THE ROSE GARDEN
Then one beautiful evening in August, as little Odette watched the two twin towers of the distant Cathedral flush purple in the setting sun, and the great round dome of St. Martin’s Church loom like a ripe apricot against the sky, a wonderful idea came to her. She, too, would seek the Holy Virgin. She, too, like little Bernadette, would speak with the Holy Mary, the Mother of the Lord Seigneur Christ.
III
IT was the evening of the eventful night. For one whole week Odette had prayed steadfastly, and now this evening she was going to speak to the Holy Mary in the rose garden, when Aunt Valerie and Fortune, Blaise, and Monsieur le Curé were all fast asleep.
She felt terribly excited as she kissed her aunt good-night, and trembling with a beautiful holy fear she allowed Fortune to undress her and put her to bed.
Then for two long hours she watched the moonlight fall upon the dim blue figure of Joan of Arc, for the frail summer fire that Fortune lit of an evening had long ago burnt itself out, and now the room was filled with mysterious shadows and strange creakings of furniture, so that it was all Odette could do not to be afraid. At last she heard the gentle rustle of her aunt’s gown as she passed her door, and Odette could see the yellow light from Madame d’Antreverne’s candle glint like a fleeting star through the keyhole. Soon afterwards she heard the slow steps of Blaise cross the Picture Gallery, and then a sudden silence fell upon the chateau only broken by faint nocturnal noises from the garden.
Odette sat up amid her pillows listening. She felt her heart beating, beating, as if it were trying to escape.