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"YOU SHALL HAVE NO CHOICE."
I EXPECTED nothing less than to be taken at once to the Carmelite convent with which I had been threatened. I was therefore agreeably surprised when, on being led to the courtyard I found all my uncle's servants assembled, and his own travelling carriage waiting, with my aunt already seated in it. There were three vacant places, one of which I was desired to take, while my uncle placed himself in the other, and my aunt's gentlewoman took the fourth. There was a great deal of running back and forth for small packages which had been forgotten, a great deal of ordering and counter-ordering, of pulling at straps and examining of buckles; but at last all was ready, and we set out. My aunt had not spoken to me at all, but as we passed a fine house which was being newly repaired and decorated she broke out with—
"And to think, ungrateful girl, that all that might have been yours, and you must throw it all away for a whim!"
I made no answer, for there was nothing to be said.
"There is no use in talking further on that matter, madame," said my uncle. "Vevette has made her decision, and she must abide the consequences. Henceforth she will have no choice as to what she will do. All will be decided for her, and it is possible she may come to regret Monsieur de Luynes."
"That may well be, my uncle, since Monsieur de Luynes was a true friend, who did not expect to gain any hidden treasures by his kindness," I answered. "But I shall never regret having acted honorably by him, whatever happens."
My uncle bit his lip, as well he might, and I saw the waiting-woman look out of the window to hide a smile. She knew all about my uncle's Journey to Normandy, and, like others of her class, she enjoyed a hit at her betters.
"Be silent!" said my uncle sternly. "Nobody wishes to hear the sound of your voice. Speak only when you are spoken to."
I obeyed, and, indeed, I had no inclination to talk. The morning was beautiful, and the spring was just coming on, and, forlorn as it looked, I was delighted to see the open country once more, and to breathe an air not poisoned with the thousand and one smells—not to use a stronger word—of Paris. The king could indeed crush and impoverish his poor people to maintain his armies and his mistresses, but he could not hinder the wild flowers from blooming nor the birds from singing. My spirits rose insensibly, and I more than once caught myself on the point of breaking out into a song.
My uncle sat back in the corner and said nothing. My aunt kept up a perpetual prattle with Susanne, now bewailing her banishment from Paris and the court, now remarking upon this or that fine lady, and listening to the tittle-tattle in which Susanne was a proficient.
At last my uncle said he would ride on horseback a while, so his groom was called up with the spare horse, and we women were left to ourselves. Then my aunt fell upon me, and such a rating as she gave me! I have heard English women scold, but I never heard any fishwoman equal my elegant, double-refined aunt, Madame de Fayrolles. She worked herself up into such a passion that she told a good deal more than she meant, and thus I learned that my Lord Stanton had returned a very short and sharp answer to Monsieur de Fayrolles' letter, absolutely refusing to let him have any of the property intrusted to him, and requiring that I should at once return to England.
So my friends had not quite forgotten or forsaken me. That was some comfort, but I dared not say so. My aunt went on, growing more and more excited, till she ended with—
"And when I thought at least I should have you to help me at Fayrolles, to draw patterns for my embroidery, and sing and read aloud to me, I cannot even enjoy that."
"But indeed, aunt, I will do anything for you—singing or reading, or whatever you please," I said soothingly, for I was afraid of one of her fits of nerves. "There is nothing in my power that I will not do for you if you will let me, at Fayrolles or anywhere else. You know we agreed to work chairs upon satin for the salon, and I have several patterns drawn already."
"Yes, but you won't be at Fayrolles!" said my aunt between her sobs. And then, catching a warning glance from Susanne, she said no more.
Then I was not to go to Fayrolles! What did they mean to do with me? To send me back to England? That was not likely, after what my uncle had said about my having no choice. Probably I should be placed in some country convent, where I should be out of reach of all help, whatever happened, and where no one would ever hear from me again. This was what I dreaded of all things. I had almost given up any belief in the faith I had lately professed, and the question occurred to me whether I ought not openly to confess the change which had come over me. I knew only too well what such a confession involved—either a life-long imprisonment or a horrible death—perhaps being left to perish by inches in some underground cell, amid rats and vermin. Such things happened all the time.
Worse even than that, I knew that many of the convents were sinks of iniquity—places of resort for idle young gentlemen and wickeder women, like that of Port Royal, which afterward passed through so many vicissitudes. I am very far from saying that they were all of this character, but a great many of them were so, even taking the accounts of Roman Catholics themselves.* A residence in such a community was no pleasant prospect.
