It seemed so strange now that she had not been happier. To be young and without sin: to believe in God and to love Christ. Was not that enough for happiness?
The room was almost dark before she rang for lamps. In that southern paradise the shutting of windows must precede the entrance of lighted lamps; and one is apt to prolong the time entre chien et loup.
The darkness fostered those morbid feelings that she had indulged of late. She thought of Francis Symeon, and his belief in the communion of the living and the dead.
Her husband might be near her as she crept about in the darkness. She might know that he was there; but she was not to hope for any visible sign of his presence.
To see was reserved for the elect; and for them only when the earthly tabernacle was near its end, when the veil between life and death had worn thin. Then only, and for the choicest spirits only, would that thin veil be rent asunder and the dead reveal themselves to the living, in a divine anticipation of immortality.
"Not for all, not for those who have loved earthly things and lived the sensual life, not for them the afterlife of reunion and felicity."
"Not for me—never for me." She fell on her knees by Granny's sofa, and bowed her head upon her folded arms and prayed—a wild and fervent prayer—a distracted appeal for mercy to One Who knew, and could pity. Such a prayer as might have trembled on the Magdalen's pale lips while, with bent head and hidden countenance, she washed the Redeemer's feet with her tears.
The spell that was woven of silence and shadow was broken suddenly by the opening of the door and the tumultuous entrance of the Irish terrier, followed by Louison, who saw only darkness and an empty room.
"Mais où donc est Madame?" she exclaimed.