“She is not always melancholy, however; she has occasional intervals, when she will be bright and animated for days together; but there is a degree of wildness attending these fits of gayety, that prevents their yielding any satisfaction to her friends.  At such times she will arrange her room, which is all covered with pictures of ships and legends of saints; and will wreathe a white chaplet, as if for a wedding, and prepare wedding ornaments.  She will listen anxiously at the door, and look frequently out at the window, as if expecting some one’s arrival.  It is supposed that at such times she is looking for her lover’s return; but, as no one touches upon the theme, nor mentions his name in her presence, the current of her thoughts is mere matter of conjecture.  Now and then she will make a pilgrimage to the chapel of Notre Dame de Grace; where she will pray for hours at the altar, and decorate the images with wreaths that she had woven; or will wave her handkerchief from the terrace, as you have seen, if there is any vessel in the distance.”

Upwards of a year, he informed me, had now elapsed without effacing from her mind this singular taint of insanity; still her friends hoped it might gradually wear away.  They had at one time removed her to a distant part of the country, in hopes that absence from the scenes connected with her story might have a salutary effect; but, when her periodical melancholy returned, she became more restless and wretched than usual, and, secretly escaping from her friends, set out on foot, without knowing the road, on one of her pilgrimages to the chapel.

This little story entirely drew my attention from the gay scene of the fete, and fixed it upon the beautiful Annette.  While she was yet standing on the terrace, the vesper-bell was rung from the neighbouring chapel.  She listened for a moment, and then drawing a small rosary from her bosom, walked in that direction.  Several of the peasantry followed her in silence; and I felt too much interested, not to do the same.

The chapel, as I said before, is in the midst of a grove, on the high promontory.  The inside is hung round with little models of ships, and rude paintings of wrecks and perils at sea, and providential deliverances—­the votive offerings of captains and crews that have been saved.  On entering, Annette paused for a moment before a picture of the virgin, which, I observed, had recently been decorated with a wreath of artificial flowers.  When she reached the middle of the chapel she knelt down, and those who followed her involuntarily did the same at a little distance.  The evening sun shone softly through the checkered grove into one window of the chapel.  A perfect stillness reigned within; and this stillness was the more impressive contrasted with the distant sound of music and merriment from the fair.  I could not take my eyes off from the poor suppliant; her lips moved as she told her beads, but her prayers were breathed in silence.  It might have been mere fancy excited by the scene, that, as she raised her eyes to heaven, I thought they had an expression truly seraphic.  But I am easily affected by female beauty, and there was something in this mixture of love, devotion, and partial insanity, that was inexpressibly touching.