* See Racine's "Memoirs of Port Royal." Letters of St. Francis de Sales, and almost any free-spoken memoirs of the time.
And was I, after all, ready to die for my faith? Had I indeed any assured faith to die for? Might not Father Martien be right after all? My mind was tossed upon a sea of doubt and conjecture, and for a time found no rest; but at last I was enabled to pray, and to cast myself, more completely than I had ever done before, upon the arms of mercy. I asked for light and help above all things, and light and help were given me, not all at once, but by degrees. I became sensible of a sweet calm and clearness of mind, in which I saw all things more plainly. I felt sure that my many sins had been forgiven and washed away, and that when the time came for action, I should have strength given me to act for the best.
I had plenty of time for my own thoughts, for my uncle soon reentered the carriage, and after that my aunt did not venture to speak to me again, though she talked at me whenever there was a chance. She was a woman who bore discomfort of any kind very ill, and the more weary she grew with her journey, the more unbearable grew her peevish fretfulness. At last my uncle was moved to speak sharply to her, whereupon she fell into one of her nervous fits, and I had to exert all my skill to keep her from throwing herself out of the carriage. With much expenditure of coaxing and soothing I got her quieted at last, and persuaded her to take some refreshment, after which she fell asleep.
I fancy my attentions softened her heart toward me, for she was much more kind to me during the rest of the day, and I thought even interceded for me with her husband; but if so it was without avail, and even increased my troubles.
For the whole of the next day I travelled with my former maid, Zelie, and the old woman I had spoken of. They understood my disgrace well enough, and did all in their power to make me feel it, treating me with the utmost insolence and neglect, so that at the inns where we stopped, I had the most wretched lodgings imaginable, and really went hungry while my jailers, for such they were, feasted upon dainties at my uncle's expense. In this, however, they overshot the mark and brought themselves into trouble. My uncle, remarking in the morning upon my extreme paleness, asked whether I was ill.
"No, monsieur," I answered, "I am not ill, but I am hungry. I have had not a morsel since yesterday noon but some crusts of mouldy black bread, which I could not have eaten if I had been starving."
Monsieur turned angrily upon Zelie, who stammered and denied and charged me with falsehood; but my uncle knew me well enough to believe what I said, and my face spoke for itself. I was once more removed to my aunt's carriage, and fared as she did, and the rest of the way was more comfortable. Susanne had always been friendly to me.
During my imprisonment, she had more than once smuggled comforts into my cell, and when we were alone together she spoke to me with kindness and pity. My aunt's heart evidently softened to me more and more, but my uncle was implacable. To cross him once was to make him an enemy forever; I had disappointed him in every way, and he meant to make me feel the full force of his displeasure.
I had gathered from the servants that our first destination was Marseilles. As we drew near that city, we passed company after company of unhappy wretches destined for the galleys, laboring along, chained together, and driven like cattle to the slaughter. Many of them were condemned for no crime but that of having attended a preaching, or prayed in their own families—that of being Protestants, in short—and these were linked oftentimes to the most atrocious criminals, whose society must have been harder to bear than their chains. But more than once or twice man's cruelty was turned to the praise of God, and the criminal was converted by the patience and the instructions of his fellow.
As we passed one of these sad cavalcades my uncle stopped the coach to ask some questions, and I was brought face to face with one I knew right well. It was an aged preacher who had long known my father, and had often been at our home in Normandy. I had no mind to have him recognize me, and I turned away my face to hide my overflowing tears. Monsieur did not at first recognize the old preacher, but the other knew him in a moment, and called him by name.
"What, Monsieur Morin, is this you!" said my uncle. "I thought you were dead!"
"I soon shall be," answered the old man calmly. "Happily for me, I am more than seventy years old, and my prison-doors must soon be opened. Then I shall receive my reward; but you—ah, Henri, my former pupil, whom I so loved, how will it be with you? Oh, repent, while there is yet time! There is mercy even for the denier and the apostate!"
For all answer, my uncle, transported with rage, lifted his cane and struck the old man a severe blow. The very criminals cried shame upon him, and the young officer in charge hastened to the spot, and with expressions of pity offered his own handkerchief to the poor old man, whose brow was cut and bleeding.
"Well," said my uncle, turning to me, and seeing, I suppose, what I thought, "how do you like the way your former friends are treated? How would you like to share their lot?"
