THE Amorous Abbess: OR, LOVE IN A Nunnery.  

PARISH being in its greatest Solitude, by reason of the King's Absence, when He was following the Wars in Flanders; the Season of the Year and the Novelty of the thing, invited certain Persons of Quality to a retreat in the Country; who had Souls so well fitted for Conversation, that having given the first part of the day to other noble Divertisements, such as the place afforded them variety of, they spent their Evenings in discoursing upon the Passions, and other things, which even in Deserts people of Sense may find entertainment in. But one night their Pleasures were interrupted, or rather, to speak more properly, varied by the arrival of the Post with Letters to several in the Company, and 'twas the general proposal, they should be read publicly, for the common satisfaction.— Monsieur Le Chevalier, one whose Wit rendered him not the least considerable amongst them, received that which follows.  
IT is two Months since I had any Letter from you; from when proceeds this silence? Have you so much forgot me, or has any Misfortune happened to you? Ah! how cruel are you? Tell me if there be any that has a greater Interest than I, in all that relates to you; and whether you ought to neglect me at such a rate, as to believe you owe me not at least this satisfaction. Alas! you love me not, since you can be thus long and not tell me you do. I find too unhappily, that all the marks you have given me of your Tenderness, were but purely an effect of your Wit; your Heart had no share in them, at least they proceeded from Complaisance rather than Kindness, and were more the effects of Gratitude than Inclination: for I cannot imagine how a man can love (after the manner that I understand Love) and live as you do. You know, that you promised me in leaving this place, to give me an account of your Life every eight days. I suffered myself to be so pleasingly flattered with it, that it enabled me to bear more easily the first days of your absence. There is nothing more easy than to abuse the credulity of a Heart that loves one, but there is nothing more base, and unworthy. I endeavoured to comfort myself for your departure, after a continued happiness, as your Presence gave me, by the pleasure I expected in a converse by Letters, which would further engage Us: But you have allowed me that Pleasure but a short time; what have I done? and why had you not told me, that absence was a destroyer of Friendship in you? Then perhaps I should have been prepared for it, and not found myself under the necessity of making complaints to you, of yourself. Endeavour to justify yourself if you can, or deceive me by some false Reasons. I am even desperate to think you Criminal, and not to find an Excuse for your Ingratitude, Adieu. Neglect not any thing to make me believe you are Faithful, and that you have not wronged me, Adieu.  
The Company were so well pleased with this Letter, that they would not be satisfied without knowing upon what occasion it was writ; and Monsieur Le Chevalier with some difficulty, was brought to make the following Relation.  
It is some time since, That I made a Journey a considerable distance from Paris, where I was called by my affairs: But being the first time I was in that Country, it is no wonder I lost my way. This misfortune happened to me when I least thought of it; and I perceived my Error too late to remedy it; for as it was dark, I found myself in the midst of a Wood, where the farther I went, the more I was entangled, and out of hopes to get out.— In fine, the Wether being very bad, and the ways worse, I concluded it best to take my Lodging under a Tree, rather than expose myself to a thousand Accidents I might meet with in passing Rivers and ill ways, at such a time of Night. I need not tell you the little pleasure there is in being reduced to this Extremity; but it made me hope it would be the last Adventure of Knight-Errantry, that would ever happen to me.  
Whilst I was entertaining myself with these unpleasant Thoughts, a Peasant, who by happy chance passed that way to his own House, came pretty near me; I sent my Servant to desire him to come to me, whom we engaged by good Words and Promises to guide Us to some Inn.— He told us, that we were three Leagues out of our way, and that he knew of no Lodging, but a League off, by the most detestable way in the World.— We arrived at last at a little Village, where there was but one house of Accommodation. God knows how ill I was Treated there, after having Knocked an hour at the door, to oblige our Host to rise; who, after all, would not open it, but upon the Faith of our Guide, who swore we were honest people: The Peasant stayed with us, and eat, and drank with us, and lay in the same house. ay, that had but a little miserable Straw for a Bed, and a couple of vile Coverlets, passed not the Night so well as he, but better however than I should have done in the Wood The trouble, and weariness, I had endured, supplied the want of a better Lodging, and served me at last for a Pillow, so that about break of day I fell asleep. I had not slept two hours when the Peasant entered my Chamber, and waked me, very briskly to tell me, that Madam the Abbess expected me. I received this Compliment with a very wicked Air, and knew not what he meant by this Madam the Abbess, and was in a mind to have forgot the obligation I had to him the night before: The poor man knew well, by the reception I made him, that I was not pleased, although he designed to do me Service; he went out to carry my Answer to the Person that sent him: But for my part, I could not possibly recover my Sleep, and thought only of what this Man had said to me, that an Abbess asked for me: I knew none in that Country, yet believed there might be some Convent thereabouts; but could not divine, why they should send for me, unless they took me for another. What soever it was, I confess that I made but an ill return to this Civility; and if the Peasant was of an humour to tell all he saw, and the displeasure which I discovered when I sent him back, this Abbess had as much cause to complain of me, as I had reason to praise her: This reflection began to give me a little trouble, out of which I was delivered by the coming of the Almoner of this Lady, to tell me, with a little more Ceremony, that the Lady Abbess, to whom this Village did belong, being informed by her Shepherd, that a Man of Quality that had lost his way, was constrained to take up in that miserable Inn, had sent him to entreat me to accept of a Lodging less incommodious than that was. This Compliment brought some allay to my trouble; and I was in Charity with my Peasant, since he procured me this honour that the Abbess did me; I answered the Almoner the most civilly that was possible, and desired him to tell his Lady, that I had the most acknowledging Sentiments in the World for the favour she did me; and that I would come myself immediately to assure her of it: My Man was up, and I made him give me clothes better than ordinary, and with Gallantry enough prepared for this Visit. The Peasant that served me for a Guide here, conducted me thither also. I was brought into the Parlour where I stayed not long for her coming.  
I think it is best before I proceed further, to give you a description of this Abbess: You must imagine her to be a Lady of about twenty eight years old, of an indifferent Stature, but well made; her Hair fair and thick; her Eyes blue and sparkling; her Mouth admirably well; her Nose very handsome, and her Teeth passable, with the shape of her Face so round and charming, that to say Truth, it was more fit to inspire Love than Devotion: She had nevertheless an Air so sweet and modest, that in pleasing, it imprinted a respect in us, which abated our Courage; her Voice even had something so particular, one cannot express it. I saw this Person; and, if I must disguise nothing from you, will confess she touched me at first fight. I remembered no longer the ill night I had passed; I almost forgot myself, in suffering myself to be wounded by this fair Prisoner: 'Tis true, I was not taken by Lines so strong as could not be broken, or at least stretched; yet not so slight neither, but that there remained in me a desire to please a Person, that pleased me extremely. She told me most obligingly, that she wished I had passed better hours than I had done in the Inn; and beseeched me to spend that day with her, to repose myself after the hardships I had endured the precedent Night: Her request was very kind, and as I excused it, I did it so coldly, that it might be easily seen that I had no mind to leave her yet; but as she had a discerning and quick Wit, she told me, that if she had not all the power over me, that was necessary to engage me to stay, she did not doubt, but two or three of her Friends would be able to prevail with me, as soon as I had seen them, and that I had not resolution enough to resist their Prayers as I had done hers: She had no sooner said so, but she made the Ladies to be called, of whom she spoke; but I (who was willing to give her the entire honour) assured her that she would tempt me in vain on that side, for a thing which none but she could obtain of me, and that I did not believe that there was any thing in the World that had so much Power over the Spirit of a reasonable Man, as she, or could better make themselves to be obeyed. This Compliment was received of the Abbess, as I desired: She had modesty and virtue; yet flattery always found her weak side, and she could rarely defend herself from it: She knew, she had beauty, and though she served not herself of it, as a worldly person; neither did she neglect it so much, but that she had a certain joy in having it please. The three Nuns, her Friends, arrived as she was going to answer, and changing suddenly her Thoughts; Here is (said she▪ turning towards them) sufficient to make you recall your words: these Ladies will perhaps teach you not to answer so easily for yourself, I will leave you with them for an hour, about some little business, and expect to find you at my return of another mind. I swear to you, Madam, (answered I softly) I will remain in it for ever; and if I could imagine that I should change, I would depart immediately. She answered only with a Smile, for fear of explaining herself too much before these persons. I began a very free Conversation with these three Ladies, and knew presently that they affected not, what was serious, but with people whose Censures they apprehended: In effect, they seemed pleased with my freedom, and seated themselves about me with much satisfaction. I never in my Life conversed with Persons that had so much Wit; every thing, they said, was spoke with much vivacity, that it charmed the Ears; and had not any thing in it of that Monastical Air, which spoils the best things that one can say, that is infected with it. I believe it will not tyre you, if I make a description of these Ladies, as well as the Abbess; especially one of them, which was her Sister; and who has the greatest part in this History, and writ me the Letter which you have read. She was a Woman of an admirable stature, very fair complexioned; the shape of her Face oval; her Eyes fair, and full of fire; and if she wanted any thing, 'twas a little colour; her Voice was very sweet, and she sung divinely; there was never any thing better form, and more Vermilion than her Mouth; the whiteness of her Teeth answered well to this admirable Carnation; and the Breath which came from this fair Mouth, was so sweet, that it purified the most noisome Air: I must add to all these perfections, that she had as much Wit as 'twas possible one could have, and a Wit always at command, never speaking any thing that was not worthy of admiration. I will go no farther with her description, it will be tiresome, since no longer the Mode; and will only say, that there was not any thing common in this Lady. The two others were Persons amiable enough, the one had a little more Spriteliness than the other; who in exchange had more Sincerity, which rendered her a particular Friend of the Abbess' Sister.  
