Angelique was dying.
It was ten o’clock one cold morning towards the end of the winter, the
air was sharp, and the clear heavens were brightened up by the
beautiful sunshine. In her great royal bed, draped with its old, faded,
rose-coloured chintz, she lay motionless, having been unconscious during
the whole night. Stretched upon her back, her little ivory-like hands
carelessly thrown upon the sheet, she no longer even opened her eyes,
and her finely-cut profile looked more delicate than ever under the
golden halo of her hair; in fact, anyone who had seen her would have
thought her already dead, had it not been for the slight breathing
movement of her lips.
The day before, Angelique, realising that she was very ill, had
confessed, and partaken of the Communion. Towards three o’clock in
the afternoon the good Abbé 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 Abbé, having been
notified, was about to come.
Everything was now ready to receive the clergyman. The Huberts had just
finished arranging the room. Under the gay sunlight, which at this early
morning hour struck fully upon the window-panes, it looked pure as the
dawn in the nudity of its great white walls. The table had been covered
with a fresh damask cloth. At the right and the left of the crucifix two
large wax-tapers were burning in the silver candelabrum which had been
brought up from the parlour, and there were also there the consecrated
wafers, the asperges brush, an ewer of water with its basin and a
napkin, and two plates of white porcelain, one of which was filled with
long bits of cotton, and the other with little _cornets_ of paper. The
greenhouses of the lower town had been thoroughly searched, but the
only inodorous flowers that had been found were the peonies--great white
peonies, enormous tufts of which adorned the table, like a shimmering
of white lace. And in the midst of this intense whiteness, Angelique,
dying, with closed eyes, still breathed gently with a half-perceptible
breath.
The doctor, who had made his first morning visit, had said that she
could not live through the day. She might, indeed, pass away at any
moment, without even having come to her senses at all. The Huberts,
resolute and grave, waited in silent despair. Notwithstanding their
grief and tears, it was evidently necessary that this should be the end.
If they had ever wished for this death, preferring to lose their dear
child rather than to have her rebellious, it was evident that God also
wished it with them, and now, that in this last trying moment they were
quite powerless, they could only submit themselves to the inevitable.
They regretted nothing, although their sorrow seemed greater than they
could bear. Since she, their darling, had been there, suffering from
her long illness, they had taken the entire care of her day and night,
refusing all aid offered them from outside. They were still there alone
in this supreme hour, and they waited.
Hubert, scarcely knowing what he did, walked mechanically to the
porcelain stove, the door of which he opened, for the gentle roaring of
the flaming wood sounded to him like a plaintive moan; then there was a
perfect silence. The peonies seemed even to turn paler in the soft heat
of the room.
Hubertine, stronger than her husband, and still fully conscious of all
she did, listened to the sounds of the Cathedral as they came to
her from behind the walls. During the past moment the old stones had
vibrated from the swinging of the bell of the great tower. It must
certainly be the Abbé Cornille leaving the church with the sacred oils,
she thought; so she went downstairs, that she might receive him at the
door of the house.
Two minutes later, the narrow stairway of the little tower was filled
with a great murmuring sound. Then in the warm chamber, Hubert, struck
with astonishment, suddenly began to tremble, whilst a religious fear,
mingled with a faint hope, made him fall upon his knees. Instead of the
old clergyman whom they had expected, it was Monseigneur who entered.
Yes! Monseigneur, in lace surplice, having the violet stole, and
carrying the silver vessel in which was the oil for the sick, which he
himself had blessed on Holy Thursday. His eagle-like eyes were fixed,
as he looked straight before him; his beautiful pale face was really
majestic under the thick, curly masses of his white hair. Behind him
walked the Abbé Cornille, like a simple clerk, carrying in one hand a
crucifix, and under the other a book of ritual service.
Standing for a moment upon the threshold, the bishop said in a deep,
grave voice:
“_Pax huic domui_.” (“Peace be to this house.”)
“_Et omnibus habitantibus in ea_,” replied the priest in a lower tone.
(“And to all the inhabitants thereof.”)
When they had entered, Hubertine, who had come up the stairs after them,
she also trembling from surprise and emotion, went and knelt by the
side of her husband. Both of them prostrated themselves most humbly, and
prayed fervently from the depths of their souls.
