Entering, she mechanically followed her training at Le Bon Pasteur, and, bending a knee, dipped the tips of her fingers in the font and crossed her heaving breast.
The great wax tapers were still burning about the ancient altar, and here and there pairs and bunches of expiatory candles flickered in the little chapels.
As no other light relieved the sombre blackness of the vaulted edifice, an indefinite ghostliness prevailed, from out of which the numerous gilded forms of the Virgin and the saints appeared half intangible, as if hovering about with no fixed support or substance.
The church might have been deserted, so far as any living indications were visible, though two or three darker splotches on the darkness could have been taken for as many penitents seeking the peace which passeth understanding.
Gliding softly down the right, outside of the pews and row of stately columns, Mlle. Fouchette stopped only at the last pillar, from which she had a near view of the pretty white altar. She remained there, leaning against the pillar, her eyes bent upon the altar, motionless, for a long time.
During that period she had pictured just how the young couple would look,—how beautiful the bride would appear,—how noble and handsome Jean Marot would shine at her side.
She supplied all of the details as she had seen them once before, correcting and rearranging them in her mind with scrupulous care.
All of this dreamily and without emotion, as one lies in the summer shade idly tracing the fleeting clouds across a summer's sky.
She had grown wonderfully calm, and when she turned away she gently put the picture behind her as an accomplished material thing.
On her way she paused before the little chapel of Ste. Geneviève. There were candles burning before the altar, and a delicious, holy incense filled the air.