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TROUBLES.
IT was I think, about a year after our adventures in the caverns, that Dénise died. She was the only pupil left except Amabel, Desireè and myself—Desireè affected great devotion about that time, and Mother Prudentia rejoiced over her as a brand plucked from the burning; but I think Mother Superior considered her a brand that would bear watching—as indeed she was, and one that was destined to kindle a great fire.
Dénise had always been a delicate girl, more so even than Amabel herself. She would never allow that she was ill, however, and used to join in all our sports and latterly made herself very useful in the house and garden. She was one of those people for whom everything will grow, and she loved flowers with an absolute passion. But by and by, she began to grow thin and to have a very little cough. She had a lovely complexion which seemed to grow more beautiful day by day, and her eyes were brighter than ever. We noticed that she became rather silent, though she was always cheerful—and we were sometimes inclined to murmur when Mother Prudentia excused her from one duty after another, and Sister Lazarus cooked all sorts of nice things for her, whereas our own table grew plainer all the time.
But at last we found out the truth. Dénise was taken suddenly ill in chapel. She fainted and was carried out by Mother Prudentia. She did not come to her own bed that night, and in the morning Mother told us with solemnity that Dénise would never sleep in that bed again—that she had been taken with bleeding at the lungs and might indeed be considered a dying person.
"If she lives to see the snowdrops come, it will be a wonder!" said the dear Mother, wiping her eyes. "I have long known that death had set his seal on her, but I did not think the end would come so soon. God's will be done."
"Will her friends come to see her, Mother?" I asked.
"She has no friends except those in these walls, child, not a relation alive that I know of!" answered the Mother. Adding in a lower tone—"So much the better for her. It will be all the easier for her to leave this world."
The Mother turned away and we finished dressing and began to make our beds by the light of the lamp Mother had left us, for it was mid-winter and the mornings were dark and cold.
"Lucy, do you suppose that Dénise's friends were Protestants?" asked Amabel in a low tone.
She always called me Lucy in English fashion—never Lucille, as the others did.
"I don't know!" I answered. "Why should you think so?"
"Partly from something Mother said once—that she was at least one brand plucked from the burning, and partly from some things Dénise herself told me. We were talking about what we could remember before we came here, and Dénise said, 'My father used to read the Holy Scriptures—I know that! I often repeat to myself little bits that I remember. He said prayers that are not in any of our books, and he and my mother used to sing sweet songs about holy things!' And then she repeated one about the Lord being a Shepherd."
"That is in the twenty-third Psalm!" said I.
"Yes, but this was in rhyme and had a sweet tune to it!" persisted Amabel. "I think I could sing it. It makes me think of the time before we came here. How much can you remember of that time, Lucy?"
"Very little indeed!" said I. "I don't remember my mother at all, though I often try to do so."
"I recollect exactly how she looked!" said Amabel musingly. "You are very much like her at times, only you are not so quiet. And I remember my father too—I am sure I should know him in a moment."
"I suppose if Dénise's friends were Protestants, it is just as well that they are out of the way," I remarked. And then, struck with a sudden thought—"But Amabel, I suppose your father and all your friends are Protestants, because all English people are so. What should we do if he were to send for us to come back to England?"
"We should go I suppose!" answered Amabel.
"And then should we have to become Protestants?"
"I don't know. They would not make us Protestants if we did not choose whatever they might do."
"Perhaps your father is a Catholic!" I suggested.
"I have sometimes thought he must be, or he would not have left us here to be educated!" replied Amabel. "But we need not borrow trouble, Lucy. Perhaps he may never send for us. I should like that best—to live here always and become a religious, would not you?"
"I should like to do so if you did!" I answered truly enough, for imagination was not strong enough to picture for myself a life apart from Amabel. "But sometimes I think I should like to see what the world is like, especially England. Perhaps the Protestants are not all so bad after all!" And here I stopped and looked about me rather alarmed, lest my audacious remark should have been overheard.
"I am sure our mother was not bad!" said Amabel. "She used to teach us to say our prayers at her knees."
"How I wish I could remember her as you do!" said I, enviously. "I wonder why I cannot!"
"I heard Mother Prudentia say once that you were very ill when you came here and for some time after—perhaps that is the reason!" answered Amabel, and then recurring to our sick play fellow. "How strange and sad it will seem not to have Dénise."
"I can't bear to think of it!" said I, beginning to cry. "She has played with us ever since I remember. It was she who told Mother Superior about our going into the cavern, and only for her we might have died there, for I am sure Desireè would never have told!"
"Not she!" said Amabel with decision. "She would not care if the whole family perished, so she were safe. Lucy, that girl is a hypocrite!"
"You should not say so—she is very devout," said I; for I rather believed in Desireè's conversion, though I am afraid I did not like her any the better for it.
"Devout or not, she is a hypocrite!" persisted Amabel in a tone which surprised me. I had never heard her speak so bitterly, and indeed she rarely spoke ill of any one. "She despises dear Mother Prudentia, whose shoes she is not fit to carry, and she hates Mother Superior. I have seen the looks she casts at them when she thinks herself unobserved. But come, we must not be here. The bell will ring in a moment."
Dénise lingered a few weeks, and then died full of peace and hope. Her death was followed, not very long after, by that of Mother Assistant and one of the sisters, which reduced the number of the professed members of the household to eight, beside the superiors.
"Our band grows smaller and smaller, and Sister Augustine is failing fast," I heard Mother Prudentia say after Sister Agnes was buried.
We had all gone to pray at the grave, next day, and I was helping Mother Bursar to smooth the turf and set some violet roots in it.
"There will soon be no one left, and what will become of the dear children?" continued Mother Prudentia.
"The Lord will provide, dear sister," answered the Mother. "Our numbers are indeed small, but we must make up for it by more earnestness. We have always, as yet, been able to keep up our constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament of the Altar."
I heard no more at that time, but what I did hear set me to wondering what would become of us if any more were taken away. This same constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament must have been great drain on the strength of our little community, as I remember it. It had been established by the Mother Angelique in Port Royal some years before Madame de Longueville and the Bishop of Langris had set up, with this same Mother's assistance, the short-lived sub-order of Daughters of the Holy Sacrament.
From morning till night and from night till morning, no matter what might be the weather, a sister was always on her knees in the church, before the altar on which was the consecrated wafer. She might seek relief by lying on her face or by leaning against a post which was placed for that purpose. Hence the sisters usually spoke of "being at the post." (I never heard, by the way, that when our Lord was in this world in bodily presence, he kept the women who ministered to him on their knees before him. Even Mary sat at his feet.) This duty, which was not so very hard divided among forty or fifty people, was certainly a severe burden when it came to be divided among ten or twelve. It makes me vexed whenever I remember how much strength, both of body and mind, our good sisters used to waste on just such performances as these.
