“I used to consider her a child,” thought Luc; “but she is nearer an angel.” Then he forgot the stage under the trees, the passing holiday-makers, and even the near presence of his betrothed, and was only aware of the sunshine, which carried him back to Paris and the Pont Neuf--and the river flowing past the Louvre and the isle of the city (always the river ran through all his dreams and visions)--and the Rue du Bac at night with the street lights gleaming through the rain--and then the sunshine again over the poplar trees on the quays and the spires of the churches. He thought, too, of M. de Voltaire, and how that great man would smile to think that he, Luc, was supremely happy in the prospect of his modest appointment and his simple wife. A timid touch on his sleeve roused him. Clémence was gazing at him with shining eyes. “Is it not wonderful?” she whispered. Luc glanced at the stage; the child had raised herself by one hand on the rope upright into the air, her feet close together, her green tights a vivid line of colour, and her white and crimson skirts a ruffle round her waist. A man came from the back of the stage and caught the child in his arms; he wore a robe of loose pattern composed of squares of black and white, and he began to execute a fantastic dance with the child on his shoulder. The man in green velvet left off beating the drum, and began collecting from the crowd in a pink and gold shaded shell. Luc’s gaze wandered from the performers, and he watched the mummer’s extravagant bows and grimaces as he solicited his guerdon from the spectators. Presently he stopped before a lady who stood in the shade under one of the elm trees, and who was remarkable both for a certain air of the great world not common to the nobility of Aix, and for the fact that she was alone with only a black page in attendance. Luc could not see her face, for she wore a heavy-plumed beaver, and her figure was disguised by a scarlet riding-cloak, yet she interested him by reason of an extraordinary mixture of humility and defiance in her air, conveyed by something in her pose, the droop of her shoulders, and the set of her head. She gave the player a coin, and he passed on; she remained under the tree, a conspicuous figure, and one of a mournfulness out of place in this time of carnival. Several people looked at her; some stopped to stare. Luc wondered who she was, why she was here alone and apart from the general gaiety. He was looking at her when she came slowly out of the shadow, her page behind her, and as she moved into the sunlight Luc recognized Carola Koklinska. “The show is over,” said Clémence regretfully. A gaudy painted curtain had been drawn across the little stage, and the people were moving away to other booths. “Shall we go?” asked Luc. “Yes; it is rather cold,” she answered shyly. She rose from the little green chair, and as she turned Carola, walking in front of the poles and canvas, was full in her vision.