"I would rather be that old man than you, monsieur!" I returned, on fire with indignation. "I would rather be the helpless prisoner than the coward that abuses him!"
"Coward!" repeated my uncle, white with rage.
"Dastard, if you like it better!" I returned, reckless of consequences. "To strike a helpless man is cowardly; to strike an old and feeble man is dastardly!"
Monsieur de Fayrolles, like others of his stamp, was easily put down when any one stood up to him. I have seen him fairly outfaced by his own valet. He muttered something between his teeth. MY aunt, who, to do her justice, was greatly shocked, put a little money into the old man's hand, and the carriage moved on.
We arrived at Marseilles about noon, and my heart bounded with joy as I saw in the harbor a ship with English colors. Could it be that I was to be sent back to England after all? I was soon undeceived. We drove through the town to a convent which stood by itself, surrounded as usual with a high wall. Here the carriage stopped. My uncle and aunt alighted, and were admitted by the portress, and I remained in the carriage with Susanne. A number of men who looked like carpenters were returning from their work, and passed us, glancing at the carriage as they did so.
"Here is another of the king's passenger birds!" I heard one of them say.
I was trying to think what he could mean, when a sort of overseer who was following the men looked at me, stopped, and called me by name. It was my foster-brother, David Sablot.
"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" said Susanne.
"Ah, Susanne, it is my foster-brother, perhaps the last friend I shall over see," I pleaded. "Let me speak to him for but one moment."
"Speak quickly, then," said Susanne, and with that she turned her back to me and began looking out of the window.
"I thought you were safe in England, Vevette," said David, in English. "What brings you here?"
"My own folly and wickedness," I answered. "But I cannot tell you the story now. David, if you ever loved me, go, or send to Lord Stanton, at Stanton Court, near Biddeford, in Devonshire. Tell him you saw me here a prisoner. Watch what they do with me, and carry him word. Tell Andrew Corbet that I have always loved him, and always shall. But how are you here in safety?"
"I am of too much use for my master to spare me, and so he gives me protection," was the reply; "but it will not be for long. But what of my father and mother—of madame? Do you know anything?"
"Maman is in heaven. Your parents are at Tre Madoc, in Cornwall, living in comfort. My lord will tell you. David, have you a little Gospel?"
He took from an inner pocket a little thin, worn book, made for concealment—the Gospel of St. Luke.
"Give it me—I have none," said I, and he put it into my hand.
"Lucille," said I.
"I know nothing of her," was the sorrowful answer. "Since she left Sartilly I have heard once that she escaped, and again that she was dead. Depend upon me, Vevette!"
Then, as Susanne made a warning sign, he pressed my hand and passed on.
The convent gate was once more opened, and I was summoned to descend. I was led by a nun through a long passage, then along a cloister which bounded one side of the convent burial-place, and at last into the parlor, where sat my uncle and aunt. Behind the grating stood a lady in conventual dress, whom I judged to be the Superior. She looked like a fussy, important sort of personage, but she had a kind, motherly face. Behind her stood two other nuns, in the dress of the Ursulines.
"This is the young lady," said my uncle, presenting me to the Superior. "I trust she may be a credit to those friends who have exerted themselves to provide for her. As you have the king's letter and the other papers, reverend mother, it will not be needful for us to trespass longer on your valuable time."
So saying, and without a word of leave-taking, he took my aunt's hand and led her away.
"So you are the last!" said the Superior, addressing me not unkindly. "You do not look so very strong for a colonist, I must say; but since you have the king's own letter there is nothing to be said. What think you, my sister?" turning to the elderly woman who stood behind her.
"I think his Majesty is beside himself," answered the latter, with a bluntness which somehow surprised me while it made me like her. "She looks much fitter to help Sister Therese in the schoolroom, or Sister Veronique with her embroidery, than to rough it in a new country. Have you been ill, child?"
"No, madame," I answered, "but I am weary with my journey."
"You should say reverend mother," corrected the nun not ungently. "We do not keep worldly titles and family names here, like the ladies of the Sacred Heart. We are all mothers and sisters. Would it not be well, my mother, for this child to rest for a while before joining her companions for the voyage?"
"Yes, of course; you always know best, dear sister," answered the other lady. "Let her rest, and have a good supper."
"Stay where you are, child. There, sit down, and I will come to you presently," said the mother assistant, as I found she was.