Sister Augustine had been out of health for many years, and it was not thought she could survive Mother Assistant very long. Nevertheless, she lingered till the snows came again, sometimes confined to the bed, sometimes able to sit up a little. The second week in Advent, she too was laid away to rest in the cemetery. She had been very low and desponding through great part of her illness, indeed, almost in despair. The day that she died, I was sitting with her administering the sips of wine and water every few minutes which seemed all that kept her alive. She had been dozing for half an hour—an unusually long time—and looked so peaceful, I could not find it in my heart to waken her. At last she opened her eyes, and I hastened to give her the usual refreshment.
"Thank you, dear child. How kind you are to me!" said she, and then, pressing my hand, "I have had a lovely vision. I saw the dear Saviour stand there at the foot of my bed, and heard him say, 'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven.' It is all clear to me now. He has saved me, and I shall be saved."
I saw a change had come over her face, and, in great alarm, I would have called some one, but she held me fast, while her eyes, turned toward the foot of the bed, seemed to behold some glorious vision. In a moment, the clasp of her hand relaxed, her eyes rolled upward—she was gone.
I called Mother Prudentia, but Sister Augustine never breathed again. I told the Mother what she had said.
"She was happy then in her death," said the good lady, half enviously, as it seemed. "Such assurance is granted to but very few. Doubtless it was a reward for the suffering she has borne so long and so patiently."
Had I known as much as I do now, I could have told her that such an assurance, or even a more certain one, was possible to every true believer; but I had never seen a whole Bible or heard a Bible sermon at that time. I say even more certain; for the assurance that our sins are forgiven rests on no doubtful vision or apparition, but on the rock of God's sure word and promise.
Our family was now small indeed. It was long since we had received any novices or postulants, and Desireè, who was to have been professed in the spring, seemed to have cooled considerably in her devotion. She used to excuse herself from the early services on the ground of an ague, and for a time the plea was admitted; but I think even Mother Prudentia saw through her at last. She concocted a horribly bitter dose of herb tea, with the addition of half a dozen wood-lice and a handful of earth worms, and administered the same to Desireè with her own hands every morning. I suppose Desireè thought the medicine worse than the early service, for she soon got better under this heroic treatment.
It became evident, however, that she was not the stuff of which a religious was made. At last matters came to a climax. Desireè was detected one night stealing out to the orchard, at an hour when all honest people should be in bed, and a glimpse was caught of a man's figure vanishing among the trees. If one of the elders of the house had made the discovery, the thing would doubtless have been managed without scandal, as the phrase is. But it was poor Sister Frances who saw her as she was going to relieve Sister Lazarus at the post, and the poor thing, who was not over-gifted with sense, took her for a ghost. She uttered such a succession of screams that Sister Lazarus rushed to the rescue. She caught Desireè in the act of hiding behind a thicket of evergreens, and plainly saw a man in the garden.
The whole family was aroused by that time, and came flocking to the scene of action; and so the disgraceful act became known to the whole sisterhood. Desireè was questioned in vain. She refused to utter a word. She was at last remanded to a cell, under guard; and as soon as it was light, a messenger was sent for the Count de Crequi, who was her stepfather and guardian.
Amabel and I saw him arrive from the window of the deserted oratory, where we often sat with our work. He was a little withered-looking man, richly dressed, and with a good deal of personal dignity. He was accompanied by his nephew and heir, a dissipated-looking young man, and a number of sufficiently insolent-looking lackeys. The young man staid outside talking with one of the servants. The count was received with great ceremony in the parlor, and was invited to visit the holy relics in the church, but declined, excusing himself on the ground of want of time. He was closeted for a long time with Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia, whom I ought to call Mother Assistant, since she had been elected to that place immediately after Mother Benedict's death. Meantime, wine and other refreshments were sent out to the young count and the servants, who made themselves very merry.
The old gentleman departed at last evidently in a very bad humor; for he swore furiously at the groom when he mounted his horse, and spurred the poor beast till it bolted and nearly threw him. I saw the servants laughing among themselves as they rode away. Later in the day, a covered litter, with two or three mounted servants and a female attendant, was brought to the gate, and Desireè was carried away. I was in the little chamber over the porch and saw her go. Her dress had been changed, and she wore neither veil nor rosary. She looked pale enough but not at all scared; just as she entered the litter, she turned and shook her hand at the house with such an expression of malice as I never saw before. She was then carried away and I have never seen her since.
I was dying with curiosity, but I knew better than to ask any questions, which was indeed counted a great misdemeanor among us. I was pretty sure I should have the tale from Mother Prudentia the first time we were alone together; opportunity was not likely to be wanting, for I was her regular assistant in the dairy and still-room, and it was not long before the whole came out.
"You see, child, the Count de Crequi put his step-daughter here, thinking to have made a nun of her, and so provide for her at less expense than it would have taken to marry her. I fancy, too, he did not care to have her in the way of his nephew. He is still set on his scheme, and even offered Mother Superior the choice of a double dowry with Desireè, or the withdrawal of his protection altogether. The worst is that this new Bishop is related to Desireè's mother."
"What harm should that do?" I asked in wonder! "Surely the Bishop would not wish Desireè to be received after such a scandal, and when she has no vocation!"
"Oh my child, as to that—the Bishop is the Bishop of course—but you can see that it happened very unluckily, because we are in disgrace already, having never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius and the five propositions."
"What were the five propositions about?" I asked.
"My child, I don't understand any more about them than that cat, which has no business here," said Mother Prudentia, "scatting" the cat out of the dairy, and throwing her a bit of cheese curd to console her. "Mother Superior knows and has explained it to me many a time, but I have no head for such matters, only one order held by Jansenius and Abbè St. Cyran, and the rest of the Port Royalists, and believed that they were cruelly treated and unjustly condemned. And we never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius as most of the Oratorians and Bernardines did. And you know we always look upon Mother Angelique as a sort of saint, because she reformed our house."
"But if the Pope is the one and infallible head of the Church—" said I rather surprised.
"Ah well—the Pope is the Pope, and of course he is infallible as to matters of faith. But we have always held that in matters of fact he is not infallible more than any one. And those who know, say that the propositions which the Pope condemned, are not in Jansenius' book at all. But however that may be, we are in disgrace and likely to be turned out at any time. And then what is to become of you children I don't know. Don't cut that curd any finer, child—you are working twice as much as is needful."
"I should think Sir Julius would send for us!" said I, a good deal startled.
