The street was now filled with a rustling of muslin from the flying winged sleeves of the surplices, which seemed pierced all over with tiny stars of pale gold from the flames of the candles.
"Oh!" at last Angelique half sighed, "there is Saint Agnes!" She smiled at the saint, borne by four clerks in white surplices, on a platform of white velvet heavily ornamented with lace.

Each year it was like a new surprise to her, as she saw her guardian angel thus brought out from the shadows where she had been growing old for centuries, quite like another person under the brilliant sunshine, as if she were timid and blushing in her robe of long, golden hair.

She was really so old, yet still very young, with her small hands, her little slender feet, her delicate, girlish face, blackened by time.
But Monseigneur was to follow her.

Already the swinging of the censers could be heard coming from the depths of the church.
There was a slight murmuring of voices as Angelique repeated: "Monseigneur, Monseigneur," and with her eyes still upon the saint who was going by, she recalled to mind at this moment the old histories.
The noble Marquesses d'Hautecoeur delivering Beaumont from the plague, thanks to the intervention of Agnes, then Jean V and all those of his race coming to kneel before her image, to pay their devotions to the saint, and she seemed to see them all, the lords of the miracle, coming one by one like a line of princes.
A large space had been left empty.

Then the chaplain charged with the care of the crozier advanced, holding it erect, the curved part being towards him.