I was very glad indeed to take a chair, and I remained alone for some minutes thinking over what I had heard, and puzzling myself to no purpose over the hints as to colonists and a new country which the Superior had thrown out. Before I had arrived at any conclusion, the mother assistant appeared at another door from the one I had entered, and bade me follow her. She conducted me along a gallery and to a cell, small indeed but clean, and by no means uncomfortable.
"You can remain here for this night, and I will send you some supper," said she. "To-morrow you will be introduced to your companions, and to the sisters who will have charge of you all. The vessel will not sail for several days, so you will have time to get well rested."
And she departed, leaving me more puzzled than ever. I found a small mail in my cell, and was glad to discover therein some changes of raiment, all very plain, and even coarse. There were also some books of devotion, a rosary, and a purse containing a small sum of money, besides a considerable package of biscuits, dried fruit, and comfits, which had evidently been thrust in after the mail was packed, probably by Susanne.
I changed my travelling-dress, bathed my face, and brushed the dust out of my hair. I would have given almost anything to open my Testament, but this I dared not do. I had hardly made myself ready when a nun entered with my supper, which was good, and arranged with neatness. There was even a cup of chocolate. The dishes were set out on my little table, and the nun, bidding me take my chocolate while it was fresh, departed and closed the door. Then indeed I did venture to draw forth my precious Gospel and read a few words—only a few—but they were like manna in the desert.
"And while he was yet a great way off, his father saw him."
That was all. It brought the whole to my mind. I was the prodigal who had left my father's house and wasted my substance, and now I was brought to the husks indeed. What could I do but to act like the poor spendthrift—arise and go to my father?
I heard a step in the gallery, and thrust my book into my bosom. The step passed, but I dared not take it out again just then; and, sitting down, I ate my supper with a good appetite.
"They mean to try what kindness can do in the first place," I mused. "I dare say the good sister thought these sugared apricots would be so many irresistible arguments. But what could she mean by what she said about colonists and a new country?"
All at once the explanation flashed across me with the force of certainty. I was to be sent out to Canada.
To make my meaning plain I must relate a little bit of history.
It is well-known that King Louis the Fourteenth took a deep interest in his colony of New France, in America. He concerned himself personally in all its affairs, public and private, and made all sorts of laws and regulations for its benefit. He was very desirous that the colonists should lead settled lives, instead of taking to the woods and living with and like the savages, as a great many of them would have preferred, to do and in fact did, in spite of him. He would have them marry and raise large families, and promised premiums in the shape of land, provisions, and so forth, to those who did so.
But where were the wives to come from? This also his Majesty provided, with the help of his ministers and of the Jesuits, who were deeply engaged in the scheme. He sent out whole ship-loads of young women under the care of certain devoted ladies and nuns, which women, on their arrival, were sorted out in different rooms, according to their quality—the peasant girls in one, the young ladies in another—and the bachelors were not only invited but required to choose wives from among their number, according to their degree. The young women themselves had no choice in the matter, except that the peasant girls were sometimes allowed to go out as servants in the families of such married people as were able to keep them, but the arrangement was not greatly approved.
This commerce was not now carried on quite so briskly as had been the case several years before, but a ship-load was still dispatched now and then. The girls mostly came from public institutions or from families of peasants overburdened with children, and I suppose in general found their condition improved by the change. The young ladies or demoiselles were usually the inconvenient relations of good families whom it was desirable to get rid of. I learned afterward from the Mother Superior, who did not object to a bit of gossip, that Monsieur de Fayrolles had represented me to the king as an illegitimate daughter of his brother, for whom he wished to provide; and I suppose he had made me a kind of peace-offering to his Majesty, knowing how much his heart was engaged in this scheme. The offering was accepted, but I do not know whether or not it answered the purpose, for which it was meant.
Strange to say, the thought of being thus sent out to Canada was rather a relief to my mind, after I had discovered that I was not to return to England. It was at least a respite. It gave room for something to happen. I knew that there were also English colonies in North America, and in my ignorance, thinking of that country as no larger than France or England, I conceived it might be possible to effect an escape to them. I had little notion of the vast forests and deserts, the wild beasts and wilder men which lay between New France and New England.