"I believe Mother Superior has written to him—" answered Mother Prudentia—with a scared look, such as she always wore when she had been betrayed into some indiscretion greater than usual. "Oh! My unlucky tongue—when shall I ever learn to rule it? However, I know Mother Superior means to tell you all about it before long—only if she does you know—" and the good Mother looked rather wistfully at me.
"I understand, dear Mother—" said I, seeing that she wished to caution me against displaying any previous knowledge of what the Superior had to tell me.
In effect, it was only a few days before Mother Superior called Amabel and myself into her room and informed us that she had heard from Sir Julius Leighton concerning us, and that he would probably send for us in a short time. She gave us a great deal of excellent advice, and particularly enjoined it upon us to preserve our faith intact, in the land of heretics to which we were going.
"Your father, my Aimeè, is a good Catholic, or so I understand!" said she. "But your step-mother belongs to the so-called reformed religion, as do your father's sisters; you will therefore need to exercise great firmness and caution."
I cannot tell all the dear Mother said to us, only she specially warned us against reading heretical books. She gave us each a reliquary containing a precious relic. Mine was a bit of the veil of St. Agnes in a handsome gold and enameled setting. I have it still. She then addressed herself to me, telling me what it had never entered my head to think of before—namely, that I was inferior in rank to Amabel, and must probably be content to take a lower place. (French people cannot understand that commoners have any rank at all, more than French bourgeois.) While I was trying to take in and understand this new idea, Amabel spoke in her gentle decided voice.
"I shall never be separated from Lucy!" said she firmly. "Where she goes, I will go."
"That will be as your father says, my child!" answered dear Mother, rather reprovingly. "I hope indeed that you may continue united as you have been, but remember your father's will is your law, so long as he does not command anything contrary to our Holy Faith."
Amabel did not reply, but she shut her lips as she was used to do, when she had made up her mind. Mother Superior gave us some more words of advice and then dismissed us with her blessing.
We went away in silence, till we reached our old place of retirement in the Oratory, and then Amabel threw her arms round my neck, and burst into a passionate flood of tears—an unusual thing for her, for she seldom cried.
"You won't desert me, will you Lucy!" she sobbed. "It is bad enough to leave this dear home and all the Mothers and Sisters for a strange land, but if I must lose you—"
"Now you are borrowing trouble, as you tell me!" said I, holding her in my arms and trying to console her. "You don't know that any one will want to separate us."
"I feel as if they would try!" said Amabel, striving to recover her composure. "But oh! Lucy, promise me that you never will leave me, if you can help it."
"Of course I will. See, I promise on this holy relic!" said I, kissing the reliquary which I still held in my hand.
Amabel promised the same, and then to divert her and myself also, I suggested that we should go down to the chapel, and see if we could assist Mother Sacristine, who was busy cleaning the silver candlesticks, and other altar furniture.
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THE BISHOP'S VISIT.
WE found Sister Sacristine very busy with her silver, of which there was a great deal about the altar, and very glad of our offered help. We went zealously to work, dusting and rubbing up the altar furniture, not forgetting genuflections—curtsies—I should call them now every time we passed before the high altar.
The next day was some Saint's day; I forget whose at this distance of time, and Sister Sacristine, like a faithful woman that she was, was just as anxious to have everything in order as if we were expecting the presence of all the nobles in the country, instead of only a few poor peasants in the Church, and our little band of Mothers and sisters in the choir.
"There will not be many people here!" said the poor lady with a sigh as she settled her chairs. "Ah! Children, many a time have I seen this great church filled from end to end with ladies and gentlemen-I remember when poor Sister Augustine was professed, her father and mother came with a cavalcade, which almost filled the Church of itself; and they offered that pair of silver gilt vases on the Shrine of St. Anne. But times have changed since then, we shall have no one to-morrow."
"We shall have the great Guest of all, dear Sister!" said Amabel. "And where He is, we shall not miss any one else."
"That is true, my child, and yet—it is very hard to see the changes which have been wrought in this house by time and the malice of our enemies. But His will be done! There, children, I believe we have made the best of everything now."
"Sister, let me climb up the ladder, and brush up St. Francis and St. Bernard a little," said I, looking up to where St. Francis stood, with his hands upraised as if he were imploring some celestial power to come down and dust him.
"Well, if you are not afraid—I am too unsteady on my feet to venture upon the ladder any more; but there is a good place to stand, once you are up there."
I was as sure-footed as a goat, so I was not at all timid about ascending the ladder. St. Francis was placed on a little platform or balcony, where, as the Sister said, there was good standing room. Amabel steadied the long ladder, while I ascended, and then reached me up the duster and what else I wanted on the end of a long-handled brush, such as here we call a Pope's head—I would not like to be the one who called it so there. I was holding on to a kind of railing with one hand, and putting St. Francis hair to rights with the other, thinking to myself that the good saint looked as if he liked it, when the Church door opened, and who should come in, breathless as if from running, but Mother Prudentia.
"Sister, you are to come to Mother Superior's room at once, and you also, my children. Lose no time, but Lucille, be careful how you come down."
But I was already on the floor, and ready to follow Mother Prudentia, to the presence of the Superior. Here we found all the sisterhood assembled, and a scared bewildered looking set they were—our dear Mother was as calm as usual, though a pink spot shone on her usually pale cheeks, increasing the brilliancy of her always remarkable eyes. As soon as we were all assembled in order, she addressed us.
"My Mothers and Sisters and you, my children, I have just received by the hands of a special messenger, a letter from the Bishop of this Diocese, in which he tells me that he will arrive within an hour upon a special visitation, to enquire into certain alleged scandals and disorders prevailing in this community."
She paused a moment, and the sisters looked at her and at each other in utter amazement. Amabel gave my arm a little pinch and whispered very softly, "Desireè."
"I can safely say, that I know of nothing in my family which should bring such a charge upon us!" resumed the Superior. "But innocence is not always a protection from the hands of ungodly and cruel men; not that I would be understood, as applying such epithets to Mon seignor the Bishop. Doubtless he has been misinformed. What I would impress on you, my mothers and sisters, is that you should endeavor in this extremity, to preserve an equal and tranquil spirit, wholly resigned to the will of Heaven, whatever may happen. I will not disguise to you, my apprehensions that this visit may be the prelude to great changes—perhaps to grievous hardships and humiliations—possibly even to the breaking up of our little community, which has borne so many storms already. Be that as it may, our duty is plain. Let us set before us the example of the noble Mother Angelique, who, when calumniated and heaped with insults in the very house where she had ruled as Superior, bore all with patience, and never retorted on her persecutors by a look or a word, thus making her enemies ashamed of their cruel malignity. Above all, let us remember that our sufferings may be rendered an acceptable offering to God. My mothers and sisters, let us in the little time that remains, seek the protection of the Queen of Heaven!"
