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
rejoin her betrothed, and Balbine, who died from sudden joy at the
return of her husband, whom she thought had been killed in the war.
They both of them came back at night and enveloped the Castle with their
immense, flowing white robes. Had she not seen them herself the day of
their visit to the ruins, as they floated, towards evening, above the
towers in the rosy pallor of the dusk? Ah! how willingly she would die
as they did, although but sixteen years of age, in the supreme happiness
of the realisation of her dream!
A loud noise which reverberated under the arches made her tremble.
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