At all events I was now in kind hands—that was something. I had contrived to send word to my English friends, for that David would do my errand I had not a doubt. I resolved to make the best of present circumstances, to use what time I could call my own in meditation on all I had learned, and if at last I made up my mind definitely that the way of my parents was the true way, to confess my faith without fear of consequences. For it must be remembered that I was still in some sense unsettled in my belief. The arguments of Father Martien would recur to my mind, and I did not always see how to answer them. Still I was struggling toward the shining light at the head of the way, as Mr. John Bunyan hath it in his quaint parable, and the light grew more clear and the ground firmer under my feet at every effort.
When the sister came after my supper dishes she was evidently pleased to see that I had appreciated her dainties.
"You look better, child," she said kindly.
"I am better, thank you, sister," I answered. "I feel much refreshed."
"Why, that is well," said she. "The reverend mother says you need not attend the evening service, as you seem so much fatigued with your journey. She advises you to go early to rest, and to-morrow she will see and talk with you, and you shall be introduced to the holy mother who has charge of the expedition."
"When does the ship sail?" I ventured to ask, seeing I had guessed rightly.
"Some time next week, I believe, but I am not certain. I hope so, I am sure; for these girls turn the house upside down, and I must say that I don't think a marriage brokerage quite the business for nuns. But what am I saying?" and she crossed herself. "No doubt our superiors know best. My unlucky tongue is always getting me into trouble."
"Never mind," said I, seeing that she looked rather appealingly at me. "I am no tale-bearer, you may be sure. I dare say the young people are a great trouble, but I will try not to make more than I can help," I added, smiling.
"Oh, you-you are a young lady—that is plain to be seen. Where are you from?"
"From Normandy," I answered. "My foster-mother lived not very far from Granville."
"I have been there," said the nun; "I was in the hospital at Sartilly."
How I longed to ask about Lucille, but I dared not do so for fear of inconvenient questions.
"And have you ever travelled?" asked the nun, who was called, as she told me, Sister St. Stanislaus.
I replied that I had been in England, and had therefore crossed the Channel twice.
"And were you ill?"
"No, not at all," I answered.
"Mother Mary will be glad to hear that, for she Is always ill the whole voyage through. She has made it two or three times. There, I must not stay any longer. I will come in the morning to lead you to the chapel, and afterward to the Superior's apartment, where you will see Mother Mary of the Incarnation. * Then good-night, child. Rest well."
* Mother Mary of the Incarnation is a real historical personage, though I have taken a liberty with her in bringing her back to France at this time.—L. E. G.
I thanked the good sister, for whom I had already conceived a great regard, and she withdrew. I was glad enough to obey her recommendation and go to rest, for between fatigue and excitement I was fairly worn-out. The bed, though narrow and hard, was very clean, and smelled of lavender. I read in my Gospel as long as the fading light would allow, and then, carefully concealing it, I said my prayers and lay down, feeling greatly comforted and reassured, though I should have been puzzled to account for my state of mind. Certainly, my circumstances were not promising.
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THE CONVENT.
I SLEPT till waked by the rays of the sun coming through the uncurtained window. It was yet early, but I heard people astir, so I got up. I dressed myself neatly in one of my new gowns, and put up my hair under a white kerchief. I could not but smile as I regarded myself in the little mirror contained in my étui, and thought of the contrast between my present plain woollen dress and that my aunt had been so solicitous about when I was presented to Monsieur de Luynes. I was still holding the mirror in my hand when Sister St. Stanislaus entered.
"Good-morning, my child."
Then, catching sight of what I held, "A mirror? Why, I have not seen one in years. Put it away! Put it away! We have no such vanities here. Or, stay!" she added wistfully. "It could not do any harm to take one look."
I handed her the little glass. She regarded herself long and earnestly. Then, handing it back to me:
"There, put it away. I should never have known my own face. I am properly punished for my vanity. And yet I was pretty once—as pretty as you are."
"You are pretty now," said I, with truth; for her face, though irregular, and one which must have owed much to complexion, was still pleasing from its kindliness. "I loved you the moment I saw you."
"Ah, my child, you are a flatterer! Young people do usually like me, but they say it is only because I spoil them so. Well, if you are ready, we will go to the chapel."
I followed the sister along the same gallery across the open court, and then into the convent church, where my companions for the voyage were already assembled. Here she placed me by the side of a pale, frightened-looking girl, younger than myself, and retired to take her place in the choir with the other sisters.
