ndow, or the angel who had
formerly loved Saint Cecilia, and who had now come to love her in her
turn? Although she was not vain, these thoughts made her proud, and were
as sweet to her as an invisible caress. Then she grew impatient to know
more, and her watching recommenced.

The moon, at its full, lighted up the Clos-Marie. When it was at its
zenith, the trees, under the white rays which fell straight upon them
in perpendicular lines, cast no more shadows, but were like running
fountains of silent brightness. The whole garden was bathed and filled
with a luminous wave as limpid as crystal, and the brilliancy of it
was so penetrating that everything was clearly seen, even to the fine
cutting of the willow-leaves. The slightest possible trembling of air
seemed to wrinkle this lake of rays, sleeping in the universal peace
among the grand elm-trees of the neighbouring garden and the gigantic
brow of the Cathedral.

Two more evenings had passed like this, when, on the third night, as
Angelique was leaning on her elbows and looking out, her heart seemed to
receive a sudden shock. There, in the clear light, she saw him standing
before her and looking at her. His shadow, like that of the trees, had
disappeared under his feet, and he alone was there, distinctly seen. At
this distance she saw--as if it were full day--that he was tall, slight,
a blonde, and apparently about twenty years of age. He resembled either
a Saint George or a superb picture of Christ, with his curly hair, his
thin beard, his straight nose, rather large, and his proudly-smiling
black eyes. And she recognised him perfectly; never had she seen another
like him; it was he, her hero, and he was exactly as she expected to
find him. The wonder was at last accomplished; the slow creation of the
invisible had perfected itself in this living apparition, and he came
out from the unknown, from the movement of things, from murmuring
voices, from the action of the night, from all that had enveloped her,
until she almost fainted into unconsciousness. She also saw him as if he
were lifted above the earth, so supernatural appeared to be his coming,
whilst the miraculous seemed to surround him on every side as it floated
over the mysterious moon-lake. He had as his escort the entire people of
the Legend--the saints whose staffs blossomed, the virgins whose wounds
shed milk--and the stars seemed to pale before this white group of
perfection.

Angelique continued to loo