In the greenish half-light of its calm freshness, the two towers let fall only the sound of their chimes.

But the entire house kept the quivering therefrom, sealed as it was to these old stones, melted into them and supported by them.

It trembled at the least of the ceremonies; at the High Mass, the rumbling of the organ, the voices of the choristers, even the oppressed sighs of the worshippers, murmured through each one of its rooms, lulled it as if with a holy breath from the Invisible, and at times through the half-cool walls seemed to come the vapours from the burning incense.
For five years Angelique lived and grew there, as if in a cloister, far away from the world.

She only went out to attend the seven-o'clock Mass on Sunday mornings, as Hubertine had obtained permission for her to study at home, fearing that, if sent to school, she might not always have the best of associates.

This old dwelling, so shut in, with its garden of a dead quiet, was her world.