A few hours after his last visit to Angelique, Felicien had had the
terrible and dreaded explanation with his father. Early in the morning
of that same day he had found open the doors, he had penetrated even
into the Oratory, where the Bishop was still at prayer, after one of
those nights of frightful struggling against the memories of the past,
which would so constantly reappear before him. In the soul of this
hitherto always respectful son, until now kept submissive by fear,
rebellion against authority, so long a time stifled, suddenly broke
forth, and the collision of these two men of the same blood, with
natures equally prompt to violence, was intense. The old man had left
his devotional chair, and with cheeks growing purple by degrees, he
listened silently as he stood there in his proud obstinacy. The young
man, with face equally inflamed, poured out everything that was in
his heart, speaking in a voice that little by little grew louder and
rebuking. He said that Angelique was not only ill, but dying. He told
him that in a pressing moment of temptation, overcome by his deep
affection, he had wished to take her away with him that they might flee
together, and that she, with the submissive humility of a saint, and
chaste as a lily, had refused to accompany him. Would it not be a most
abominable murder to allow this obedient young girl to die, because she
had been unwilling to accept him unless when offered to her by the hand
of his father? She loved him so sincerely that she could die for him. In
fact, she could have had him, with his name and his fortune, but she
had said “No,” and, triumphant over her feelings, she had struggled
with herself in order to do her duty. Now, after such a proof of her
goodness, could he permit her to suffer so much grief? Like her, he
would be willing to give up everything, to die even, if it might be, and
he realised that he was cowardly. He despised himself for not being at
her side, that they might pass out of life together, by the same breath.
Was it possible that anyone could be so cruel as to wish to torment
them, that they should both have so sad a death, when one word, one
simple word, would secure them such bliss? Ah! the pride of name, the
glory of wealth, persistence in one’s determination: all these were
nothing in comparison to the fact that by the union of two hearts the
eternal happiness of two human beings was assured. He joined his
hands together, he twisted them feverishly, quite beside himself as
he demanded his father’s consent, still supplicating, already almost
threatening. But the Bishop, with face deeply flushed by the mounting
of his blood, with swollen lips, with flaming eyes, terrible in his
unexpressed anger, at last opened his mouth, only to reply by this word
of parental authority: “Never!”
Then Felicien, absolutely raving in his rebellion, lost all control over
himself.
He spoke of his mother, he really threatened his father by the
remembrance of the dead. It was she who had come back again in the shape
of her son to vindicate and reclaim the right of affection. Could it be
that his father had never loved her? Had he even rejoiced in her death,
since he showed himself so harsh towards those who loved each other, and
who wished to live? But he might well do all he could to become cold in
the renunciations demanded by the Church; she would come back to haunt
and to torture him, because he was willing to torture the child they
had had, the living witness of their affection for each other. She would
always be there, so long as their son lived. She wished to reappear in
the children of their child for ever. And he was causing her to die
over again, by refusing to her son the betrothed of his choice, the
one through whom the race was to be continued. When a man had once been
married to a woman, he should never think of wedding the Church. Face to
face with his father, who, motionless, appeared in his fearful silence
to grow taller and taller, he uttered unfilial, almost murderous words.
Then, shocked at himself, he rushed away, shuddering at the extent to
which passion had carried him.
When once more alone, Monseigneur, as if stabbed in the full breast by
a sharp weapon, turned back upon himself and struggled deeply with his
soul, as he knelt upon his prie-Dieu. A half-rattling sound came
from his throat. Oh! these frightful heart contests, these invincible
weaknesses of the flesh. This woman, and his beloved dead, who was
constantly coming back to life, he adored her now, as he did the first
evening when he kissed her white feet; and this son, he idolised him as
belonging to her, as a part of her life, which she had left to him. And
even the young girl, the little working girl whom he had repulsed, he
loved her also with a tenderness like that of his son for her. Now his
nights were inexpressibly agitated by all three. Without his having been
willing to acknowledge it, had she then touched him so deeply as he saw
her in the great Cathedral, this little embroiderer, with her golden
hair, her fresh pure neck, in all the perfume of her youth? He saw her
again; she passed before him, so delicate, so pure in her victorious
submission. No remorse could have come to him with a step more certain
or more conquering. He might reject her with a loud voice. He knew well
that henceforth she held him strongly by the heart with her humble hands
that bore the signs of work. Whilst Felicien was so violently
beseeching him, he seemed to see them both behind the blonde head of the
petitioner--these two idolised women, the one for whom his son prayed,
and the one who had died for her child. They were there in all their
physical beauty, in all their loving devotion, and he could not tell
where he had found strength to resist, so entirely did his whole being
go out towards them. Overcome, sobbing, not knowing how he could again
become calm, he demanded from Heaven the courage to tear out his heart,
since this heart belonged no longer to God alone.
