Felicien was at her feet. Until now he had kept his place in the remote
corner of the balcony. But in the intense happiness she gave him in thus
unfolding the innermost secrets of her soul he had drawn himself on his
knees towards her, as he approached the window. This great, illimitable
joy was so unlooked for, that he yielded to it in all the infinitude of
its hopes of the future.
He half whispered:
“Ah, dear soul, pure, kind, and beautiful, your wonderful goodness has
cured me as with a breath! I know not now if I have ever suffered.
And, in your turn, you will now have to pardon me, for I have an
acknowledgment to make to you. I must tell you who I am.”
He was troubled at the thought he could no longer disguise himself or
his position, since she had confided so freely and entirely in him. It
would be disloyal in the highest degree to do so. Yet he hesitated, lest
he might, after all, lose her, were she to be anxious about the future
when at last she knew the facts.
And she waited for him to speak again, a little malicious in spite of
herself.
In a very low voice he continued:
“I have told a falsehood to your parents.”
“Yes, I know it,” she said as she smiled.
“No, you do not know it; you could not possibly know it, for all that
happened too long ago. I only paint on glass for my own pleasure, and as
a simple amusement; you really ought to be told of that.”
Then, with a quick movement, she put her hand on his mouth, as if she
wished to prevent this explanation.
“I do not care to hear any more. I have been expecting you. I knew
that sooner or later you would come, and you have done so. That is
all-sufficient.”
They talked no longer for a while. That little hand over his lips seemed
almost too great a happiness for him.
“When the right time comes, then I shall know all. Yet I assure you that
I am ignorant of nothing connected with you, for everything had been
revealed to me before our first meeting. You were to be, and can be,
only the handsomest, the richest, and the most noble of men, the one
above all others; for that has ever been my dream, and in the sure
certainty of its full accomplishment I wait calmly. You are the chosen
hero who it was ordained should come, and I am yours.”
A second time she interrupted herself in the tremor of the words she
pronounced. She did not appear to say them by herself alone; they came
to her as if sent by the beautiful night from the great white heavens,
from the old trees, and the aged stones sleeping outside and dreaming
aloud the fancies of the young girl. From behind her voices also
whispered them to her, the voices of her friends in the “Golden Legend,”
with whom she had peopled the air and the space around her. In this
atmosphere she had ever lived--mysticism, in which she revelled until
it seemed fact on one side, and the daily work of life on the other.
Nothing seemed strange to her.
Now but one word remained to be said--that which would express all the
long waiting, the slow creation of affection, the constantly increasing
fever of restlessness. It escaped from her lips like a cry from a
distance, from the white flight of a bird mounting upward in the light
of the early dawn, in the pure whiteness of the chamber behind her.
“I love you.”
Angelique, her two hands spread out, bent forward towards Felicien. And
he recalled to himself the evening when she ran barefooted through the
grass, making so adorable a picture that he pursued her in order to
stammer in her ear these same words: “I love you.” He knew that now she
was simply replying to him with the same cry of affection, the eternal
cry, which at last came from her freely-opened heart.
“Yes, I love you. I am yours. Lead the way, and I will follow you
wherever it may be.”
In this surrender of her soul she gave herself to him fully and
entirely. It was the hereditary flame relighted within her--the pride
and the passion she thought had been conquered, but which awoke at the
wish of her beloved. He trembled before this innocence, so ardent and so
ingenuous. He took her hands gently, and crossed them upon her breast.
For a moment he looked at her, radiant with the intense happiness
her confession had given him, unwilling to wound her delicacy in the
slightest degree, and not thinking of yielding to the temptation of even
kissing her hair.
“You love me, and you know that I love you! Ah! what bliss there is in
such knowledge.”
But they were suddenly drawn from their ecstatic state by a change about
them. What did it all mean? They realised that now they were looking
at each other under a great white light. It seemed to them as if the
brightness of the moon had been increased, and was as resplendent as
that of the sun. It was in reality the daybreak, a slight shade of which
already tinged with purple the tops of the elm-trees in the neighbouring
gardens. What? It could not be possible that the dawn had come? They
were astonished by it, for they did not realise so long a time had
passed since they began to talk together on the balcony. She had as yet
told him nothing, and he had so many things he wished to say!
“Oh, stay one minute more, only one minute!” he exclaimed.
The daylight advanced still faster--the smiling morning, already
warm, of what was to be a hot day in summer. One by one the stars were
extinguished, and with them fled the wandering visions, and all the host
of invisible friends seemed to mount upward and to glide away on the
moon’s rays.
