meeting him among the brambles and wild grasses in the Clos-Marie, and she had even given up her daily visits to the poor. Her fear was intense lest, were they to find themselves face to face, something terrible might come to pass. In her resolution there was mingled, besides a feeling of penitence, a wish to punish herself for some fault she might unintentionally have committed. So, in her days of rigid humiliation, she condemned herself not even to glance once through the window, so sure was she of seeing on the banks of the Chevrotte the one whom she dreaded. But, after a while, being sorely tempted, she looked out, and if it chanced that he were not there, she was sad and low-spirited until the following day.
One morning, when Hubert was arranging a dalmatic, a ring at the door- bell obliged him to go downstairs. It must be a customer; no doubt an order for some article, as Hubertine and Angelique heard the hum of voices which came through the doorway at the head of the stairs, which remained open. Then they looked up in great astonishment; for steps were mounting, and the embroiderer was bringing someone with him to the workroom, a most unusual occurrence. And the young girl was quite overcome as she recognised Felicien. He was dressed simply, like a journeyman artist, whose hands are white. Since she no longer went to him he had come to her, after days of vain expectation and of anxious uncertainty, during which he had constantly said to himself that she did not yet love him, since she remained hidden from him.
'Look, my dear child, here is something which will be of particular interest to you,' explained Hubert. 'Monsieur wishes to give orders for an exceptional piece of work. And, upon my word, that we might talk of it at our ease, I preferred that he should come up here at once. This is my daughter, sir, to whom you must show your drawing.'
Neither he nor Hubertine had the slightest suspicion that this was not the first time the young people had met. They approached them only from a sentiment of curiosity to see. But Felicien was, like Angelique, almost stifled with emotion and timidity. As he unrolled the design, his hands trembled, and he was obliged to speak very slowly to hide the change in his voice.
'It is to be a mitre for Monseigneur the Bishop. Yes, certain ladies in the city who wished to make him this present charged me with the drawing of the different parts, as well as with the superintendence of its execution. I am a painter of stained glass, but I also occupy myself a great deal with ancient art. You will see that I have simply reconstituted a Gothic mitre.'
Angelique bent over the great sheet of parchment which he had spread before her, and started slightly as she exclaimed:
'Oh! it is Saint Agnes.'
It was indeed the youthful martyr of but thirteen years of age; the naked virgin clothed with her hair, that had grown so long only her little hands and feet were seen from under it, just as she was upon the pillar at one of the doors of the cathedral; particularly, however, as one found her in the interior of the church, in an old wooden statue that formerly was painted, but was to-day a light fawn colour, all gilded by age. She occupied the entire front of the mitre, half floating, as she was carried towards heaven borne by the angels; which below her, stretched out into the distance, was a fine delicate landscape. The other sides and the lappets were enriched with lance-shaped ornaments of an exquisite style.
'These ladies,' continued Felicien, 'wish to make the present on the occasion of the Procession of the Miracle, and naturally I thought it my duty to choose Saint Agnes.'
'The idea was a most excellent one,' interposed Hubert.
And Hubertine added, in her turn:
'Monseigneur will be deeply gratified.'
The so-called Procession of the Miracle, which takes place each year on July 28, dates from the time of Jean V d'Hautecoeur, who instituted it as a thanksgiving to God for the miraculous power He had given to him and to his race to save Beaumont from the plague. According to the legend, the Hautecoeurs are indebted for this remarkable gift to the intervention of Saint Agnes, of whom they were the greatest admirers; and since the most ancient time, it has been the custom on the anniversary of her fete to take down the old statue of the saint and carry it slowly in a solemn procession through the streets of the town, in the pious belief that she still continues to disperse and drive away all evils.
'Ah,' at last murmured Angelique, her eyes on the design, 'the Procession of the Miracle. But that will come in a few days, and we shall not have time enough to finish it.'
The Huberts shook their heads. In truth, so delicate a piece of work required the most minute care and attention. Yet Hubertine turned towards her daughter as she said:
'I could help you, my dear. I might attend to the ornaments, and then you will only have the figure to do.'
Angelique continued to closely examine the figure of the saint, and was deeply troubled. She said to herself, 'No, no.' She refused; she would not give herself the pleasure of accepting. It would be inexcusable on her part thus to be an accomplice in a plan, for it was evident that Felicien was keeping something back. She was perfectly sure that he was not poor, and that he wore a workman's dress simply as a disguise; and this affected simplicity, all this history, told only that he might approach her, put her on her guard, amused and happy though she was, in reality, transfiguring him, seeing in him the royal prince that he should be; so thoroughly did she live in the absolute certainty of the entire realisation of her dream, sooner or later.
'No,' she repeated in a half-whisper, 'we should not have the needed time.'
And without lifting her eyes she continued, as if speaking to herself:
'For the saint, we could use neither the close embroidery nor the lace openwork. It would not be worthy of her. It should be an embroidery in gold, shaded by silk.'
'Exactly,' said Felicien. 'That is what I had already thought of, for I knew that Mademoiselle had re-found the secret of making it. There is still quite a pretty little fragment of it at the sacristy.'
Hubert was quite excited.
'Yes, yes! it was made in the fifteenth century, and the work was done by one of my far-off ancestresses. . . . Shaded gold! Ah, Monsieur, there was never anything equal to that in the whole world. But, unfortunately, it took too much time, it cost altogether too dear, and, in addition, only a real artist ever succeeded in it. Think of it; it is more than two hundred years since anyone has ever attempted such embroidery. And if my daughter refuses, you will be obliged to give it up entirely, for she is the only person who is qualified to undertake it. I do not know of anyone else who has the delicacy of fingers and the clearness of eye necessary for it.'
Hubertine, who, since they had spoken of the style of the work, realised what a great undertaking it was, said, in a quiet, decided tone:
'It would be utterly impossible to do it in a fortnight. It would need the patience and skill of a fairy to accomplish it.'
But Angelique, who had not ceased studying all the features of the beautiful martyr, had ended by making a discovery which delighted her beyond expression. Agnes resembled her. In designing from the old statue, Felicien certainly thought of her, and this idea-that she was in his mind, always present with him, that he saw her everywhere- softened her resolution to avoid him. At last she looked up; she noticed how eager he was, and his eyes glistened with so earnest a supplication that she was conquered. Still, with the intuitive half-malice, the love of tormenting, this natural science which comes to all young girls, even when they are entirely ignorant of life, she did not wish to have the appearance of yielding too readily.
'It is impossible,' she repeated. 'I could not do it for anyone.'
Felicien was in despair. He was sure he understood the hidden meaning in her words. It was he whom she had refused, as well as the work. As he was about to go out of the room, he said to Hubert:
'As for the pay, you could have asked any price you wished. These ladies gave me leave to offer as much as three thousand francs.'
The household of the Huberts was in no way a selfish one; yet so great a sum startled each member of it. The husband and wife looked at each other inquiringly. Was it not a pity to lose so advantageous an offer?
'Three thousand francs,' repeated Angelique, with her gentle voice; 'did you say three thousand francs, Monsieur?'
And she, to whom money was nothing, since she had never known its value, kept back a smile, a mocking smile, which scarcely drew the corners of her mouth, rejoicing that she need not seem to yield to the pleasure of seeing him, and glad to give him a false opinion of herself.
'Oh, Monsieur, if you can give three thousand francs for it, then I accept. I would not do it for everyone, but from the moment that one is willing to pay so well, why, that is different. If it is necessary, I can work on it at night,