In entertained these three Nuns for some time with indifferent things, wherein I endeavoured to discover as much Wit as I could: They did Wonders on their side to maintain the Conversation, particularly the Abbess' Sister: This Charming Person said not any thing, but what was new; in so much, that I believed there was not any thing in the World that had so much Wit, or could make so good use of it. The Abbess came at last, and certainly à propos. if she had the least desire to retain what she had gained upon me, for to speak the truth, the merit of her Sister appeared to me too great to give her less than a Heart. I was upon the point of changing my first opinion, as she at her departure almost divined I should; and I was just going to be perjured, if her presence had not renewed the Flame, which the first sight of her had kindled in my Soul: her Sister at least hindered the progress of it; and I confess that had I not seen her, I should have loved the Abbess very well. I never stirred from the Parlour all that day, being sometimes with the one, and sometimes with other of these two persons.  
I believe (continued Monsieur Le Chevalier) that the company will not desire I should make a long Story of this Adventure, nor trouble them with every little Circumstance. Make not account (replied the Marchioness) that we will allow you to omit the least particular, which may be of Consequence; and we expect You should be as faithful in your Relation, as in your Gallantry. We may permit him (answered the Duchess) to pass over many little things which he may tell us another season, that we may have time now for the rest. I would know (pursued the same Lady, speaking to the Cavalier) with what Air, and how you managed yourself with these two Ladies? and being Witty, as they were, how could either of them suffer a Competitor? For methinks it is very difficult to deceive two Mistresses, much more two Sisters, that you must almost always see together. I will tell you Madam (answered the Cavalier) what has happened to me in a year and halfs time, that I had the honour to be known to them. For the first time that I saw them, I stayed but a day and a half in the Visit, but found enough in this, to make me desire not to be long absent; for all the time I stayed in that Province, I left them as late as I could, and came back again as early as possible. When I consulted the different Sentiments I had for the two Sisters, I found, (at least I thought so) that I was in love with the Abbess, and had a great esteem; and a most tender Friendship for the other. I was charmed with the Beauty and Sweetness of the first, and at the same time sensibly affected with the Perfections and Merit of the other, and had for her a strange kind of tenderness, even when I was with the Abbess.  
I was not much put to it, to study my Actions at first; if there happened any thing remarkable in favour of the Eldest, the Younger was ready to attribute it to her Quality above her; and the Elder took all for Gallantry of Spirit, that I said obligingly to the youngest: It is true, this simple Error lasted not long, for the more we love, the clearer sighted we are in the matters to Rivals; so that both growing to have a little more esteem for me than they had, they began to distrust one another, and observed my Words, and Actions, with other Eyes than they had done hitherto: Sometimes, one told me, that I praised her Sister, with that Exaggeration as was only proper to Love; the other reproached me, that I always sought the Abbess; and that she observed, that I was not pleased, but when I was with her: All these little Complaints were but to make me declare myself; and there was no Remedy, but I must do it, after having in vain avoided it.  
The Abbess' Sister (whom we will call Egidia) was the last that pressed me, but succeeded best. She found the opportunity of a particular entertainment, at a season when she knew her Sister was engaged by some affairs, that she could not dispense with: and looking upon me, with an Air the most tender in the World; Monsieur Le Chevalier (said she) It is no longer time to dissemble any thing with you; you have Wit, and know but too well, that you are not indifferent to me; it is now five or six months since we have been acquainted, yet I have never said any thing positively on this point; but this day I will do more for you, than you can expect from a Woman of my humour; 'tis to confess to you, that I have much tenderness and esteem for you; if you know me, you will not think this Confession little; and if you are obliged to me, it is for telling you that, which if I pleased might have been concealed all my Life▪  
In the Transports, that this favour put me, I would have taken her Hand, and Kissed it a thousand times to testify my joy to her; and how I considered so charming a Declaration; but she hindered me, and pulling away her Hand, she bid me hear her out. If you believe (pursued she) that the favour I do you in this Declaration, merits any acknowledgement, give me that proof of it which I shall demand. You are too Gallant a Man, to be guilty of so much baseness, as 'tis to deceive any one; much more, those who have an esteem, and Friendship for you:— It is some time since I discovered that the Lady Abbess loves you; she herself conceals it not from me.— Perhaps, because she knows, that I too am guilty of the same weakness: but she is of opinion, that you love none but her; and, if I may believe your Eyes, your Heart has intelligence with here's. Tell me the Truth.— Do you love her in good earnest? Tell me, that without embarking myself further in this affair, I this moment sacrifice to her the inclination that I have to love you: I am yet reasonable enough to render Justice to my Rival (if you will have me call her so) and to confess to you that She merits all your thoughts; and she is too haughty and conscious of her worth to be satisfied with less; and to tell you the truth, though I am her Inferior, I am so jealous in this particular, that I should not without much pain, consent to give place even to her. Consider with yourself a little, and— Madam, (said I to her, not being able to forbear interrupting her) I have no need to consider.— It is not three days, since I have but too clearly explained myself to your Sister; if she would have understood me.— I avow, that her Goodness engaged me to many things, that I stole from you; but I am like to prove very ungrateful, if no less than my Heart will pay the Obligations I have to her.— 'Twas on Thursday last, in the evening, when you were in the Garden, that she took her time to tell me, That I had but one step to make me to possess her Heart entirely, and that this was, that I should hereafter forbear to be so exceeding civil to you.— What is that you propose to me Madam? (Answered I, much surprised with what she had said) are you unjust enough to make me purchase your Heart, by such a baseness?— You must pardon me Madam, if you please— but I cannot believe, that you would indeed, make me so Criminal.— I understand you (replied she hastily) and begin to know the fault, which my imprudence has made me to commit.— You esteem not my Heart enough, to engage you to such a loss, as that of my Sisters.— But before you go too far, I would advise you, to examine what Sentiments she has for you, and whether no other possess that esteem, you pretend to, alone. Madam (answered I) I know not what passes in your Sister's Heart; but since I have received all imaginable Civilities from her, I should have the greatest regret in the World, if I gave her the least cause to repent of it. You must however, resolve upon it (replied she, with a tone, fierce, and disdainful) or pretend no more to any Kindness from me, which cannot be obtained at another price. I was going to answer her, and should have declared myself so plainly, as to give her occasion no longer to doubt of what past my Soul; when she retired herself, leaving me to consider what I was to do.  
Thus you see Madam (continued I speaking to Egidia) what happened in this Conversation; I have seen the Abbess several times since; but whether she could not find me alone, or that she feared to know too soon, what she would rather be ignorant of, she has not since spoken to me of any such thing.— I must confess the Truth, I esteemed her fair, her Charms at first, surprised my tenderness; and what I yet feel for her is worthy a true Friend; I cannot refuse to rank her in that number, though even yourself should command the contrary.  
This Charming Virgin was so pleased with the sincerity, wherewith I spoke to her, and to find that there had no more passed between her Sister and I, that she willingly consented to our friendship: and being assured (as she was) of the entire possession of my Love, she could not reasonably do less.  
We parted very well satisfied, and more amorous than before, at least it was so on my side; that soft tenderness, which I at first had for her, had already took the form of a strong Passion, which increased daily, whilst that I had for the Abbess diminished as fast, almost before I perceived it. The Confession of Egidia, of what she felt for me, appeared to me so full of Charms, that it finished the Conquest of my Soul; and there remained no more of it to her Sister, than what was sufficient to say, I did not hate her. I looked upon her no more, but as a Friend, and a Person to whom I was very much obliged: She quickly observed it, either that she perceived some alteration in my manner of acting, or that she feared her Sister more since we discoursed together. I observed, that she took notice of all I did, and that she had not that Confidence in me, she was accustomed to have: She affected even not to believe any thing I said to her.— But when with Egidia it was not the same, for what jealousy soever she felt, she discovered none of it to her; but always spoke of me, as possessing a Heart, which she did not fear to lose. She forced herself sometimes to rally upon what she saw Egidia do for me. In so much, that one day Egidia could not hide her Resentments, nor suffer without impatience to see her Triumph over her, when she was well satisfied, that she had no reason for it; and that, she intimated to her in terms malicious enough. I believe (answered the Abbess, in a fierce tone, and full of scorn) that my interest is so great in that Chevalier, that none will dispute it with me, or if any durst do it, that it would be in vain. Egidia failed not to answer her, and this little difference proceeded so far, that not being ●ble to be Judges, where themselves were parties; they agreed to refer it to me, and engage me to explain myself before them, and that she who should be worst treated, should sacrifice to the other all the inclination she had for me.  
