The beadle, standing aloof, was inwardly angry at this individual who

took the liberty of admiring the cathedral by himself. He seemed to him

to be conducting himself in a monstrous fashion, to be robbing him in a

sort, and almost committing sacrilege.

But a rustle of silk on the flags, the tip of a bonnet, a lined

cloak--it was she! Leon rose and ran to meet her.

Emma was pale. She walked fast.

"Read!" she said, holding out a paper to him. "Oh, no!"

And she abruptly withdrew her hand to enter the chapel of the Virgin,

where, kneeling on a chair, she began to pray.

The young man was irritated at this bigot fancy; then he nevertheless

experienced a certain charm in seeing her, in the middle of a

rendezvous, thus lost in her devotions, like an Andalusian marchioness;

then he grew bored, for she seemed never coming to an end.

Emma prayed, or rather strove to pray, hoping that some sudden

resolution might descend to her from heaven; and to draw down divine

aid she filled full her eyes with the splendours of the tabernacle. She

breathed in the perfumes of the full-blown flowers in the large vases,

and listened to the stillness of the church, that only heightened the

tumult of her heart.

She rose, and they were about to leave, when the beadle came forward,

hurriedly saying-"Madame, no doubt, does not belong to these parts? Madame would like to

see the curiosities of the church?"

"Oh, no!" cried the clerk.

"Why not?" said she. For she clung with her expiring virtue to the

Virgin, the sculptures, the tombs--anything.

Then, in order to proceed "by rule," the beadle conducted them right to

the entrance near the square, where, pointing out with his cane a large

circle of block-stones without inscription or carving-"This," he said majestically, "is the circumference of the beautiful

bell of Ambroise. It weighed forty thousand pounds. There was not its

equal in all Europe. The workman who cast it died of the joy--"

"Let us go on," said Leon.

The old fellow started off again; then, having got back to the chapel of

the Virgin, he stretched forth his arm with an all-embracing gesture

of demonstration, and, prouder than a country squire showing you his

espaliers, went on-"This simple stone covers Pierre de Breze, lord of Varenne and of

Brissac, grand marshal of Poitou, and governor of Normandy, who died at

the battle of Montlhery on the 16th of July, 1465."




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