In the garden of the Bishop was a still more dense thickness of
branches, and she had often tried in vain to distinguish there the
violet-coloured cassock of Monseigneur; and the old gate, with its
Venetian slats above and at the sides, must have been fastened up for
a very long time, for she never remembered to have seen it opened, not
even for a gardener to pass through. Besides the washerwomen in the
Clos, she always saw the same poor, ragged little children playing or
sleeping in the grass.

The spring this year was unusually mild. She was just sixteen years of
age, and until now she had been glad to welcome with her eyes alone
the growing green again of the Clos-Marie under the April sunshine.
The shooting out of the tender leaves, the transparency of the warm
evenings, and all the reviving odours of the earth had simply amused her
heretofore. But this year, at the first bud, her heart seemed to beat
more quickly. As the grass grew higher and the wind brought to her all
the strong perfumes of the fresh verdure, there was in her whole being
an increasing agitation. Sudden inexplicable pain would at times seize
her throat and almost choke her. One evening she threw herself, weeping,
into Hubertine's arms, having no cause whatever for grief, but, on the
contrary, overwhelmed with so great, unknown a happiness, that her heart
was too full for restraint. In the night her dreams were delightful.
Shadows seemed to pass before her, and she fell into such an ecstatic
state that on awakening she did not dare to recall them, so confused
was she by the angelic visions of bliss. Sometimes, in the middle of her
great bed, she would rouse herself suddenly, her two hands joined and
pressed against her breast as if a heavy burden were weighing her down
and almost suffocating her. She would then jump up, rush across the
room in her bare feet, and, opening the window wide, would stand there,
trembling slightly, until at last the pure fresh air calmed her. She