very long in returning. At last it came again, louder than before, but
equally confused. She would have said it came from a great distance,
that it was a scarcely-defined step, and that the trembling of the air
announced the approach of something out of sight and out of hearing.
That which she was expecting came slowly from the invisible slight
movement of what surrounded her. Little by little it disengaged itself
from her dream, like a realisation of the vague longings of her youth.
Was it the Saint George of the chapel window, who had come down from his
place and was walking on the grass in silence towards her? Just then,
by chance, the altar-light was dimmed, so that she could not distinguish
the faintest outline of the figures on the painted glass, but all seemed
like a blue cloud of vapoury mist. That was all she heard or learned at
that time of the mystery.

But on the morrow, at the same hour, by a like obscurity, the noise
increased and approached a little nearer. It was certainly the sound of
steps, of real steps, which walked upon the earth. They would stop for a
moment, then recommence here and there, moving up and down, without her
being able to say precisely where they were. Perhaps they came from
the garden of the Voincourts, where some night pedestrian was lingering
under the trees. Or it might be, rather, that they were in the tufted
masses of the great lilac-bushes of the park of the Bishop, whose strong
perfume made her almost ill. She might do her best to try to penetrate
the darkness, it was only by her hearing that she was forewarned of the
coming events, aided a little by her sense of smell, as the perfume of
the flowers was increased as if a breath were mingled with it. And
so for several nights the steps resounded under the balcony, and she
listened as they came nearer, until they reached the walls under her
feet. There they stopped, and a long silence followed, until she seemed
almost to lose consciousness in this slow embrace of something of which