She dropped on her knees as she spoke, and all in the room followed her example. (Nuns have a peculiar sudden fashion of doing this, unattainable without practice. I don't believe I could do it myself now, without falling over on my nose.) It is very much to be hoped that the Blessed Mary does not know the way in which her name is treated in this world, and how to her are attributed the titles which belong only to her Son. But it was all right in my eyes at that time, and when I heard our Lord's mother addressed as the Morning Star, the Gate of Heaven, the Refuge of sinners, etc., I responded "Ora pro nobis" with undoubting faith.
We were still on our knees, when we heard the arrival of a numerous cavalcade before the house, and presently a loud knocking at the gate. Immediately the portress was sent to open it, and we all formed in procession as when we entered Church; the younger sisters at the head and the Superior last. On this occasion she led Amabel and myself by the hand.
Our parlor where the nuns received their guests was a large room sparely furnished with a few very hard chairs, and a most ghastly picture of the death of St. Francis. About one-third of this room was shut off by a grille or grate, as is usual in such places, and behind this was our station.
The outer room was occupied by the Bishop, and two or three attendant priests. Mon seignor was a short, stout man, with rather rebellious white hair, and an expression of a kind of pompous fussiness. He was speaking in a loud and somewhat angry tone to one of his attendants, and I caught the words—
"Intentional disrespect—make an example—perverse rebellious woman—" all of which seemed to come as it were from the depths of his stomach.
We entered slowly, the sisters taking their places with folded hands and down-cast eyes, with as little apparent trepidation as if about to assist at any ordinary ceremony. The Bishop turned sharply around, and spoke before the Abbess had time to advance to the grating.
"So madame! This is the way you receive your Bishop! Did I not send a messenger to acquaint you with my coming? Why then were you not here, prepared to receive me with due respect?"
"Mon seignor!" answered the Superior calmly. "It is not according to the rules of our house for us to await visitors in the parlor. I am bound by those rules, and if our Holy Father the Pope were to honor us with a visit, I would do no otherwise."
The Superior had the best of it, for a nun is bound to obey the "constitutions" of her house to the smallest article, as the Bishop knew very well. But of course, that did not make him feel any more amiable. He was evidently getting ready for a crushing reply, adjusting meantime his glasses on his nose, for he was very short-sighted; but he rather spoiled the effect by getting into difficulties with the string, which held them around his neck. At last however, the glasses were in their place, and he prepared to open his Episcopal batteries.
"Madame!" he began in the sternest tone—but there he stopped. He could now see Mother Superior's face, which I presume he was unable to do before. I never saw so sudden a change. His face seemed to soften and grow youthful in a moment; his lip quivered with a smile, which quite transformed him. He spoke in a very different tone from that in which he began.
"Madame! Is it possible, that I see before me Jacqueline de Rozier?"
It was now the turn of the Abbess to change color. She grew very white, but it was with a steady voice that she answered—"That was my name in the world, Mon seignor—and you?—"
"And I am Henri Garnier—" said the Bishop.
"They told me that you had died in the Indies, by the bite of a poisonous serpent," said the Superior, who had quite recovered her color. "I rejoice Mon seignor, to see you in life and health and filling such an exalted station."
Now at that time of my life I had so far as I know, never even seen the outside of a romance—or heard a love-story—yet I knew in a moment that the Superior and the Bishop had once been in love with each other. I ventured to glance at Mother Bursar, and saw those rebellious dimples of hers, dancing for a moment round the corners of her mouth, though she speedily reduced them to order.
"I was indeed bitten by a serpent in the Island of Martinique, and lay at the very point of death when my regiment sailed for France!" said the Bishop. "I recovered however at last, and by grace of Mary, was led to devote myself to a religious life as well as yourself. Madame, the Superior, and myself are cousins and were playmates in our childhood," he added, turning to his attendants—this time with real dignity of manner. "We have not met since we were both quite young. I rejoice to find her in such a useful and honorable position."
The priests made no answer, but I saw a sly glance of amusement pass between them.
"And now to business!" said the Bishop. "Madame, you have for some time had in your family a pupil and postulant named Desireè de La Mothe, daughter of the present Countess de Crequi by a former husband!"
"It is true, Mon seignor! The young lady in question was returned to her friends about two weeks since."
"And why was she so returned since you had received her as a postulant?"
"Because, Mon seignor, I did not perceive in her any true vocation for the religious life," answered the Superior.
"Then it was not for want of a satisfactory dowry, that she was refused!"
"Far from it, Mon seignor; we are a very poor community, but I can safely say that I would never refuse a postulant with a true vocation, though she came to me with nothing but the clothes she stood in. The Count de Crequi was so good as to offer me a double dowry, if I would consent to receive his step-daughter, but I need not say, I declined."
"And quite rightly!" answered the Bishop. "I wish all heads of religious houses were as disinterested as yourself. But the love of money, my brothers and sisters, is the root of all evil, as the Holy Apostle says. Let us be thankful that our state of life shelters us from its baleful influence. However, to return to the subject of this interview, which it is my painful duty to bring before you." Here he found his box, took a pinch of snuff, and thus fortified, made a fresh start.
"I will not, Reverend Mother, disguise from you the fact that this young lady, Desireè de La Mothe has plainly testified to the existence of certain very grave scandals under this roof; such as are not to be tolerated in any community, much less a religious one. These things having been brought to my ears by my relation by marriage to the Count de Crequi, it becomes my duty to thoroughly investigate them. I have no doubt that such an investigation will turn to your credit and that of your family—" here I saw the two priests again exchange looks—"but nevertheless it is, as you must see, my duty to make it."
"Assuredly, Mon seignor!" answered the Superior. "I have no other wish than to afford you every facility. How would your Greatness wish to proceed?"
"Oh! I suppose the proper way would be to examine each one of the family separately; which I will myself do with your permission. But these are not all!"
"All, Mon seignor! Save one!"
"And the lay sisters?"
"We have none, Mon seignor; our last lay sister died a year ago, at the age of eighty-nine. For a long time all the work of the house and garden has been performed by the choir sisters."
"This is indeed holy poverty!" said the Bishop, turning to his two attendants, who remarked in answer that it was very edifying, one of them adding it was to be hoped that the cares of this life had not distracted the sisters from their religious duties.
"I do not think such cares are apt to have that effect!" said the Bishop somewhat sharply. "How say you, Reverend Mother!"
"We have hitherto been enabled to keep up the practice of perpetual adoration of the holy sacrament," answered the Superior. "At no time since my entrance into the house, has it been suspended for a whole hour. The only sister now absent is at her post in the chapel; nor so far as I know have we failed in any of the other services of our holy religion. The heart of course is known only to God."