I imagine, that this conversation had something in it very singular, and that there would have been a very delightful Scene for any one that had heard it. This resolution being taken, Egidia, who was a prudent Woman, when she reflected on what she had engaged herself too, chose rather to renounce the Glory, which this Victory might bring her, (for she did not at all doubt of it) then expose me to those ill Consequences, which might follow this Declaration. Whereupon she writ me this Letter.  
I Am just now come from laying a Wager, in which winning or losing, I am furiously interressed: the Abbess and myself, are coming to ask a final Declaration from You: After Dinner, You must Discover to which side your Heart inclines: I am ready to flatter myself, that you Owe it to none but me.— But alas! How can I guests, what will happen? I could not refuse the Wager, and it would have been too much my Rival's Glory, if I had.— Be●●●d▪ nevertheless, to what my Generosity can carry me! I consent (to pre●ent the ill Consequences that may happen) that rendering me Justice in your Heart, you pronounce it in Favour of my Eldest Sister. Adieu. Tell her you love her better than I; but for ever love me better than hr.  
This Letter put me into some Confusion; but since I must take the part of One, I resolved without dispute what to do.— And as I remember, this was the Answer I made to Egidia's Letter.  
I Beg your Pardon, Madam, that I cannot obey You; I must Declare my true Sentiments when I am obliged to speak; and your Generosity must not be repaid with Baseness; 'tis true, it would be only so in appearance, yet since: you are engaged, every thing shall go on your side.— But after such a proof of my Passion, will you be at least persvaded, that I love you as I ought? You must permit me to absent myself, for some time after I have undeceived your Sister; for there is no doubt but your Wager will produce ill Consequences;— it must be you that must sustain the burden of them, since you would entangle yourself in them. Adieu.  
I gave this Answer to the Boy that brought me her Letter; and bid my Man the same moment, get every thing in order, to go away presently, if there were ●ccasion for it. I passed the rest of the Morning in the Garden, in musing upon the question that was prepared for me.  
I forgot to tell you at the beginning, that this was one of those Convents, where the Nuns enjoy a honest liberty, and where Kindred, and particular Friends are permitted to enter, and see them in their Apartments.  
I went to Dine with the Abbess, as the place where I ordinarily eat at, and was very melancholy at Table contrary to my Custom, for commonly I was so happy as to divert the Company well enough, which is often the best ragoust at Meals: the two interessed Ladies, were the first that observed it, and the Abbess said several obliging things to me, to put me in a better humour; but seeing I did not answer her; She at last, asked me, what the matter was with me, that made me so serious? I told her it was a desperate pain in my head that had taken me since the Morning.  
She had not neglected any thing that day, to make herself appear fair; and though the Dress of all Nuns, are almost alike, yet I avow to you, that I found something in hers so particular and agreeable, that with the sweet, and obliging manner wherewith she spoke to me, the resolution I had taken to break with her, began to give me some pain, and without the presence of her Sister, she had been powerful enough, perhaps to have made me repent it.— There was always two or three other Nuns of the Abbess' Friends, that used to eat with us, whom she subtly rid herself of, so soon as she had dined.— There was no need of Witnesses to what passed between the Abbess, her Sister, and myself. The Abbess touched again upon the Sadness she saw in my Looks, and said that she had never seen me in so ill a humour, and that I would oblige her, to let her know the cause of it. I answered her, as before, that it was a great pain in my head: But not satisfied with that, she told me, that she saw something in my Eyes, that made her judge that my Distemper was something more than I seemed willing to discover; and that I was unjust to conceal from my Friends (who were equally concerned with myself in any misfortune that cou●d befall me,) any thing wherewith I was so much affected; and that I ought to give her the satisfaction at least of trusting her, though perhaps it was not in her power to cure me.— I do not believe (said her Sister, to save me the trouble of answering her) that there is any other cause than what he has told you. One often sees (continued she) that people who have so much Wit as Monsieur Le Chevalier, are subject to these terrible Headaches, and that they pass from one extremity to the other, that is, from great Mirth, to as great Melancholy. You believe then Sister (answered the Abbess coldly) that you know Monsieurs distemper, since you take upon you to answer for him; yet I will imagine that it is not as you say, but believe what he shall tell me, of it. And if he'll follow my advice (said Egidia) he shall tell you nothing.— I do know it; and it is so much the harder, for people that know it not, to judge well of it. Believe me (said the Abbess, with a malicious Smile) if I ask to know it, 'tis not that I am ignorant of it; but to disabuse others, who, I see, are so fond of what they fancy they enjoy, that they fear to be undeceived.— I conjure you Ladies, (interrupted I, all of a sudden) leave me as I am.— Whatsoever my Disease is, and whencesoever it comes, I neither can— nor will be cured of it if I could;— I would only suffer less. For my part (said the Abbess) I who pretend not to divine, nor to penetrate so deep into Hearts, as my Sister, would willingly be told of what nature this Distemper is; and perhaps (insensibility not being my Vice, for certain people in the World) I might give 'em ease, if it lay in me to sweeten their Torments. There could not be any thing more Gallant, nor Favourably said for me; and I believe, that I should have answered her as she desired, had not Egidia, (looking suddenly upon me) made me, remember my promise, and put me in a state of not knowing what to say. This amiable Lady perceived the Confusion, I was in, and very opportunely put in, to the discourse. It is true (said she) there are certain ills, that one must have recourse to the person that caused them, for a remedy: but if I be'nt mistaken, this is not Monsieurs case; and you are deceived if you believe, that you are capable of curing his Distemper.— Whatever it is (pursued she) I am so sensible for all that concerns him, that I shall not be inquisitous to hear any of his misfortunes. For you Madam (continued she, speaking to her Sister) if you have this desire, you may satisfy yourself,— but you shall permit me, if you please, to retire.  
— And after these Words, she went away, and left me alone with the Abbess, who believing she had cause to triumph told me, with a joy, she could not conceal, that she saw well, that my Heart was quitted to her, since the place was, and that it was she must cure me of the ills whereof I complained; but she said, She must know of myself, how she was established in my Heart, and how much above her Sister,— that she had given me time enough to consider of it, and that I must resolve one way, either not to hope any thing from her Tenderness, or not divide a good that she desired the entire possession of.— That she'd allow, I should have a tender esteem for her Sister, but for my Heart, she would fill it wholly herself; and that she had merit enough for it.— She was silent here, to see a little what I would say, but I made no answer; and I believe that my silence told her enough, and that she took it for a wicked Omen. Some moments after, (seeing me ready to speak, as one that had studied what to say) she prevented me (apprehending (it is likely) that I would explain myself contrary to what she desired) My God (said she) one has little reason to be satisfied with you to day; if one were not of a humour to pardon you every thing, and that one had not pity for you in this disorder.— Go, and repose yourself in your Chamber,— the pain in your Head requires it,— and I shall take care that none disturbs you.— I retired with this permission,— with so much Confusion that I scarce knew what I did; but I was not got to the door when she called me back.— Hark ye Monsieur (said she with an Air full of sweetness) I will see you at eight of the Clock this Night in the Arbour of the farther Alley, where I'll expect you with one of my Friends; and, if you love me you'll not fail to be there. What do I say (continued she hastily) if you love me?— Though you should not love me, you are too much a Gentleman to fail at a Rendezvous that I give you, there not being any thing that I know, that can dispense with you, from it.— Adien,— fail not to be there. Finishing these words, she smiled, and went into her Closet, to conceal from me a Blush, that came into her Face.  
Behold! (continued Monsieur Le Chevalier) how I came out of this Conversation that I had so much dreaded, which was much more lucky for me than I expected, having escaped a terrible Confusion, that I should have been in, to have declared myself before these two Ladies, what choice my Heart had made: But I was not without fear of my Evening assignation; I saw well, she would expect me, and that it was the last favour I was like to receive from her.— But since there was no avoiding of it, I was resolved not to disguise any thing by unworthy Equivocating; thinking I should do well to serve myself of this occasion, that I should find her alone to disabuse her, and not delay it to a longer time: The honours and favours she did me augmented daily, and so did my ingratitude, whilst she continued in her Error. It is true, it would have been unpardonable, if it had been voluntary, but there is no choice against powerful inclination.— I determined upon this piece of justice, and was the rest of the Afternoon preparing myself for it.  
