Notwithstanding her thoroughly2 cheerful nature, Angelique liked solitude3; and it was to her the greatest of recreations to be alone in her room, morning and evening. There she gave herself up to her thoughts; there she indulged to the full scope in her most joyous4 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 prank5.
The chamber6 was very large, taking in at least half of the upper story, the other half being the garret. It was whitewashed7 everywhere; not only the walls and the beams, but the joists, even to the visible copings of the mansard part of the roof; and in this bare whiteness, the old oaken furniture seemed almost as black as ebony. At the time of the decoration of the sleeping-room below, and the improvements made in the parlour, the ancient furniture, which had been bought at various epochs, had been carried upstairs. There was a great carved chest of the Renaissance8 period, a table and chairs which dated from the reign9 of Louis XIII, an enormous bedstead, style Louis XIV, and a very handsome wardrobe, Louis XV. In the middle of these venerable old things a white porcelain10 stove, and the little toilet-table, covered with a pretty oilcloth, seemed out of place and to mar11 the dull harmony. Curtained with an old-fashioned rose-coloured chintz, on which were bouquets12 of heather, so faded that the colour had become a scarcely perceptible pink, the enormous bedstead preserved above all the majesty14 of its great age.
But what pleased Angelique more than anything else was the little balcony on which the window opened. Of the two original windows, one of them, that at the left, had been closed by simply fastening it with nails, and the balcony, which formerly15 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 railing was firmly attached in place of the old worm-eaten wooden balustrade. This made a charming little corner, a quiet nook under the gable point, the leaden laths of which had been renewed at the beginning 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-basement of little cut stones, its panels ornamented17 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 zinc18. And above, the interduces of the top, which projected three feet or more, were strengthened by large, upright pieces of wood, the ends 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 wallflowers and moss19.
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, darkened by the eternal shade of the evergreen20 box-trees; in the corner nearest the church, a cluster of small lilac-bushes surrounded an old granite21 bench; while in the opposite corner, half hidden by a beautiful ivy22 which covered the whole wall at the end as if with a mantle23, was a little door opening upon the Clos-Marie, a vast, uncultivated field. This Clos-Marie was the old orchard24 of the monks25. A rivulet26 of purest spring-water crossed it, the Chevrotte, where the women who occupied the houses in the neighbourhood had the privilege of washing their linen27; 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 Rue28 Magloire simply by the narrow lane of the Guerdaches, which passed between the high walls of the Bishop29'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 wild grass, planted with poplars and willows30 sown by the wind. Among the great pebbles31 the Chevrotte leaped, singing as it went, and making a continuous music as if of crystal.
Angelique 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 the previous evening. The trees in the little park of the Hotel Voincourt, whose front was on the Grand Rue, were so tufted and bushy that it was only in the winter she could occasionally catch a glimpse of the daughter of the Countess, Mademoiselle Claire, a young girl of her own age.
In the garden of the Bishop was a still more dense32 thickness of branches, and she had often tried in vain to distinguish there the violet-coloured cassock of Monseigneur; 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 washerwomen in the Clos, she always saw the same poor, ragged33 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 agitation34. Sudden inexplicable35 pain would at times seize her throat and almost choke her. One evening she threw herself, weeping, into Hubertine's arms, having no cause whatever 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 delightful36. Shadows seemed to pass before her, and she fell into such an ecstatic state that on awakening37 she did not dare to recall them, so confused was she by the angelic visions of bliss38. Sometimes, in the middle of her great bed, she would rouse herself suddenly, her two hands joined and pressed against her breast as if a heavy burden were weighing her down and almost suffocating39 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 enchantment40 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 bouquet13 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 affected41 by the delicate tints43 of the pale purple flowers. She also fancied that the Chevrotte had never chattered44 so gaily45 over the pebbles among the willows on its banks. The river certainly talked; she listened to its vague words, constantly repeated, which filled her heart with trouble. Was it, then, no longer the field of other 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 trees and plants?
