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 Abbe 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 Abbe Cornille, like a simple clerk, carrying in one hand a
crucifix, and under the other a book of ritual service.
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