"And this is all that remains of the family once numbered by scores!" said the Bishop. "And who are these young ladies?" he asked turning to Amabel and myself, who were close to the grating at one end, as Mother Assistant was at the other.
"These are two young English girls!" was the reply. "Sir Julius Leighton, a Catholic gentleman of England, left them under my charge about thirteen years ago, and they have been with me ever since; but I am expecting to part with them very soon."
This explanation made, the sisterhood were directed to withdraw, while the Superior remained. The Sisters were then called in and examined one by one, returning with very pink faces, and very indignant.
"That wicked Desireè—that snake in the grass!" Such were some of the epithets bestowed upon her. "That she should dare to say that we received the visits of men! As if I ever spoke to a man save the Confessor and old Jacques the gardener, since I was first professed!" said Sister Filomena, bursting into a flood of tears as she rejoined us.
"Hush, my Sister! Compose yourself!" said the Mother Assistant kindly. N. B. * Sister Filomena was about the plainest woman I ever saw, with a moustache, and a perpetual red nose. If the Bishop had not been the Bishop, I should say he had been making game of the poor old soul. "Nobody who knows you can have any doubt of the propriety of your conduct. Come, let these children see you set an example of patience and calmness, and of forgiveness of injuries."
* N. B.—nota bene
"But that wicked girl—what could have induced her to slander us so!" said another sister. "To say that we used up our revenues in feasting."
"And that we—but there is no use in talking!" added Sister Benedict, catching the Mother's eye. "It is too abominable!"
At last it came to Amabel's turn and mine; and hand in hand, as usual, we entered the parlor.
The Bishop had evidently talked himself into high good humor by this time, for he was laughing and offering his snuff-box to his companions. "Ah! And here are the lambs of the flock!" said he, as we somewhat timidly drew near the grating. "Come near, my little daughters, and fear nothing."
He then asked us several questions in a fatherly sort of way, about our families, and we told him all we knew, which was not much.
"And how do you use your time? Come, now," addressing himself to me, "think, and tell me exactly what you were doing, when you were called to the Superior on this occasion."
"I was brushing St. Francis' hair, Mon seignor," I answered simply.
"Brushing St. Francis' hair? What does the child mean; one has heard of dressing St. Catherine's hair, but never of St. Francis', as I think." *
* "Dressing St. Catherine's hair" is a kind of proverbial expression for being an old maid.
I explained, that I was assisting Sister Sacristine to prepare the Church for to-morrow's feast day.
"Ah! Very well, very good—and you, my child?" turning to Amabel!
"I was arranging the flowers on the altar of our Lady, Mon seignor."
"Very good again—there, you may go, and here are some comfits for you, but I daresay you have enough of them since the good sisters make such beautiful sweetmeats, eh!"
"No! Mon seignor, the Mother Bursar sells all the sweetmeats, that she may help the poor women of the village," answered Amabel.
Whereas there was another interchange of looks, and we were permitted to retire, not at all sorry to get off so easily.
The Bishop and his attendant priests were then conducted by the Superior and Mother Assistant, through the whole building. It was even proposed that he should descend and examine the vaults; but this was hastily and decidedly declined, by his Grandeur.
"No! no! That is not needful—we have heard that they are very extensive and curious, however—perhaps Father Andre and his companions would like to inspect them."
"It would not be safe for them to do so without a guide!" said the Superior. "The passages are very intricate and there are dangerous pools of water, but should your Grandeur desire it, Mother Assistant and myself will lead the way."
But it was evident that this description was enough to satisfy any curiosity the Reverend Fathers might have felt on the subject, and as the Bishop did not insist on the matter, no more was said.
While this inspection had been going on, Sister Lazarus and her assistants had been getting up the best collation the resources of the house afforded. Fortunately it was a fast day, and our own ponds supplied us some good fish or the Bishop would have fared poorly. However, we had excellent bread and butter, and cakes and sweetmeats, and a bottle or two of good wine, and his lordship was pleased to express himself highly delighted with his entertainment.
After the collation, we were assembled in the Church, and the Bishop once more addressed us.
He did not disguise the fact that he had come hither with a strong prepossession against the house; having been led by certain persons to believe that the family were guilty of great irregularities, to say the least. He did not say who these persons were, but we knew very well. Contrary to what he expected, he had found great order, the severest poverty and self-denial, and evidence of abundant good works. He did not say those things to puff us up in our own esteem, but that we might be encouraged to persevere, and even to surpass what we had already accomplished. There existed indeed a degree of—he would not say error, much less heresy—but a certain confusion of ideas upon some points of doctrine, which he had no doubt would be dispelled by the perusal of some books which he would have sent to us. It was also said that there was a flaw in our title or charter; he would make it a point to have this matter examined into, and we might be assured that justice would be done.
He then gave us his blessing, exchanged a few words in private with Mother Superior, and rode away.
He was entertained by the Count that evening, and I should not wonder if madame and her daughter, did not find his visit very agreeable.
"Well, it has all turned out better than we had any reason to expect," remarked Mother Bursar.
"It has not turned out yet!" said Mother Prudentia, shaking her head. "We have made an enemy of the Count, and he will not love us the better, because the Bishop has come over to our side. The men of that family know neither pity nor forgiveness; we have not heard the last of it yet—but we are in better hands than his," she added cheerfully—"wicked men can go no farther than is permitted them."
Of course this visit of the Bishop's furnished matter for conversation and gossip for many days. Now that I look back at it, my own opinion is that we owed our escape to the circumstance, that the Bishop had discovered his old sweet-heart in our dear Mother Superior. Probably they had been separated by friends, and the lady had taken the veil on hearing her lover was dead; but that they had been lovers I am as sure, as I am that Simon Sablot is looking for Anne Penberthy. The lad is a good lad, and comes of good family, his parents having been exiles for the truth's sake, and he shall not want my good word when the time comes.
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THE MIDNIGHT RAID.
FOR some days—I think about ten—after the bishop's visitation everything went on in the usual train.
On one of these days, the superior received a letter from the bishop, which was speedily communicated to the whole family. His greatness wrote that having had our title and charter investigated by the proper authorities, he had discovered that not only was our community fully entitled to all the land and property that it held, but that it had an undoubted right to some hundreds of acres of very fertile meadow land, lying half a mile away, and at present occupied by the Count de Crequi.
"So we shall get back all that beautiful pasture where the grass grows so early," said Sister Eustachie, the oldest person in the house. "I remember, children, when ye had twenty-five cows in that meadow. Such butter and cheese as we made—but we had a great family then. Well, I hope I may see those lands restored to our holy patrimony."
"I would like to hope so too, sister, but I doubt it!" said Mother Prudentia. "The wolf of Crequi does not let go his prey so easily. For myself, I shall be thankful if we are left to go quietly on our way, as we are doing at present."