But the Cathedral at her right, the enormous mass which obstructed46 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 knowledge, but she gave herself up to the mystic flight of the giant, whose coming into existence had demanded three centuries of time, and where were placed one above the other the faith and the belief of generations. At the foundation, it was kneeling as if crushed by prayer, with the Romanesque chapels47 of the nave49, and with the round arched windows, plain, unornamented, except by slender columns under the archivolts. Then it seemed to rise, lifting its face and hands towards heaven, with the pointed51 windows of its nave, built eighty years later; high, delicate windows, divided by mullions on which were broken bows and roses. Then again it sprung from the earth as if in ecstasy52, erect53, with the piers54 and flying buttresses55 of the choir56 finished and ornamented two centuries after in the fullest flamboyant57 Gothic, charged with its bell-turrets, spires59, and pinnacles60. A balustrade had been added, ornamented with trefoils, bordering the terrace on the chapels of the apse. Gargoyles61 at the foot of the flying buttresses carried off the water from the roofs. The top was also decorated with flowery emblems62. The whole edifice63 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 bosom64 of a God of pardon and of love. It seemed to have a physical sensation which permeated65 it, made it light and happy, like a sacred hymn66 it had just heard sung, very pure and holy, as it passed into the upper air.
Moreover, the Cathedral was alive. Hundreds of swallows 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. Sometimes, half lost in the blue sky, looking scarcely larger than a fly, a crow alighted on the point of a spire58 to smooth its wings. The old stones themselves were animated67 by the quiet working of the roots of a whole flora68 of plants, the lichens69 and the grasses, which pushed themselves through the openings in the walls. On very stormy days the entire apse seemed to awake and to grumble70 under the noise of the rain as it beat against the leaden tiles of the roof, running off by the gutters71 of the cornices and rolling from story to story with the clamour of an overflowing72 torrent73. Even the terrible winds of October and of March gave to it a soul, a double voice of anger and of supplication74, as they whistled through its forests of gables and arcades75 of roseate ornaments76 and of little columns. The sun also filled it with life from the changing play of its rays; from the early morning, which rejuvenated77 it with a delicate gaiety, even to the evening, when, under the slightly lengthened-out shadows, it basked78 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 organ, and the chanting of the priests, all these were like the pulsation79 of its veins80. There was always a living murmur81 in it: half-lost sounds, like the faint echo of a Low Mass; the rustling82 of the kneeling penitents83, a slight, scarcely perceptible shivering, nothing but the devout84 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 the best at night, when she saw the enormous mass detach itself like a huge block on the starry85 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 darkness, filled with a dream of seven centuries, made grand by the multitudes who had hoped or despaired before its altars. It was a continual watch, coming from the infinite of the past, going to the eternity86 of the future; the mysterious 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 chapel48 of the choir, on the level of the bushes of the Clos-Marie, the only one which was lighted up, and which seemed like an eye which was kept open all the night. Behind it, at the corner of a pillar, was an ever-burning altar-lamp. In fact, it was the same chapel which the abbots of old had given to Jean V d'Hautecoeur, and to his descendants, with the right of being buried there, in return for their liberality. Dedicated87 to Saint George, it had a stained-glass window of the twelfth century, on which was painted the legend of the saint. From the moment of the coming on of twilight88, this historic representation came out from the shade, lighted up as if it were an apparition89, and that was why Angelique was fascinated, and loved this particular point, as she gazed at it with her dreamy eyes.
The background of the window was blue and the edges red. Upon this sombre richness of colouring, the personages, whose flying draperies allowed their limbs 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 costly90 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 Knight91, do not run any danger for me, as you can neither help 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 through and through. This is explained by the following words: "George wielded92 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 maiden93, for when you have done so he will follow you like a well-trained dog.'"
When the window was new it must have been surmounted94 in the middle of the arch by an ornamental95 design. But later, when the chapel belonged to the Hautecoeurs, they replaced the original work by their family coat of arms. And that was why, in the obscure nights, armorial bearings of a more recent date shown out above the painted legend. They were the old family arms of Hautecoeur, quartered with the well-known shield of Jerusalem; the latter being argent, a cross potencee, or, between four crosselettes of the same; and those of the family, azure96, a castle, or, on it a shield, sable97, charged with a human heart, argent, the whole between three fleurs-de-lys, or; the shield was supported on the dexter and sinister98 sides by two wyverns, or; and surmounted by the silver helmet with its blue feathers, embossed in gold, placed frontwise, and closed by eleven bars, which belongs only to Dukes, Marshals of France, titled Lords and heads of Sovereign Corporations. And for motto were these words: "_Si Dieu volt50, ie vueil_."