Until evening Monseigneur continued at prayer. When he at last
reappeared he was white as wax, distressed, anxious, but still resolute.
He could do nothing more, but he repeated to his son the terrible
word--“Never!” It was God alone who had the right to relieve him from
his promise; and God, although implored, gave him no sign of change. It
was necessary to suffer.
Some days had passed. Felicien constantly wandered round the little
house, wild with grief, eager for news. Each time that he saw anyone
come out he almost fainted from fear. Thus it happened that on the
morning when Hubertine ran to the church to ask for the sacred oils, he
learned that Angelique could not live through the day. The Abbé Cornille
was not at the Sacristy, and he rushed about the town to find him, still
having a last hope that through the intervention of the good man some
Divine aid might come. Then, as he brought back with him the sought-for
clergyman, his hope left him, and he had a frightful attack of doubt and
anger. What should he do? In what way could he force Heaven to come to
his assistance? He went away, hastened to the Bishop’s palace, the
doors of which he again forced open, and before his incoherent words his
father was for a moment frightened. At last he understood. Angelique
was dying! She awaited the Extreme Unction, and now God alone could save
her. The young man had only come to cry out all his agony, to break all
relations with this cruel, unnatural father, and to accuse him to his
face of willingly allowing this death. But Monseigneur listened to him
without anger: upright and very serious, his eyes suddenly brightened
with a strange clearness, as if an inner voice had spoken to him.
Motioning to his son to lead the way, he followed him, simply saying at
last:
“If God wishes it, I also wish it.”
Felicien trembled so that he could scarcely move. His father consented,
freed from his personal vow, to submit himself to the goodwill of the
hoped-for miracle. Henceforth they, as individuals, counted for nothing.
God must act for himself. Tears blinded him. Whilst in the Sacristy
Monseigneur took the sacred oils from the hands of the Abbé Cornille. He
accompanied them, almost staggering; he did not dare to enter into the
chamber, but fell upon his knees at the threshold of the door, which was
open wide.
The voice of the Bishop was firm, as he said:
“_Pax huic domui_.”
“_Et omnibus habitantibus in ea_,” the priest replied.
Monseigneur had just placed on the white table, between the two
wax-candles, the sacred oils, making in the air the sign of the cross,
with the silver vase. Then he took from the hands of the Abbé the
crucifix, and approached the sufferer that he might make her kiss it.
But Angelique was still unconscious: her eyes were closed, her mouth
shut, her hands rigid, and looking like the little stiff figures of
stone placed upon tombs. He examined her for a moment, and, seeing by
the slight movement of her chest that she was not dead, he placed upon
her lips the crucifix. He waited. His face preserved the majesty of
a minister of penitence, and no signs of emotion were visible when he
realised that not even a quivering had passed over the exquisite profile
of the young girl, nor in her beautiful hair. She still lived, however,
and that was sufficient for the redemption of her sins.
The Abbé then gave to Monseigneur the vessel of holy water and the
asperges brush, and while he held open before him the ritual book, he
threw the holy water upon the dying girl, as he read the Latin words,
_Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem
dealbabor_. (“Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, and I shall be clean:
thou shalt wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”)
The drops sprang forth in every direction, and the whole bed was
refreshed by them as if sprinkled with dew. It rained upon her hands
and upon her cheeks; but one by one the drops rolled away as if from
insensible marble. At last the Bishop turned towards the assistants and
sprinkled them in their turn. Hubert and Hubertine, kneeling side by
side, in the full union of their perfect faith, bent humbly under the
shower of this benediction. Then Monseigneur blessed also the chamber,
the furniture, the white walls in all their bare purity, and as he
passed near the door he found himself before his son, who had fallen
down on the threshold, and was sobbing violently, having covered his
face with his burning hands. With a slow movement, he raised three times
the asperges brush, and he purified him with a gentle rain. This holy
water, spread everywhere, was intended at first to drive away all evil
spirits, who were flying by crowds, although invisible. Just at this
moment a pale ray of the winter sun passed over the bed, and a multitude
of atoms, light specks of dust, seemed to be living therein. They were
innumerable as they came down from an angle of the window, as if to
bathe with their warmth the cold hands of the dying.