They went to Supper about Six of the Clock, to have more time to Walk, and I appeared less melancholy at Table than at Noon: Egidia, who had not seen me since she left me with her Sister, (though she had sought me with extreme impatience, to ask me what passed in that interview) judged from the alteration she saw in my humour, that I had betrayed her. I saw her much discomposed, and that she scarce eat any thing, she was so full of thoughts: She had her Eyes always upon me or the Abbess, to surprise our looks, and see whether we were of Intelligence to deceive her. She had not patience to sit so long at Table as the rest, but left us upon a slight Pretext that she took, and retired into her Chamber; from whence she sent me word by one of her Friends (that cunningly acquitted herself of the Commission) that she desired me to come speak with her there, so soon as I had Supped. I failed not to wait on her, and took so well my time when the Abbess was with two or three Ladies that came to visit her, that she perceived it not. I found this Lady fitting by a Table which she leaned upon, with a very sad air, who told me as I entered, that I had no small obligation to her, for giving me occasion, by quitting the place, to come so well out of this affair at her cost; and that she doubted not but her Sister too had made an advantage of it, but that she loved me so well, that she could not repent of any thing that was for my satisfaction; and that when it was for my repose, she would sacrifice all things, even her heart. But changing presently her discourse, By what charm (said she) or rather by what engagement, hath the Abbess brought you into good humour? For methinks you appear very gay this Evening. Alas! You were very melancholy this morning, have you some pledge of her heart that gives you thus much joy? Speak, Monsieur, conceal not any thing from me: You have betrayed me, and without doubt could not save yourself out of my Rivals hands, but on these conditions. Betrayed you, Madam I (answered I) I beg you will tell me upon what ground you have such a Suspicion? Believe, if you please, that being far from thinking it, I—No, no, Monsieur, (said she interrupting me) I see well you know me not: I am capable of loving better than you think, I cannot be satisfied with your heart by peace meal, I would have it entire to myself, and I confess I have lived in a doubtful hope for some time, that I should obtain it as I desired to have it. My Sister has given me a thousand Inquietudes, and I was alarmed by the least of her looks; that a continual trouble hath not left me, to enjoy in quiet the pleasure there is to believe one is loved where one loves. But after so many alarms, I am a little persuaded— I am resolved your Love shall not continue divided, though I lose my share of it; And you, Monsieur, (continued she) must resolve in good earnest to love the Abbess, and endeavour to please her only. You'll not possibly have so much pain to do it as I wish, but however I expect she should confess to owe the obligation of it to me, and know that I was the first that motioned it. I avow to you (pursued she, making a sign to me not to interrupt her) that I am not without pain for the loss of you, and that what I am now doing is harder to me than death; but I will conquer, and if I have any power over you, make you do as I say, and look upon me no more but as one of your Friends. As she ended these words, as stream of Tears forced themselves from her fair eyes, and she was so strangely overwhelmed with grief, that my Heart was racked to see it: I could not answer her suddenly, but embracing her tenderly, I admired the Generosity and good Nature of this Lady: This tender passion which I discovered through her Tears, pierced to the very bottom of my Soul; and I determined rather to sacrifice my Life, than give her occasion to doubt my Faith to her. I made her a thousand protestations of my constancy, when I was able to speak; and in the Estate wherein I was, not being capable of any weak expression, I said so many touching things to her, that she was no longer willing to lose me. After we had spent some time in tenderness, and Transports which are not to be described; I left her, excusing myself with pretence of some business (without telling her of my assignation with the Abbess, lest she should prevent it) but that I would wait on her again before I went to Bed.  
The hour was past that I promised to meet the Abbess, and the tears of the charming Egidia had so well disposed me to do all things for her, that I died with desire to give her this testimony of my love, after that she had given me of her tenderness. I went then to the place, where I found the Abbess with one of her Friends, that retired so soon as ever she saw me coming.  
She told me that she began to be weary of expecting me, and if I had stayed a moment longer, she would scarce have pardoned me. I believed Madam (answered I, coldly enough) that I should come time enough for what you had to say to me. She was much surprised with that answer, after the obliging Reception she had made me; but she endeavoured to dissemble it, and without taking notice of my unjust coldness, treated me with all the sweetness in the world: There was nothing that was engaging but she made use of it, nor enchantment that she served not herself of. It suffices that a Woman is fair, and not indifferent to one, to make one find a thousand charms in her, when she designs to please. The resolution I had taken against this fair Abbess, became by little and little unprofitable, at least very weak: She drew from me a thousand tendernesses I know not how, and was no longer the Person I would abandon: She possessed me so much in those few moments, that there was scarce room left in my Soul for the Idea of the amiable Egidia: To say the truth, the Abbess knew so well how to rekindle flames she had once made burn, that 'twas impossible to defend one's self from her: One would say, that she had studied nothing all her life but to charm, and the most faithful of Lovers had been pardonable for every infidelity she had made him guilty of; for it was not in the power of man to do his duty when she seduced him. But not to detain you longer, (when there are so many things to say) I must confess to you that she made me know, one cannot be assured of any thing where a woman uses complaisance. If this Lady was not satisfied with me, she had, at least, no occasion to complain: One thing might surprise you, and give you an ill opinion of me, after the resolution I had taken; if I had not told you that the Abbess had charms none could resist; and that was, that I begged of her myself that she would not press me to declare myself in that she would know of me, but content herself with the power she had over me. And it was so great, that without lying I believe she might have made me guilty of the blackest perfidiousness in the world; but by good fortune she was willing not to pass further, because perhaps she feared not to succeed, and that 'twas not yet her time. She had had intelligence by some of those that were continually her Spies, of the Visit I made her Sister, and that they had seen her Eyes wet with Tears: She made some railleries upon it, and told me that she well knew by my accost, the strange impression these tears had made in my Soul; but she would pardon me hoping that in time I would accustom myself to see people weep. She said all this, and many other things, with an air so agreeable, that I knew not how to be displeased with it. the mean while, it grew very late, which I gave her notice of, though she was not much pleased with it, and told me that I was the most impertinent Gallant in the world; but it was time for us to retire, which we did with a tender adieu, that engaged us more than ever.  
All the sweetness she had overwhelmed me with, hindered not a great repentance that succeeded it, and filled my heart with a horrible gall, so soon as she was out of my sight: But this was nothing, there must be something more to punish me for my injustice to Egidia. The Abbess met her upon her return back, and maliciously asked her where I was. I know not (answered Egidia) but I suppose that not being well, he went to his Chamber betimes. You are deceived, Sister, (answered the Abbess) and I will tell you that I know his distemper better than you do: I persuaded him to take the Air in the Garden, and that would cure him; as in effect he finds himself better: You may know it from himself, whom I parted with here not a moment since. Egidia remained the most surprised in the world, and knew not what to answer her; it was not possible to conceal from her a part of her resentment, for which the Abbess triumphed with an extreme joy, and left her in that estate. This poor Lady could not tell what to think, after what I had said to her, and the Oaths I had made her two hours before: She had too good an opinion of me, to believe lightly at another time what my Sister would say to my disadvantage, but in this she could neither doubt nor excuse me. the Treason was but too manifest, and every thing spoke against me. She was at first agitated with a thousand different passions, and so much grief seized her at once, that she was not the same; one is always apt to believe what one fears. The first thing that she desired was to see me, and she sent her Footboy to fetch me to her: I came, and by the impressment she had to speak with me, I had some suspicion of the truth: I imagined that this rendezvouz had not been so secret, but that she had made some shift to come to the knowledge of it; but did not think that the Abbess would so spitefully declare it  
I found this afflicted Lady alone in a retired room, and saluting her, I saw her so moved, and in such disorder, that I no longer doubted but she knew of my being in the Garden with her Sister. She spoke not to me at first, and, for my part, my guilt, and the grief I was in for being in a fault, had the same effect upon me, that anger and jealousy had upon her; so that we were both sometime without saying any thing: But at last, From whence come you? (said she, with low voice and with looking at me) I answered her that her Boy had met me as I was going to my Chamber. What! (replied she, with a more elevated voice, and regarding me with eyes fuller of grief than anger) have you to do a new Treason? Did you make me so many promises this Evening, but to deceive me with more ease? What have I done to you? After these words grief deprived her of speech, and she was just swooning away.  
I cannot represent to you the estate I was in, to see a Person dying that was so dear to me: Ah! How cruel were the moments, and how happy I should have been to have died also, if Heaven would have heard me, and not laugh at the pains which Love makes us suffer? I looked upon her as a man without sense or motion, and had not the power to assist her nor call, for help▪ This fainting had not so far taken away her senses, but that she observed upon my face a concern that spoke for me, and nothing (as she has since told me) made her return sooner from this cruel indisposition, than the interest she saw I had in it. The silence and confusion I was in made my peace, and all her grief was not strong enough to resist the satisfaction she received from mine.  
