and so pure that it defied the white of the linen to cast a shadow upon
it. Although she had not closed her eyes during the night, the morning
air, and above all things the inward joy of a soul as spotless as the
sky, and a little hidden fire, held in check by the modesty of youth,
sent to her cheeks a flush as delicate as the peach-blossom in the early
days of April.

Her white fichu, chastely crossed over her bosom, showed only the
graceful contour of a neck as full and round as a turtle-dove's; her
morning dress of fine myrtle-green cloth marked the shape of her slender
waist, which seemed perfect, but was likely to grow and develop, for she
was only seventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk, with the pinafore
which our village women have made a great mistake in abolishing, and
which imparted so much modesty and refinement to the chest. To-day, they
spread out their fichus more proudly, but there is no longer that sweet
flower of old-fashioned pudicity in their costume that made them
resemble Holbein's virgins. They are more coquettish, more graceful. The
correct style in the old days was a sort of unbending stiffness which
made their infrequent smiles more profound and more ideal.

At the offertory, Germain, according to the usual custom, placed the
_treizain_--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his fiancée's
hand. He placed on her finger a silver ring of a shape that remained
invariable for centuries, but has since been replaced by the _band of
gold._ As they left the church, Marie whispered: "Is it the ring I
wanted? the one I asked you for, Germain?"

"Yes," he replied, "the one my Catherine had on her finger when she
died. The same ring for both my marriages."