Going again towards the table, Monseigneur repeated the prayer, “_Exaudi
nos_.” (“Give ear to us.”)
He made no haste. It was true that death was there, hovering near the
old, faded chintz curtains, but he knew that it was patient, and that
it would wait. And although in her state of utter prostration the child
could not hear him, he addressed her as he asked her:
“Is there nothing upon your conscience which distresses you? Confess all
your doubts and fears, my daughter; relieve your mind.”
She was still in the same position, and she was always silent. When, in
vain, he had given time for a reply, he commenced the exhortation with
the same full voice, without appearing to notice that none of his words
reached her ear.
“Collect your thoughts, meditate, demand from the depths of your soul
pardon from God. The Sacrament will purify you, and will strengthen
you anew. Your eyes will become clear, your ears chaste, your nostrils
fresh, your mouth pure, your hands innocent.”
With eyes fixed upon her, he continued reading to the end all that was
necessary for him to say; while she scarcely breathed, nor did one of
her closed eyelids move. Then he said:
“Recite the Creed.”
And having waited awhile, he repeated it himself:
“_Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem_.” (“I believe in one God, the
Father Almighty.”)
“Amen,” replied the Abbé 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 Abbé poured out
from the ewer. At length he took the vessel of sacred oil, opened the
cover thereof, and placed himself before the bed. It was the solemn
approach of the Sacrament of this last religious ceremony, by the
efficacy of which are effaced all mortal or venial sins not pardoned,
which rest in the soul after having received the other sacraments, old
remains of forgotten sins, sins committed unwittingly, sins of languor
which prevented one from being firmly re-established in the grace of
God. The pure white chamber seemed to be like the individuals collected
therein, motionless, and in a state of surprise and expectation. Where
could all these sins be found? They must certainly come from outside in
this great band of sun’s rays, filled with dancing specks of dust, which
appeared to bring germs of life even to this great royal couch, so white
and cold from the coming of death to a pure young maiden.
Monseigneur meditated a moment, fixing his looks again upon Angelique,
assuring himself that the slight breath had not ceased, struggling
against all human emotion, as he saw how thin she was, with the beauty
of an archangel, already immaterial. His voice retained the authority of
a divine disinterestedness, and his thumb did not tremble when he dipped
it into the sacred oils as he commenced the unctions on the five parts
of the body where dwell the senses: the five windows by which evil
enters into the soul.
First upon the eyes, upon the closed eyelids, the right and then the
left; and slowly, lightly, he traced with his thumb the sign of the
Cross.
“_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum deliquisti_.” (“By this holy
anointing and His gracious mercy, the Lord forgive whatever sins thou
hast committed through _seeing_.”)[*]
[*] This formula is repeated with reference to the other
senses--hearing, smell, taste, and touch.
And the sins of the sight were redeemed; lascivious looks, immodest
curiosity, the pride of spectacles, unwholesome readings, tears shed for
guilty troubles.
And she, dear child, knew no other book than the “Golden Legend,” no
other horizon than the apse of the Cathedral, which hid from view all
the rest of the world. She had wept only in the struggle of obedience
and the renunciation of passion.
The Abbé Cornille wiped both her eyes with a bit of cotton, which he
afterwards put into one of the little cornets of paper.
Then Monseigneur anointed the ears, with their lobes as delicate and
transparent as pearl, first the right ear, afterwards the left, scarcely
moistened with the sign of the cross.
“_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per auditum deliquisti_.”
So all the abominations of hearing were atoned for: all the words and
music which corrupt, the slanders, the calumnies, the blasphemies, the
sinful propositions listened to with complacency, the falsehoods of love
which aided the forgetfulness of duty, the profane songs which excited
the senses, the violins of the orchestra which, as it were, wept
voluptuously under the brilliant lights.
She in her isolated life, like that of a cloistered nun--she had never
even heard the free gossip of the neighbours, or the oath of a carman as
he whips his horses. The only music that had ever entered her ears was
that of the sacred hymns, the rumblings of the organs, the confused
murmurings of prayers, with which at times vibrated all this fresh
little house, so close to the side of the great church.