By good fortune two Nuns passed by just then, who seeing her in that estate, immediately run to us, and thought that she was fallen into some Fits that Women are subject to: This made a noise in the Convent, and the Abbess was with the first informed of it, but was not overhasty to succour her. For my part, I retired as soon as I saw there were people enough about her: Although the Abbess sent three or four times to speak with me, I prayed her to excuse me, and said, that next day I would wait her pleasure. Egidia (that they had carried to her Chamber) was come to herself again, and seeing me not by her Bed side, at a time that she believed, if I had loved her, I could not have left her; asked a Maid that served her softly, if she knew where I was? This Maid that had seen me go into my Chamber the moment I quitted her Mistress, with tears flowing from my eyes, made a faithful relation of it to her, wherewith she was so extremely touched, that she prayed her Sister, who sat by her, to send for me. The Abbess put her off a good while, and told her that she had already done it twice to no purpose; and that she would no more ask to be refused. Egidia, who passionately desired to see me, and could not endure I should pass the Night in the sadness wherein I was; resolved to try if she could prevail: She thought she should not hazard much, nor lose much credit, if she could not obtain of me more than her Sister. She sent to me then the same Maid that she confided in so much, to tell me, that if I desired she should be better, I should come to see her before I went to Bed, and that she expected it, if I had yet a little Love for her. I cannot tell you how ready I was to obey her, those who love may easier imagine it: I came then to her Chamber, where was none but the Abbess with her; who expected with impatience to see how this Scene wou●d pass: Both of them perceived presently a change of countenance in me. I know not well what the Eldest thought, but I am sure▪ I caused pity in the younger. This poor Lady looked upon me with an air so tender and touching, that I could not forbear (notwithstanding the presence of her Sister) casting myself on my knees before her, and taking one of her hands, kissed it a thousand times, and wet it with my tears which I had not power to restrain. There is no doubt but the Abbess saw with an ill will these sensibilities: These were cruel strokes, which she could not forbear discovering her resentments▪ of, whatsoever endeavours she used to prevent it. Certainly Sister, (said she with a tone that surprised us) Monsieur Le Chevalier hath done you some great injury, by the manner wherewith he seems to beg pardon of you: You cannot refuse it to his tears; yet (continued she, rising to go away) if you will be advised by me, you shall not do any thing, till he has promised you never to relapse into the same fault again; and I'll answer for him, that he cannot promise it, or if he do, that he will be perjured. Make this gallant peace, I will retire and leave you alone, for I believe you desire no Witnesses. I turned my head to answer her, but she was got out of the Room, and saved me the displeasure I should have had afterwards, to have said any thing in a passion unbecoming the respect I owel her. I remained then alone with Egidia, and in greater confusion than when the Abbess was there: Although I had many things to say, I knew not where to begin, and silence was the only Language of which I served myself: But she, who suffered to see me afflicted, (though it was for the Love of her) after having endeavoured to reassure me by her looks; Well, Monsieur, (said she in a soft tone, and squeezing my hand) done't you repent of having betrayed the best of your Friends? Think well what you have sometimes said to me: How had you then the courage to deceive me? Speak!— She made me yet a thousand other reproaches, to which she added a hundred things that I cannot relate as they were said. In a word (to pass lightly over a Subject which touches me yet in describing it) I justified myself to her as well as I could; confessed our rendezvouz, what had obliged me to it, and the reason I had to conceal it from her; so that she was well satisfied with me. I saw her as sweet as ever, and she discovered more tenderness and confidence in me than ever, that it made amends for all the pain we had endured that night: We never loved so well, and this little discontent served but to increase the flames which were kindled in us. The hour was already passed that in civility I should have retired at: I had no mind the Abbess should send me word so, as she might have done, but the misfortune was, (the doors of the Convent being shut, except those of her Apartment) I must of necessity pass that way to my Lodging. 'Tis true, that in the estate wherein I was, fortified with the powerful charms of her Sister, I made little reflection upon what I ought to fear: I examined not the danger there was, and felt Egidia so deep in my heart, that I was even glad (at least I fancied so) of this occasion to defy all the enchantments of the Abbess. I took then, since there was no avoiding it, that way to my Chamber, passing through the midst of hers; where she was alone and undressed. She offered at first to stay me a moment with her, but I excused myself upon pretence it was late, and should incommode her: She answered me, that she knew well enough I was persuaded I could never be troublesome to her, whatsoever hour it was. But to avoid the ceremony I might yet use, she commanded me to take a Seat by her, for she had something to say to me, and would be obeyed. If you please (answered I) I will wait till to morrow. No (replied she briskly) once more I will say it now to punish you for your want of complaisance— 'tis less to oblige than torment you. I turned this constraint into raillery, and called it a sweet violence, being it was not in my power to disobey her, for she had caused the doors to be shut by which I was to pass. I told her then (not to appear rude, nor having a desire to break unhandsomely with her) that the endeavours she used to stay me were extremely charming; that there was never a man in the world, that would not esteem it great favour, especially at such an hour. I am of opinion (said she) that it might pass for such in most men's thoughts but in yours, and who expresses any goodness to you, must expect in return but indifference and slights. I believe it is not requisite to make you a longer relation of what the Abbess said to me, and what I answered her: It suffices that you know in general that I needed only to see her, to be shaken in my strongest resolutions: Once more I knew not what weakness I had when near her, but 'tis certain she made me quite different from what I was, and I remembered no more the design I had to disengage myself from her. She was this night in a charming undress, that in its negligence had a great deal of Art. I am afraid I shall pass with you that don't know this charming Abbess, for the greatest Traitor, and basest of Men: I was near two hours with this fair Enchantress, and left her as a Man that had scarce the power to do so. What joy, what triumph was this for her? I was no more the indifferent that despised her favours, but a re-conquered Lover, who left her not without regret; but certain it is, that I passed the rest of the Night very sadly, and made myself all the reproaches imaginable. The charms of this Abbess had something in them which had not power longer than I saw them; for a moment after I had lost sight of her I came to myself, saw my crime, and could not enough repent of it.  
In the first visit I made Egidia, I gave her a faithful account of all that passed between the Abbess and I: I told her the perfidiousness I had been guilty of, at which she but laughed, seeing with how much freedom I confessed it; yet she had a desire to be revenged of her Sister, which she was after this manner.  
I have already told you how the Apartments of these two Ladies were not far from each other, which made them always together, tho' they loved not much. Egidia knew how desirous her Sister was to have my Picture which I had given her, but she always kept it locked up for fear of her; the Abbess waiting but an occasion to seize of it: Egidia gave her fair hopes: for one day leaving her Cabinet open (having taken the Picture with her) went to walk in the Garden, and gave the Abbess time enough to satisfy herself if she could have found what she sought, and had not seen there what for her repose she desired not to see. The poor Abbess perceived not the intended malice of her Sister: She searched every where unprofitably for the Picture, but believed not wholly to have lost her labour, having found several of my Letters to Egidia. She shut herself up in the Closet to read them: There was two or three wherein I spoke of her; of which here is one, whereby you may judge of the rest.  
I Am desperate, Madam, when I hear you say that I love you not; and that, Madam, the Abbess hath seized on my heart: Do justice to your merit, and if you know yourself well, you will believe you are not to be put in the balance together. If I could have divided my heart (as you say) I would take away the half of it from you this moment, to punish your incredulity. Fear not any thing, possess this poor heart in quiet, and leave appearances to your Sister, which I cannot refuse her without passing for the most ingrateful of men, as in effect I am. Adieu.  
You see well this Letter was none of the most obliging for the Abbess, and it is not necessary, I imagine, to tell you how much she was enraged at it: Spite, Jealousy, and Shame, to see herself so used by a man that she had had so much goodness for, inspired her at first with the most cruel designs that an injured woman is capable of. She came furiously out of the Closet, after having tore all the Letters in a thousand pieces, as she would have done my heart had it been in her power; and but for the entreaties of a Lady that was her friend, I know not whither her resentments would have hurried her. This Lady (who was her confident in all things, and had much discretion) endeavoured by degrees to make her come to herself: She told her that she ought to be careful of her conduct, and that to make a bustle in such an affair would not be to her advantage; that she ought to consider the place she was in, and that this would prove no good example for her Nuns. But what arguments could make her digest so cruel an affront! All that this good Lady could obtain of her▪ was, that she should not see me all that day to have more time to consider what she had to do.  
Egidia returned at last from her walk, and going into her Closet, found all in disorder there, and the Letters in the condition that I told you: The pleasure of revenge (which is the greatest of life to women) made her taste, in this occasion, contentments, that one must be a Woman and a Lover to comprehend. She could not be long without communicating to me an adventure that she rejoiced so much in; but first she would prepare me to receive it, that I might not be troubled at it: And having sent for me into her Chamber, she asked me what I would say if she had made a quarrel between me and her Sister? I answered her, that provided she was not interested therein, I should not be concerned at it. She related to me afterwards the effects of the Abbess' jealousy, and showed me in what a condition my Letters were. I discovered no trouble at first, but at the bottom of my heart I approved not the action; and when I reflected on all that I had writ to her, I could have wished that she had made use of some other means, and that she had taken other arms for her revenge. I doubted not but the Abbess was in a strange fury, and that this affair would draw some ill consequences in which Egidia would be the first sufferer: I could not forbear expressing some of my fears to her, but assuring her withal, that I would never censure any thing that she did; but that knowing so well as I did her Sister's temper, I feared all things from her passion, and that it would be through her that she would revenge herself of me. I said all this in a very tender manner, but however Egidia took it not so, who looking upon me with spiteful smile, I see (said she) I have alarmed you, and that I have not done you good service. Go, Monsieur, (continued she, rising at the same time to go away) go, and cast yourself at her feet; swear to her that you adore her, and ask her pardon for all you have writ to me. ay! Madam (answered I in stopping her) to accuse me of so much baseness is to disavow my heart. Ah! suffer if you please, that I tell you, you know me but ill, and that I am ready to confess to her all the passion I have for you in my heart: You shall see it if you will, and exact from me even greater proofs of my Love; you may do it, and I give you all this day to have yet this pleasure, but to morrow I must leave you, and you shall see how little I am in pain for your Sister's favour. This sudden resolution surprised Egidia a little, and she was troubled that she had driven matters so far: She embraced me tenderly, and did all she could to make me change my design; but with much difficulty I left her without promising her any thing. I spent the remainder of that day thinking what to resolve upon, and after all I concluded it best to depart; but that which troubled me was, how I should take my leave with the Abbess, which was a duty I could not dispense with. I took the time that I knew most company would be with her, to avoid a thousand bitter reproaches, that I was confident she durst not make me before Witnesses.  
