
 to do so. When you came to us with your drawing of 
 Saint Agnes, oh ! I could have cried out, ' Thank you, 
 thank you ! " I was perfectly enchanted to work for 3^ou, 
 as I thought you would certainly make us a daily visit. 
 And yet, think of it ! I pretended to be indifferent, as if I 
 had taken upon myself the task of doing all in my power 
 to drive you from the house. Has one ever the need of 
 being wilfully unhappy ? Whilst in reality I longed to 
 welcome you and to receive you with open hands, there 
 seemed to be in the depths of my nature another woman 
 than myself, who revolted, who was afraid of and mis- 
 trusted you — whose delight it was to torture you with 
 uncertainty, in the vague idea of setting up a quarrel, the 
 cause of which, in a time long passed, had been quite 
 forgotten. I am not always good : often in my soul things 
 seem to creep up that I cannot explain or account for. The 
 worst of aU was that I dared to speak to you of money. 
 Fancy it then ! Of money! I, who have never thought 
 of it, who would accept chariots of it, only for the pleasure 
 of making it rain down as I wished, among the needy ! 
 What a malicious amusement I gave myself in thus calum- 
 niating my character ! Will you ever forgive me ? " 
 
TlIK DKF.AM. 
 
 i-\^ 
 
 try to 
 [or me 
 ing of 
 k you, 
 jr you, 
 ■^ visit. 
 
 as if I 
 power 
 
 leed of 
 iged to 
 s, there 
 woman 
 ad mis- 
 DU with 
 rrel, the 
 jn quite 
 il things 
 or. The 
 
 money, 
 thought 
 pleasure 
 
 needy 1 
 IS calum- 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Felicien was at her teet. Until now he had kept ins 
 place in the remote corner of the balcony. Bnt in the 
 intense happiness she gave him in thus unfolding the 
 innermost secrets of her soul, he had drawn himself on liis 
 knees towards her, as he approached the window. Tliis 
 great, illimitable joy was so unlooked for that he yielded 
 to it in all the infinitude of its hopes for the future. 
 
 He half whispered — 
 
 *' Ah, dear soul, pure, kind, and beautiful, your wonder- 
 ful goodness has cured me as with a breath ! 1 know not 
 now if I have ever suffered. And, in your turn, you wil! 
 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 crntinued : 
 
 *' 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 pimple amusement ; 
 you really ought to be told of that." 
 
 Then with a quick movement slie 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 expect- 
 ing you. I knew that sooner or later you would come, and 
 you have done so. That is all-sufficient." 
 
 They talked no longer for awhile. That little hand 
 over his lips seemed almost too great a happiness for him. 
 
 ♦' When the right time comes, then I .shall know all. 
 
i x^ 
 
 124 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 mM-ii 
 
 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, thv 
 one above all others; for that has ever been my dream, 
 and in the sure certainty of its full accomplishment I wail 
 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 o 
 the words she pronounced. She did not appear to sa\ 
 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 dreaminfj; 
 aloud the fancies of the young girl. From behind her, 
 voices also whispered them to her, the voices of her friend? 
 in the Golden Legend, with whom she had peopled the an 
 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 oJ 
 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 oJ 
 the early dawn, in the pure whiteness of the chamber 
 behind her. 
 
 " I love you." 
 
 AngeHque, her two hands spread out, bent forward 
 towards Felicien. And he recalled to himself the evenirg 
 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 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 12 
 
 within her — the pride and the passion she thought liad 
 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 lier 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 
 (Icgree, and not thinking of yielding to the temptation oi 
 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 
 realized that now they were looking at each other under a 
 great white light. It seemed to them as if thf; brightness 
 of the moon had been increased, and was as resplendent as 
 tliat of the sun. It was in reality the da\'break, a slight 
 shade of which already tinged with purple the tops of the 
 elm trees in the neighboaring 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 lime 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 I 
 
 *' Oh ! stay one minute more, only one minute ! " he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 The daylight advanced still faster — the smiling morn- 
 ing, 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 iis ordinary whiteness of walls and ceiling, and seemed 
 quite empty withits old-fashioned furnitureof 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 
 
126 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 . ,j 
 
 to leave immediately. Since the day had come, she had 
 f^rown 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 you. I am unwilling you should 
 stay longer." 
 
 Then F'elicien, obediently, 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 wislied to carry 
 away with him an indelible rem(Mn!)rance of her. They 
 both smiled at each other, as they stood thus, bathed in 
 light, in this long caressing look. 
 
 At last he said : 
 
 *' I love you." 
 
 And she gently repeated : 
 
 '* 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 open- 
 ing 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 recognized 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, sleep- 
 less 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 
 jn the deepest grfef, ' 
 
 E' 
 
THE DKLAM. 
 
 127 
 
 The morning of the next day, on waking from a sound 
 sleep of eight hours, one of those sweet, deep, refresliing 
 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 1 Oh, 
 how glad I am, for the Procession will be superb ! " 
 
 Dressing herself as quickly as possible, she hurried to 
 go down stairs. It was on that day, the 28th of July, 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 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 inhabi- 
 tants 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 depar- 
 ture was made from the portal of Saint Agnes, then by the 
 Rue des Or^evres to the Grand Rue, to the Rue Basse, and 
 after having gone through the whole of the lower town, it 
 
28 
 
 rilK DREAM. 
 
 IW 
 
 
 :■! -I .1 
 
 y'r ; ':■: 
 
 returned by tlie Kue Mapjloire and the Place du Cloitrcto 
 re-appear again at the front entrance of the Cliurch. 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, satuis, 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 t>al<t! 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 hap- 
 pened 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 ail their beauty. The three were consecrated 
 to Mary. The ]^lessed 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 wonder- 
 fully 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 
 possession. 
 
 •• 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, tliat 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 storey, and she was obliged to use a step-ladder 
 
Tin; DRKAM. 
 
 129 
 
 npj has hap- 
 enraptured, 
 he mass of 
 id they now 
 consecrated 
 visit of the 
 r at the foot 
 rgin. They 
 tly coloured 
 /ere wonder- 
 s refused to 
 n offered by 
 )ud of their 
 
 D-day ? '• 
 deal of time, 
 cleaning the 
 ni to the end 
 ooden panels 
 k of the roof ; 
 -basement of 
 that he could 
 )erb pieces of 
 [que attached 
 t were in the 
 ,t the left, the 
 while for the 
 ;at window of 
 a step-ladder 
 
 that she might hang it there in its turn. She had already 
 (.'inbeliished the window with flowers, so that the ancient 
 dwelling seemed to have gone back to tiie far-away time ol 
 its youth, with its embroideries of gold and 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 
 no* move until five o'clock, but after tv.'elve the town began 
 to be decorated. Opposite the Huberts', the silversmith 
 dressed his shop with draperies of an exquisite Hght blue, 
 bordered with a silver fringe ; while the wax-cliandler, who 
 was next lO him, made use of his window-curtains of red 
 cotton, which looked more brilliant than ever in the broad 
 hght of day. At each house there were ilifTerent colours: 
 a prodigality of stufTs, 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 
 i clothed, sparkling and almost trembling with gaiety, as if 
 j changed into a gallery of fete open to the sky. All its 
 f inhabitants were rushing to and fro, pushing against each 
 other, speaking loud, as if in their own homes ; s6me 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 neighbour- 
 hood, 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 ? " 
 
I30 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 \ Mi: 
 
 !i 
 
 f "3 
 
 M 
 
 a 
 
 •* 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 petah. 
 rained from her slender fingers ; the basket was runnin^^ 
 over with its light, perfumed contents. Then, as she dis- 
 appeared 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 I'jfeglise was calmed; a peculiar air of expecta- 
 tion 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 obHque, 
 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 con- 
 tinuation 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 tak- 
 ing 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 
 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 I3» 
 
 of a flower. An invisible comb, put in place hastily, 
 scarcely held the curls of her golden hair, which was care- 
 lessly 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 them- 
 selves at the wide-opened window of the first storey, 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 sec 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 obl'ged to take and pass to her the basket 
 of rose leaves, which she held between hd arms pressed 
 against her breast. 
 
 ** Oh, that belj ! " 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 trem- 
 bling, whilst 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 of whom held a 
 hghted candle in his hand. Behind them, hurried along the 
 Master of the Ceremonies, the good Abbtf 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 
 
132 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 The various societies of laymen opened the march ; chari- 
 table associations, schools by rank of seniority, and num- 
 erous public organizations. There were a great many 
 children ; little girls, all in white like brides, and little 
 bare-headed boys, with curly hair, dressed in their best like 
 priftces, 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 the banner of the Bles^od 
 Virgin; ladies in black, who had their special banne 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 emblem 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 teet, and looked so 
 comical that she plunged her hands into her basket and 
 literally covered him with flowers, He quite disappf^ared 
 under them for an instant ; he had roses in his hair . jul on 
 his shoulders. The exquisite little laughing shout he uU red 
 was enjoyed on every side, and flowers rained down Irr .n 
 all the windows as the cherub passed. In the hummmg 
 silence of the street ene could now only hear the deafened 
 sound of the regular movement of feet in the procession, 
 whilfe 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 Abb^ Cornillegrew impatient and disturbed, inasmuch 
 as the procession had been stationary for nearly two min- 
 utes, and he walked quickly towards the head of it, bowing 
 and smiling at the Huberts as he passed. 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 133 
 
 1; chari- 
 ind num- 
 at many 
 and little 
 : best like 
 nd where 
 .rs of age, 
 
 John the 
 shoulders, 
 re a shield 
 there were 
 le Bles'-'^d 
 
 banne of 
 lit of Saint 
 ■s, in velvet 
 tons. The 
 penitents of 
 [ dark linen 
 ,de a great 
 which were 
 
 the children 
 
 im all ! '* 
 years of age, 
 d looked so 
 r basket and 
 disappf^y-i^ed 
 
 ; hair r nd on 
 ,uthf,nLt;red 
 
 d down 1"^ ii 
 the humming 
 the deafened 
 e procession, 
 
 fall silently 
 caps of them. 
 ,f the laymen, 
 )ed, inasmuch 
 arly two min- 
 
 1 of it, bowing 
 
 " What has happened ? What can prevent them from 
 continuing?" said Angehque, all feverish from excitement, 
 as if she were waiting for some expected happmess 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," Hube:rt 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 n commenf:ed their march. 
 