I had only time to glance at my future companions before the service began. They were evidently mostly of the peasant class, and did not as a rule look at all oppressed by their destiny, although two or three had red eyes, and one at least was the picture of despair. I was sure I had seen her before, though I could not tell where.
After the service we breakfasted together, while one of the nuns read aloud the life of some juvenile saint or other, of whom I remember no more than that she sat all day in the hen-house and wept for her sins, and gave large gifts to the poor out of the property of her worldly father and brother, who opposed her vocation. *
* I cannot now place this paragon of goodness, though she is no creation of mine. My impression is that I found her in the lives of the Franciscans.—L. E. G.
After breakfast my companions went to the gardens for an hour's recreation, but I was called into the private apartment of the Mother Superior. I found the good mother seated in her chair of state, attended by a nun and another lady in a semi-conventual dress, whom I found was the famous Mary of the Incarnation.
This lady was born of a family named Guyard. Married at eighteen, not very happily it seems, her husband died after two years, leaving her with a young son. But she was far too pious to concern herself with the care of her infant, so she turned it over to her sister and busied herself with all sorts of penances, meditations, and ecstasies in washing dishes, scrubbing floors, and, in short, performing all sorts of work to which she had no call, while the work which Providence had put into her hands—that of caring for her baby—was delegated to another. For a good while, the love she still cherished for this child kept her from the cloister, but at last she made a profession and adhered to it, though the boy, half crazed by his loss, made his way into the refectory of the convent, and with tears and screams of anguish besought the nuns to give him back his mother. The poor young fellow went to the bad altogether afterward, and no wonder. One would not expect him to have much regard for religion.
Having, however, conquered the last small remnant of natural affection which remained in her heart, she was rewarded by a wonderful vision, in which she was advertised that the Virgin called her specially to Canada.
Thither she repaired, in company with several other Ursuline nuns, and the famous Madame de Pellice, who made a mock marriage in order to carry out her devout schemes. She remained in Canada many years, and having come to France on some important business, was returning, having in charge twenty young women and two nuns.
I can see her this moment as she stood behind the Superior's chair. She was a handsome woman still, with bright eyes and a commanding presence, and, I must say, very little appearance of humility about her. I think I never saw a face and manner more expressive of spiritual pride and conscious sanctity, and this appearance did not belie her. She possessed great ability for all sorts of affairs, a keen penetration in regard to character, and withal a good deal of real kindness and charity.
I was introduced to this lady, who received me graciously and made some inquiries as to my health. Then she asked whether I had any vocation for a religious life.
"No, madame, I believe not," I answered.
"Reverend mother," corrected the Superior again. "Cannot you remember, child, that there are no madames here?"
"I will try, reverend mother," I answered, whereat she smiled and said I was an apt scholar.
"I hope she may prove so," was the remark of Mother Mary. "Only for the king's express command, I should think twice before taking her. What do you know how to do, child? Anything besides dressing and dancing and painting fans?"
"Yes, madame—reverend mother, I should say," I answered; "I can sew, spin and knit, make lace and embroider, and I know something of ordering household."
"Why, you will be quite a treasure for some one," said Mother Mary. "Can you sing?"
"Yes, mother."
"You might be very useful in our house if you only had a vocation," said Mother Mary. "Perhaps you may find one yet. However, there is time enough to think about that. Meantime you shall instruct some of your companions in the art of knitting hose, which art may be very useful to them. Or is that too humble an employment for a young lady like you?"
"No, my mother; I shall gladly do that or anything else whereby I may be useful to my companions," I answered. "I would rather be busy than not."
"That is well," said Mother Mary, relaxing a little, and evidently regarding me with more favor. "I wish all were like you, but I would in general rather have charge of twenty peasant girls than of one demoiselle. I dare say you will do nicely, child. I think I know the match that will just suit you."
"There will be two words to that bargain," I thought, but I said nothing.
Mother Mary then commended the simplicity of my dress, and a bell ringing she took me by the hand and led me to the schoolroom, where the young people were now all assembled. She placed me by the side of the same pale girl, whom she presented to me as Mademoiselle de Troyon, and saying that she would send me some knitting-needles and thread she left us together.
The other girls were busy, under the superintendence of the nuns, in making garments for themselves, and sad work they made of it, being more used to out-door than to indoor work. I believe, however, that a great deal of their bungling was sheer mischief, and I wondered at the patience of the nuns.