I went then at night to her Apartment, and asked a Nun I met (who was sent without doubt for that purpose) if I could not have the honour to see the Abbess? She said, No, for she was not very well; but not taking that for an excuse, she whispered me in the ear, that this Order was expressly for me, and she counselled me as a friend to retire. I confess that this proceeding surprised me not so much as it would have done, if I had not been prepared for an ill reception; 'tis true▪ however, that I resented this refusal with some despite, and should not have been consoled for it, but by the means it gave me of acquitting myself another way, of the respect I owed her: 'Twas, in fine, by writing that I resolved to bid her adieu, as you shall see by this Letter.  
I Know not, Madam, if it is in earnest that you are sick, that I could not see you; or whether you are weary of seeing me here. The one or the other give me equal pain, and for fear of knowing too much, I inform not myself of that whereof I am glad to be ignorant; and lest I be more unhappy than I am, I design not to press you further to declare it to me, but to depart hence to morrow. If you were visible I should be glad to take leave of you in form: Suffer, if you please, that I make use of the only means that is left for me to bid you Adieu. I kiss your Hands most humbly.  
This Letter, as you see, was not very gallant, nor well made; and I must see her (to speak truth) when I said any thing of tenderness. She received the Letter, but made me no answer.  
Egidia, who saw I would certainly leave her, and that she must be exposed to all the tempest, prayed me that before I went, I would, at least, make some sort of peace with the Abbess, and not give the Nun's occasion of discourse by such an abrupt departure. She added moreover, that her Sister would infallibly believe that 'twas she had made me hasten my going away, and that she'd be glad of this pretence to turn all her resentments upon her: For my part, who feared not death more than the thoughts of this interview, which represented to me all the reproaches she'd make me, and to which I could make no reply; I could not tell how to resolve to see her. Egidia, who saw my fear and unwillingness, graciously consented at last that I should depart, without taking my leave of her any other way than as I had done; but to absent myself but for some days, expecting till the Spirit of the Abbess was a little sweetened, and that I should return if it were necessary, at the least notice she should send me. I put all things in readiness to go away next morning, to see one of my friends in the Neighbourhood; and as I was just going a Horseback, a Footboy brought me a Note, wherein I read these words.  
DAr'st thou depart without seeing me, thou most base and ingrateful'st of all men! But go, for 'twould be too great a favour to suffer thy Sight after thy Treasons: Yet take thy choice, that I may see how far thy black Ingratitude will carry thee; and if thou canst even forget that thou owest me at least this civility in leaving my House.  
Never was man so astonished as I was, after the reading of this Letter: I saw well that whatever it cost me I must see her, and only asked the Boy where his Lady was, who telling me she was alone in her Chamber, I went thither; but 'twas as a Criminal that presented himself before his Judge.  
I found the Abbess so changed, and so sad, that she would have touched the heart of a Barbarian. I know not what I did then, but 'tis certain I was not myself, and that the confusion her sight put me into, cannot be expressed. She looked upon me some moments without speaking to me, afterwards said she to me, What come you here for? I thought you had been gone already. I did not believe, Madam, (answered I) that I ought to do so, when I might have the honour to see you before I went. I come to take my leave of you, and at the same time, to beg the favour to know wherein I have offended you. Wherein you have offended me! (said she sighing) Ah! Traitor, you know it but too well: Well, Madam, (said I to her) since you'll have me know it, tell me what I must suffer for my crime: If Death, be assured my Life depends upon what you please to ordain. Death! (replied she again) alas! you have but too well deserved it, and that is my greatest trouble. What do you expect then (replied I in a passion) if there wants but a Sword to give it me, take mine. In saying so, I presented it ready drawn to her, and opened my Breast for her to pierce it; but she only turned her head away, and said with a louder voice, Cruel! thou knowst ill my heart, if thou believest I can be revenged of thee that way: I wish only that my Life were dear enough to thee, that I might punish thee by taking away that; but I should not have the satisfaction to see thee breathe one sigh at my death. As she spoke these words, abundance of Tears covered her Face, and Sobs took away from her the use of her Speech, insomuch that my heart was torn with pity. I knew not what to say, fearing she'd take any thing I said to her for new infidelities; but as it is no hard matter to pacify a Person that loves, and that would be loved, I behaved myself so well, that by degrees I vanquished her anger, and left her not till I saw her in a humour to pardon me all things. That which obliged her to it the sooner, was that seeing me resolved to be gone, she had a desire to stay me, and she thought she could not prevail by treating me rudely. I was not yet so indifferent to her, that she could be willing to part with me altogether; and perhaps she did not despair (so ordinary is it for them in love to flatter themselves) to carry me at last from her Sister: She did not know that I designed to absent myself but three or four days, but believed that I intended not to return any more; and I made her to have an obligation to me for it. I prayed her, at least, that she would suffer me to to make a little Journey thereabouts, to which she consented the more willingly, that none might take notice, and censure my changing of my resolution, and how soon she was come to herself. She was glad to observe some circumstances, that her weakness might not appear, and that it might be believed that she recovered by time. Above all, she exacted of me that I should not speak to her Sister of our reconcilement, and that I should not so much as see her at parting; if I would not make her repent of her great indulgence to me. I promised her I would not, and though Egidia sent to desire me to come to speak with her; I prayed her, by one of her friends, to dispense with me, for reasons I would write to her, which I was sure would satisfy her. To say truth, I owed thus much, at least, to a Person that I had so great obligations to, and that had so much reason to complain of me.  
I went away then to one of my Friends houses, from whence I writ several Letters to these Ladies, and received as many from them. In the last I received from the Abbess, she desired me to come the day after the receipt of it, to the same place where I last saw her; and very secretly, especially not to let her Sister know any thing of it: That she would be there at Nine a Clock at Night, and expect me till Eleven. I saw well enough, by this Letter, that the Abbess was calmed: I believed I could not handsomely balk the assignation; but by apology of Love, I thought fit to advertise her Sister of it, that she might not complain of me, if she came to know it, as she did the other assignation. I answered the Abbess, that I would not fail to wait on her at Nine a Clock, and this Letter I sent to her Sister.  
IF you were in my place, you would without doubt do what I am going to do this day, but I assure you, 'tis with all the regret in the world. I received a Letter yesterday from your Sister, wherein she desires me to meet her at Nine a Clock in the Evening in the Garden, and forbids me above all things to let you know any thing of it. I believe it will not displease you that I obey her, and that you would counsel me to it yourself if you were here: Fear not any thing, my Fidelity is proof against all her charms; for I am never more yours, than when I am with her. Adieu.  
I gave to the Abbess' Boy my answer to her, and sent this by a Servant of mine to Egidia, but a little before I went away myself, that it might be dark when he came to the Abbey, to deliver it more securely. He was there at the hour I desired, and got into the Parlour without any bodies taking notice of him. When he was there, he heard some body go, but the Night hindered him from knowing who it was: He asked at a venture, if they would do him the favour to call Madam N— You must know this was the Abbess, who was walking in the Parlour, and expecting with extreme impatience, the hour of our meeting. She knew at first my Man's voice, and said, if he would have any thing with that Lady, 'twas she. These two Lady's voices were so like, that sometimes their most familiar friends were deceived. My Man, that knew not the danger of a mistake, and believed that it was she he asked for, gave the Letter without delay into her hands, and believed he had acquitted himself very well of the Commission I had given him. The Abbess, after she had taken the Letter, dispatched my Man, and told him it required no Answer. You may easily guests at her impatience, to see what I had writ to her Sister; but it would be difficult to represent her trouble after she had satisfied her curiosity. She was not naturally very wicked, and if jealousy had not been in it, she would, perhaps, have contented herself with reproaches: But this passion does not usually rest in such weak revenge; it always carries its designs to extremity, a love offended is the most terrible of all furies. The Abbess went immediately into her Sister's Chamber, where she found her alone: Confess after all, my Sister, (said the Abbess to her, after having spoke indifferently enough of me before) that we are both deceived in the advantageous thoughts we have for this Gentleman, who has paid with Treasons all that goodness we have showed him. For my part (added she) I am now sufficiently disabused, and it is true that I am partly obliged to you for it, and that without seeing the Letters in your Cabinet, I should have been yet in a strange error. If you please, I'll, in exchange, do you the same service: But, my poor Sister, you are so prepossessed to his advantage, that whatever one shall say to you, you will not believe that any thing is so true, as what he has told you. What do you mean (answered Egidia coldly) I see not any thing that Monsieur does, that I can blame him for, nor but what discovers he has much respect for me; and till I have cause for the contrary, I am reasonable enough not to change the Sentiments I have for him. But if one makes you see (said the Abbess) that you deceive yourself in those Sentiments, that he betrays you, and is the basest of all men, What would you then say? Perhaps (replied Egidia) I should not be so acknowledging, as such a Service might merit: For, not to lie, though commonly one takes no pleasure in being deceived, yet in this I must confess my weakness, that I love to be in an error; an evil is not so till one knows it. How you are to be pitied, (replied the Abbess again) and yet you deserve not to be disabused; but you are my Sister, and against your will I must pity you. Know then, that this honest Man, this faithful Friend, and what else you are pleased to call him, begged of me by a Note yesterday, to have an interview with him in the Garden this Evening; and conjured me, as much as he could, that it might be secret, and especially that you knew nothing of it. If you will not believe me, (continued she, seeing she was troubled, and had changed colour ' twice or thrice) you may but come along with me to believe your own eyes. Whatever constancy of Spirit this amiable Lady had, she was shaken by this discourse: The infidelity was manifest, and she could not doubt of it, when her Rival assured her so positively of the thing, and offered to bring her to the rendezvouz, to be witness of it herself. She agreed to the proposal, gave her Arms to poniard herself, and would not defer a moment to see her death, since the hour of it was come.   