134 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ;^ 
 
 I ' : ' 
 
 I |^J '! '.3 5 
 
 Ml 
 
 l«i 
 
 .B \ ! 
 
 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 double 
 flames, 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 Mon'seigneur 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 : — 
 
 '* Mpnseigneur! Monsei^neijr ! " and with her eyes still 
 
tHE DREAM. 
 
 135 
 
 Upon the Saint who was going by, she recallec^ to mind at 
 this momeut the old histories. The noble Marquesses d' 
 Hautecceur delivering Beaumont from the plague, thanks 
 to the intervention of Agnes, then lean 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 backward 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, bare- 
 headed, his shoulders covered with a white scarf, the two 
 ends of which enveloped his hancjs, 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 
 certamly knew his face before, but had never been struck 
 by it as to-day 1 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, 
 
 I- 
 
 
 V 
 
136 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ■I I 
 
 which he carried in his covered hands, and which placed 
 him in a radiance of mystic hght. 
 
 Certainly he to-day made her think of some one, but of 
 whom ? As soon as he left the church, Monseigneur had 
 commenced a psalm, which he recited in a low voice, alter- 
 nating the verses thereof with his deacons. And Angelique 
 trembled when she saw him turn his eyes towards their 
 window, for h.e seemed to her so severe, so haughty, and so 
 cold, as if heHvere 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 fol- 
 lowed, in the midst of functionaries, of flowers, of magis- 
 trates, 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 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 lonely 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 recognized him and was much disturbel, 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 137 
 
 when, turning towards the young girl, she saw the latter 
 transrigjured, in ecstasy, avoiding a reply. 
 
 "Then he did not tell us th<: truth about himself? Hut 
 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 wal> 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 realisa- 
 tion 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 pro- 
 cession, which had stopped again in order that Monseig- 
 neur 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 Angeli- 
 que, whose hands seemed^lost in the basket on her lap. 
 suddenly in her delight and confusion made a quick move- 
 ment, and carelessly threw out a great quantity of the 
 perfumed petals. At that instant Felicien appropched. 
 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 tiie 
 corner of the Grand Rue, the end of the cortege went b}', 
 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 ot the swinging censers. 
 
;8 
 
 THK DREAM. 
 
 f^ 
 
 llii 
 
 " 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 at the end of the street 
 inquiringly, then she lifted her eyes as if seeking some- 
 thing 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-Pre- 
 fecture. There is no end to all the long streets in Beau- 
 mont 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 suspenaed, 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 cur- 
 tains 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 would have known well, had she not been over impa- 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 139 
 
 tient, that the canopy must be only at the lower wharf of 
 the Ligneul. But she was too excited to think. 
 
 " Oh ! mother dear ! do let us 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 the 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 se li-circular 
 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 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 
 
■.i 'f: 
 
 n i 
 
 < "Mi 
 
 ) 1 ; i 
 .-. i '1'" 1-, f 
 
 140 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 leaned against the ancient grating, which entirely sur- 
 rounded 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 sculp- 
 tures. 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 of 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 Hubert ine. 
 
 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 Hauteccjcur, where sh recognized the 
 window which 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 her- 
 self 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 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 141 
 
 twilight of the Place du Cloitre. The lirst to appear was, 
 of course, the bearer of the cross, accompanied by his two 
 acolytes with their candelabra ; and behind them, the 
 master of ceremonies hurried along — the- good Abbti Cor- 
 iiille, 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 laymc n, the schools, the associa- 
 tions, the fraternities, whose banners, like sails, 'vavered 
 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 parislies, 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 up on 
 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 ? t 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 illu- 
 minated the lower arches of the side aisles, the depth of 
 the chapels, and gUttered upon the glass of some shrine or 
 upon the gold of some tabernacle. The rays even pene- 
 
 K- 
 
14^ 
 
 tHR nntiAM. 
 
 rm 
 
 
 trated into the apse, and the sepulchral crypts were bright- 
 ened up by them. The choir was a mass of flame, with 
 its ahar on fire, its ghstening 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 od'^ur 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 glo- 
 rious burst of music that filled to overflowing the arches as 
 if with the rumbling of thunder. It was at this instant 
 that Monseigneur arrived on the Place du ^"'oitre. The 
 statue of Saint Agnes had reached the apse 'I borne by 
 the surpliced clerks, and her face looked veiy calm under 
 the light, txS if she were more 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 Sacra- 
 ment in the same position as at first. The canopy, which 
 was borne down the central aisle, was stopped at the rail- 
 ing of the choir, and there, on account of certain unavoid- 
 able confusion, the Bishop was for a moment made to ap- 
 proach 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 
 
tHfi DREAM. 
 
 U3 
 
 certainty which revealed itself in this sudden fact of their 
 resemblance, l^'rhaps, 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 recol- 
 lections, her cry seemed repeated. 
 
 Hubertine, quite overcome, said in a whisper, *• This 
 young man, the son of Monseigneur ? " 
 
 Around these two the crowd had gradually accumu- 
 lated. They were well known and were greatly admired ; 
 the mother still adorable in her simple toilet of linen, the 
 daughter with the angelic grace of a cherub, in her gown 
 of white foulard, as light as a feather. They were so hand- 
 some and in such full view, as they stood upon their chairs, 
 that from every direction eyes were turned towards tliem, 
 and admiring glances given them. 
 
 ** But yes indeed, my good lady," said the mhe Lem- 
 balleuse, 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?" con- 
 tinued 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 VH. d'Hautecoeur, with a title as if he were 
 a real prince." 
 
 Then Hubertine was intensely grieve^ But Angelique 
 beamed with joy before the commencei of the realisa- 
 tion o/ her dream. She was not in the sligh test degree aston- 
 ished, 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 pos- 
 sibly come between them, hi short, he would in his turn 
 

 144 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ; ,j 
 
 now make himself known, and would tell everything. As 
 she had lancied, gold would stream down with the little 
 flickering flames of the candles. Tlie organs would send 
 fortlj their most glorious music on the occasion of their 
 betrothal The line of the Hautecceurs 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 hmiself 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, ni}^ poor dear child 1 " sighed Hubertine. 
 
 But the chaplain ai.d the acolytes were ranged on the 
 right and the left, and the first deacon, having taken the 
 Holy Sacrament from the hands of Monseigneur, placed 
 it on the altar. It was the final benediction — the Tantiim 
 ergo sung loudly by the choristers, the incense of the boxes 
 burning in the censers, the strange, brusque silence during 
 the prayer — and in the midst of the lighted church, over- 
 flow! ag with clergy and with people, under the high, spring- 
 ing archcF, 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 Ctoss. 
 
Tin: DREAM. 
 
 145 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 That same evening on returning from clnirch, Anp^elique 
 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. 
 They dined as usual in the kitchen, but it was ciglit o'clock 
 before they were seated at the table. Hubert, quite ex- 
 cited by this day of recnation and of//'/f, 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 atten- 
 tion to the food, or to know that she put her fork to lu r 
 mouth, so absorbeci was slie 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 Al)be' Cornille, who, 
 notwithstanding his great fatigue, had come to tell them 
 that Monseignenr the Bis^-op had greatly admired the three 
 old panels of marvellous >. inbroidery. 
 
 "Yes, indeed ! and he spckeof 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 c?s 
 the conversation turned to the Procession. Then after a 
 few minutes she got up. 
 
 ** But where are you going, dear ? " askt d Hubertine. 
 
 This question startled her, as if she herself knew not 
 why she hid left her seat. 
 
 " I am going upstairs, nu-ther, for T am very tired." 
 
 In spite cf this plausible excuse, Hubertine imagined 
 the true reascii that influenced her. It was the m « d of 
 being by herself, the haste of communing alone with her 
 great happiness. 
 
lii 
 
 
 i 
 
 146 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 1^ 
 
 When she ^ eld her in her arms, pressed against her 
 breast, she felt that she was trembling. She almost 
 seemed to avoid her usual evening kiss. Lookin^g anxiously 
 in her face, Hubertine read in her eyes the feverish expec- 
 tation connected with the hoped-for meeting. It was all 
 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 Abb^ Cornille, Angelique was half way up the stairs, 
 quite disturbed, as she realized 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 Abb^ Cornille 
 take his leave. Soon after, the Huberts, in their turn, 
 came upstairs. Then it seemed to her as if some one 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 
 gilence. Moreover, she was neither in a hurry, nor had 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 147 
 
 she any fear, for being totally unconscious of any wronjj^ 
 intentions, she felt at perfect ease. It would havj been 
 quite impossible for her not to have gone down. An in- 
 ward 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 iiesitate an 
 instant, but went direct to the little plank which served as a 
 bridge to the Chevrotte, crossed it, guiding herself by feel- 
 ing 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 1 love you, and how grate- 
 fill 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 astonish- 
 ment and of gratitude before this present of love, this 
 fulfilment 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." 
 
148 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 i 1 
 
 ii ■ I 
 
 mi 
 
 jliijIt.M 
 
 Gently he |>ut his arm around her as he said — 
 ' " 0)im' and see wliere I hve." 
 
 He made her cross the Clos-Marie, among the wild 
 grass and herbs, and then she understood for the first time 
 in wliat way he had come every night into the field, from 
 the park of tlie 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. 
 
 ^'he 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 dehght 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 
 anytiiing back ? She had never harmed any one, 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 1 really was." 
 
 But with pretty, impatient movement she interrupted 
 him. 
 
 " No, no ; let us talk of you. Am I really of any conse- 
 quence ? At all events, what matters it who I am, or 
 what I think ! For the moment you are the only one of 
 importance." 
 
TIIK DRKAM. 
 
 149 
 
 And keeping as near him as possible, f^oincj more slowly 
 along the sides of the enchanted river, she questioned himj 
 incessantly, wishing to learn everythinj^ about him, of his 
 childhood, his youth, and the twenty year she 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 agam." 
 
 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 idolized my mother, and it seemett 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 liis care. I had no idea of my true position until very 
 recently. It is scarcelj^ two years, in fact, since it was 
 revealed to me. But I was not at all surprised at 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 gocd for nothing but 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 tl.at 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. 
 
t5d 
 
 tHE DREAM. 
 
