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It was in the second half of June and Corpus Christi day. At all the stations groups of girls in white were to be seen. Now and then white-robed processions passed in the distance, and softly as from a spirit choir their Catholic hymns floated to the traveler's ear.
It was late in the afternoon when he arrived in Brussels, sprang into a fiacre, and directed it to the Rue Ravestein. The hack, with all the vexatious phlegm of a Brussels' vehicle, jogged slowly toward its destination.
The moist, heavy sultriness of a northern summer brooded over the town. The air had something oppressive, stifling, like that of a hot room. Above the earth all was motionless, except that in the very topmost branches of the linden trees on the Boulevard there was a light rustling. From the ground steamed the moisture of yesterday's showers; in the sky the clouds were piling up for another thunderstorm, with muttered growl along the horizon. The atmosphere was heavy and sad with the odor of incense, burning wax, candles, and withering flowers, the odor of Corpus Christi Day. Against the walls of the houses still leaned the altars that had been erected, surmounted by shriveled foliage, and dead blossoms. Luxuriant roses, tender heliotrope and modest reseda lay trodden and soiled on the pavement.
As Gesa alighted at the Place Royale a woman in a battered hat, gaudily be-ribboned, and a red shawl, stooped down after some of the faded flowers. She was one of those who hide themselves when the Corpus Christi procession passes by. She lived in the Rue Ravestein, and Gesa knew her. Always pitiful, he took a twenty-france piece from his pocket and gave it to her. She glanced up, looked at him sharply and suddenly turned away her painted face.
He entered the Rue Ravestein. Sickening miasmas rose from the drain; a cloud of midges hovered in the air;--the crucified Saviour looked down more sadly than ever.
Familiar things greeted his eyes as he passed: the lean hyena-like dogs wagged their tails, and some of them came and shoved cold moist noses into his hand.
"No one is at home!" cried the woman who sold vegetables in the shop on the ground floor of Delileo's dwelling. "No one. Neither the old gentleman, nor the young lady."
"Have they gone on a journey?" asked Gesa, blankly.
"No, I think not. Unless I am mistaken the young lady has gone to church. Perhaps monsieur will find her yet in St. Gudule."