The Abbé, after having dried the ears with cotton, put that bit also
into one of the white cornets.
Monseigneur now passed to the nostrils, the right and then the left,
like two petals of a white rose, which he purified by touching them with
the sacred oil and making on them the sign of the cross.
“_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per odoratum deliquisti_.”
And the sense of smell returned to its primitive innocence, cleansed
from all stain: not only from the carnal disgrace of perfumes, from
the seduction of flowers with breath too sweet, from the scattered
fragrances of the air which put the soul to sleep; but yet again from
the faults of the interior sense, the bad examples given to others, and
the contagious pestilence of scandal. Erect and pure, she had at last
become a lily among the lilies, a great lily whose perfume fortified the
weak and delighted the strong. In fact, she was so truly delicate that
she could never endure the powerful odour of carnations, the musk of
lilacs, the feverish sweetness of hyacinths, and was only at ease with
the scentless blossoms, like the marguerites and the periwinkles.
Once more the Abbé, with the cotton, dried the anointed parts, and
slipped the little tuft into another of the cornets.
Then Monseigneur, descending to the closed mouth, through which the
faint breath was now scarcely perceptible, made upon the lower lip the
sign of the cross.
“_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per gustum deliquisti_.”
This time it was the pardon for the base gratifications of taste,
greediness, too great a desire for wine, or for sweets; but especially
the forgiveness for sins of the tongue, that universally guilty member,
the provoker, the poisoner, the inventor of quarrels, the inciter to
wars, which makes one utter words of error and falsehood which at length
obscure even the heavens. Yet her whole mouth was only a chalice of
innocence. She had never had the vice of gluttony, for she had taught
herself, like Elizabeth, to eat whatever was set before her, without
paying great attention to her food. And if it were true that she lived
in error, it was the fault of her dream which had placed her there, the
hope of a beyond, the consolation of what was invisible, and all the
world of enchantment which her ignorance had created and which had made
of her a saint.
The Abbé having dried the lips, folded the bit of cotton in the fourth
white cornet.
At last Monseigneur anointed first the right and then the left palms of
the two little ivory-like hands, lying open upon the sheet, and cleansed
them from their sins with the sign of the cross.
“_Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam,
indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per tactum deliquisti_.”
And the whole body was purified, being washed from its last spots--those
of the touch the most repugnant of all. Pilfering, fighting, murder,
without counting other sins of the breast, the body, and the feet, which
were also redeemed by this unction. All which burns in the flesh, our
anger, our desires, our unruled passions, the snares and pitfalls into
which we run, and all forbidden joys by which we are tempted. Since she
had been there, dying from her victory over herself, she had conquered
her few failings, her pride and her passion, as if she had inherited
original sin simply for the glory of triumphing over it. She knew not,
even, that she had had other wishes, that love had drawn her towards
disobedience, so armed was she with the breastplate of ignorance of
evil, so pure and white was her soul.
The Abbé wiped the little motionless hands, and putting the last puff of
cotton in the remaining cornet, he threw the five papers into the fire
at the back of the stove.
The ceremony was finished. Monseigneur washed his fingers before saying
the final prayer. He had now only to again exhort the dying, in placing
in her hand the symbolic taper, to drive away the demons, and to show
that she had just recovered her baptismal innocence. But she remained
rigid, her eyes closed, her mouth shut as if dead. The holy oils had
purified her body, the signs of the cross had left their traces on the
five windows of the soul, without making the slightest wave of colour,
or of life, mount to her cheeks.
Although implored and hoped for, the prodigy did not appear, and the
room was silent and anxious. Hubert and Hubertine, still kneeling
side by side, no longer prayed, but, with their eyes fixed upon their
darling, gazed so earnestly that they both seemed motionless for ever,
like the figures of the _donataires_ who await the Resurrection in a
corner of an old painted glass window. Felicien had drawn himself up on
his knees and was now at the door, having ceased from sobbing, as with
head erect he also might see if God would always remain deaf to their
prayers. Was it then a mere lure? Would not this holy Sacrament bring
her back to life?