Little by little, from having seen him piercing the monster with his lance, whilst the king's 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 archangel. It was as if she herself had just been saved, and she could have kissed his hands with gratitude99. 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 man more beautiful than the day, was added the recollection of her excursion to the Chateau100 of Hautecoeur, and a calling up to view of the feudal101 donjon, in its original state, peopled with the noble lords of olden times.
The arms glistened103 like the stars on summer nights; she knew them well, she read them easily, with their sonorous104 words, for she was so in the habit of embroidering105 heraldic symbols. There was Jean V, who stopped from door to door in the town ravaged106 by the plague, and went in to kiss the lips of the dying, and cured them by saying, "_Si Dieu volt, ie vueil_." And Felician III, who, forewarned that a severe illness prevented Philippe le Bel from going to Palestine, went there in his place, barefooted and holding a candle in his hand, and for that he had the right of quartering the arms of Jerusalem with his own. Other and yet other histories came to her mind, especially those of the ladies of Hautecoeur, the "happy dead," as they were called in the Legend. In that family the women die young, in the midst of some great happiness. Sometimes two or three generations would be spared, then suddenly Death would appear, smiling, as with gentle hands he carried away the daughter or the wife of a Hautecoeur, the oldest of them being scarcely twenty years of age, at the moment when they were at the height of earthly love and bliss. For instance, Laurette, daughter of Raoul I, on the evening of her betrothal107 to her cousin Richard, who lived in the castle, having seated herself at her window in the Tower of David, saw him at his window in the Tower of Charlemagne, and, thinking 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 overpassed the ray, she fell, and was crushed at the foot of the tower. So since that day, each night when the moon is bright and clear, she can be seen walking in the air around the Chateau, which is bathed in white by the silent touch of her immense robe. Then Balbine, wife of Herve VII, thought for six months that her husband had been killed in the wars. But, unwilling108 to 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 descends109 the steps, runs from story to story, glides110 through the corridors and the rooms, and passes like a phantom111 through the gaping112 windows which open into the desert void. All return. Isabeau, Gudule, Vonne, Austreberthe, all these "happy dead," loved by the stern messenger, who spared them from the vicissitudes113 of life by taking them suddenly when, in early youth, they thought only of happiness. On certain nights this white-robed band 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 herself to die, in the fullness of her delight at embracing him. These had haunted the imagination of Angelique; she spoke114 of them as if they were facts of recent occurrence, which might have happened the day before. She had read the names of Laurette and of Balbine on old memorial tablets let into the walls of the chapel. Then why should not she also die young and very happy, as they had? The armouries would glisten102 as now, the saint would come down from his place in the stained-glass window, and she would be 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 common law, and follows the natural course of events? It exists, is active, works with an extreme facility on every occasion, multiplies itself, spreads itself out, overflows115 even uselessly, as if for the pleasure of contradicting the self-evident rules of Nature. Its power seems to be on the same plane as that of the Creator. Albrigan, King of Edeese, writes to Jesus, who replies to him. Ignatius receives letters from the Blessed Virgin116. In all places the Mother and the Son appear, disguise themselves, and talk with an air of smiling good-nature. When Stephen meets them they are very familiar with him. All the virgins117 are wed16 to Jesus, and the martyrs118 mount to heaven, where they are to be united to Mary. And as for the angels and saints, they are the ordinary companions of men. They come, they go, they pass through walls, they appear in dreams, they speak from the height of clouds, they assist at births and deaths, they support those who are tortured, they deliver those who are in prison, and they go on dangerous missions. Following in their footsteps is an inexhaustible efflorescence of prodigies119. Sylvester binds120 the mouth of a dragon with a thread. The earth rises to make a seat for Hilary, whose companions wished to humiliate121 him. A precious stone falls into the chalice122 of Saint Loup. A tree crushes the enemies of Saint Martin; a dog lets loose a hare, and a great fire ceases to burn at his command. Mary the Egyptian walks upon the sea; honey-bees fly from the mouth of Ambrosius at his birth. Continually saints cure diseases of the eye, withered123 limbs, paralysis124, leprosy, and especially the plague. There is no disease that 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 thunderbolt. Death itself is conquered, and resurrections are so frequent that they become quite