The ceremonies with which it was ever vibrating, the constant swinging of its bells, the music of the organ, and the chanting of the priests, all these were like the pulsation of its veins.

There was always a living murmur in it: half-lost sounds, like the faint echo of a Low Mass; the rustling of the kneeling penitents, a slight, scarcely perceptible shivering, nothing but the devout ardour of a prayer said without words and with closed lips.
Now, as the days grew longer, Angelique passed more and more time in the morning and evening with her elbows on the balustrade of the balcony, side by side with her great friend, the Cathedral.

She loved it the best at night, when she saw the enormous mass detach itself like a huge block on the starry skies.

The form of the building was lost.

It was with difficulty that she could even distinguish the flying buttresses, which were thrown like bridges into the empty space.