That day she embroidered with her usual application and composure.

Firm in her wish, sure of doing the right thing, she had no impatient fever of expectation.

When it was four o'clock she spoke of going to see the _mere_ Gabet, and went out, dressed as for an ordinary walk, wearing her little garden-hat tied carelessly under her chin.

She turned to the left, and pushing open the linted, stuffed door of the portal of Saint Agnes, let it fall back heavily behind her.
The church was empty; alone, the confessional of Saint Joseph was still occupied by a penitent, the edge of whose black dress was just seen as one passed.

Angelique, who had been perfectly self-possessed until now, began to tremble as she entered this sacred, cold solitude, where even the little sound of her steps seemed to echo terribly.