Claude, however, at the side of Phlipote,
realized the ideal of a faithful and jealous guardian. The
hallebardes of the Suisses rang on the marble pavement of the
gallery. Royalty, now unconsciously presenting its ceremonies for
the last time, advanced through a cloud of splendour; but before the
Queen appeared it was necessary that all the knights of the order
down to the youngest should pass by, slow, solemn, majestic.
[147] They wore, besides their ribbons of blue moire, the silver dove
on the shoulder, and the long mantle of sombre blue velvet lined with
yellow satin. Phlipote watched mechanically the double file of
haughty figures passing before them: then, on a sudden, with a feeble
cry, falls fainting into the arms of Claude.
Recovered after a while, under shelter of the great staircase, she
wept as those weep whose heart is broken by a great blow. Claude,
without a word, sustained, soothed her. A sentiment of gratitude
mingled itself with her distress. "How good he is!" she thought.
"It was a pity," says her mother a little later "a pity you did not
see the Cordons Bleus. Fancy! You will laugh at me! But in one of
the handsomest of the Chevaliers I felt sure I recognized the
stranger who helped us at the Sainte Chapelle, and was so gallant
with you.
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