an everyday affair. And when the saints themselves are dead the wonders do not cease, but are redoubled, and are like perennial125 flowers which spring from their tombs. It is said that from the head and the feet of Nicholas flowed two fountains of oil which cured every ill. When the tomb of Saint Cecilia was opened an odour of roses came up from her coffin126. That of Dorothea was filled with manna. All the bones of virgins and of martyrs performed marvels127: they confounded liars128, they forced robbers to give back their stolen goods, they granted the prayers of childless wives, they brought the dying back to life. Nothing was impossible for them; in fact the Invisible reigned129, and the only law was the caprice of the supernatural. In the temples the sorcerers mix themselves up with the popular idea, and scythes130 cut the grass without being held, brass131 serpents move, and one hears bronze statues laugh and wolves sing. Immediately the saints reply and overwhelm them. The Host is changed into living food, sacred Christian132 images shed drops of blood, sticks set upright in the ground blossom into flower, springs of pure water appear in dry places, warm loaves of bread multiply themselves at the feet of the needy133, a tree bows down before some holy person, and so on. Then, again, decapitated heads speak, broken chalices134 mend themselves, the rain turns aside from a church to submerge a neighbouring palace, the robes of hermits135 never wear out, but renew themselves at each season like the skin of a beast. In Armenia at one time the persecutors threw into the sea the leaden coffins136 of five martyrs, and the one containing the body of Saint Bartholomew the Apostle took the lead, and the four others accompanied it as a guard of honour. So, all together, in regular order, like a fine squadron, 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 surrounded by wonders. The rising 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 imagined the world so mechanical as to be governed by fixed137 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 impossible to measure, that she would not even have suspected they existed, had it not been for the great questioning breath which at times passed over her face. So, trusting, and as thoroughly Christian as if belonging to the primitive138 Church, spiritually fed by her readings from the "Golden Legend," she gave herself up entirely139 into the hands of God, with only the spot of original sin to be cleansed140 from her soul. She had no liberty of action or freedom of will; God alone could secure her salvation141 by giving her the gift of His grace. That grace had been already manifested by bringing her to the hospitable142 roof of the Huberts, where, under the shadow of the Cathedral, she could lead a life of submission143, of purity, and of faith. She often heard within her soul the grumblings of heredity tendency to evil, and asked herself what would have become of her had she been left on her native soil. Without doubt she would have been bad; while here, in this blessed corner of the earth, she had grown up free from temptation, strong and healthy. Was it not grace that had given her this home, where she was surrounded by such charming histories she had so easily committed to memory, where she had learned such perfect faith in the present and hope in the future, and where the invisible and unknown, or the miracles of ages, seemed natural to her, and quite on a level with her daily life? It had armed her for all combats, as heretofore it had armed the martyrs. And she created an imaginary experience for herself almost unknowingly. It was, in fact, the inevitable144 result of a mind overcharged and excited by fables145; 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 peculiar146 state that she would put her hands over her face, as if doubting her own identity. Was she herself only an illusion, and would she suddenly disappear some day 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 broke 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 someone. 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 vaguely147 distinguish the heavy masses of the old elm-trees of the Bishop's garden, and of the park of the Hotel Voincourt. Alone the window of the chapel sent out a little light. If no one were to come, why did her heart beat so rapidly? It was nothing new, this feeling 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 feverish148 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 her imagination. The "Golden Legend" had left there its supernatural world of saints and martyrs, and the miracle was all ready to appear there. She understood well that everything was animated, that the voices came from objects hitherto silent; that the leaves of the trees, the waters of the Chevrotte, and the stones of the Cathedral spoke to her. But what was it that all these whisperings from the Invisible wished to explain? What did these unknown forces above and around her wish to do with her as they floated in the air? She kept her eyes fixed upon the darkness, as if she were at an appointed meeting with she knew not whom, and she waited, still waited, until she was overcome with sleep, whilst it seemed to her as if some supernatural power were deciding her destiny, irrespective of her will or wish.
