She thought of the martyrs of whom she had read in the "Golden Legend," and it seemed to her that she was their sister in torturing herself in this way, and that her guardian angel, Agnes, would look at her henceforward with sadder, sweeter eyes than ever.
The following day Angelique finished the mitre.

She had embroidered with split silk, light as gossamer, the little hands and feet, which were the only points of white, naked flesh that came out from the royal mantle of golden hair.

She perfected the face with all the delicacy of the purest lily, wherein the gold seemed like the blood in the veins under the delicate, silken skin.

And this face, radiant as the sun, was turned heavenward, as the youthful saint was borne upward by the angels toward the distant horizon of the blue plain.
When Felicien entered that day, he exclaimed with admiration: "Oh! how exactly she looks like you." It was an involuntary expression; an acknowledgment of the resemblance he had purposely put in the design.

He realised the fact after he had spoken, and blushed deeply.
"That is indeed true, my little one; she has the same beautiful eyes that you have," said Hubert, who had come forward to examine the work.
Hubertine merely smiled now, having made a similar remark many days before, and she was surprised and grieved when she heard Angelique reply in a harsh, disagreeable tone of voice, like that she sometimes had in her fits of obstinacy years ago: "My beautiful eyes! Why will you make fun of me in that way?
I know as well as you do that I am very ugly." Then, getting up, she shook out her dress, overacting her assumed character of a harsh, avaricious girl.
"Ah, at last! It is really finished! I am thankful, for it was too much of a task, too heavy a burden on my shoulders.