was obliged to wear it. Great, indeed,
was her joy when, in the presence of the mayor of the parish, the
inspector's aid had cut the cord, replacing this sign of individuality
by a formal description, in which allusion was made to her
violet-coloured eyes and her fine golden hair. Yet she always seemed
to feel around her neck this collar, as if she were an animal that was
marked in order that she might be recognised if she went astray; it cut
into her flesh and stifled her. When she came to that page on this day,
her humility came back to her, she was frightened, and went up to her
chamber, sobbing as if unworthy of being loved. At two other times this
little book saved her. At last it lost its power, and could not help her
in checking her rebellious thoughts.

Now, her greatest temptation came to her at night. Before going to
bed, that her sleep might be calm, she imposed upon herself the task of
resuming reading the Legends. But, resting her forehead on her hands,
notwithstanding all her efforts she could understand nothing. The
miracles stupefied her; she saw only a discoloured flight of phantoms.
Then in her great bed, after a most intense prostration, she started
suddenly from her sleep, in agony, in the midst of the darkness. She sat
upright, distracted; then knelt among the half thrown-back clothes, as
the perspiration started from her forehead, while she trembled from head
to foot. Clasping her hands together, she stammered in prayer, "Oh! my
God! Why have You forsaken me?"

Her great distress was to realise that she was alone in the obscurity
at such moments. She had dreamed of Felicien, she was eager to dress
herself and go to join him, before anyone could come to prevent her
from fleeing. It was as if the Divine grace were leaving her, as if God
ceased to protect her, and even the elements abandoned her. In despair,
she called upon the unknown, she listened attentively, hoping for some
sign from the Invisible. But there was no reply; the air seemed empty.
There were no more whispering voices, no more mysterious rustlings.
Everything seemed to be dead--the Clos-Marie, with the Chevrotte, the
willows, the elm-trees in the Bishop's garden, and the Cathedral itself.
Nothing remained of the dreams she had placed there; the white flight of
her friends in passing away left behind them only their sepulchre. She
was in agony at her powerlessness, disarmed, like a Christian of the
Primitive Church overcome by origina