For the last time Monseigneur approached the bed, followed by the Abbé
Cornille, who held, already lighted, the wax-taper which was to be
placed in the hand of the young girl. And the Bishop, not willing
to acknowledge the state of unconsciousness in which she remained,
determining to go even to the end of the rite, that God might have time
in which to work, pronounced the formula:--
“_Accipe lampadem ardentem, custodi unctionem tuam, ut cum Dominus ad
judicandum venerit, possis occurrere ei cum omnibus sanctis et vivas in
saecula saeculorum_.” (“Receive this light, and keep the unction thou
hast received, that when the Lord shall come to judgment thou mayest
meet Him with all His saints, and live with Him for ever and ever.”)
“Amen,” replied the Abbé.
But when they endeavoured to open Angelique’s hand and to press it round
the taper, the hand, powerless, as if already dead, escaped them and
fell back upon her breast.
Then, little by little, Monseigneur yielded to a great nervous
trembling. It was the emotion which, for a long time restrained,
now broke out within him, carrying away with it the last rigidity of
priesthood. He dearly loved her, this child, from the day when she had
come to sob at his feet, so innocent, and showing so plainly the pure
freshness of her youth. Since then, in his nights of distress, he had
contended chiefly against her, to defend himself from the overwhelming
tenderness with which she inspired him. At this moment she was worthy of
pity, with this pallor of death, with an ethereal beauty which showed,
however, so deep a suffering that he could not look at her without his
heart being secretly overwhelmed with distress.
He could no longer control himself. His eyelids were swollen by the
great tears which at last rolled down his cheeks. She must not die in
this way: he was conquered by her touching charms even in death, and all
his paternal feelings went out towards her.
Then Monseigneur, recalling to mind the numerous miracles of his race,
the power which had been given them by Heaven to heal, thought that
doubtless God awaited his consent as a father. He invoked Saint Agnes,
before whom all his ancestors had offered up their devotions, and as
Jean V. d’Hautecœur prayed at the bedside of those smitten by the plague
and kissed them, so now he prayed and kissed Angelique upon her lips.
“If God wishes, I also wish it.”
Immediately Angelique opened her eyelids. She looked at the Bishop
without surprise as she awoke from her long trance, and, her lips still
warm from the kiss, smiled upon him. These things were not strange to
her, for they certainly must have been realised sooner or later, and
it might be that she was coming out of one dream only to have another
still; but it seemed to her perfectly natural that Monseigneur should
have come to betroth her to Felicien, since the hour for that ceremony
had arrived. In a few minutes, unaided, she sat up in the middle of her
great royal bed.
The Bishop, radiant, showing by his expression his clear appreciation of
the remarkable prodigy, repeated the formula:--
“_Accipe lampadem ardentem, custodi unctionem tuam, ut cum Dominus ad
judicandum venerit, possis occurrere ei cum omnibus sanctis et vivas in
saecula saeculorum_.”
“Amen,” replied the Abbé.
Angelique had taken the lighted taper, and held it up with a firm hand.
Life had come back to her, like the flame of the candle, which was
burning clear and bright, driving away the spirits of the night.
A great cry resounded through the room. Felicien was standing up, as if
raised by the power of the miracle, while the Huberts, overwhelmed by
the same feeling, remained upon their knees, with wonder-stricken eyes,
with delighted countenances, before that which they had seen. The bed
had appeared to them enveloped with a brilliant light; white masses
seemed still to be mounting up on the rays of the sunlight, and the
great walls, the whole room in fact, kept a white lustre, as that of
snow.
In the midst of all, Angelique, like a refreshed lily, replaced upon
its branch, appeared in the clear light. Her fine golden hair was like a
halo of glory around her head, her violet-coloured eyes shone divinely,
and her pure face beamed with a living splendour.
Felicien, seeing that she was saved, touched by the Divine grace that
Heaven had vouchsafed them, approached her, and knelt by the side of the
bed.
“Ah! dear soul, you recognise us now, and you will live. I am yours. My
father wishes it to be so, since God has desired it.”
She bowed her head, smiling sweetly as she said, “Oh! I knew it must be
so, and waited for it. All that I have foreseen will come to pass.”
Monseigneur, who had regained his usual proud serenity, placed the
crucifix once more on her lips, and this time she kissed it as a
submissive servant. Then, with a full movement of his hands, through
the room, above the heads of all present, the Bishop gave the final
benediction, while the Huberts and the Abbé 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.