 I 
 
 i''i \ 
 
 < m 
 
 H- 
 
 I 
 
 steinHii 
 
 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 nil 
 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 kaow 
 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 ecstacy 
 in thus becoming thoroughly acquainted with him, ador- 
 ing him like a little child at the feet of some saint. Neither 
 of them wearied of repeating the same thing : how mucli 
 they loved each ether and how dearly they were beloved 
 in return. The same words returned constantly to their 
 lips, but they always seemed new, as they assumed unfore- 
 seen, 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 rnisty 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 (^id not occur to her to ask him where he was lead- 
 'ng ''er, but she gave herself up to his guidance, under the 
 
 ;"^i;; 
 
TIIK DREAM. 
 
 151 
 
 > soon as 
 
 darkness of the 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 hi« father had seen fit to instal 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 appartment. 
 
 " 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 hnnself in his leisure 
 hours by painting on glass. He had refound the ancient 
 methods of the thirteenth century, so that he could fancy 
 himself as being one of the primitive glass workers, pro- 
 ducing masterpieces with the poor, unfinished means of 
 the older time. An ancient table answered all his pur- 
 poses. 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 wmdow 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 marvel- 
 lous luxury of furniture. In one corner, on an old taber- 
 nacle which served as a pedestal, a great, gilded statute 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 
 
152 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 i i 
 
 1 1 ■• 
 
 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 it and to enamel it ; and his 
 final opinion that a stained-glass window should be sim- 
 ply a transparent mosaic, in which the brightest colours 
 should be arranged in the most harmonious order, so 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 re-taken 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 every- 
 thing. 
 
 " 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. 
 
THK DREAM. 
 
 »53 
 
 She did not have a single doubt. All seemed to her 
 quite natural, to be so well arranged tliat it could be 
 finished on the morrow with the same ease as in many of 
 the miracles of the Golden Legend. The idea tuver 
 occurred to her that there could 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 
 otlier 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 Chev- 
 rotte 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 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 Huber- 
 tine, 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 
 
■I ■ 
 
 \ , 
 
 it 
 
 iii 
 
 1' 
 
 
 % 
 
 I'fti^rll 
 
 
 iH^ 
 
 r^V' 
 
 
 ti'^I^P: 
 
 ^ ii' 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 t54 
 
 tllK DRiiAM. 
 
 lliat of tho lioiisr, she liad midcrstood what h.ifl happened 
 So, luicerlain vvliat it was l)est to do, or where to f(o, in 
 the fear lent she might aggravate matters, slie sat down 
 anxiously. 
 
 Angeh(inc immediately ran to her, without embarrass- 
 ment, kissed her repeatedly, her heart beating with joy as 
 slie lauglied merrily at the thought that she had no longer 
 need of hiding any tiling from her. 
 
 •' Oh, mother mine, everything is arranged ! We are 
 to be married very soon, and I am so happy." 
 
 lU^fore replying, Hubertine examined her closel)-. 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, dear mother ? It is indeed, 
 true that I have not done right, inasmuch as I have not 
 made you my confidant. 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 1 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 i' simply 
 vegetated and had returned to its natural state. 
 
 "Mother, let me tell you everything now. Come, listen 
 to me, please." 
 
TIIK UKIOAM. 
 
 155 
 
 )arrass- 
 
 CIIA1'TI':U XII. 
 
 TnKN in a low tone Angcliriue l)cgan her itory. She 
 related to lier in a flow of inexhaustible words all that had 
 haj)pene(l, raihn^' up the most minute details, ^rowin^ 
 more and more excited at the recollection of them. Shi; 
 omitted nothint;, but searched her memory as if it were 
 for a confession. She was not at all embarrassed, altiiouj^h 
 her cheeks ^rew very red, and her eyes sparkled with 
 Hashes of pride ; yet she did not raise her voice, but con- 
 tinued to talk earnestly in a half whisper. 
 
 At leii^^h Hubertine interrupted her, speaking also 
 very low. 
 
 ••Ah, my dear 1 row you are too excited. You have, 
 indeed to correct yourstdf, for you are carried away b) 
 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 tlie 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* Hautecceur. A 
 man who was worth so many millions ! The last descen- 
 dant of one of the oldest families of France I No, that 
 could never be. 
 
 But at each new obstacle Angelique tranquilly replied ; 
 
 i 
 
} 
 
 156 
 
 THE IU<F.AM. 
 
 iii^ 
 
 '\ !|?i; 
 
 :.,i 
 
 M 
 
 ' n. 
 
 *' l»ijl wliy not ? " It would be a real srnndal, a marriage 
 beyond all oribnary conditions of happiness. Did she 
 liope then to contend against all the world ? •' But why 
 not?" Mouseigneur is called very strict and very haughty, 
 proud of ii* name and severe in his cTiticisms in regard 
 to all marks of affection. Could she dare to expect to 
 bend him ? 
 
 " Hut 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 ! Espe- 
 cially 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 lias come to pass." 
 
 *' But, unhappy child, wait for the end ! " 
 
 Hubertine 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 oi 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 herse'^ of having brought about the 
 unhappiness of this child, wno 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, clasping 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 
 
TIIK DRKAM. 
 
 »57 
 
 the heavens by the approach of dawn. Tht y were both of 
 them enveloped in tliis purity of the early morn, in the 
 great fresh silence, which was alone disturbed by the little 
 chirping of the just awakined 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 em- 
 brace, 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 ciiild. 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 to her 
 with a trembling breath their history. The marriage with- 
 out the consent of their 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 un- 
 happy, would have quarrelled and perhaps even have 
 separated, had it not been that her husband was so thor- 
 oughly 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, wiiich 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 lur tears to flow. She was quite 
 overcome by all she had listened to ; softened, and with an 
 

 [•I 
 
 lU 
 
 J 
 
 .i 
 
 ■I 
 
 r. 
 
 ! , 
 
 ■! , 'i 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 expression in her eyes as if deeply wounded by the gHmpse 
 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 e^^ening, after you had gone upstairs, I had 
 quite a talk with the Abbe Cornillc, and he explained to 
 me why Monseigneur, after great hesitation, had at last 
 decided to rail his son to Beaumont. One of his greatest 
 troubles was the impetuosity of the young man, the uncon- 
 trollably haste which he manifested to plunge into the ex- 
 citement of life, without listening to the advice of liis 
 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 
 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 under- 
 stand. 
 
 ♦• Such a marriage had been proposed even before his 
 arrival, and all preliminaries were settled yesterday, so 
 that the Abb<^ Cornille formally announced that in the 
 autumn Felicien would we ^ Mademoiselle Claire de Voin- 
 court. 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 higMy approves of the union." 
 
 The young giri 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, dui.'ng the winter, or as she had seen her owftie days 
 
THE DKEAM. 
 
 159 
 
 glimpse 
 he could 
 jve. 
 
 J. Yet it 
 he whole 
 irs, 1 had 
 )lained to 
 ,d at last 
 s greatest 
 he uncon- 
 ito the ex- 
 ice of his 
 I hope of 
 could not 
 ', rank and 
 leadstrong 
 Stic tastes 
 in his son 
 self had so 
 night take 
 le beneath 
 it he might 
 
 yet under- 
 
 before his 
 stcrday, so 
 Ihat in the 
 re de Voin- 
 :ourt, there, 
 iry intimate 
 )etter could 
 rtune. The 
 
 in the Catlieural. A tall young lady, a brunette, very 
 handsonu', of a much more striking beauty than her own, 
 ancl with a royal bearing and appearance. Notwithstand- 
 ing 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 nnirmured. 
 
 Then, as if suddenly pierced by a sharp agony, she 
 exclainHul : — 
 
 " He uttered a faiseiiood ! He did not tell me this! 
 
 She recollected now the momentary hesitation of Fi ',.■* 
 irien, the rush of blood which had coloured his cheeks 
 when she spoke to him of the:^ marriage. Tlie shock was 
 so great, thai 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. Hnt it 'vould have been still worse 
 had you waited. Take courage, then, and draw at once 
 the knife froin thj wound. Rej)eat to yourself, whenever 
 the thought of tliis young mai? comes to you, that never 
 would Monseigneur, the terrible Jean XII., whose intrac- 
 table 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 thi;' without 
 making any objection. What was it she felt pass over her 
 face ? A cold breath corning 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 
 ol the world, this sad reality, in the same way that parents 
 relate the .,..ory of the wolf to unreasonable children ? She 
 would never forget the - Iiock and the grief of this first 
 experience of a bittti disappointment. Yet, however, she 
 aheady excused felickn. He had told no falsehood; he 
 simply had been siUnt. Were his father to wish him to 
 marry this young girl, oo doubt he would refuse to do so. 
 But as yet he had not dared to rebel. As he bad not said 
 anything to her of the matter, perhaps it was because he 
 had just made up his mind as t > what it was best for him 
 tP do. Before this sudden vi#insning away of her '^\v 
 
i6o 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 M 
 
 
 castles, pale and \vt ak from the rude touch of the actual 
 life, she still kept her faith and trusted, in spite of aW, in 
 .the future realisation of her dream. Eventually the lair 
 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 that 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 
 every one near her had been so generous and so tender 
 towards her ? iShe prayed that she might be able to have 
 the wisdom ot Catherine, the meekness of Elizabeth, the 
 chastity of Agne& . and re-comforted by the aid of the 
 saints, she was sure they alone would help her to triumph 
 over every trouble. Was it not true that her old friend 
 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. 
 
 *• 1 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 irms as she thanked her for her 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 I6l 
 
 obedience. Oh ! what a dreadful thing it was, when wish- 
 ing to do good to the child she 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 r.aid : 
 
 " \ i>u 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 her promise, slmt herself up, and 
 made no attempt whatever to see Felicien. This did not 
 seem to depress her at all, but she kej)t h«>r bright, youthful 
 look, smiling sweetly at Hubertine when occasionally she 
 saw her eyes fixed upon her .1- 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 )bstacles everything would come out all right in the 
 end. In fact, it was this feeling of certainty that gave her 
 such an air ot rage, of haughty rectitude and of justice. 
 
 Hubert from iime to time scolded her. 
 
 '* You are overdoing, my dear ; you are really growing 
 pale. I hope, at least, that you sleep well at night ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, father! like a log! Never m my life did I 
 feel better than now." 
 
