ll at once, from the rudeness of the
shock.

"Yes, everyone is talking of it. The son of Monseigneur will in the
autumn marry Mademoiselle de Voincourt. It seems that everything was
decided upon and arranged yesterday."

She remained on her knees, as a flood of confused ideas passed through
her brain, and a strange humming was in her ears. She was not at all
surprised at the news, and she realised it must be true. Her mother had
already warned her, so she ought to have been prepared for it. She did
not yet even doubt Felicien's love for her, as that was her faith and
her strength. But at the present moment, that which weakened her so
greatly and excited her to the very depths of her being was the thought
that, trembling before the commands of his father, he could at last
yield from weariness, and consent to wed one whom he did not love. Then
he would be lost to her whom he really adored. Never had she thought
such an act on his part possible; but now she saw him obliged by his
filial duty and his sense of obedience to make them both unhappy for
ever. Still motionless, her eyes fixed upon the little gate, she at
last revolted against the facts, feeling as if she must go and shake the
bars, force them open with her hands, run to Felicien, and, aiding him
by her own courage, persuade him not to yield. She was surprised to hear
herself reply to the _mere_ Gabet, in the purely mechanical instinct of
hiding her trouble:

"Ah! then he is to marry Mademoiselle Claire. She is not only very
beautiful, but it is said she is also very good."

Certainly, as soon as the old woman went away, she must go and find him.
She had waited long enough; she would break her promise of not seeing
him as if it were a troublesome obstacle. What right had anyone
to separate them in this way? Everything spoke to her of their
affection--the Cathedral, the fresh water, and the old elm-trees under
which they had been so happy. Since their affection had grown on this
spot, it was there that she wished to find him again, to go with him
arm-in-arm far away, so far that no one would ever see them.

"That is all," said at last the _mere_ Gabet, as she hung the last
napkins on a bush. "In two hours they will be dry. Good-night,
mademoiselle, as you no longer have need of me."

Now, standing in the midst of this efflorescence of linen that shone
on the green grass, Angelique thought of that other day, when, in the
tempest of wind, among the flapping of