To their number had lately been added the mother of the son of Monseigneur, who was found lifeless on the floor by the cradle of her infant, where, although ill, she dragged herself to die, in the fullness of her delight at embracing him.

These had haunted the imagination of Angelique; she spoke of them as if they were facts of recent occurrence, which might have happened the day before.

She had read the names of Laurette and of Balbine on old memorial tablets let into the walls of the chapel.

Then why should not she also die young and very happy, as they had?
The armouries would glisten as now, the saint would come down from his place in the stained-glass window, and she would be carried away to heaven on the sweet breath of a kiss.

Why not?
The "Golden Legend" had taught her this: Was not it true that the miracle is really the common law, and follows the natural course of events?
It exists, is active, works with an extreme facility on every occasion, multiplies itself, spreads itself out, overflows even uselessly, as if for the pleasure of contradicting the self-evident rules of Nature.