one with iron trimmings
that was under the stairway; and the great central arcade, of which the
lower part, the sides, and the point had been plastered over, so as to
leave only one rectangular opening, was now a species of large window,
instead of the triple-pointed one which formerly came out on to the
street.
Without thinking, the child still looked at this venerable dwelling of a
master-builder, so well preserved, and as she read upon a little yellow
plate nailed at the left of the door these words, "Hubert, chasuble
maker," printed in black letters, she was again attracted by the sound of
the opening of a shutter. This time it was the blind of the square
window of the ground floor. A man in his turn looked out; his face was
full, his nose aquiline, his forehead projecting, and his thick short hair
already white, although he was scarcely yet five-and- forty. He, too,
forgot the air for a moment as he examined her with a sad wrinkle on
his great tender mouth. Then she saw him, as he remained standing
behind the little greenish-looking panes. He turned, beckoned to
someone, and his wife reappeared. How handsome she was! They both
stood side by side, looking at her earnestly and sadly.
For four hundred years, the line of Huberts, embroiderers from father to
son, had lived in this house. A noted maker of chasubles had built it
under Louis XI, another had repaired it under Louis XIV, and the
Hubert who now occupied it still embroidered church vestments, as his
ancestors had always done. At twenty years of age he had fallen in love
with a young girl of sixteen, Hubertine, and so deep was their affection
for each other, that when her mother, widow of a magistrate, refused to
give her consent to their union, they ran away together and were
married. She was remarkably beautiful, and that was their whole
romance, their joy, and their misfortune.
When, a year later, she went to the deathbed of her mother, the latter
disinherited her and gave her her curse. So affected was she by the
terrible scene, that her infant, born soon after, died, and since then it
seemed as if, even in her coffin in the cemetery, the willful woman had
never pardoned her daughter, for it was, alas! a childless household.
After twenty-four years they still mourned the little one they had lost.
Disturbed by their looks, the stranger tried to hide herself behind the
pillar of Saint Agnes. She was also annoyed by the movement which
now commenced in the street, as the shops were being opened and
people began to go out. The Rue des Orfevres, which terminates at the
side front of the church, would be almost impassable, blocked in as it is
on one side by the house of the Huberts, if the Rue du Soleil, a narrow
lane, did not relieve it on the other side by running the whole length of
the Cathedral to the great front on the Place du Cloitre. At this hour
there were few passers, excepting one or two persons who were on their
way to early service, and they looked with surprise at the poor little girl,
whom they did not recognise as ever having seen at Beaumont. The
slow, persistent fall of snow continued. The cold seemed to increase
with the wan daylight, and in the dull thickness of the great white
shroud which covered the town one heard, as if from a distance, the
sound of voices. But timid, ashamed of her abandonment, as if it were a
fault, the child drew still farther back, when suddenly she recognised
before her Hubertine, who, having no servant, had gone out to buy
bread.
"What are you doing there, little one? Who are you?"
She did not answer, but hid her face. Then she was no longer conscious
of suffering; her whole being seemed to have faded away, as if her
heart, turned to ice, had stopped beating. When the good lady turned
away with a pitying look, she sank down upon her knees completely
exhausted, and slipped listlessly into the snow, whose flakes quickly
covered her.
And the woman, as she returned with her fresh rolls, seeing that she had
fallen, again approached her.
"Look up, my child! You cannot remain here on this doorstep."
Then Hubert, who had also come out, and was standing near the
threshold, took the bread from his wife, and said:
"Take her up and bring her into the house."
Hubertine did not reply, but, stooping, lifted her in her strong arms.
And the child shrank back no longer, but was carried as if inanimate;
her teeth closely set, her eyes shut, chilled through and through, and
with the lightness
Continue reading on your phone by scaning this QR Code
Tip: The current page has been bookmarked automatically. If you wish to continue reading later, just open the
Dertz Homepage, and click on the 'continue reading' link at the bottom of the page.