ommenced shaking the linen back
and forth.

Yes, it was he--tall, slight, a blonde, with his fine beard and his hair
curled like that of a god, his complexion as fresh as when she had first
seen him under the white shadow of the moonlight. Since it was he, there
was nothing to be feared for the window; were he to touch it, he would
only embellish it. And it was no disappointment to her whatever to
find him in this blouse, a workman like herself, a painter on glass, no
doubt. On the contrary, this fact made her smile, so absolutely certain
was she of the eventual fulfillment of her dream of royal fortune. Now,
it was simply an appearance, a beginning. What good would it do her
to know who he was, from whence he came, or whither he was going? Some
morning he would prove to be that which she expected him to be. A shower
of gold would stream from the roof of the Cathedral, a triumphal march
would break forth in the distant rumblings of the organ, and all would
come true. She did not stay to ask herself how he could always be there,
day and night. Yet it was evident either that he must live in one of the
neighbouring houses, or he must pass by the lane des Guerdaches, which
ran by the side of the Bishop's park to the Rue Magloire.

Then a charming hour passed by. She bent forward, she rinsed her linen,
her face almost touching the fresh water; but each time she took a
different piece she raised her head, and cast towards the church a look,
in which from the agitation of her heart, was a little good-natured
malice. And he, upon the scaffolding, with an air of being closely
occupied in examining the state of the window, turned towards her,
glancing at her sideways, and evidently much disturbed whenever she
surprised him doing so. It was astonishing how quickly he blushed, how
dark red his face became. At the slightest emotion, whether of anger or
interest, all the blood in his veins seemed to mount to his face. He had
flashing eyes, which showed will; yet he was so diffident, that, when he
knew he was being criticised, he was embarrassed as a little child, did
not seem to know what to do with his hands, and stammered out his orders
to the old man who accompanied him.

As for Angelique, that which delighted her most, as she refreshed her
arms in this turbulent water, was to picture him innocent like herself,
ignorant of the world, and with an equally intense desire to have a
taste of life. There was no need of his telling to