 But Hubertine becommp anxious in her turn, proposed 
 that they should take a littlt vacation, and said : 
 
 ♦' If you would likt it. ny child, we will shut up the 
 house, and we will go ail t ee of us to Paris for awhile." 
 
 "Oh! mother mine, ot 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." 
 
t62 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 
 In reality, Angelique simply awaited a miracle, some 
 manifestation of the Invisible which woiikl 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 indiffer- 
 ence, 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 embroider} 
 frame, not far from the open window, she lost not a trem- 
 bling of the leaves, nor 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 oi ^;aming the hoped for victory. But days 
 passed and no change came. 
 
 At night, that she nted 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 scarce!}- stirred but seemed to sleep, she 
 ventured out and began .»> question the dark shadows as 
 before. 
 
 From whence wouid the miracle come ? Without doubt 
 in the Bishop's garden would be seen a flaming hand which 
 wouid beckon to her t > 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 lell her that Monseigneur wished to see her. 
 The only thmg at which she wondered was the slowness of 
 
^ 
 
 tllE DkKAM. 163 
 
 che working of the marvel. Like the day, the nights suc- 
 ceeded nights, yet nothing, nothing mini tested 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. How- 
 ever, 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 eml)roid- 
 erer'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 longtime, with moistened 
 eyes, touched by such courage. During the past fortnight 
 not one word had been exchanged between them in refer- 
 ence 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 
 ii 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 knov/ 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 h m also promise that he would keep away from them, 
 until lie had the full authorization of Monseigneur to do 
 
164 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 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, rath(M 
 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 Ahh6 
 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 tears, and she was astonished 
 to see her daughter re-seat herself tranquilly, although shr 
 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 
 of the boiler. 
 
 " Mother, dear, the end has not yet come. Tell me 
 everything, I beg of you 1 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 that which Hubertine 
 thought best to tell her of what she had learned from the 
 Abb^, keeping back only certain details of the life which 
 was as yet an unknown thing to this innocent child. 
 
 ! 
 
 hi 
 
THE PREAM. 
 
 I6' 
 
 CHAPTER XTIT. 
 
 Since the return of his son to him Monsei^ncur'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 o< 
 the mother, was also an act of prudence. He realif it 
 doubly now, and regretted that he had changed his deter- 
 mination of not seeing him again. Age, twenty years of 
 prayer, his life as clergyman, had not subdued the unre- 
 generate 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 ha4 spoken of all 
 this to Hubertine in a low voice and with tremi)ling 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 re-appeared 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 hair- 
 cloth, 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 
 
 i 
 
i66 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 very yoiiiif^ he had first met her and loved her with the 
 devoted affection of maturity. The torture then recom- 
 menced 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 ♦^he break of day, when quite 
 exhausted by contempt of himself and disgust of all the 
 world. Oh ! this passion, this old Adam that he wished to 
 crush in order to re-enter with humility into the sweet 
 peace of 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 givmg 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 the single word, "Never I " 
 Then Felicien threw himself on his knees before him, im- 
 plored him, and pleaded his cause as well as that of Angel- 
 ique, 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 feis saintly personage. With a submissive 
 voice he offered to go away, no matter where ; to leave all 
 bis great fortune to the Church, and to tz^ke his wife sq far 
 
■^ 
 
 THE DREANt. 
 
 167 
 
 ith the 
 recom- 
 death ; 
 I revolt 
 unable 
 I quite 
 all the 
 shed to 
 J sweet 
 s room 
 )resFlon 
 ly pale. 
 >sion he 
 himself 
 uivered, 
 neasure 
 1 so like 
 longer 
 ird duty 
 30 much 
 child as 
 :y ended 
 a poor 
 irst seen 
 ired into 
 fervent 
 ment he 
 ith such 
 empts at 
 his lips. 
 Never 1" 
 him, im- 
 )f Angel- 
 :h which 
 then he 
 him not 
 o lift his 
 bmissive 
 leave all 
 
 ife SQ far 
 
 from there that they would never be seen again. He only 
 wished to love and be loved, unknown. Monscigneur 
 shook from trembling, as lie 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 sacri- 
 lege of an open revolt against paternal authority. 
 
 *• My child," concluded Hubertine, '* you can easily 
 understand that you must no longer think of tliis young 
 man, for you certainly would not wish to act in opposition 
 to the wishes of Monsei^neur. I knew that beforehand, 
 but I preferred that the facts should speak for tlieinselves 
 and that no obstacle should appear to come from nie." 
 
 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 de^ribed — Felicien at the feet of Mon- 
 seigneur, 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 at lier 
 hands, which, under the lamplight, seemed as if made of. 
 beautiful ivory. Then, while the smile of perfeci ;o 'ul- 
 ence 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 favour 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 obsignate 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, throu:^h him, and by him that the expected 
 
1 68 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 'ii '1 
 
 
 iU^ 
 
 ■ s 
 
 i 
 
 
 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 sliadows, ad- 
 vised her to do. But there was only an indislinct lium- 
 ming, and nothing precise came to her. It seemed, how- 
 ever, 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 appeared not only 
 quite natural but necessary. It was ir.genuous and brave ; 
 born of a proud and great purity. 
 
 She knew that at five o'clock ou every Saturday after- 
 noon Monseigneur went to kneel in the Chapel Hautec(eur, 
 v;here he liked to pray alone, giving himself up entire ly 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 is a Saturday. She quickly 
 came to a decision. At the Bisht)p's Palace, not only 
 would she be apt to find it difficult to be received there, 
 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 nad no 
 impatient fever of expectation. When it was four o'clock 
 she spoke of going to see the mh-e 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 
 
 ioseph was still occupied by a penitent, the edge of whose 
 lack dress was just seen as one passed. Angelique, who 
 had been perfectly self-possessed until now, began to trem- 
 ble 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 
 
THE DRKAM. 
 
 169 
 
 she was quite stron^^ and the day liad passtul must peace- 
 fully — she was so sure of being ritrht in her desire to be 
 happy. But now that she was ignorant of what might 
 liappen she turned pale as if guilty, quite fri^Oitencd at 
 thinking that she was to see Monseigneur, and that in 
 truth she had come there expressly to speak to him. She 
 went qui(" V to the Chap( 1 Hautecuiur, where she was 
 obliged to remain leaning aj^Minsl the gate. 
 
 This chapel was one of tiie most sunken and dark of 
 the old Romanesque apse. Like a cave hewn in a rcrk, 
 straight and bare, with the simple nerves of its !ow vaultt-d 
 ceiling, it had but one window, that of stained glass, on 
 which was the legend of Si. George, and in who: • panes 
 the red and blue so predominated that they made t 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 witli com 
 memorative tablets, a collection from top to bottom of 
 stones crumbling from age, o'n which the deeply cut inscrip- 
 tions could still be read. 
 
 Almost stifled, Angelique waited, motionless. A be. idle 
 passed, who did not even see her, so closely )iad 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 endcfl by deciphering. Cer- 
 tai' lames struck her, calling back to her memory the 
 ..•■■(^'.ds of the Chateau d'Hautecouir, of Jean V. le Grand, 
 of^Raoul III., and of Herv^ 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 ir. the war. 
 They both of them came back at night and enveloped the 
 Castle with their immense flowing white robes. Had sl'.e 
 not seen them herself the day of their visit to the rum.-, as 
 
'- 
 
 m 
 
 n 
 
 ) 
 
 170 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 they floated towards evening above the towers in the rosy 
 pallor of the dusk ? Ah ! how willingly she would die as 
 they Hid, althoufjjh 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 v/ho came out from the 
 confessional of St. 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 
 absohitely 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 fulfill 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, noble man by whom she was so 
 tenderly loved. She suddenly became filled with pride 
 and fear. Was it possible tliat 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 
 road. Norbert Louis Ogier, Marquis d'Hautecoeur, Prince 
 of Mirande and of Rouvres, Count of Ferrieres, of Montagu 
 and of Saint Mare, and also of Villemareuil, Chevalier ol 
 the four Royal Orders of Saint Esprit, Saint Michael, 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 grand- 
 father, and yet she had come, so simple, with her working 
 dress and her fingers worn by the needle, in hopes ol 
 marrying the grandson of this dead dignitary I 
 
 There was a slight sound, scarcely a rustling on the 
 flag-stones. She tun ed and saw Monseigneur, and re- 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 171 
 
 mained motujiilcss at tliis silent approach without the 
 pomp and surrcnnidings she had vaj^uely expected. He 
 entered into the Chapel, tall, erect, and noble-looking, 
 dressed in purple, with his pale face, his rather lar^e rjose, 
 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 hini at his feet. 
 
 • With trembling limbs, overcome by respect and fear. 
 Angelique had fallen upon her knees. He sceniod to lui 
 at tins moment like the Eternal Father, terrible in aspect 
 p.iid absolute master of her des*my. JJut her heart wa> 
 still courageous, and she spoke at once. 
 
 " Oh, Monseigneur, 1 have conu. ' 
 
 As for the Bishop, he had risen immediately. He had 
 a vague recollection of her; the youDg girl, seen first at 
 her window on the day of the processit>n, 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 stifT. 
 
 " Oh I Monseigneur, I have come on purpose that you 
 may see me. You have, it is true, refiised to accept me, 
 but you do not know me. And now, here I am. Please 
 look at me before you repel me again. 1 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. Sou 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 
 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 ; 1 only know I love. All 
 my strength and all my pride is centred ni 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 
 
i 
 r. iJ 
 
 [72 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 Hi 
 
 ardent feeling. It was a true affection that thws acknowl- 
 edged itself. She dared to do so because she was innocent 
 and pure. Little by little she raised her head. 
 
 " We iove each otheii) Monseifjneur. 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 preveiit him from giving me his heart. He 
 will die witiiout me, as I shall it 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 on 
 my soul. Our whole natgires are thus closely united for 
 life. And could you wish fo f^raw us away from this union ? 
 Oh 1 Monseigneur, it is divine ; do not try to prevent us 
 loving iach 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 fas- 
 cinated 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 a»Tectioji. 
 
