"The white ground and the gloomy sky
Blended their heads sepulchral;
The rough north winds of winter
Breathed to the heart despair."
CAMILLE DELTHIL (Poèmes parisiens).
Weeks and then months passed away. One rainy winter's evening a young woman, in deep mourning, with her face covered with a thick veil, stopped at the Curé of St. Marie's door.
She had hesitated for a long time; several times she had passed in front of the tall gray house, casting a furtive glance on the lofty windows, slackening her walk and seeming to say: "Ought I to go in? Yes, I must go in." But each time she pursued her way again. At length, as the rain kept falling ever colder as night came on, she controlled herself by en effort, slowly retraced her step and rang gently.
The door was opened at once, and an old woman with a face the colour of leather, invited her in mysteriously, "Whom shall I announce?" she asked.—"Do not announce me. I am expected."
The old woman smiled discreetly and showed her into a large parlour, the door of which she closed upon her.
It was a bare wainscoted room, gloomy, lighted by two candle-ends.
A prie-Dieu, a table, some straw chairs, a few rows of old books on shelves painted black, composed all the furniture.
A large crucifix of wood which stretched its thin arms from one window to the other, contributed no little to give a sorrowful and monastic look to the room.
The young girl approached the chimney-piece, where a few brands were burning at the bottom of a huge grate. She shivered, perhaps more from emotion than from cold, for she remained there, thoughtful, forgetting even to warm her feet, soaked by the rain.