“The idea was a most excellent one,” interposed Hubert. And Hubertine added, in her turn: “Monseigneur will be deeply gratified.” The so-called Procession of the Miracle, which takes place each year on July 28, dates from the time of Jean V. d’Hautecœur, who instituted it as a thanksgiving to God for the miraculous power He had given to him and to his race to save Beaumont from the plague. According to the legend, the Hautecœurs are indebted for this remarkable gift to the intervention of Saint Agnes, of whom they were the greatest admirers; and since the most ancient time, it has been the custom on the anniversary of her fête to take down the old statue of the saint and carry it slowly in a solemn procession through the streets of the town, in the pious belief that she still continues to disperse and drive away all evils. “Ah,” at last murmured Angelique, her eyes on the design, “the Procession of the Miracle. But that will come in a few days, and we shall not have time enough to finish it.” The Huberts shook their heads. In truth, so delicate a piece of work required the most minute care and attention. Yet Hubertine turned towards her daughter as she said: “I could help you, my dear. I might attend to the ornaments, and then you will only have the figure to do.” Angelique continued to closely examine the figure of the saint, and was deeply troubled. She said to herself, “No, no.” She refused; she would not give herself the pleasure of accepting. It would be inexcusable on her part thus to be an accomplice in a plan, for it was evident that Felicien was keeping something back. She was perfectly sure that he was not poor, and that he wore a workman’s dress simply as a disguise; and this affected simplicity, all this history, told only that he might approach her, put her on her guard, amused and happy though she was, in reality, transfiguring him, seeing in him the royal prince that he should be; so thoroughly did she live in the absolute certainty of the entire realisation of her dream, sooner or later. “No,” she repeated in a half-whisper, “we should not have the needed time.” And without lifting her eyes she continued, as if speaking to herself: “For the saint, we could use neither the close embroidery nor the lace openwork. It would not be worthy of her. It should be an embroidery in gold, shaded by silk.” “Exactly,” said Felicien. “That is what I had already thought of, for I knew that Mademoiselle had re-found the secret of making it. There is still quite a pretty little fragment of it at the sacristy.” Hubert was quite excited.