Now, in the full, clear light, the room behind them had only its
ordinary whiteness of walls and ceiling, and seemed quite empty with its
old-fashioned furniture of dark oak. The velvet hangings were no longer
there, and the bedstead had resumed its original shape, as it stood half
hidden by the falling of one of its curtains.
“Do stay! Let me be near you only one minute more!”
Angelique, having risen, refused, and begged Felicien to leave
immediately. Since the day had come, she had grown confused and anxious.
The reality was now here. At her right hand, she seemed to hear a
delicate movement of wings, whilst her hair was gently blown, although
there was not the slightest breath of wind. Was it not Saint Agnes, who,
having remained until the last, was now forced to leave, driven away by
the sun?
“No, leave me, I beg of you. I am unwilling you should stay longer.”
Then Felicien, obedient, withdrew.
To know that he was beloved was enough for him, and satisfied him.
Still, before leaving the balcony, he turned, and looked at her again
fixedly, as if he wished to carry away with him an indelible remembrance
of her. They both smiled at each other as they stood thus, bathed with
light, in this long caressing look.
At last he said:
“I love you.”
And she gently replied:
“I love you.”
That was all, and he had in a moment, with the agility of a bird, gone
down the woodwork of the corner of the building, while she, remaining on
the balcony, leaned on the balustrade and watched him, with her tender,
beautiful eyes. She had taken the bouquet of violets and breathed the
perfume to cool her feverishness. When, in crossing the Clos-Marie, he
lifted his head, he saw that she was kissing the flowers.
Scarcely had Felicien disappeared behind the willows, when Angelique was
disturbed by hearing below the opening of the house-door. Four o’clock
had just struck, and no one was in the habit of getting up until two
hours later. Her surprise increased when she recognised Hubertine, as it
was always Hubert who went down the first. She saw her follow slowly the
walks of the narrow garden, her arms hanging listlessly at her sides, as
if, after a restless, sleepless night, a feeling of suffocating, a need
of breathing the fresh air, had made her leave her room so early. And
Hubertine was really very beautiful, with her clothes so hastily put on;
and she seemed very weary--happy, but in the deepest grief.
The morning of the next day, on waking from a sound sleep of eight
hours, one of those sweet, deep, refreshing sleeps that come after some
great happiness, Angelique ran to her window. The sky was clear, the
air pure, and the fine weather had returned after a heavy shower of the
previous evening. Delighted, she called out joyously to Hubert, who was
just opening the blinds below her:
“Father! Father! Do look at the beautiful sunlight. Oh, how glad I am,
for the procession will be superb!”
Dressing herself as quickly as possible, she hurried to go downstairs.
It was on that day, July 28, that the Procession of the Miracle would
pass through the streets of the upper town. Every summer at this date
it was also a festival for the embroiderers; all work was put aside, no
needles were threaded, but the day was passed in ornamenting the house,
after a traditional arrangement that had been transmitted from mother to
daughter for four hundred years.
All the while that she was taking her coffee, Angelique talked of the
hangings.
“Mother, we must look at them at once, to see if they are in good
order.”
“We have plenty of time before us, my dear,” replied Hubertine, in her
quiet way. “We shall not put them up until afternoon.”
The decorations in question consisted of three large panels of the
most admirable ancient embroidery, which the Huberts guarded with the
greatest care as a sacred family relic, and which they brought out once
a year on the occasion of the passing of this special procession.
The previous evening, according to a time-honoured custom, the Master
of the Ceremonies, the good Abbé Cornille, had gone from door to door to
notify the inhabitants of the route which would be taken by the bearers
of the statue of Saint Agnes, accompanied by Monseigneur the Bishop,
carrying the Holy Sacrament. For more than five centuries this route had
been the same. The departure was made from the portal of Saint Agnes,
then by the Rue des Orfèvres to the Grand Rue, to the Rue Basse, and
after having gone through the whole of the lower town, it returned by
the Rue Magloire and the Place du Cloître, to reappear again at the
great front entrance of the Church. And the dwellers on all these
streets, vying with each other in their zeal, decorated their windows,
hung upon their walls their richest possessions in silks, satins,
velvets, or tapestry, and strewed the pavements with flowers,
particularly with the leaves of roses and carnations.
Angelique was very impatient until permission had been given her to
take from the drawers, where they had been quietly resting for the past
twelve months, the three pieces of embroidery.
“They are in perfect order, mother. Nothing has happened to them,” she
said, as she looked at them, enraptured.
She had with the greatest care removed the mass of silk paper that
protected them from the dust, and they now appeared in all their beauty.