 " Be good, be merciful, Monseigneur. You are the 
 mastei. . . . Do allow us to be happy ! " 
 
 She implored him, and finding that he remained un- 
 moved, without rpeaking, 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 
 nim ! There he saw, as it were again, the beautiful light 
 locks he had so fondly caressed in the days gone by. She, 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 173 
 
 whose memory still distressed liini after twenty years of 
 penitence, had the same fresh youthtnlncss, tlie ;>ame 
 proud expression, and the same lily-iike 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 1 were only desirous of having his 
 money. In a way, it is true it is also for his wealth that 
 I wish to mairy him. I tell you this because it is neces- 
 sary that you should know me thoroughly. All ! 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 were in the oldeii days ; I have on my arms and 
 around my iieck strings of pearls and prer lous stones ; I 
 I have horses and carriages ; groves in which I take long 
 walks, followed by pages. Whenever I think of him my 
 dream conimences, and I say to mys«'lf, ' This must all 
 come to pass, for it perfects my di sire to l)ee(jme a (|ueen.' 
 Is it, then, Monseigneur, a bad thing to love him more. 
 because he can gratify all my childish wishitig, by shower- 
 ing down miraculous floods of gold upon me as in fairy 
 tales?" 
 
 He saw then that she rose up proudly, v;ith a chaim 
 ing, stately air of a true princess, in spite of her real 
 simplicity. And she was always exactly the fair maiden 
 as of other years, with the same (lower-like delicacy, the 
 same tender tears, clear as smiles. A species of intoxica- 
 tion came from her, the warm breath ot 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 
 Bishopric. Until three o'clock in the morning of this 
 same day he had contended with himself again, and this 
 
174 
 
 THK nRf.AM. 
 
 I ''- 
 
 long history of love, this story of passion, would only 
 revive and excite his incurable wound. But behind his 
 impassiveness nothinf^ was seen, nothing betrayed his 
 effort at self-control and his attempt to conquer the beat- 
 ing 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 decid- 
 ing my fate." 
 
 Still, as he continued not to speak, 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 commem- 
 orative 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. 
 
 ** Moriseigneur, 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 witli 
 this child ? He had ilready 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 liim, and seemed to wish 
 to raise herself up that she might i)e 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 liead. 
 
 " Monseigneur ! Monseigneur ! " 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 1/5 
 
 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 dis- 
 appeared behind the pillars of the apse. 
 
 Falling on the flagstones, Angelique wept for a long 
 time, sobbing deeply in the great peaceful silence of th(.' 
 empty church. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 That same evening in the kitchen, after they left the din- 
 ner table, Angelique confessed everything to IIulxTt, tell- 
 ing him of her interview with the Bishop, and of the lat- 
 ter's refusal. She was very pale, but not at all excited. 
 
 Hubert was quite overcome. What? Could it he 
 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 sympath}' 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 pcrliaps 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 occa- 
 sion to put an end at once to all ideas of a marriage which 
 would be impossible? She took the )oung 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 wl>al 
 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 : 
 
 
I) 
 
 176 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 I 
 
 " Without doubt, mother." 
 
 Inclci;d, on the morrow, she seated herself at the work- 
 frame and embroidered as she was wont to do. Slic took 
 up her usual routine of daily work, and diH not appear to 
 suflfer. Moreover, no allusion was made to the past ; she 
 no louf^^er looked from time to time out of the window into 
 the ^artlen, and, gradually losing her pal'iiess, 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 
 Felicicn 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 nuide 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 liim. Their explanatory conversation s ad- 
 dened them l)()lli to an equal degree, so much did the 
 young man appear to sufiler when the embroiderer told 
 him of his daughter's calmness and her air of forgetful- 
 ness. He besought him to be loyal and to go away, that 
 he might not again throw tlt.>e child into the fearful trouble 
 of the last few weeks. 
 
 Felicicn again pledged hunself to be p ^^'-^-ut, but he 
 violently refused to take back his word, fo. a 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, 
 Hul)crtine grew very serious. Then after a short silence 
 she asked : 
 
 " Shall you. tell our daughter what he asked you to say 
 to her ? " 
 
 I outiht to dc so. 
 
THE DKKAM. 
 
 1/7 
 
 She was again silent, but lin.-illy added : 
 
 "Act according to your conscience. Hut he is now 
 under a delusion. Uc will eventually be obliged to 3 ield 
 to his father's wishes, and tlien oni poor, dear littl{> girl 
 will die in conseqn(;nce." 
 
 Hubert, overcome with grief, hesitated. But after 
 contending with himself, In; concluded to repeat nothing. 
 Moreover he became a little reassured each day, when 
 his wife (ailed his attention co Angelique's tranquil 
 appearance. 
 
 " You see well that the wound is healing. She is learn- 
 ing 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 onf-, 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 atiemj)ted to force His 
 will, in intruding upon Monseigueur. 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. 1 ^ich evening at lamp-light 
 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 con- 
 vinced that the power of the unknown is without limit for 
 the triumph of pure souls. 
 
 Just at this time the upholsterer of the Cathedral oruered 
 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 Hautecreurs. It was necessary that the 
 embroidery should be in bas-relief a work which not only 
 required great artistic knowledge, but also needed j^hysical 
 strength to be well done. When j)r(jposed to the Huberts. 
 
i 
 
 178 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 i! 
 
 Ill 
 
 thoy at firGt declined the offer, being not o ly fearful of 
 fatiguing Angelique, but especially dreading tii. t 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 com- 
 mand, 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 work-room, 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 cf 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 separ- 
 ately. In order to perf:ict the most salient points Angelique 
 first took spools of coarse unbk xhed thread, which she 
 re-covered with the strong thread of Brittany in a contrary 
 direction ; and as the need came, inaking use of a heavy 
 j)air 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 tliis 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 diflferent corners, where they end^d 
 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 
 
Till: DREAM. 
 
 i;g 
 
 morning and evening, so ditiicuit was it to sew down the 
 gold, through the tiiickncss 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 io 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 toward seeking him, it seemed to her that 
 he ought to have tried every possible way to come to h(.'r. 
 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 nu>rrow. Until now she had nev( r rebelled. Still, at 
 times, she lifted up her head inquiringly, as if asking 
 " What ! has nothing yet come to pass ?" And then she 
 pricketl her finger so deeply that her h.ind 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 
 out-door life in the broad sunlight. The Mere Gabet, not' 
 free from her rheumatism, was able to help at 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 ("^hevrotte, the water of which as it passed under 
 the willows, was almost ic}- 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 (?lms, the old 
 ruined mill, the wild herbs, and all those fnentlly surround- 
 ings, so filled with pleasant memories. Was it not there 
 she had become acquainted with FeliciiMi, \vh«) under the 
 moonlight had at first seemed so myslenous a being, and 
 
 ^f 
 
 i i 
 
 i-t 
 
\i 
 
 1 80 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 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 
 slie could not refrain from glancing at the gateway of the 
 Bishop's garden, which until recently had be«m 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 to the presence of his father? This hopi 
 enchanted 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 
 Angtlique, 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 Mon- 
 seigneur will in the autumn marry Mademoiselle de Voin- 
 court. It seems that everything was decided upon and 
 arranged yesterday." 
 
 She remained on her knees as a flood of confused ideat- 
 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 
 Avas 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 
 motionles;., her eyes fixed upon the little gate, she at last 
 revolted against the facts, feeling as if she must go a id 
 
lorning 
 5 being 
 
 article 
 1 of the 
 iled up. 
 m, and 
 
 it ariil 
 lis hopi 
 
 in the 
 red her. 
 the last 
 iss with 
 ittering 
 :iously : 
 5 marrv 
 
 a sheet, 
 : all at 
 
 f Mon- 
 e Voin- 
 on and 
 
 id ideab^^ 
 
 was in 
 ws, and 
 already 
 
 for it. 
 
 as that 
 loment, 
 r to the 
 
 mbling 
 ;t yield 
 did not 
 idored. 
 )ssible ; 
 is sense 
 . Still 
 
 at last 
 go a id 
 
 TIIK l)kEAM. 
 
 I8i 
 
 shake tlic bars, force tiuMn open with her hands, run to 
 Felicien and, aiding him by her own courage, pirsuade 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 Mademoisiille 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 ; slie 
 would break her promise of not seeing him as if it were a 
 troublesome object. What right had anyone to separate 
 them in this way ? Everything spoke to her of their affec- 
 tion — the Cathedral, the fresh water, and ^^he old elm trees 
 under which they had been so happy. Sine > their affec- 
 tion had grown on this spot, it was there that she wished 
 to find him again, to go with iiim arm in rirm, so far that 
 no one would ever see them. 
 
 *• That is all," said at last the Mere Gabet, as slie 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 flap- 
 ping of the sheets and table cloths, they unfolded so in- 
 genuously the secrets of their lives to each other. Why had 
 he discontinued his visits to her ? Why had he not i.ome 
 to meet her during her healthy exercise of the past tnree 
 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 hnen, all white herself from the blinding re- 
 flection of the sun ; and a confused sentiment awoke m her 
 
M^ 
 
 I ; 
 
 u 
 m 
 
 182 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 breast, wliicli, 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 overflowing with linen, white as snow, and smel- 
 ling fresh and clean, she cast an anxious look towards the 
 Clos-Marie, already bathed in the twiligiit, 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 the] 
 wished, even to preserved fruits But the Lemballeuse& 
 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 xakmg to the 
 grandmother some chemises promised her the previous 
 evening, she saw from a distance, in the midst of the poor 
 Camily, Madanie 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 cliilled 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 
 
THE DKKAM. 
 
 ■83 
 
 received fiMtn the liandsf^inu ^•r<!ltl^ gentleman and two 
 ladii s. Then she abauJuiicd her poor people, wlio seemed 
 no longer to have ■ Imms upon her, :-;iiice Fehcien had 
 taken tht'in and given tlieni to his new f'-iends. Slie gave 
 up her walks for fear she miglit see them, and tluis be so 
 deeply wounded that her sutferings would be increased 
 ten-fold. She felt as if something were dving within her, 
 as if little by little her very life was pjssing away. 
 
 One evening, after one of these meetings. \- hen alone 
 in her chamber, stifling from anguish, she utteied this cry : 
 
 •* But he loves me no longer." 
 
 She saw before her, mentally, ( .aire de V. incourt, tall, 
 beautiful, with her crown of black hair, and lit was at Ikt 
 side, slight, proud and handsome. Were they not really 
 created for each other, of the same race, so wl' mated 
 that one might think they were already married ? 
 
 *' He no longer loves me ! Oh ! he no lungtT loves 
 me ! 
 
