ther still adorable in her simple
toilette of linen, the daughter with the angelic grace of a cherubim, in
her gown of white foulard, as light as a feather. They were so handsome
and in such full view, as they stood upon their chairs, that from every
direction eyes were turned towards them, and admiring glances given
them.

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

Hubertine turned very pale as she listened.

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

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

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

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

But the chaplain and the acolytes were ranged on the right and the left,
and the first deacon having taken