THE CONTINUATION Of this HISTORY:  
Told by a Lady of Company.  
I Cannot tell whether Monsieur Le Chevalier's account be all true, because he was acquainted with these Ladies a year before I came to the Convent; but this I can say, that it bears good report with what I have heard: But I will warrant what I am going to tell you, for a very faithful relation of all that passed in my time.  
I was very well received in this Abbey, which some cross affairs obliged me to make use of for a retreat: 'Twas near a Month when I came there, since Monsieur Le Chevalier had been absent. I heard him spoke of sometimes as a very gallant man, for whom the Abbess had a great esteem, and from whom she received Letters often: I perceived quickly that this esteem had something in it very tender, and that there was something in this friendship, above what we ordinarily see in that passion. The Abbess, who had much goodness and confidence in me, said to me a thousand advantageous things of him: She put him above all men, and she could have wished that I had not only commended him to her, but that I judged it reasonable in her. As long as things seemed not to me to go far, I appeared very complaisant; but when I came to know that these importments were more of Love than Friendship, that it excited jealousy between the two Sisters, that it caused Tears, Sighs, and Langueors, I could not forbear speaking my thoughts of it freely to the Abbess, and to represent to her, that an engagement of this nature would do her an injury one day, and that an amorous affair ought not to enter into a Religious House. She, in appearance, took pleasure in my freedom, but indeed it begot in her coldness to me: She would have been glad of a little more complaisance in my friendship, and her pain being without remedy, could have wished I would have helped her to support it. This was the cause that I had less converse with her, and seldom saw her but as my duty, that I might not break altogether with a Person that commanded where I was, and to whom I had many obligations. Her Sister managed herself a little better, and though she had not less esteem and tenderness for Monsieur, she acted nevertheless, before the world as if she were indifferent; for she had much more wit than her Sister, though not so much beauty.  
I will begin my recital, if the company please, where Monsieur left yesterday; all that he has yet said, being nothing in comparison of what I have to tell you.  
Into what anger and transports fell the fair Abbess, when she saw the Treason of her Lover: The least thing her passion suggested to her, was to be revenged of the Traitor, and to make him be killed.  
A Maid that she most confided in, and who was too young to take the liberty of advising her, came every night before she went to Bed, to recount to me part of these follies, with which, in truth, I could but divert myself.  
The Abbess took then (as Monsieur has told you) her Sister with her to this assignation, where he failed not to be at the hour appointed: His surprise was great, as you will imagine, to see the two Sisters together, after what the Abbess had writ to him, that none should know of this interview, especially her Sister: He remembered moreover, what he had writ to her, and the request he made her in his Letter, that she should not be troubled at this assignation. He knew not, in fine, what to believe, and of a thousand thoughts which passed through his Mind, none came near the right, so little likelihood there was that such a thing should happen. In the midst of those cruel pains that Spite and Jealousy made the Abbess suffer, she tasted an extreme joy to see the trouble that Monsieur was in; but her Sister had nothing to allay her grief, and used the greatest violence to herself imaginable, to forbear reproaching him. She had not patience to stay long there, but went from them, after she had viewed him from head to foot, with an air of Scorn and Indignation, without saying a word to him. This poor Lover, who began to recover of his first surprise, when he saw how she looked upon, and avoided him, fell into a second much more cruel. I know not (said he, speaking to the Abbess) what I have done to your Sister, that my presence drives her hence. It is (answered the Abbess coldly) because your return here was not expected so soon, where you have but little business. Ah! if it be as you say, Madam, (replied Monsieur) I swear to you I will not continue here long, for I hate above all things to be troublesome to people: But yet, Madam (added he, suddenly) you must not take it ill, if I go and know of your Sister, if this be the reason that she treats me thus; after that I shall stay no longer with you, than is necessary to bid you adieu. In saying this, he run after the fair afflicted, whom he overtook just as she was going into the Convent. What's the matter with you, Madam, (said he to her, almost out of breath) that you fly from me? And why did I find you in a place where I ought not to see you? Say rather, thou most perfidious, (answered she) that I ought not to see thee there: But at last thy Treasons are discovered, and thou shalt not deceive me any longer, for I will not see thee again all my life. After these words, she went into the Convent, shut the door upon her, and left Monsieur in the most deplorable condition that a man could be reduced to: He can tell you that he was a hundred times going to kill himself, and that he would have made a thousand reproaches to this ungrateful, if she could have heard them. His Conscience accused him not of any infidelity, he believed he had not done any thing contrary to his duty in this Assignation, since he had given her notice of it, and he knew well that in relation to this fair one, he deserved not the name of perfidious. So severe a treatment made him resolve to depart without expecting any longer, hoping time would convince his Mistress of the wrong she had done him; or that despite and absence would cure him of his Love. The Abbess, who had followed him, and was not desirous the mistake should be cleared, arrived as he was in this resolution: He accosted her of a fashion as sufficiently testified his despair; and scarce looking on her, What you told me, Madam, (said he to her) was more than ever I could have thought, and I am treated here with so strange an air, that I am astonished: There's no other way to take, than not to stay a moment longer in a place where my presence is so odious. Behold! (answered the Abbess) how Traitors ought to be recompensed for their Treachery? I have not time, Madam, (answered Monsieur) to ask you what reason you have to give me that name. I must depart this instant to deliver you from a Man, that is more than troublesome to you: 'Tis enough, if you'll be pleased to remember, that 'twas you that caused my coming here at this time: I am come, as I promised you, and you, perhaps, brought your Sister, that you so strictly charged me should know nothing of it. Yes, Traitor, (answered she, transported by her passion) and it was in that, that thy base heart has failed thee. Speak! Tell me, base!— If thou hast not writ to her, what thou wert desired to conceal. Monsieur was so strangely surprised here, that he remained immovable; and believed effectually that Egidia (to continue the Name which he gave her in his relation) had made her privy to the Letter he had writ her. So soon as he was recovered a little from the disorder he was in, I know not well, Madam, (said he to her) what you mean; but if all these injurious reproaches are but to drive me from hence, I assure you that you give yourself this trouble without need, and less would serve to make me resolve never to see you more. I am just going from this Country (continued he, going away) and bid you, Madam, an eternal adieu. The Abbess stayed him, and told him a little more calmly, that whatsoever reason there was to treat him yet worse, it was not fit he should go away at such a time of Night. Whether there be reason or no, (replied Monsieur briskly) I am so little accustomed to be thus received wherever I go, that I shall support very impatiently those moments that I am confined here. I beg of you, Madam, (pursued he, endeavouring to disengage himself from her) not to strive, out of a formal piece of ceremony, for that which would be troublesome both to yourself and me. But I will not have you go to night (said the Abbess to him) and if it be true, that I have yet power enough lest to oblige you to do any thing for me, you shall make me know it in this: I have business with you, and 'twill be time enough to morrow for you to go. Monsieur prayed her if she had any thing to say to him, not to delay it; and that in another occasion he would be ready to testify the respect he had for her, but that he could not stay now. We shall see that, said she, and leaving him, she hastened to the Abbey, to give order that his Horses should be stopped; but those that had it in commission, came a little too late, for he was just going, and seeing the endeavours that were used to hinder him, and that he wanted time to pack up his Baggage, he chose rather to leave his Servant behind him, and went to lodge that Night a League from the Abbey, where he bid him come to him the next morning.  
The Abbess that but a moment before would not only have been glad never to see him, but to have revenged herself upon him with destruction, had not now the power to bring herself to consent to his departure: How weak is anger against an object that is used to charm us? and how ill can a heart revenge itself of what it loves? when the Lover suffers most, in the sufferings of the beloved.  
