"It strikes me," said Rosalie, with a glance at Mariette, which
brought poppies to her cheeks, "that you too are more particular on
some days than on others."

As she went down the steps, across the courtyard, and through the
gates, Rosalie's heart beat, as everybody's does in anticipation of a
great event. Hitherto, she had never known what it was to walk in the
streets; for a moment she had felt as though her mother must read her
schemes on her brow, and forbid her going to confession, and she now
felt new blood in her feet, she lifted them as though she trod on
fire. She had, of course, arranged to be with her confessor at a
quarter-past eight, telling her mother eight, so as to have about a
quarter of an hour near Albert. She got to church before Mass, and
after a short prayer, went to see if the Abbe Giroud were in his
confessional, simply to pass the time; and she thus placed herself in
such a way as to see Albert as he came into church.

The man must have been atrociously ugly who did not seem handsome to
Mademoiselle de Watteville in the frame of mind produced by her
curiosity. And Albert Savaron, who was really very striking, made all
the more impression on Rosalie because his mien, his walk, his
carriage, everything down to his clothing, had the indescribable stamp
which can only be expressed by the word Mystery.

He came in. The church, till now gloomy, seemed to Rosalie to be
illuminated. The girl was fascinated by his slow and solemn demeanor,
as of a man who bears a world on his shoulders and whose deep gaze,
whose very gestures, combine to express a devastating or absorbing
thought. Rosalie now understood the Vicar-General's words in their