The three were consecrated to Mary. The Blessed Virgin receiving the
visit of the Angel of the Annunciation; the Virgin Mother at the foot
of the Cross; and the Assumption of the Virgin. They were made in
the fifteenth century, of brightly coloured silks wrought on a golden
background, and were wonderfully well preserved. The family had always
refused to sell them, although very large sums had been offered by
different churches, and they were justly proud of their possessions.
“Mother, dear, may I not hang them up to-day?”
All these preparations required a great deal of time. Hubert was
occupied the whole forenoon in cleaning the front of the old building.
He fastened a broom to the end of a long stick, that he might dust all
the wooden panels decorated with bricks, as far as the framework of the
roof; then with a sponge he washed all the sub-basement of stone, and
all the parts of the stairway tower that he could reach. When that
was finished, the three superb pieces of embroidery were put in their
places. Angelique attached them, by their rings, to venerable nails that
were in the walls; the Annunciation below the window at the left, the
Assumption below the window at the right, while for the Calvary, the
nails for that were above the great window of the first story, and she
was obliged to use a step-ladder that she might hang it there in its
turn. She had already embellished the window with flowers, so that the
ancient dwelling seemed to have gone back to the far-away time of its
youth, with its embroideries of gold and of silk glistening in the
beautiful sunshine of this festive day.
After the noon breakfast the activity increased in every direction, and
the whole Rue des Orfèvres was now in excitement. To avoid the great
heat, the procession would not move until five o’clock, but after twelve
the town began to be decorated. Opposite the Huberts’, the silversmith
dressed his shop with draperies of an exquisite light blue, bordered
with a silver fringe; while the wax-chandler, who was next to him, made
use of his window-curtains of red cotton, which looked more brilliant
than ever in the broad light of day. At each house there were different
colours; a prodigality of stuffs, everything that people owned, even to
rugs of all descriptions, were blowing about in the weary air of this
hot summer afternoon. The street now seemed clothed, sparkling, and
almost trembling with gaiety, as if changed into a gallery of fête open
to the sky. All its inhabitants were rushing to and fro, pushing against
each other; speaking loud, as if in their own homes; some of them
carrying their arms full of objects, others climbing, driving nails,
and calling vociferously. In addition to all this was the _reposoir_,
or altar, that was being prepared at the corner of the Grand Rue, the
arrangements for which called for the services of all the women of the
neighbourhood, who eagerly offered their vases and candlesticks.
Angelique ran down to carry the two candelabra, of the style of the
Empire, which they had on the mantel-shelf of their parlour. She had not
taken a moment’s rest since the early morning, but had shown no signs of
fatigue, being, on the contrary, supported and carried above herself by
her great inward happiness. And as she came back from her errand, her
hair blown all about her face by the wind, Hubert began to tease her as
she seated herself to strip off the leaves of the roses, and to put them
in a great basket.
“You could not do any more than you have done were it your wedding-day,
my dear. Is it, then, that you are really to be married now?”
“But yes! oh, yes! Why not?” she answered gaily.
Hubertine smiled in her turn.
“While waiting, my daughter, since the house is so satisfactorily
arranged, the best thing for us to do is to go upstairs and dress.”
“In a minute, mother. Look at my full basket.”
She had finished taking the leaves from the roses which she had reserved
to throw before Monseigneur. The petals rained from her slender fingers;
the basket was running over with its light, perfumed contents. Then,
as she disappeared on the narrow stairway of the tower, she said, while
laughing heartily:
“We will be quick. I will make myself beautiful as a star!”
The afternoon advanced. Now the feverish movement in Beaumont-l’Église
was calmed; a peculiar air of expectation seemed to fill the streets,
which were all ready, and where everyone spoke softly, in hushed,
whispering voices. The heat had diminished, as the sun’s rays grew
oblique, and between the houses, so closely pressed the one against
the others, there fell from the pale sky only a warm, fine shadow of a
gentle, serene nature. The air of meditation was profound, as if the old
town had become simply a continuation of the Cathedral; the only sound
of carriages that could be heard came up from Beaumont-la-Ville, the new
town on the banks of the Ligneul, where many of the factories were
not closed, as the proprietors disdained taking part in this ancient
religious ceremony.
