CHAPTER XXI.

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.

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