The requisite tools being produced, I set seriously to work to teach the stitch to my companion, and she took so much pains in learning that at the end of the lesson she could do a row very neatly. We Were placed near a window, apart from the others, and Mother Mary told us we might converse in low tones. Of course, like other young persons, we soon became acquainted. I found that her name was Desirée, that she was an orphan, and had always lived in a convent till very lately. She had a strong vocation, and wished to be allowed to take the veil instead of marrying, and she regarded with horror the prospect of being united to a stranger and living in a wild place, surrounded by forests full of wolves.
"But why do you not take the veil, since you wish it so much?" I asked.
"Because the king wishes two or three officers to marry and settle, and you and I are the only demoiselles who could be found to go out," was the answer. "But it does not matter," she added, with a kind of quiet resolution; "I know that I shall never live to see Canada."
"Dear Desirée, you should not be downcast," I said. "Things may turn out better than you think. Do not give up life for a bad business?"
She smiled sadly and shook her head, but said no more on the subject. We had a good dinner served to us by and by, and then two hours more of recreation in the garden, overlooked by the nuns who had us in charge. I was walking up and down an alley by myself when I met Sister St. Stanislaus, who joined me, and we walked together.
"So you have been in England," said she. "Can you speak English?"
I told her I could.
"I knew a girl who could speak English once," said she. "It was when I was at Sartilly, as I told you. Poor Lucille! She came to a sad end."
"What happened to her?" I asked, with a beating heart.
"Oh, I don't know whether I should tell the story, though to be sure it may be a warning," said the sister, divided between, her discretion and the dear delight of telling a tale. "You see she was one of those unfortunate Reformed, to begin with, and she could not conquer her natural affection for her relations; She had a lover also, it seems, and she slipped out of the gate one day to speak to him, and was seen to give him a packet. Well, of course, being a postulant under instruction, that brought upon her great disgrace and many penances. If I had been to decide, I should have said they took just the way to make her regret her lover all the more.
"However, she was forgiven at last and taken into favor again, but it was not long before she got into some new trouble by a hasty answer. I must say she had a trying temper, always looking out for affronts. After that she grew very odd and silent. I was mistress of the novices at that time, and I tried hard to win her confidence, but in vain. At last, oh, poor thing! She was missing, and we found a part of her clothing hanging on a bush some way down the river, which was very high at the time. Either she drowned herself or fell in and was unable to get out. I hope the latter, for I was fond of her, though she made me a good deal of trouble. I have never ceased to pray for her soul," said the good sister, wiping her eyes, which had overflowed plentifully. "If she is beyond the reach of prayers, they may benefit some other poor soul in purgatory. There, now, I have made you cry too. What a tender heart you have! Let it be a warning to you, my child."
I wondered what the story was meant to warn me from, but I said nothing, and we began to talk of other things till the sister left me, and then I had my cry out. Poor Lucille! So this was the end. And she had actually fallen into disgrace for trying to warn my parents of their danger! It was very sad, and yet somehow I felt comforted about her, I could not tell why. I was just recovering my composure when I met Mother Superior and Mother Mary of the Incarnation walking together. The latter seemed to be laying down the law in rather an authoritative style, I thought, to which the Superior listened with some apparent impatience, and at last broke out with:
"No doubt, sister, you may be right. I dare say you know how to rule your own house to perfection. I am sure if I were visiting you, I should never think for a moment of advising you upon the management of your family."
Mother Mary was not so dead to worldly affection but that she reddened visibly at this significant speech. She made no reply to the Superior, but turned sharply upon me.
"What are you doing here by yourself, child? Crying, I see. That is very wrong. Understand, once for all, that you are not to separate yourself in this way from your companions. You are not so very much better than they. Let me see no more of it!"
"I have not been alone till this very moment, reverend mother," I answered, in a tone which I meant to be very humble. "I have been walking with Sister St. Stanislaus, who was telling me an affecting story. But—I fear I am very ignorant, reverend mother—I thought from the history the sister read us this morning that solitude and tears were among the most blessed things to the soul. I was so much interested in hearing how that holy young lady sat in the hen-house and cried all day by herself."
The mother looked fairly posed, as if she did not know what to answer.
I went on, prompted by that spirit of mischief which never quite deserted me in the greatest straits. "And that other place was so interesting, too, about her taking her father's goods unknown to him to give to the poor. Such a blessed example! I shall hope to follow it when I have a household of my own."