 This :xrlamation broke from her lips as if it wi*re the 
 ruin of all her hopes, and her faith once shaken, everything 
 gave way withonl lier being able to examine the farts of 
 the case )V to regard them calmly. The previous ev ning 
 she believed in something, but that had now passed b}-. A 
 breaih, coming from she knew not where, had been ; utH- 
 cient, and all at on. c by a single blow she had fallen 'nto 
 the greatest despair that of thinking she was not beloveil. 
 He had indeeil spoken wisely when he told her once that 
 this was the oniy grief, the one insupportable torture. No v, 
 her turn had come. Until then she had been resigned, si e 
 felt so strong and confident as she awaited the mirack. 
 But her strength passed away with her faith ; she wa;; 
 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 asharned to acknowledge to 
 
 •a. 
 
 ( ■: 
 

 IMAGE EVALUATION 
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 Photographic 
 
 Sdences 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WF^I MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. t4S80 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
 '4^ 
 

1 84 
 
 THE DKKAM. 
 
 ;5< 
 
 Ji ; 
 
 ■I 
 
 M^' 
 
 i1 
 
 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 
 tliese armoria] bearings, as they grew thread by thread 
 under her fi.igers, filled her with a terrible sorrow. Quar- 
 iv.red one and four, two and three, of Jerusalem and 
 (iHautecoeur : of Jerusalem, which is argent, a cross 
 potence, or betwc en four cross crosslets of the last : and 
 d'HauteccEur, azure, on a castle, or, a shield, sabre, 
 charged with a human heart argent : the whole accom- 
 panied by three fieurs de lys, or, two at the top and one in 
 the point. The enamels were made of twist, the metals ol 
 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 em- 
 broidered the motto of the family, " Si Dieu veiilt, je veux^"' 
 in black silk on a streamer of silvjr, she realised that she 
 was his slave, and that 'lever 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 ; aud 
 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, 
 xery 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 re-saw 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 calcu- 
 lated the most favourable hour for forcing open the gate of 
 
THE dri:am. 
 
 185 
 
 in spite 
 a week 
 thread 
 Quar- 
 m and 
 cross 
 5t : and 
 sabre, 
 accom- 
 one in 
 tals of 
 !el that 
 head to 
 all this 
 him in 
 he em- 
 veuxy"- 
 )at she 
 m him. 
 nically 
 
 ved in 
 ch she 
 ;ien, to 
 < ; aud 
 lought 
 silence 
 . She 
 eality, 
 t child 
 longer 
 cation 
 :o her 
 irdent 
 colts, 
 11 the 
 
 been 
 
 only 
 ^alcu- 
 ite of 
 
 the Bisliop's garden. But already .ilso, the agony, the 
 grave uneasiness, the torment of a doubt had come back 
 to her. Were she to yield to evil she would saiTer eternal 
 remorse in consequence. Hours, most abominabl- hours, 
 passed in this uncertainty as to what part she should take 
 under this tempestuous wind, which constantly threw h.i 
 from the revolt of her love to the horror of a fuult. And 
 she came out of the contest weakened by each victor\ 
 over her heart. 
 
 One evening as she was about leaving the house to ^^v 
 to join Felicien, she suddenly thou.c^ht of her little book 
 from the Society of Aid to Abandoned Childien. She was 
 so distressed to find that she no longer h.ad strength to 
 resist her pride. She took it from the depths of the chest 
 of drawers, turned o\-er its leaves, whispered to herself ;u 
 each page the lowness of her birth, so eager v/as she in her 
 need of humility. Father and mother unknown ; no name ; 
 nothing but a date and a number; a CQjiRplete neglect, like 
 that of a wild plant that grows by the roadside ! Then 
 crowds of memories came to her. The rich pastures oi 
 the Mifevre and the cows she had watched there ; the flat 
 route of Soulanges, where she had so often walked bare 
 footed; and Maman Nini, who boxed her ears when sh( 
 stole apples. Certain pages specially attracted her b) 
 their painful associations. Those which certified every 
 three months to the visits of the under-inspector and of 
 the physician, whose signatures were sometimes accom- 
 panied by observations, or information, as, for instance, a 
 severe illness during which she had alriost 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 01 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 
 
ig6 
 
 rut DRfiAM. 
 
 I ! 
 
 I. I 
 
 
 of slavery, anH tried several times to break it with hei 
 little hands, without any fear as to the consequences of 
 doing so. Then, when older, she complained that it 
 choked her. For a ycRV 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 round her neck this collar, as if she were 
 an animal that was marked in order that she might be 
 recof^nised 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, not- 
 withstanding 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 darkness. She sat upright, dis- 
 tracted ; 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 Feli- 
 cien, she was eagei to dress herself and go to join him, 
 before any one could come to prevent her frcm 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 
 
tHE DREAM. 
 
 187 
 
 
 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 the sepulchre. She was in agony at her power- 
 lessness, disarmed, like a'Christian of the Primitive Church 
 overcome by original sin, as soon as the aid of the super- 
 natural 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 sources, 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 lier 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 fftor 
 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 Lege.id 
 came out from the trees and the stones, and crowded 
 around her. Her purity, her goodness, all thirt 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 v/ith the wandering, 
 gentle Virgins, and in the air she breathed was a sweet 
 calmness, v/hich, 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 with 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 
 
I 
 
 ' t 
 
 1 88 
 
 THE DREAiM. 
 
 
 ■A' ' 
 
 ll 
 
 IH 
 
 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 dis- 
 appearing by slow degrees, an obliteratmg of her physique 
 from its immaterial beauty. Her form floated like the 
 swa^ang 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 per- 
 sisted 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 
 i>bliged 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 av/ay. She had at last succumbed before 
 her task ; one of the great golden angels being still unfin- 
 ished. 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 ? " 
 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 189 
 
 She made no answer, but simply looked at him witli 
 intense sadness. Then he embraced her f^ently, 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 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 ; 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, over- 
 come 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 up 
 stairs 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 
 FeHcien 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." 
 

 i' 
 
 m 
 
 190 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 He had approached his wife, and he dared to cry ou' 
 in the revoh of his tenderness, being doubly irritated b} 
 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, s^ jke slowly : 
 
 " You are wilHng 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 1 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 m 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 
 had demanded were ever granted them they would be cog- 
 nisant 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 first-born, 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 ari anxious look* 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 191 
 
 » 
 
 ** But there wai ;thing— no ! no sound came up to me 
 from the earth, and within mc 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 follow- 
 ing 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 con- 
 soled him, this time let him sufTer, looking at him as she 
 stood near, but making no sign taking no step towards 
 him. He wept biilerly ; 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 daugh- 
 ter would die from grief if matters were not changed. Do 
 you then wish for her death ? " 
 
 *• Yes. Her death now would be preferable to an un- 
 happy life." 
 
 He le/t 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 hir 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 
 
192 
 
 Tllli DREAM. 
 
 I 
 
 consequence, they must accept it submissively, rather than 
 advise her to do wrong. 
 
 From that day Angehque was obHged to keep in her 
 room. Her weakness increased so rapidly and to such a 
 degree that she could no longer go down to the work room. 
 Did she attempt to walk, her head became dizzy at once 
 and her limbs bent under her. At first, by the aid of t'ne 
 furniture, she was able to get to the balcony. Later, she 
 was obliged to content herself with going from her arm- 
 chair 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 m?king 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 con- 
 suming 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 convic- 
 tion ; 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 1 I am sure of being good now, and not trying to 
 run away." 
 
 Hubert hastened to go downstairs, that she iright not 
 see his tears. 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 19.3 
 
 ;r than 
 
 in her 
 such a 
 : room, 
 it once 
 
 of the 
 ter, she 
 er arm- 
 
 to her, 
 ihe was 
 
 iroidery 
 ing use 
 , from a 
 ving no 
 t was in 
 rest for 
 for even 
 o days 
 ^ht as it 
 life, and 
 oftened 
 as con- 
 )ure and 
 
 iFelicien 
 
 convic- 
 
 perhaps 
 
 itrength 
 
 1th, and 
 
 But 
 
 herself 
 
 ky chair. 
 Feet, she 
 
 Irying to 
 
 ight not 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 It was imposs'ble 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 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 autunm was some- 
 what rainy, but of a mild dampness ; so the air was pleasant 
 to breathe. Sh,e sank back into her great arm chair, 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 bed clothes, yielded almost 
 immediately to slccp, 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 
 
194 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 of old carved oak. Minutes passed ; her slumber v as 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 was dis- 
 tressed. When he saw her reclining in the easy chair, 
 pitiable, and yet so beautifulto 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 unhap- 
 piness that Y d caused her to be so weak, and to have 
 wasted away 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 asd distressed ; the violent 
 shock rendered him incapable of moving, and with haods 
 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." 
 
TIIK DREAM. 
 
 19$ 
 
 s deep 
 
 ildenly 
 lerself, 
 as dis- 
 chair, 
 it once 
 infinite 
 before 
 espair. . 
 unhap- 
 o have 
 to him 
 ich the 
 ip, her 
 y seen, 
 lily-like 
 rooping 
 at of a 
 requisite 
 re soul 
 le had 
 n their 
 violent 
 haods 
 as he 
 
 n must 
 ice she 
 
 in her 
 vision. 
 
 he was 
 awake, 
 trouble 
 realised 
 
 were ill 
 :e I am 
 
 She straipfhtencd herself up quickly. She shuddered, 
 as with 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 sho 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 likea mere shadow in his arms. In 
 the enchantment of her surprise she remained half para- 
 lysed, 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 grati- 
 fied. I longed to see you before death came." k 
 
 He lifted up his head, as with a despairing movement, 
 and he 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 
 
(.1 
 
 196 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 could easily fall asleep in this way, while Icaninpf on yo»;r 
 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 ^ou 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 her- 
 self as if just awaking from sleep. In the midst of this 
 great felicity which had appeased h«r, she had now had 
 time for reflection. The true facts of the ■ ase astonished her. 
 
 " You have loved me, yet why did you not at once come 
 to see me ? " 
 
 *' Your parents said that you cared lor me no longer. I 
 also nearly died when Icctrning 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 per- 
 sonally, and to have acted with you " 
 
 There was a short silence. Angelique sat erect for an 
 mstant as if she had received a blow, and her expression 
 grew cold and hard, and her forehead was cut by an angry 
 wrinkly 
 
 " So we have both of us been deceived. Falsehoods 
 have been told in order to separate us from each other. 
 Notwithstandmg our mutual love, we have been tortured 
 to such a degree that they hive 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." 
 