I have never said anything about our priest and confessor. He was a middle-aged man, looking old from his white hair, but very hale and active. He lived by himself in a little house in the orchard, from which a sort of arbor, covered with vines, led to the church. He was a kind-hearted, easy-going man, very charitable and self-denying, save in the matter of snuff, of which he took a great deal. He was very fond of his garden, in which he worked early and late.
Amabel and I liked him because he spoke English very well, having once been confessor to a noble family in England. Only for him, I don't know but we should have forgotten our mother tongue entirely; but he used to exercise us in it, making us read to him sometimes, in an English Thomas-à-Kempis he had, sometimes in an English translation from the Vulgate. Oh! How I used to wish I could get that book into my own hands; but the good father guarded it jealously, not allowing us even to turn over a leaf for ourselves. We used to read Psalms and bits of the Gospels, and Old Testament stories, which he picked out for us.
I remember reading in this way about the widow's son of Nain. When I had finished, the priest paused a moment, and then said, reverently:
"My Lucy, do you think of what you read?"
"Yes, my father; I think of it a great deal," I answered, which was quite true.
"But do you make it real to you? Think, for instance, about this story which we have just finished. Think how that poor mother must have dreaded the return to her lonely house; the sitting down to her lonely table, and living on day after day without her son."
"And then how different it all was from what she expected!" said Amabel, musingly. "I should think she would hardly have known how to believe it. She must have felt as if his sickness and death were all a dream."
"And the holy Magdalene after her brother was restored!" said I. (Roman Catholics believe that Mary Magdalene, and the woman who was a sinner, who anointed our Lord's feet, were one and the same person, though there seems to us little or no ground in the scripture for such an idea.) "They were really people, were they not, and felt as we should do?"
"Exactly, my daughter. That is what I wish you to consider. People lose half the benefit of the examples of the holy saints and martyrs, because they do not consider them to have been of the same flesh and blood as themselves."
I have been obliged to the good father all my life for this idea, and especially since I have myself had the instructing of children in the truths of religion. But this is by the way.
Besides being a famous gardener, Father Brousseau had a competent knowledge of surgery and medicine, and made himself very useful in prescribing for the poor people round us. His medicines were generally such as our pharmacy at the convent could provide, especially a bitter cordial, made of orange peel, chamomile, and some of the aromatic herbs with which that country abounds. I have the recipe for this cordial, which I have helped to distil by the gallon. It is excellent for ague and consumption.
It was this medical knowledge of our confessor's which made him a welcome visitor at the Chateau de Crequi, even after the count had quarrelled with our superior. Madame de Crequi was a confirmed invalid, suffering terrible pain and distress at times, from some trouble in her breast. She had had endless doctors who had done her no good but rather harm, and in her despair, hearing of our confessor's gifts in that line, she sent for him. He was, happily, able greatly to alleviate her present suffering, though he told her frankly that there was no cure possible; and he had thus made the poor lady his friend. He had also cured the count's chaplain from a fever which threatened his life.
One day, it happened that the priest was sent for in great haste to see a favorite maid of the countess, who was taken suddenly and violently ill. (I learned all this long afterward, for of course I was not told it at the time.) He returned in the afternoon, and we saw him going in a great hurry to the superior's apartment.
In about half an hour, Mother Prudentia came out, looking a good deal excited, and summoned the whole family to a conference. It was in recreation time, I remember, and we were almost all busy in capturing a vagrant brood of half-grown chickens, which had escaped from their proper quarters, as it seemed, for the express purpose of scratching up a newly planted bed of salad. We were in a great frolic over the chase, for nuns are like children in their hours of recreation—a little thing serves to amuse them. It was therefore with considerable surprise that we obeyed the summons to the superior's presence.
We found the lady pale and evidently much disturbed, though she preserved her usual calmness of voice and demeanor. In a few words, she told us of the danger that was impending over us. She had received sure intelligence that the convent was to be attacked that very night by a band of robbers, pillaged and perhaps burned to the ground.
Even the strict habits of convent discipline could not repress a universal cry of dismay from the sisterhood; but I must say, that after the first alarm, they all behaved wonderfully well. The Reverend Mother raised her hand to impose silence, and was at once obeyed.
"We have no means of defending ourselves, and no time to send to the Bishop for assistance before our foes will be upon us!" said she. "I have taken council with our Reverend Father, and he agrees with me, that our only chance of safety is, to take refuge in the vaults under the old part of the house."
She paused a moment, and some of the sisters looked at each other as if the prospect of spending the night in the vaults was almost as dreadful as that of the robbers themselves.
"The buildings above these vaults are solid and there is little in them to burn," continued the Superior. "So that even should the house be set on fire, we may hope to escape—and the caverns themselves are such, that should the entrance to them be discovered, no one could find our hiding place without the clue; that clue is known at present only to Mother Assistant and myself. Let us then hasten to convey to this place of safety all our most precious treasures, all the sacred vessels and ornaments; and enough of food and lights to serve us if needful for several days; of water there is an abundant supply. Let us all be calm and collected, and let each one obey orders implicitly and without any questions."
She then allotted to each her part. Sister Lazarus with two assistants were to prepare and carry to a certain place a supply of such provisions as would keep the best, and afford the most nourishment in a small compass. I remember, in the midst of all our consternation, smiling at the lamentations of the good sister, over certain delicious creams which had been prepared for the supper-table—that being a feast day.
"But the robbers shall not have them at any rate!" said she with decision. "Here pussy!" And she set down the dish of cream which she held, and which the kitchen cat and her young family lapped up with great satisfaction and much purring.
"Poor little dears, they little know what is before them!" said Sister Lazarus, wiping the tears from her eyes, as she regarded the kittens, which having finished their feast, were licking the stray drops from each other's paws and noses. "I mean to shut them all out in the garden and that will give them a chance. Take care and not shake that basket, Sister! There are some bottles of wine in it and a jug of milk for the children; here, little ones, put these cakes in your pockets."
Grow as we might, we were still the children to dear Sister Lazarus.
The Church was not to be dismantled till after dark, that no suspicions need be awakened. I could not but wonder whether there were any spies among the few peasants who came to vespers. I could not but notice an old woman; she was very specially devout, and when the service was ended, she approached Mother Bursar and whiningly begged a night's lodging.
"I do not think we can keep you on account of the dangerous infectious fever that we have in the house!" said Mother Bursar, telling this outrageous fib doubtless with a clean conscience, as it was for the good of the Church. "But if you choose to risk it, I will ask Mother Superior."
But the old woman had no mind for a lodging under such circumstances and took herself off, closely watched by Mother Bursar from the church door.
