Then one beautiful evening in August, as little Odette watched the two twin towers of the distant Cathedral flush purple in the setting sun, and the great round dome of St. Martin’s Church loom like a ripe apricot against the sky, a wonderful idea came to her. She, too, would seek the Holy Virgin. She, too, like little Bernadette, would speak with the Holy Mary, the Mother of the Lord Seigneur Christ. III It was the evening of the eventful night. For one whole week Odette had prayed steadfastly, and now this evening she was going to speak to the Holy Mary in the rose garden, when Aunt Valerie and Fortune, Blaise, and Monsieur le Curé were all fast asleep. She felt terribly excited as she kissed her aunt good-night, and trembling with a beautiful holy fear she allowed Fortune to undress her and put her to bed. Then for two long hours she watched the moonlight fall upon the dim blue figure of Joan of Arc, for the frail summer fire that Fortune lit of an evening had long ago burnt itself out, and now the room was filled with mysterious shadows and strange creakings of furniture, so that it was all Odette could do not to be afraid. At last she heard the gentle rustle of her aunt’s gown as she passed her door, and Odette could see the yellow light from Madame d’Antreverne’s candle glint like a fleeting star through the keyhole. Soon afterwards she heard the slow steps of Blaise cross the Picture Gallery, and then a sudden silence fell upon the chateau only broken by faint nocturnal noises from the garden. Odette sat up amid her pillows listening. She felt her heart beating, beating, as if it were trying to escape. Then silently she slipped from her bed, crossed to the window, and looked out. Perhaps the Virgin was already waiting for her in the garden? But she saw no one. Far away she could see a few lights shining like fallen stars in the town of Tours, and through the trees upon the lawn she saw the Loire glittering like an angel’s robe beneath the moon. “How wicked to expect the Holy Virgin to wait for me,” thought Odette, “It is I that must wait for Her.” And fastening a fair silver cross about her neck, she noiselessly opened the bedroom door, and found herself standing alone upon the great dark staircase. To get to the garden it was necessary to cross the Picture Gallery; for the Picture Gallery was at the top of the great staircase. Odette trembled as she passed down the long still Gallery where the portraits of her ancestors peered eerily from the panelled walls. But she was comforted by the thought that Gabrielle was at the other end. It was the picture of Gabrielle d’Antrevernes, one of the beauties of the court of Louis XIV, that Odette loved most. And she never tired of looking at the long pale face, the sea-blue eyes, and the dull gold hair capped with pearls, of her beautiful ancestress.