It was, nevertheless, awake in the darkness, filled with a dream of seven centuries, made grand by the multitudes who had hoped or despaired before its altars.
It was a continual watch, coming from the infinite of the past, going to the eternity of the future; the mysterious and terrifying wakefulness of a house where God Himself never sleeps.

And in the dark, motionless, living mass, her looks were sure to seek the window of a chapel of the choir, on the level of the bushes of the Clos-Marie, the only one which was lighted up, and which seemed like an eye which was kept open all the night.

Behind it, at the corner of a pillar, was an ever-burning altar-lamp.

In fact, it was the same chapel which the abbots of old had given to Jean V d'Hautecoeur, and to his descendants, with the right of being buried there, in return for their liberality.

Dedicated to Saint George, it had a stained-glass window of the twelfth century, on which was painted the legend of the saint.