"That is an odd-looking woman!" said I. "See how strongly she walks now, though she pretended to be so feeble."
"She is no more a woman than you are!" said Mother Bursar indignantly. "It is that very Jean Dôle to whom I gave a warm pair of hose only last winter. Did I not know him on the instant? I almost wish I had given him a lodging, and locked him up in the Knight's tower; but it is better as it is. Now my children we must work fast—there is no time to lose! Here, Lucille, help me fold these cloths."
"But Jean Dôle is in the employ of the Count!" said I, working while I talked and finding, despite the imminent danger, a certain enjoyment in the bustle. "Can he be, also, in the employ of the robbers?"
"Robbers!" said Mother Bursar contemptuously. "We know where the robbers come from. Take care, child, fold that straight. Perhaps they will find themselves outwitted after all."
By nine o'clock, the principal treasures of the Church—the great silver vases, the candlesticks, and images, and so forth, were all removed to the lower vestibule; and carried from thence to safe hiding places known to Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia.
Then the sisters were assembled in the community-room, for what we all felt might be the last time. Mother Superior addressed a few words to us, exhorting us to firmness, constancy, and trust, and we all kissed her hand and each other. The priest entered, bearing the host, in its magnificent receptacle, blazing with jewels, and we all prostrated ourselves before it. Then he passed out of the room, and we followed in order as in an ordinary procession; we went through the upper hall and descended the great stairs to the lower floor.
Then instead of seeking the door by which Amabel and myself had descended to the vaults, we went down to the basement by a staircase of which I had never, till then, known the existence. So true it is, as I have said before, that one may live in a convent a long time, yes, even for many years, and yet know very little about it. We passed through a long hall, with doors opening here and there, and then there was a pause, while Mother Prudentia unlocked and opened a massive door, the existence of which I should never have suspected, for it looked exactly like a piece of the wall. Through this we passed one by one, and it was then closed after us.
The lights were now trimmed anew and lanterns distributed among us. We were warned to follow exactly, and not to look either to right or left, but to keep our eyes fixed on our leader. Why, I don't know, unless that our minds might not be distracted by the sight of the labyrinth we were threading. At last we reached the end of our dismal journey. We found ourselves in a kind of suite of apartments, drier and more commodious than could have been expected in such a place. There must have been some communication with the outer world, for the air, though damp and chill, was not foul nor oppressive.
In the first vault were stored our provisions, clothes, and other such matters which we had saved. In the next were beds hastily made of straw mattresses and all the warm coverings that could be mustered. A little side-room was fitted up as a chapel, with an altar, on which was placed the usual furniture, while a small lamp hung before it. On this altar the priest deposited the host. It was time for our last evening service, and we went through it as usual, though it must be confessed that some of the sweet voices quivered a little as they chanted the responses. It was not till now that we observed one of our number to be missing.
"Where is Sister Filomena?" asked two or three voices.
"She is in a place of safety, or so I trust," answered the Superior calmly. "Pray for her, my sisters."
We took this for a hint that we were to ask no more questions, but we wondered all the more. Sister Filomena was the one of whom I have spoken before as being so very ugly. She was tall and boney, with particularly large hands and feet, and a masculine walk. She had a decided beard, and owing to some disease, I suppose, her face, and particularly her nose, were as red as an old toper's. She was a widow of some years standing when she took the vows, and before her conversion, she had lived much in the gay world of Toulon, where, despite her ugliness, she had been a great favorite, and had maintained a very popular salon.
Sister Lazarus had caused to be transported to the vault a little earthen-ware furnace for charcoal, such as are much used in France. This she lighted, and served us each with a famous cup of chocolate—a luxury never enjoyed by us except on very grand feast days. I think smells are more powerful in awakening old associations than anything else. The smell of a fresh cup of chocolate always brings that scene vividly before me—the dimly-burning shaded lights, which made our pale faces doubly ghastly in appearance—the damp walls of whitish grey rock—the little chapel with its ornaments glittering as the tapers flared a little—I can see all this, and hear the soft drop and splash of water, regular almost as the ticking of a clock, which fell on our ears, and now and then a curious moaning sound coming no one knew from whence.
"What is that?" said one of the sisters rather fearfully, as a louder moan than usual made itself felt rather than heard.
"It is a sound always heard in these vaults," replied the Superior.
"I used to hear in my day that it was the spirits of the poor souls that the old heathen imprisoned here and left to starve," said Sister Eustachie, who was very old and childish.
"You don't think it is that, do you, Reverend Mother?" asked one of the nuns rather timidly.
"No, my child, I think it is only the wind which finds entrance somewhere and cannot get out again, or some escape of imprisoned gas from the earth. Whatever it may be, it is but a sound," answered the Superior. "Let me beg of you, not to disturb your minds with idle fears. Let all lie down and rest while it is possible. Mother Assistant and myself will watch before the Holy Sacrament."
I had no wish to lie down, nor, as I think, had any of the others, but in a convent, one learns to obey without a word—not so bad a lesson either, where young persons are concerned. So we lay down on our straw beds and covered ourselves as warmly as we could, and, despite their fears, I heard some of the nuns snoring in five minutes' time.
I thought I should never go to sleep, but the sound of the falling water, the softly murmuring voices of the priest and the two mothers saying the litanies, and the gentle swaying of the suspended lamp lulled me at last into a slumber. I dreamed that I was trying to reach something from the upper shelf of a certain dark storeroom cupboard, when some one violently slammed the door on me. The noise awoke me with a start.
All the sisters were on their feet in an instant, but the gesture of the abbess imposed silence, and not a word was said.
We heard a shout of—"Open in the king's name—" And then a furious attack upon the great gate which led from the outer court into the garden. It sounded frightfully near. In a moment it fell, and we could hear the footsteps of our enemies, as it seemed, over our heads. They may have been so for ought I know.
We were all on our knees by this time before the little altar—some on their faces. Only the Superior stood erect and calm.
The noise partially died away—I suppose while the ruffians were searching for us. Then they gathered again in the court with every expression of anger and disappointment. We could hear every word that was said. They had evidently pushed off the cover of the old well, and one of them dropped a great stone into it. The noise which resounded through the vaults was awful beyond description.
"Our birds are flown!" said a voice. "And they have stripped their nest pretty completely."
"They are not flown—they have only gone to earth!" said another voice, which I thought I had heard before. "Follow me, and we will soon have them out."
In a few minutes we heard the noise of a door forced, and heavy, armed heels noisily descending. The sisters gathered closer around the superior.
"They have found the entrance under the great stairs," said the superior. "Keep perfectly still, and fear nothing, but pray for the souls of our enemies. They do but rush on their own destruction."
