e idea of having
made another suffer, for she had always wished to be good, and to render
those about her as happy as possible.

Twelve o'clock would ere long ring out from the old church-tower; the
great elms of the garden of the Bishop's palace hid the moon, which was
just appearing above the horizon, and the chamber was still dark. Then,
letting her head fall back upon the pillow, Angelique dwelt no longer
upon these disturbing questions, as she wished to go to sleep. But this
she could not do; although she kept her eyes closed, her mind was still
active; she thought of the flowers which every night during the last
fortnight she had found when she went upstairs upon the balcony before
her window. Each evening it was a lovely bouquet of violets, which
Felicien had certainly thrown there from the Clos-Marie. She recollected
having told him that flowers generally gave her a sick headache, whilst
violets alone had the singular virtue of calming her, and so he had sent
her quiet nights, a perfumed sleep refreshed by pleasant dreams. This
evening she had placed the bouquet by her bedside. All at once she had
the happy thought of taking it into her bed with her, putting it near
her cheek, and, little by little, being soothed with its sweet breath.
The purple blossoms did indeed do her good. Not that she slept, however;
but she lay there with closed eyes, penetrated by the refreshing
odour that came from his gift; happy to await events, in a repose and
confident abandonment of her whole being.

But suddenly she started. It was past midnight. She opened her eyes,
and was astonished to find her chamber filled with a clear bright light.
Above the great elms the moon rose slowly, dimming the stars in the pale
sky. Through the window she saw the apse of the cathedral, almost white,
and it seemed to her as if it were the reflection of this whiteness
which entered her room, like the light of the dawn, fresh and pure. The
whitewashed walls and beams, all this blank nudity was increased by it,
enlarged, and moved back as if it were unreal as a dream.

She still recognised, however, the old, dark, oaken furniture--the
wardrobe, the chest and the chairs, with the shining edges of their
elaborate carvings. The bedstead alone--this great square, royal
couch--seemed new to her, as if she saw it for the first time, with
its high columns supporting its canopy of old-fashioned, rose-tinted
cretonne, now bathed with such a sheet of deep moo