den-hat tied
carelessly under her chin. She turned to the left, and pushing open
the linted, stuffed door of the portal of Saint Agnes, let it fall back
heavily behind her.

The church was empty; alone, the confessional of Saint Joseph was still
occupied by a penitent, the edge of whose black dress was just seen as
one passed. Angelique, who had been perfectly self-possessed until now,
began to tremble as she entered this sacred, cold solitude, where even
the little sound of her steps seemed to echo terribly. Why was it that
her heart grew so oppressed? She had thought she was quite strong, and
the day had passed most peacefully--she was so sure of being right in
her desire to be happy. But now that she was ignorant of what might
happen she turned pale as if guilty, quite frightened at thinking
that she was to see Monseigneur, and that in truth she had come there
expressly to speak to him. She went quietly to the Chapel Hautecoeur,
where she was obliged to remain leaning against the gate.

This chapel was one of the most sunken and dark of the old Romanesque
apse. Like a cave hewn in a rock, straight and bare, with the simple
lines of its low, vaulted ceiling, it had but one window, that of
stained glass, on which was the Legend of St. George, and in whose panes
the red and blue so predominated that they made a lilac-coloured light,
as if it were twilight. The altar, in black and white marble, was
unornamented, and the whole place, with its picture of the Crucifixion,
and its two chandeliers, seemed like a tomb. The walls were covered
with commemorative tablets, a collection from top to bottom of stones
crumbling from age, on which the deeply-cut inscriptions could still be
read.

Almost stifled, Angelique waited, motionless. A beadle passed, who
did not even see her, so closely had she pressed herself against the
interior of the iron railing. She still saw the dress of the penitent
who was at the confessional near the entrance. Her eyes, gradually
accustomed to the half-light, were mechanically fixed upon the
inscriptions, the characters of which she ended by deciphering. Certain
names struck her, calling back to her memory the legends of the Chateau
d'Hautecoeur, of Jean V le Grand, of Raoul III, and of Herve VII.

She soon found two others, those of Laurette and of Balbine, which
brought tears to her eyes, so nervous was she from trouble and
anxiety--Laurette, who fell from a ray of moonlight, on her way to
rejo