Mother Prudentia whispered a few words to the superior, and, receiving a nod in return, took up a lantern and glided away so suddenly that, though I was watching eagerly, I could not have told for my life which way she went.
There was evidently a good deal of hesitation among the enemy, for I heard the same voice proclaim loudly: "A purse of gold for the one who unearths the old cats. There! I see the gleam of a lantern even now."
It could have been but two or three minutes, before we heard a sudden splash, followed in a second by another and a horrible scream of mortal anguish, which echoed and re-echoed as if a hundred demons were mocking the drowning wretches. There was one half-strangled cry for help—a rush—and then all was still for a few minutes, till Mother Prudentia returned to us with her lantern, and her shoes covered with mud and slime.
"Two of them have fallen in—the only two who ventured to follow me!" said she. "I stepped aside, thinking that they would stop when they lost sight of me, but I suppose the gleam on the water deceived them. Poor wretches!"
There was an interval of silence, during which we all softly recited the prayer for souls in extremis.
"What are they doing now?" asked one of our number.
"They are setting fire to the buildings. Do you not smell the smoke?" said the priest. "But we have little to fear, even in that case. A storm has been gathering all day and is about to burst. Do you not hear the thunder? 'The Lord shall fight for us, and we will hold our peace.'"
I had heard what sounded like thunder two or three times, but there were so many noises that I had taken little heed to it. Now, however, came a tremendous crash, and a faint gleam of lightning showed what I had before suspected—that we were near some place which opened to the air—perhaps to the old well in the court, which would account for our hearing so plainly.
The rush of rain which followed must have at once extinguished the fires, and no doubt drove our enemies into the buildings for shelter. For a time, we heard nothing but the tremendous thunder and the rain. Then I began to be sensible of another sound, unlike anything, unless it be the rushing of a stream swollen by a torrent.
"What is that?" asked some one.
"Hush!" said the priest, imperatively.
We all listened. The sounds grew louder.
"They have digged a pit, and fallen into the midst of it themselves!" said the priest exultingly. "'In the snare that they laid privily is their foot taken.' Our friends have arrived, and we are saved."
In effect, we heard in a moment, a tremendous outcry, many shots fired, and other sounds which told us that a combat was going on. The tumult died away by degrees, but was renewed once or twice, as though the robbers were making a desperate defense. There was an interval of silence, and then a manly, cheerful voice called aloud, as it seemed, from the stairs:
"The reverend mothers and sisters may now come from their hiding places without fear. Their enemies are all prisoners in the hands of the king's troops. Laudate dominium."
I suppose this Latin phrase was a kind of watchword to let our superiors know that all was right. Anxious as we all were to escape from our prison, there was no haste. We arranged our dresses as decently as possible, for in a convent one learns to dress without the help of a mirror; the priest took up the Host, and, in procession as we descended, we emerged to the light of day—for it was now morning, and the sky was brightening toward sunrise. We found the court occupied by a company of soldiers, with a young officer in command, keeping guard over a number of prisoners. Several dead bodies were stretched out on the stones, and two or three wounded wretches were groaning among them.
Officers and men saluted reverently as the Host was borne past them, and all but those necessary to guard the prisoners, followed into the church. We took our places in the choir, and mass was said at the despoiled altar. Then, measures were taken for the care of the wounded. Two expired almost immediately, in the very act of confession; the other lingered a few days, and died, so Sister Baptista told me, very humble and penitent.
But what a sad sight was our poor house! Windows were dashed to pieces, furniture broken and destroyed in mere wantonness. Our beautiful garden was a trampled waste—even the great rose bush said to have been planted by the hands of Mother Angelique herself, and one of our greatest treasures, was hacked off at the roots.
"The wretches—the wicked sacrilegious villains!" exclaimed Sister Lazarus, bursting into tears as she came on the body of her favorite cat, and saw the poor kittens trying in vain to attract their mother's notice. "I can't help it, if it is wicked—I am glad they fell into the pool—I hope it was the very one that killed my cat—our cat I mean," added the sister, correcting herself, for in a convent it is a great sin to say that any thing is mine. "I made an act of forgiveness when I found my beautiful stew-pans all dashed to pieces, but such a sight as this is too much."
So saying she gathered the bereaved little kittens into her apron and carried them off to comfort them as she best could. One of our cows had been shot, as it seemed, in sheer wantonness; the other being shut in a cow-house at the bottom of the orchard had escaped.
It was only natural that a few tears should be shed over the destruction of pet plants and fowls and the general desolation, but there was no giving way to idle sorrow. All set to work with a will to put things in the best order possible, and so industrious were we, that by the next day when the bishop arrived, things had assumed something of their usual aspect.
But no pains of ours could restore vines and flowers, or set up the ruined fountain, or mend the beautiful and wonderful stained glass, whose fragments strewed the court, or bring our poor old dog and cow to life. The bishop brought with him a magistrate and other officers, and there was a great examination and perquisition about the affair, but I don't know how it was—the thing was hushed up after a while and nothing was done. Only the bishop paid two or three visits, and finally it was made known among us that before cold weather came, the community would be moved to a smaller but much more comfortable and secure house near Toulon.
I must not forget to say that Sister Filomena arrived in the train of the bishop, riding all by herself in a litter, and dressed in a brand new robe of quite another fashion from ours. We were surprised enough to see her, and still more to hear that it was she who had carried the news of our danger to Toulon.
"That is the advantage of being ugly you see, my sisters," said the good nun, laughing, as we pressed around to listen to her adventures. "In Marie's red petticoat and grey jacket, and mounted on the good father's mule, nobody thought me anything but a peasant carrying fowls to market. I had the good luck to meet, the very first thing, an Abbè whom I used to know when I was in the world. I could think of no better way than to make myself known to him, and he took me directly to the bishop's palace, where I told my story. His housekeeper found me some clothes, and I went at once to the Ursuline Convent, where they treated me like a princess, but you may guess I did not sleep for thinking of your danger, and wondering whether the soldiers would arrive in time."
"But why did not Father Brousseau go himself?" asked some one.
"What a wise question! Because they would have been on the watch for him, and would have known him at once; but no one suspected me."
"It was a dreadful thing to do!" said Sister Baptista. "Of course it was very good in you to sacrifice yourself, but I do think it was shocking."
"I suppose it was," said Sister Filomena; "and the worst of it is, I am afraid I enjoyed it after all."
That very day, we heard that the nephew and heir of the Count de Crequi with an attendant had fallen from the rocks while fishing, and that their bodies had been swept away by the waves and never found. A requiem was said for them in the church with all due solemnity, at which, however, none of the family were present. For my own part, remembering the voice I had heard and that fearful plunge into the water, I have little doubt that the bones of the young count and his follower lie at this moment under the black and slimy waters of that dreadful pool.