For four evenings Angelique was nervous, and wept a great deal in the darkness. She remained in her usual place and was patient. The atmosphere seemed to envelope her, and as it increased in density149 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 possession of her, and the earth, with the vast heavens above it, had penetrated150 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 prodigy152 she awaited? No, there was nothing yet. It was probably merely the beating of the wings of a night bird. And she listened again, attentively153, until she could distinguish the difference of sound between the leaves of the elms and the willows. At least twenty times she trembled violently when a little stone rolled in the rivulet, or a prowling animal jumped over the wall. She leaned forward; but there was nothing--still nothing.
At last, after some days, when at night a warmer darkness fell from the sky where no moon was visible, a change began. She felt it, but it was so slight, so almost imperceptible, she feared that she might have been mistaken in the little sound she heard, which seemed unlike the usual noises she knew so well. She held her breath, as the sound seemed very long in returning. At last it came again, louder than before, but equally confused. She would have said it came from a great distance, that it was a scarcely-defined step, and that the trembling of the air announced the approach of something out of sight and out of hearing. That which she was expecting came slowly from the invisible slight movement of what surrounded her. Little by little it disengaged itself from her dream, like a realisation of the vague longings154 of her youth. Was it the Saint George of the chapel window, who had come down from his place and was walking on the grass in silence towards her? Just then, by chance, the altar-light was dimmed, so that she could not distinguish the faintest outline of the figures on the painted 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 obscurity, 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 precisely155 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, rather, that they were in 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 best to try to penetrate151 the darkness, it was only by her hearing that she was forewarned of the coming events, aided a little by her sense of smell, as the perfume of the flowers was increased as if a breath were mingled156 with it. And so for several nights the steps resounded157 under the balcony, and she listened as they came nearer, until they reached 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 something of which she was ignorant.
Not long after, she saw one evening the little crescent of the new moon appear among the stars. But 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 nightfall she awaited its appearance, watched its growth, and was impatient for this torch which would ere long light 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 which came from a vision ended in being embodied158. For at first she only perceived that a dim shadow was moving under the moonlight. What was it, then? A branch moved to and fro by the wind? Or was it a large bat in 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 longer any doubt possible, for a dark object had certainly just crossed the open space and had glided159 from one willow-tree to another. It appeared, then disappeared, without her being able exactly to define it.
One evening she thought she distinguished160 the dim outline of two shoulders, and at once she turned her eyes towards the chapel window. It had a greyish tint42, 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 realised it was a fact that someone was there, she was overcome by an indefinable sensation, a nervous feeling that one has on being looked at by mysterious unseen eyes.
Certainly someone was there under the trees who was regarding her fixedly161. She had on her hands and face, as it were, a physical impression of those long, ardent162, yet timid looks; but she did not withdraw herself from them, because she knew they were pure, and came from the enchanted163 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 tranquillity164.
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, whitewashed 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 odd carved chest, from the porcelain stove to the little toilet-table, as if surprised at not seeing there the mysterious silhouette165, which she could have so easily and precisely traced from memory. In her sleep she had seen it gliding166 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 confided167 to no one, not even to Hubertine, to whom, until now, she had always told even her thoughts. When the latter, surprised at her gaiety, questioned her, she blushed deeply as she replied that the early spring had made her very happy. From morning to evening she hummed little snatches of song, like a bee intoxicated168 by the heat of the sun's rays. Never before had the chasubles she embroidered169 been so resplendent with silk and gold. The Huberts smiled as they watched her, thinking simply that this exuberance170 of spirits came from her state of perfect health. As the day waned171 she grew more excited, she sang at the rising of the moon, and as soon as the hour arrived she hurried to her balcony, and waited for the shadow to appear. During all the first quarters of the moon she found it exact at each rendezvous172, erect and silent. But that was all. What was the cause of it? Why was it there? Was it, indeed, only a shadow? Was not it, perhaps, the saint who had left his window, or the angel who had formerly loved Saint 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 caress173. 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 fell straight upon them in perpendicular174 lines, cast no more shadows, but were like running fountains of silent brightness. The whole garden was bathed and filled with a luminous175 wave as limpid176 as crystal, and the brilliancy of it was so penetrating177 that everything was clearly seen, even to the fine cutting of the willow-leaves. The slightest possible trembling of air seemed to wrinkle this lake of rays, sleeping in the universal peace among the grand elm-trees of the neighbouring garden and the gigantic brow of the Cathedral.
