"He might be about thirty."

"Well, afterward? She did not stop all night praying and weeping, did
she?"

"No; when she had exhausted her tears she rose, and there was so much
mystery and sadness about her that, instead of advancing to her as I
might have done to another, I drew back; but she turned toward me,
though she did not see me, and the moon shone on her face, which was
calm and sad, and the traces of her tears were still on her cheeks; she
moved slowly, and the servant went to support her. But, oh! my brother,
what dreadful, what superhuman beauty. I have never seen anything like
it on earth, only sometimes in my dreams."

"Well, Henri?" said Anne, interested, in spite of himself, at a recital
at which he had determined to laugh.

"Oh! it is nearly finished, brother. Her servant whispered something to
her, and she lowered her veil; doubtless he told her I was there, but
she did not glance toward me. I saw her no more, and it seemed to me,
when the veil concealed her face, as if the sky had become suddenly
overshadowed--that it was no longer a living thing, but a shade escaped
from the tomb, which was gliding silently before me. She went out of the
garden, and I followed her; from time to time the man turned and saw me,
for I did not hide myself; I had still the old habits in my mind--the
old leaven in my heart."

"What do you mean, Henri?"