Then silently she slipped from her bed, crossed to the window, and looked out.
Perhaps the Virgin was already waiting for her in the garden?
But she saw no one.
Far away she could see a few lights shining like fallen stars in the town of Tours, and through the trees upon the lawn she saw the Loire glittering like an angel’s robe beneath the moon.
“How wicked to expect the Holy Virgin to wait for me,” thought Odette, “It is I that must wait for Her.” And fastening a fair silver cross about her neck, she noiselessly opened the bedroom door, and found herself standing alone upon the great dark staircase.
To get to the garden it was necessary to cross the Picture Gallery; for the Picture Gallery was at the top of the great staircase.
Odette trembled as she passed down the long still Gallery where the portraits of her ancestors peered eerily from the panelled walls. But she was comforted by the thought that Gabrielle was at the other end.
It was the picture of Gabrielle d’Antrevernes, one of the beauties of the court of Louis XIV, that Odette loved most. And she never tired of looking at the long pale face, the sea-blue eyes, and the dull gold hair capped with pearls, of her beautiful ancestress.
Odette adored the tired languid-looking hands, full of deep red roses, that lay like two dead doves upon the silver brocaded gown, and she would weave beautiful tales about Gabrielle, seated on her favourite cushion, peering up at the portrait, her great eyes lost in thought.
But this evening she did not linger as her custom was but with a friendly smile to the beloved Gabrielle she hurried by, her cautious feet all a-pit-a-pat, a-pit-a-pat, on the parquet floor.