I saw by the smile which the Mother Superior turned away to hide that she saw through me, and I fancied also that she was not displeased. Mother Mary was spared the necessity of a reply which might have puzzled her, by the ringing of the dinner-bell. I enjoyed my triumph for a few minutes, as I meekly followed the elder ladies toward the house, and then I reflected that I had done a foolish thing in setting against me this lady, who had me so entirely in her power.
However, she had her revenge, and really I don't think she liked me the worse for our little encounter. I am sure the Superior did not. When we were seated at the table, and the nun had begun to read according to custom, Mother Mary stopped her.
"You seem to be rather hoarse, sister," said she, though I had not noticed it. "Mademoiselle d'Antin is a good reader, and she has a special devotion for the lives of the saints. Mademoiselle, you will take the sister's place and read to us."
Of course there was nothing for it but to obey, and I took care to show no unwillingness for my task. I read my very best, and as the story to-day happened to be a really interesting one, I had the satisfaction of seeing more than one of my auditors forget her dinner for a moment or two to listen.
"That is well," said Mother Mary, when I had finished. "We shall have the pleasure of hearing you again some time. Now eat your dinner."
The milk porridge was rather cold, but I was not troubled at that, and the sister whose place I had taken presently brought me a nice little omelette, which she had procured I know not how. Mother Mary never showed any ill-will to me afterward. She had a sort of magnanimity about her which made her rule endurable. I was often called on to read, but I believe it was only because she liked to hear me better than poor Sister Joanne, who droned on like a drumbledrone under a hat, as we say in these parts. Sister Joanne was not sorry to get rid of her task, and my meals fared none the worse for that.
We went on in this same routine for several days. Mother Mary kept a tight rein over her own flock, but I thought from what I observed that the nuns had comfortable times under their good-natured Superior. They went through all their services and observed their hours for silence and the rest, but it was all done in an easy, perfunctory manner, so to speak. Their garden and orchard were beautiful, and they made great quantities of dried and sugared fruits, and distilled essences and cordials by the gallon from the sweet flowers and aromatic herbs which grow so plentifully in that part of France. I never saw in England such lavender and rosemary as grows wild there.
I quite won the heart of Sister St. Anne by giving her the true English recipe for distilling lavender and making the Queen of Hungary's water. I grew attached to the good nuns, who were all very kind to me. My knitting lessons were extended to some of their number, and even to the Superior herself, who asked Mother Mary to allow me to teach her, saying that it was a kind of work that would just suit her. Mother Mary gave the desired permission, adding that her sister was happy in having time for such employments. As for herself, she never had a moment to sit down to her needle from morning till night.
"Yes; but you see, dear sister, we are so differently situated," answered Mother Superior meekly. "Our house works so quietly and easily. You see we have no sisters but such as are of good family. We are not obliged to take up with any riff-raff the king may choose to send us, as you are over there."
I can't say I found the Superior a very apt scholar. I never succeeded in teaching her how to turn off a heel, and at last in despair, I suggested that she should knit a rug for the cat, which was a great personage and much petted, though she had no vocation whatever. The rug went off better, but I rather doubt whether puss has had the benefit of it to this day.
On the whole I was not unhappy during the two weeks I remained at the Ursuline convent at Marseilles. I did my best to please Mother Mary, and succeeded pretty well. I think she appreciated my efforts, for really most of the other girls were trials—idle, mischievous, and bending all their efforts not to learn the arts the nuns tried to teach them. I except Desirée, who was always docile, and the poor girl whom I had thought I knew. I got into conversation with her one day over our work, and at last she told me she had seen me before.
"Do you not remember stopping in your travelling carriage to speak to my aunt, the day after our vineyard was destroyed? The lady with you gave my aunt some money."
"Yes, I remember well," I answered. "What became of your father?"
"He was not my father, but my mother's stepbrother," was the answer. "He had adopted me, and I was betrothed to his son. My lord the marquis shot him dead with his own hand. My betrothed was arrested on some pretext of poaching, and sent to the galleys, and I, because I would not give him up and go into service in the Marquis' family, was sent here. It does not matter. Baptiste is dead, and I would as soon be here as anywhere—rather a thousand times than in the house of that wretch! I cannot be worse off. Maybe they will let me live out as a servant."
This is a fair specimen of what may be done by a tyrannical landowner in France. By all I hear, things must have grown worse instead of better. It is a wonder if they do not have an explosion some day which will blow them all sky-high.