Soon after four o’clock the great bell of the northern tower, the one
whose swinging stirred the house of the Huberts, began to ring; and it
was at that very moment that Hubertine and Angelique reappeared. The
former had put on a dress of pale buff linen, trimmed with a simple
thread lace, but her figure was so slight and youthful in its delicate
roundness that she looked as if she were the sister of her adopted
daughter. Angelique wore her dress of white foulard, with its soft
ruchings at the neck and wrists, and nothing else; neither earrings
nor bracelets, only her bare wrists and throat, soft in their satiny
whiteness as they came out from the delicate material, light as the
opening of a flower. An invisible comb, put in place hastily, scarcely
held the curls of her golden hair, which was carelessly dressed. She
was artless and proud, of a most touching simplicity, and, indeed,
“beautiful as a star.”
“Ah!” she said, “the bell! That is to show that Monseigneur has left his
palace.”
The bell continued to sound loud and clear in the great purity of the
atmosphere. The Huberts installed themselves at the wide-opened window
of the first story, the mother and daughter being in front, with
their elbows resting on the bar of support, and the husband and father
standing behind them. These were their accustomed places; they could not
possibly have found better, as they would be the very first to see
the procession as it came from the farther end of the church, without
missing even a single candle of the marching-past.
“Where is my basket?” asked Angelique.
Hubert was obliged to take and pass to her the basket of rose-leaves,
which she held between her arms, pressed against her breast.
“Oh, that bell!” she at last murmured; “it seems as if it would lull us
to sleep!”
And still the waiting continued in the little vibrating house, sonorous
with the musical movement; the street and the great square waited,
subdued by this great trembling, whist the hangings on every side blew
about more quietly in the air of the coming evening. The perfume of
roses was very sweet.
Another half-hour passed. Then at the same moment the two halves of the
portal of Saint Agnes were opened, and they perceived the very depths
of the church, dark in reality, but dotted with little bright spots from
the tapers. First the bearer of the Cross appeared, a sub-deacon in
a tunic, accompanied by the acolytes, each one of whom held a lighted
candle in his hand. Behind them hurried along the Master of the
Ceremonies, the good Abbé Cornille, who after having assured himself
that everything was in perfect order in the street, stopped under the
porch, and assisted a moment at the passing out, in order to be sure
that the places assigned to each section had been rightly taken.
The various societies of laymen opened the march: the charitable
associations, schools, by rank of seniority, and numerous public
organisations. There were a great many children: little girls all in
white, like brides, and little bareheaded boys, with curly hair, dressed
in their best, like princes, already looking in every direction to find
where their mothers were. A splendid fellow, nine years of age, walked
by himself in the middle, clad like Saint John the Baptist, with a
sheepskin over his thin, bare shoulders. Four little girls, covered with
pink ribbons, bore a shield on which was a sheaf of ripe wheat. Then
there were young girls grouped around a banner of the Blessed Virgin;
ladies in black, who also had their special banner of crimson silk, on
which was embroidered a portrait of Saint Joseph. There were other
and still other banners, in velvet or in satin, balanced at the end of
gilded batons. The brotherhoods of men were no less numerous; penitents
of all colours, but especially the grey penitents in dark linen suits,
wearing cowls, and whose emblems made a great sensation--a large cross,
with a wheel, to which were attached the instruments of the Passion.
Angelique exclaimed with tenderness when the children came by:
“Oh, the blessed darlings! Do look at them all!”
One, no higher than a boot, scarcely three years of age, proudly
tottered along on his little feet, and looked so comical that she
plunged her hands into her basket and literally covered him with
flowers. He quite disappeared under them for an instant; he had roses
in his hair and on his shoulders. The exquisite little laughing shout he
uttered was enjoyed on every side, and flowers rained down from all the
windows as the cherub passed. In the humming silence of the street one
could now only hear the deafened sound of the regular movement of feet
in the procession, while flowers by the handful still continued to fall
silently upon the pavement. Very soon there were heaps of them.
But now, reassured upon the good order of the laymen, the Abbé Cornille
grew impatient and disturbed, inasmuch as the procession had been
stationary for nearly two minutes, and he walked quickly towards the
head of it, bowing and smiling at the Huberts as he passed.
“What has happened? What can prevent them from continuing?” said
Angelique, all feverish from excitement, as if she were waiting for some
expected happiness that was to come to her from the other end that was
still in the church.
Hubertine answered her gently, as usual:
“There is no reason why they should run.”
“There is some obstruction evidently; perhaps it is a _reposoir_ that is
still unfinished,” Hubert added.
The young girls of the Society of the Blessed Virgin, the “daughters of
Mary,” as they are called, had already commenced singing a canticle, and
their clear voices rose in the air, pure as crystal. Nearer and nearer
the double ranks caught the movement and recommenced their march.