THE DPEAM. 
 
 197 
 
 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 gained her strength miraculously 
 in the re-awakening 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 their love, but that it was other persons 
 who had been the guilty ones, was a comfort. This growth 
 of herself, this at last ctrtam 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 delight- 
 ful indeed it would be to go away togeth ", 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 in- 
 creased. 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 
 tho!ight she had succeeded in doing so. But it was of nu 
 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. 
 
198 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 " Let me see, what ought I to take ? Oh ! how foolish 
 I have fceen with all my childish scruples, when I think that 
 others have lowered themselves so much, as ♦=»ven 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 oiie 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 happi- 
 ness 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 rnyself 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 reahtv ? " 
 
 lie, 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 loci< at the chamber. The lamp was burning 
 with the same s ft light, the bouquet of hydrangeas and 
 hollyhocks wa§ blooming as ever, aijd in her work frame, 
 
 
THE DREAAl. 
 
 m 
 
 olish 
 :that 
 ell us 
 ^ould 
 
 take 
 A^hat 
 n my 
 ther : 
 I ono 
 ers, it 
 Dods ; 
 lappi- 
 
 obey 
 :ation 
 
 ■; my 
 y and 
 
 ditary 
 
 [ died 
 
 1 She 
 
 prince 
 
 queen 
 
 follow 
 
 I upon 
 
 gthat 
 
 alone 
 
 lo the 
 
 each 
 d be! 
 
 good 
 
 lat the 
 
 go at 
 
 [ishing 
 irning 
 IS and 
 frame, 
 
 the unfinished rose, bright and natural as life, seemed to be 
 waiting for 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 hea\ ily against the back of a chair thsft 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 covld 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 uack ? 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 con- 
 
200 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 ■'it 
 
 ;l 
 
 test 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 fresh- 
 ness ; and when the daj' dawns we will continue our route 
 in the sunshine, as we go still further on, until we r^ach 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'Hautecceur, and we 
 will pass the rest of our lives there. That is my ideal 
 dream. If it is necessary, we will spend willingly ail our 
 fortune therein. Once more shall its donjon overlook from 
 its height the two valleys. We will make our home m the 
 Pavilion d'Honneur, between the tower of David and the 
 tower of Charlemagne, The colossal edifice shall be re- 
 stored as in the days of its primitive power ; the galleries, 
 the dwellings, the chapels shall appear in the same bar- 
 baric luxury as before. And I shall wish for us to lead the 
 life of olden times ; you . a Princess and I a Prince, sur- 
 rounded 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 draw-bridge 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 20 1 
 
 >» 
 
 will be lowered for us. In the evening, Kings will dine at 
 our table. At night, our couch will be on a platform sur- 
 mounted by a canopy like a throne. While we slieep 
 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 move- 
 ment 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 rebeUion, 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 seeme 
 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 
 
202 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 to you, you will be obliged to go away. Yet wait — wait a 
 little longer ! " 
 
 t 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 ; Kut 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 p.s 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 per- 
 son by invisible ties. Especially the walls of the room, 
 the great 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 entereid into her. 
 And she realised this fact stronger than ever when she 
 found herself opposite her working frame, which was rest- 
 ing at the side of the table under the lamp light. 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 tempta- 
 tions, had, as it were, made over all the blood in her veins. 
 
 Then Felicien, realising that in some inexplicable way 
 Angelique was being re-conquered and brought to her bet- 
 ter 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.'* 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 203 
 
 She looked at him an instant and then in a flash real- 
 ised 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 heai't 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. Awhile 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 
 
204 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 threshold of the f?reat 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 direc- 
 tions, and never have they been so distinct as at this 
 moment. Hear ! it is the whole Clos-Marie that encour- 
 ages 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 withm 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 horizor 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 tri- 
 umphs. 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 ecstacy 
 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 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 205 
 
 still 
 
 came from the old book with its quaint pictures, that was 
 placed on the Httle 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 ar^ 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 sur- 
 roundings, 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 false- 
 hoods have been resorted to in order to separate us !" 
 
 •* The faults of others will not excuse our own " 
 
206 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 " 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 yi«ld. 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 tor- 
 ture to be spared her ? She could not restrain from this 
 heart-broken 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 reas- 
 sured of your affection, all my martyrdom recommences; 
 and how can you expect me to live now ?" 
 
 Felicien, now aware of the depth of her despair, and 
 thinking that she had yielded simply to a momentary feel- 
 ing, 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 sloyly 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 1 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. 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 207 
 
 love 
 
 When he was no lont;jer there, Angclique, leaning 
 against the back ot her arm chair, 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, aiul 
 everything in the chamber was of a triumphal whiteness. 
 
 
 I 
 
208 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. • > 
 
 ANGKLiyuK was dying. 
 
 It was ten o'clock one cold morning towards the end ot 
 the winter, and all was sharp, and the clear heavens were 
 brightened up by the beautiful sunshine. In her great 
 royal bed, drapeci 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, any one 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. To- 
 wards 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 Ahh6, 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 fight and the left 
 of the crucifix, two large wax tapers w^e burning in the 
 silver candelabrum which had been brought up from the par- 
 lour, and there were also there the consecrated waters, the 
 asperges brush, a ewer of water with its basin and a nap- 
 
TBIE DKKAM. 
 
 209 
 
 kin, and two i)lales of vvliiie porcelain, one of which was 
 filled with long bits of cotton and the ()th( r 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 shimmer- 
 ing of white lace. And in the midst of this intense white- 
 ness, 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 ne.cessary that this should 
 be the end. If they had ever wished for this death, pre- 
 ferring 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, refus- 
 ing 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 mechan- 
 ically 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 cer- 
 tainly be the Abbd 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. 
 
210 
 
 Till': DRLAM. 
 
 Two minutes later, the narrow stairway of the little 
 tower was filled with a ^reat murmurinf^ sound. Then in 
 the warm chamber, Hubert struck with astonishment sud- 
 denly 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 
 Monseignour who entered. Yes ! Monseigneur, in lace 
 surplice, having the violet stole, and carrying the silver 
 vessel in whiclf was the pil for the sick, which he himself 
 iiad blessed on Holy Thursday. His eagle-like eyes were 
 fixed, as he looked straight before him, his beautiful pale 
 face was really maj(\stic, under the thick, curly masses of 
 his v/hite hair. Behind him walked the Abbe Cornille, like 
 a simple clerk, carrying in one hand a crucifix, and under 
 the otiier arm a book of ritual service. 
 
 Standing for a moment upon the threshold, the Bishop 
 said in a deep, grave voice : 
 
 " Pax huic domui." '' 
 
 " Et omnibus liabitantibus in ea, "t replied the priest in 
 a lower tone. 
 
 When they had entered, Hubertine, who had come up 
 tlie stairs after them, slie 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 terri'iUe and dreaded explanation with his 
 father. Early in the morning of that same day he had '. 
 forced 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 stilled, 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 
 
 * " Peace be to this house." 
 
 f " And to all the inhabitants thereof." 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 211 
 
 his devotional chair, and with checks ^'rowing purple by 
 degrees, he listened silently as he stood tliere in his proud 
 obstinacy. The young man, with face equally iiiilanied, 
 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. lie told 
 him that in a pressing moment oi 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, becaus'^ she had been unwilling to accept him unless 
 when offered to her by the hantl 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 lierself in order to do her duty. Now, 
 after such a proof of her goodness, could he permit her to 
 sufifier 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 to- 
 gether, 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 happi- 
 ness 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 supplicat- 
 ing, 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 Fehcien, absolutely raving in his rebellion, lost 
 all control over himself. • 
 
212 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 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 v/ho wished to live ? But he might well 
 do all he could to become cold in the renunciations de- 
 manded 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 m 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, shud- 
 dering 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 him- 
 self 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 weak- 
 nesses of the flesh. This young woman, and his beloved 
 dead, who was constantly coming back to life, lie adored 
 her now, as he did the first evening when he kissed her 
 white feet ; and this son, he idolized him as belonging to 
 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 hei again ; she passed before him, so 
 
THE DRI'AM. 
 
 213 
 
 V 
 
 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 idolized women, the one for whom his spn 
 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 any one come out he almost fainted 
 with 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 ot doubt and anger. What should he do ? 
 In what way could he force Heaven to come to his assist- 
 ance ? He went away, hastened to tlie Bishop's palace, 
 the doors of which he again forced open, and before his in- 
 coherent words his father was for a moment frightened. 
 At last he understood. . . . Angelique was dying 1 
 
214 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 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, un- 
 natural 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 ^he 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 good will of the hoped for miracle. Hence- 
 forth, 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 
 Ahh6 Cornille. He accompanied them, almost staggering ; 
 he did not dare to enter into the chamber, but he 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 habitantibu.s in ed," the priest replied. 
 
 Monseigneur had just placed on the white table, be- 
 tween 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 Abbd the crucifix, and ap- 
 proached 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 stiflf 
 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 waifed. 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 re- 
 demption of her sins. 
 
 The Abbd then gave to Monseigneur*the vessel of holy 
 
A ■■•» 
 
 THE' DREAM. 
 
 215 
 
 water and the asperges brush, and while he held open be- 
 fore him the ritual book, he threw the holy water upon the 
 dying girl, as he read the Latin words, Asperges me, 
 Doinine, hyssopo et mundabor : lavahis me, et super nivem 
 dealbabor. 
 
 The drops sprung 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 fiying 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 d)'ing. 
 
 Going again towards the table, Monseigneur repeated 
 the prayer, '* Exaudi nos." 
 
 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, with- 
 
\ ' 
 
 2l6 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 out 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 thie 
 end all that was necessary for him -to say ; while she 
 scarcely breathed, nor did one of her closed eyelids move. 
 When he said : 
 
 " Recite the Creed." :-n 
 
 After having waited awhile, he repeated it himself : ' ^ 
 
 *' Credo in unuin Deum, Patrem omnipotentem." 
 
