Then she went down the broad staircase between the pale armour, beneath the brooding flags, and so to the glass door that led to the garden.
The door was locked, and oh! the dreadful creak it gave as Odette turned the key! and a pair of little exploring mice rushed helter-skelter, tumbling about on the slippery floor.
Odette tremulously turned the handle, and suddenly she found herself alone after midnight in the garden.
Her heart beat so that she thought she was going to die. But oh! how beautiful the garden looked beneath the moon! The roses seemed to look more mysterious by moon-shine. Their perfume seemed more pure. Odette bent down and kissed a heavy crimson rose all illumined with silver dew, and then quickly she picked a great bouquet of flowers to offer to the Virgin. Some of the flowers were sleeping as she picked them, and Odette thought, with a little thrill of delight, at their joy on awakening and finding themselves on the Holy Mother’s breast.
Then, her arms full of flowers, Odette went and knelt down by the low marble seat, where so often Monsieur le Curé had spoken to her of the Saint Mary and of Jesus, her Son. And there, with her eyes fixed upon the stars, she waited....
In the trees a nightingale sang so beautifully that Odette felt the tears come into her eyes, and then far away another bird sang back ... and then both together, in an ecstasy, mixed their voices in one, and the garden seemed to Odette as if it were paradise.
Suddenly a low moan, like the sound of a breaking heart, made Odette start to her feet.
Could it be that the Holy Mother was in pain? She looked about her.
Yes, there it was again ... a long, low cry ... it came from the other side of the wall, it came from the road.
Odette hastily collected the flowers in her hands, and ran swiftly down the avenue of lime trees, her untied hair drifting aerially behind her as she ran.