Two more evenings had passed like this, when, on the third night, as Angelique was leaning on her elbows and looking out, her heart seemed to receive a sudden shock. There, in the clear light, she saw him standing1 before her and looking at her. His shadow, like that of the trees, had disappeared under his feet, and he alone was there, distinctly seen. At this distance she saw--as if it were full day--that he was tall, slight, a blonde, and apparently178 about twenty years of age. He resembled either a Saint George or a superb picture of Christ, with his curly hair, his thin beard, his straight nose, rather large, and his proudly-smiling black eyes. And she recognised him perfectly179; never had she seen another like him; it was he, her hero, and he was exactly as she expected to find him. The wonder was at last accomplished180; the slow creation of the invisible had perfected itself in this living apparition, and he came out from the unknown, from the movement of things, from murmuring voices, from the action of the night, from all that had enveloped181 her, until she almost fainted into unconsciousness. She also saw him as if he were lifted above the earth, so supernatural appeared to be his coming, whilst the miraculous182 seemed to surround him on every side as it floated over the mysterious moon-lake. He had as his escort the entire people of the Legend--the saints whose staffs blossomed, the virgins whose wounds shed milk--and the stars seemed to pale before this white group of perfection.
Angelique continued to look at him. He raised his arms, and held them out, wide open. She was not at all afraid, but smiled sweetly.
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1
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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3
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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7
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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10
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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11
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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12
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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14
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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15
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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16
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
zinc
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| n.锌；vt.在...上镀锌 | |
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19
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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20
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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21
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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22
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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23
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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24
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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25
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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26
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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27
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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28
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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29
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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30
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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31
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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32
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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33
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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34
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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35
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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36
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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37
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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38
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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39
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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40
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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41
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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42
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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43
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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44
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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45
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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46
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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47
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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48
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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49
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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50
volt
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| n.伏特，伏 | |
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51
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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52
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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53
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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54
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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55
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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57
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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58
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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59
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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60
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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61
gargoyles
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| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
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62
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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63
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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64
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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65
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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66
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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67
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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68
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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69
lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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70
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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71
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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72
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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73
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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74
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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75
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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76
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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77
rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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78
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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79
pulsation
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| n.脉搏，悸动，脉动；搏动性 | |
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80
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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81
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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82
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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83
penitents
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| n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 )；忏悔者 | |
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84
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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85
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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86
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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87
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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88
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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89
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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90
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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91
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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92
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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93
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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94
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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95
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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96
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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97
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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98
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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99
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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100
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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101
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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102
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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103
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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105
embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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106
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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107
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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108
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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109
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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110
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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111
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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112
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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113
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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114
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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115
overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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116
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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117
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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118
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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119
prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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120
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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121
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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122
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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123
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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124
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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125
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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126
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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127
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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129
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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130
scythes
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| n.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的名词复数 )v.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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131
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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132
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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133
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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134
chalices
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| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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135
hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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136
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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137
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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138
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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139
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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140
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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142
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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143
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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144
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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145
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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146
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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147
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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148
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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149
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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150
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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151
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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152
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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153
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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154
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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155
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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156
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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157
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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158
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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159
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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160
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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161
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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162
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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163
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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164
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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165
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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166
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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167
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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168
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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169
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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170
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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171
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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172
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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173
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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174
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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175
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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176
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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177
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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178
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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179
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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180
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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181
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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