Chapter 6

           Oneeveningwhenthewindowwasopen,andshe,sittingbyit,hadbeenwatchingLestiboudois,thebeadle,trimmingthebox,shesuddenlyheardtheAngelusringing.

           ItwasthebeginningofApril,whentheprimrosesareinbloom,andawarmwindblowsovertheflower-bedsnewlyturned,andthegardens,likewomen,seemtobegettingreadyforthesummerfetes.Throughthebarsofthearbourandawaybeyond,theriverseeninthefields,meanderingthroughthegrassinwanderingcurves.Theeveningvapoursrosebetweentheleaflesspoplars,touchingtheiroutlineswithaviolettint,palerandmoretransparentthanasubtlegauzecaughtathwarttheirbranches.Inthedistancecattlemovedabout;neithertheirstepsnortheirlowingcouldbeheard;andthebell,stillringingthroughtheair,keptupitspeacefullamentation.

           Withthisrepeatedtinklingthethoughtsoftheyoungwomanlostthemselvesinoldmemoriesofheryouthandschool-days.Sherememberedthegreatcandlesticksthatroseabovethevasesfullofflowersonthealtar,andthetabernaclewithitssmallcolumns.Shewouldhavelikedtobeoncemorelostinthelonglineofwhiteveils,markedoffhereandtherebythestuffblackhoodsofthegoodsistersbendingovertheirprie-Dieu.AtmassonSundays,whenshelookedup,shesawthegentlefaceoftheVirginamidthebluesmokeoftherisingincense.

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