 " Amen," replied the Ahb6 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 Ahh6 poured out from the ewer. At 
 lei jth 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 efiicacy 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 for- 
 gotten 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 
 stdte of surprise and expectation. Where could all these 
 
 a 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 217 
 
 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 emo- 
 tion, 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 Dominus quidquid per visum 
 deliquisti." 
 
 And the sins of the sight were redeemed ; lascivious 
 looks, immodest curiosity, the pride of spectacles, un- 
 wholesome readings, tears shed for guilty tioubles. 
 
 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 Abb(? 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 audi- 
 tum deliquisti." 
 
 So all the abominations of hearing were atoned for : 
 
2lS 
 
 tHE DREAM. 
 
 all the words and music which corrupt, the slanders, the 
 calumnies, the blasphemies, the sinful propositions, listened 
 o with complacency, the falsehoods of love which aided 
 ihe 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 the carman as he whips his horses. The 
 only music tliat 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 Abb^, 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 puri- 
 fied by touching them with the sacred oil and making on 
 them the sign of the cross. 
 
 '' Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam mis- 
 ericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per odoratum 
 deliquisti." 
 
 And the sense of smell returned to its primitive inno- 
 cence, cleansed from all stain : not only from the carnal 
 disgrace of perfumes, from the seduction of flowers with 
 breath too sweet, from the scattered fragrancies 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 fever- 
 ish sweetness of hyacinths, and was only at ease with the 
 scentless blossoms, like the marguerites and the peri- 
 winkles. 
 
 Once more the Abbd, with the cotton, dried the anointed 
 parts, and slipped the little tuft into another of the cornets. 
 
 Then Monseigneur, descending to the closed mouth, 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 219 
 
 through which the faint breath was nSw scarcely per 
 ceptible, made upon the lower lip the sign of the cross. 
 
 " Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suarn piissimam niis- 
 ericordiam, 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, fhe 
 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 Abb^ 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 pussimam mis- 
 ericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per tactum 
 deliquisti." 
 
 And the whole body was purified, being washed from 
 its last spots — those of the touch, th^ 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 tempt?^d. 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 
 
!20 
 
 THE DREaM. 
 
 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 Abbd 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 sym- 
 bolic taper, to drive away the demons and to show that she 
 had just received her baptismal innocence. But she re- 
 mained 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, with- 
 out 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 Hfe ? 
 
 For the last time, Monseigneur approached the bed, 
 followed by the Abljd 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 
 tlie state of unconsciousness in which she remained, deter- 
 mining 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." 
 
 " Amen," replied the Abbd . 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 221 
 
 But when they en(1(!avoured to open Anj^elique's hand 
 and to press it around 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 fresh- 
 ness 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 werl 
 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 kir»s, smiled upon 
 him. These things were not strange to her, for they cer- 
 tainly 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 Monseigne ir should have come to betroth her to 
 Felicien,* since the hour for that ceremony had arrived. 
 
222 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 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 cccurrere 
 ei cum omnibus Sanctis et vivas in saecula saeculorum." 
 
 •• Amen," replied the Abbd. 
 Angelique had taken the lighted taper and held it up 
 with a firm hand. Life had come back to her, like the 
 tlame 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 delight- 
 ed 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 hy the 
 Divine grace that Heaven had vouchsafed them, ap- 
 proached her, and knelt by the side of the bed. 
 
 "Ah! dear soul, you recogii;se us now, and you v/ill 
 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 1 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, w'^^h a full 
 movement of his hands, through the room, above the heads 
 
TIIK I)RKA\f. 
 
 223 
 
 of all present, the Bishop jjave the final benedictions, while 
 the Huberts and the Abb^ 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 XVn. 
 
 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 
 work-room, 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 v/ere 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 
 
224 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 them after they had restored the old Chateau d' Hautecoeur. 
 Any one, 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 full^ jnderstood 
 tliat the miracle was being continued only for the reahsa- 
 tion 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 soli- 
 tude, 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 W2S 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 house- 
 keeping, far away, in the days to come. 
 
 Towards the end of March, Angelique grew very rest- 
 less 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 
 
THE DRKAM. 
 
 
 SO delicate ? There was no need of beinjjf in such a hurry. 
 She, however, seeniea icverishly 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 any- 
 thing 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 ; lie alone should 
 decide it. That same evening, when the Bishop was there, 
 she explained her desire to him, fixing her oyes 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 Mon- 
 sieur Grandsire, the Justice of the Peace, was cl.arged 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 thor- 
 
226 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 oughly from what a low position he had drawn her, to 
 elevate her in 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 docu- 
 ment, 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 tlian 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 arm- 
 chair, she laughed with delight when the Ahh6 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 Pdre Mascart seated for ever at a 
 table before a princely banquet ; the Chouteaux living in 
 palatial luxury ; the tnere Gabet cured of her rheumatism, 
 and by the aid of money to have renewed her youth. As 
 for the Lemballeuse, the mother and the daughters, she 
 absolutely wished to load them with silk dresses and jewel- 
 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 227 
 
 lery. 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 ^^ouse on the Rue 
 Magloire, at the back of the Bishop's palace, which liad 
 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, diry, and light — an 
 exquisite shimmering of purity. But Angelique had con- 
 stantly 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 .10 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 t'le corbeille, which also was waiting 
 for her — a superb gift from her betrothed, the wedding 
 outfit of fine linen, embroidered with her cipher as mar- 
 chioness, the full-dress costumes tastefully trimmed, the 
 old family jewels valuable as the richest treasures of a 
 cathedral, and the inodern 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 great good 
 future awaited her in her new home, radiant in the reality 
 of the new life that was opening before her. The only 
 
228 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 thing she saw was her wedding dress, which was brought 
 to her on the marriage morning. 
 
 That day, when she awoke, AngeHque, 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 pos- 
 session 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 any- 
 thing, 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 fox the ceremony, 
 the nervous activity of the clergy, and especially the ring- 
 ing 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 in- 
 habitants 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, 
 arid they were touched by the fact of her royal good for- 
 tune. This bright sunHght, 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 Cathe- 
 dral, filling the side aisles of the cliurch, 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 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 229 
 
 blossom, of the most ornamental Gothic, above the severe 
 Romanesque of the foundation. In the towcx the bells 
 still rung, and the whole facade seemed to be like a glorifi- 
 cation 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 ornamenta- 
 tions, 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 step 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 ex- 
 quisite was she, so divinely beautiful with a mystic, spirit- 
 ual 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 pa'nted glass window, with her violet 
 eyes and her golden h iir. 
 
 Two arm-chairs, 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 
 
2 30 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 tlicir daughter-. Hubertine, having gone once more to the 
 cemetery, saddened by the thought of their lonehness, and 
 the httle 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, for- 
 lorn 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 cere- 
 mony ? 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 counten- 
 ance 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 con- 
 nected 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 sur- 
 plices 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 gdass of the win- 
 dows so that they seemed to be a burning of gems, a sacrec^ 
 bursting into blossom of luminous flowers. But the back- 
 ground of the nave particularly blazed with a swarming of 
 wax tapers, tapers as innumerable as the stars of evening 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 231 
 
 les. 
 
 in a summer sky. In the centre, the lU^h Ahar seemed 
 on fire from tbaiii, a true " burning bush," symbohc of the 
 flame that consumes souls ; and there were also candles in 
 large candelabra and in chandeliers, while before the 
 plighted conple, 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 camelias 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 tabern xle among the sombre sur- 
 roundings 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. 
 
 Anr;cli(iue had wished to be married by the good Abbe' 
 Cornille, and when she saw him come forward in his sur- 
 plice, 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 its 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, en- 
 larged as it were in its holy, sacred luxury, by an expansion 
 of happiness. Angelique smiled again in the full know- 
 ledge 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 
 
232 
 
 THE DKKAM. 
 
 most humble, most submissive servant, entirely free from 
 the stain of original sin ; and in her renunciation she was 
 thoroughly content. 
 
 The Abbd Cornille, having mounted to the altar, had 
 just come down again. In a loud voice he made the ex- 
 hortation ; 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 pro- 
 nounced 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 : 
 ** Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, in nomine Patris, et 
 Filii, et Spiritus sancti." But there were still the 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, said, 
 *♦ Benedic, Domine, annulum hunc." 
 
 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 rmg 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 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 233 
 
 the 
 
 them once more, Angehque wore always the sweet expres- 
 sion of renunciation ; she, the pure soul, who knew the truth. 
 
 Then, as the Abbd Cornille withdrew, accompanied by 
 his clerks, the organs again burst forth with peals of joy. 
 Monseigneur, motionless until now, bent toward 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 organ's peals rollecl 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 over- 
 flowing 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 ofliciating clergyman had appeared, dressed in his 
 white chasuble, accompanied by the director of the cere- 
 monies, 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 tl^ 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 
 
234 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 I.ad 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, conducted the censer-bearers to the offi- 
 ciating clergyman, who blessed the incense in the vases. 
 Now there were constantly heard the movements of the 
 censers, 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 gen- 
 eration. 
 
 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 
 
THE DRKAM. 
 
 23S 
 
 md 
 
 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 multi- 
 tude every face was smiling, every heart beat with sympa- 
 thetic 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 orna- 
 ments 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 claimed her. 
 Her weakness was so intense that her husband was obliged 
 to almost carry her. Hpwever, she was still able to look 
 pyleased, as she thought of the princely house, filled with 
 jewels and with queenly toilets, where the nuptial chamber 
 awaited her, all decorated with white silk and lace. Almost 
 suffocated, she was obliged to stop when half way 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 
 
236 
 
 THE DRKA^f. 
 
 liappiness ? Was not it then* that the joy of her !ife, being 
 perfected, was to end ? With a last effort she raised her- 
 self as much as possible, that she might put her lips upon 
 the lips of Felicien. And in that kind 01 love she passed 
 away for ever. 
 
 But her death was without sadness. Monseigneur, with 
 liis habitual movement of pastoral benediction, aided this 
 poor soul to free itself from the frail body. He had re- 
 gained his calmness, and had once more found, in the ful- 
 filment of his sacred calling, the desire 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 lor their beloved dau^c^hter, the dream was 
 to be 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 realisa 
 tion of her fondest dream, taken into the Heavenly \\L 
 from the dark Romanesqi e Chapels with the flamboyant, 
 Gothic vaulted ceiling, fiom 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. 
 
 THE END. 
 
■ 1 I I 
 
 ■'.I 
 
 ' H