A pleasant smile lighted up Madame Dornthal’s face. “I like you very much, Gabrielle, not because you are handsome, that has nothing to do with it; I should love you quite as much were it otherwise; but because there is so much simplicity about you—which is quite to my taste. Now, let me see: it is eleven o’clock, our friends are going to take their children home, and our youngest are going to bed. As to the rest of us, we shall presently go to the Midnight Mass, and not sup till our return. Make your own choice—to follow the children’s example, or go with us.”
“Oh! with you, with you!” cried
Fleurange. “Pray, take me to church; I am neither feeble nor fatigued.”
“And yet you are fatigued,” replied Madame Dornthal, “only you do not yet feel it. But as it will do you no harm, you shall do as you wish. So save your strength, and do not return now to the drawing-room. You can remain here and wait for me.”
She left the room, and Fleurange remained where she was, happy to obey such kind orders without any resistance. Five minutes after, the door opened. It was Clement again, holding his little brother by the hand, and carrying his young sister in his arms.
“Fritz and Frida wish to bid you good-night,” he said. The little boy timidly approached. Fleurange immediately spoke to him in that language which all children understand, and which can only be learned and spoken by those who love them: he was speedily reassured. She then took Frida, and kissed her blue eyes, which, while looking at her with surprise, began to close. When she gave the child back to her brother, she was asleep, and he bore her away without awakening her, holding her with an ease that showed how accustomed he was to the care. His little brother followed him out of the room.
Half an hour of silent repose succeeded this interruption. It was more beneficial to Fleurange than sleep, which strong excitement kept her from feeling the need of. At the end of that time, Madame Dornthal reappeared with her two daughters. Clement and his father were waiting for them in the passage. They set off by starlight on foot, for the church was near. They were all silent and thoughtful, for the children’s festival had not made them forgetful of the solemnity of this great night.
In church, once more in church, Fleurange felt, as she knelt down, that her overburdened heart could now find relief, and when solemn, harmonious, and accordant voices made the magnificent arches resound with unearthly chants, which seemed to be the spontaneous expression of universal prayer, the young girl bowed her head still lower: all the joy and gratitude of her heart overflowed in sweet tears and fervent prayers of thanksgiving. When Mass was over, one voice, which surpassed the rest—a voice sweet and manly—intoned beside her the Psalm Laudate Dominum. She involuntarily joined in the strain, and the two voices seemed for an instant to form but one.
When she turned around, she saw that this singer was her cousin, Clement Dornthal.