It was, indeed, the miraculous hair, a fabulous fleece, with heavy twists and curls, a glorious, starry efflorescence, the warm and living robe of a saint, perfumed with its pure nudity.
That day Felicien could do nothing but watch Angelique as she embroidered the curls, following the exact direction of their rolling with her little pointed stitches, and he never wearied of seeing the hair grow and radiate under her magic needle.

Its weight, and the great quivering with which it seemed to be unrolled at one turn, disturbed him.
Hubertine, occupied in sewing on spangles, hiding the thread with which each one was attached with a tiny round of gold twist, lifted up her head from time to time and gave him a calm motherly look, whenever she was obliged to throw into the waste-basket a spangle that was not well made.
Hubert, who had just taken away the side pieces of wood, that he might unstitch the banner from the frame, was about folding it up carefully.
And at last, Felicien, whose embarrassment was greatly increased by this unbroken silence, realised that it was best for him to take leave, since as yet he had not been able to think of any of the suggestions which he had said he intended to make.
He rose, blushed, and stammered: "I will return another day.

I find that I have so badly succeeded in reproducing the charming design of the head of the saint that you may perhaps have need of some explanations from me." Angelique looked him fully in the face with her sweet, great eyes.
"Oh, not at all.

But come again, Monsieur.

Do not hesitate to do so, if you are in the least anxious about the execution of the work." He went away, happy from the permission given him, but chilled by the coldness of manner of the young girl.