The Abbess heard of Monsieurs departure with a sensible displeasure, and gave severe words to them she had sent to stop him for letting him go. When they told her that his Servant was not gone, she bid him be called to her, whom by strength of Presents, she drew to tell where his Master was: She was eased of half her pain, when she knew that he lay but a league from her. Her passion, which at that time would have made her attempt any thing, put into her head a design, which was not pardonable in one of her habit, except we will pardon all things to love. This little God uses not to inspire us so weakly, as to leave it in our power to consult reason or justice; and there is not any that they balk, who are possessed with him. The Maid that I have already spoke to you of, that was her particular confident, came into her Chamber, and seeing her in a profound study, believed she had committed a fault, and went to excuse herself for interrupting her. No, no, my dear Companion, (said the Abbess to her, for so 'twas she called her) you come more luckily than you think, and I have need of you; and I may say that 'tis from you alone I can hope assistance in the pains that I suffer. The Maid answered with much acknowledgement to the favour that the Abbess did her, to consider her at that rate; and assured her with a thousand protestations of her fidelity, and that there was not any thing that she would not undertake to serve her. The Abbess embraced her most tenderly, sighed, wept, and touched so nearly the heart of her dear Confident, that she was impatient to know what she was to do for her; and with tears in her eyes, beseeched her to tell her, for what it was that she was afflicted. You are not ignorant of any thing that passes in my heart, (said the sad Lady to her with an Air extremely deplorable) nor with what ingratitude Monsieur Le Chevalier has of late repaid the tenderness that I had for him. This Traitor, after all my kindnesses, has been so base to go away without my consent, and even without bidding me Adieu. You ought to see, Madam, in that (replied the Maid discreetly) how unworthy he is of your favours, and that he merits not any longer your esteem. I am resolved to do as you say (answered the Abbess) and am sufficiently disposed to it; but the pain that I suffer at present, and that I cannot conquer, is but to have the pleasure to ease my full heart with reproaching him with his Treasons, and that he go not away, perhaps, in the opinion that I am not yet persuaded of his perfidiousness. I would have the satisfaction of making him blush for his last fault, which I have not yet acquainted thee with. If thou lovest me (added she with her shaming air) thou wilt find some way whereby I may satisfy this desire; and, in fine, break off entirely with the most ungrateful of all men: Without that, my Child, I cannot promise thee to live long in the displeasure and rage I am in, and thou art like to lose suddenly the best of thy Friends his Maid, who in intrigues of Love, was not the most skilful in the world, and saw not yet into the depth of the Abbess' design; proposed to her to write a Letter of reproaches to this Traitor; but this satisfaction was too weak for a passionate Lover: One can never express one's self well by writing (said she) upon a Subject of this nature: To punish as we ought, one that is so culpable, the Person offended must, with her own mouth, make all the reproaches he merits, that she may have the advantage of seeing his confusion. Ha! (said the Maid) Well then, Madam, What will you do? Stay to expect his return? The innocence of this Maid almost made the Abbess laugh. Can we (replied she) keep anger so long against one that has once pleased us? No, no, if thou wilt believe me (pursued she, with a blush that covered all her face) we will not defer our revenge so long a time: I have courage enough to execute the design, if thou hast enough to follow me: We will go find out this Traitor that is but a League off, and thou shalt be witness with what scorn I will manage the business; and if it be possible to overwhelm a man with reproaches, Monsieur Le Chevalier shall be he. So hardy a proposal at first strangely surprised this Maid: She that could scarce go in the Night through the Monastery without starts and fears, could not but think it dangerous and terrible, to expose themselves alone to those troublesome accidents they might meet with in the road: But the Abbess represented the enterprise so easy, and so unlikely of any troublesome rencontre in that little way they had to go, and so fair a Night, that at last she persuaded her, and made her love the novelty of the diversion. The Abbess, extremely ravished to have gained her dear companion, thought now only where to get Horses. She would not make use of her own, that her going might be the more secret, but chose rather to have recourse to her Farmer, that lived about a thousand paces off her; to whom she presently dispatched her Valet, that had always been very faithful to her, and that she resolved should wait upon her in this Journey. Her order was to tell the Farmer, that she had need of three Horses, and that he should not fail to send them her that Night. Her Valet departed the same moment, whilst the Ladies went to prepare themselves to get a Horseback. The first thing the Abbess did, was to give out that she was not very well, and would go to Bed; giving leave to all those that waited on her to do the like, and kept only her dear companion with her, as she often used to do. So soon as they were alone, they began to undress themselves, and to change their holy habits for those of the Country, of which the Abbess had very handsome ones: She adorned herself with as much care, as if she had been going to some public Assembly: She was the last dressed, but there could not be any thing more fine and gallant than she: Her Apartment was not far from the Garden, and they could go to it without noise, or being seen of any, as they did; and took with all speed a way to the back door, where the Valet was to be with their Horses. One would have said that had seen them, that they had been two Amazons, that went to assault some place, they did so encourage one another. When they were come to the door, and the Abbess, who had the Key, had opened it, finding no body there, they began to be soon impatient of the Valet's stay; but, at last, they heard a noise of Horses, which gave them some hopes; but we are often deceived in those things which we desire most: As the noise increased, they began to fear they were in an error, for the Valet that they expected was not to come that way; but the Abbess, who had a little more resolution than her follow-adventurer, that even trembled with fear, endeavoured to re assure her, telling her that without doubt it was he, but that he had taken a compass not to meet any body by the way, and that this was the occasion of his staying so long; bidding her go two or three steps, to see if she were not in the right: This poor Maid, that every thing terrified had not the courage to do as the Abbess commanded her; and beseeched her most humbly, not to put her valour to this trial; and that she could not leave her a step without dying, for the shake of every leaf put her into a mortal fright. The Abbess could not forbear laughing at her cowardice, and bid her not to fear any thing, for she would go along with her. Our two valorous Adventurers, with prodigious courage, went some paces to meet those that came; but they had no sooner discovered that they were two men that rid apace towards them, but they run away without so much as remembering to shut the Garden door after them, never stopping till they arrived at last near the Monastery, but so out of breath, that they could scarcely speak: Their courage returned a little when they saw themselves at home, and panting with their hands on their sides, they began to laugh at their ill grounded fear of two Men that sought only their way. After a little reasoning upon the case, they took heart and returned the second time to the door, where they found two Horses tied to a Tree, without any body by them. The Abbess, when she had looked well on both sides her, without discovering any body, was in some pain to divine, why these Horses should be here without her Valet; but she believed that he was not gone far, and that they must wait for him, concluding (as it is easy to make any conclusion to our own advantage) that these must of necessity be her Farmer's Horses; and this was not wholly unlikely, for who else could be imagined to leave two Horses so: But the Valet came not, and the Abbess died with impatience at it; time pressed her so much, that she was afraid there was not Night enough left to execute her design. This was a great torment to her: She would have sworn a thousand times (but that Abbesses use not to swear) that these were her Farmer's Horses, that she knew them, and that certainly her Valet was hindered with getting another Horse. 'Tis true, this might be, but 'twas possible also these might be the Horses of the two men they saw; but on that point she would not reason, for ordinarily we love not to be convinced of what we do not desire; and we often choose to be deceived with a false show of reason, rather than to be certain of a truth that does not agree with us.  
Our most amorous and impatient Abbess, seeing her Valet did not come, told her faithful Companion, that they could not stay any longer for him, and that he was not so necessary to them, but that they might go without him, and he might come after if he would. She consented to all that she pleased, and our two Adventurers mounted without an Esquire, and in less than an hour arrived, without any wicked adventure, at Monsieur Le Chevalier's Inn. The Abbess knocked at the door, and inquired for a Gentleman that lodged there: They told her that indeed such a one came there that night, but that he went away again about an hour after, with a Valet that brought him a Letter. She questioned again the Master of the House what way they had taken, what Livery the Valet was in, if the Gentleman was to return quickly, if he had eat, till in fine, she came to question him, if he had appeared sad or joyful. But the Host knew not what to say to her, all that he knew was, that he was not likely to return that Night, and that he had not left any Orders with them. Never any one was so afflicted as the poor Abbess than was: A thousand thoughts oppressed her at once, of which there was not one that overwhelmed her not with trouble: What numbers of inquietudes, what cruel suspicions, well or ill grounded, what rage, what despair, to have promised herself so much satisfaction in coming, after all the charming Chimeras that she had framed in her Mind, to return more desolate than ever? Her companion, who suffered extremely to see her so strangely afflicted, would have been glad she could have comforted her. Why do you torment yourself, Madam, (said she to her) 'tis true, we have lost our labour, but who knows whether that is not better for us, than if we had succeeded in our design, and have found Monsieur Le Chevalier: You know him, Madam, and that he is not the discreetest Person in the world; perhaps this visit might have been talked of, we are at least assured, that we have taken a Frolic that none knows of. That none knows of, (replied this distracted Lover?) alas! seest thou not that my Sister knew our design, and that 'twas she without doubt that sent this Valet, to advertise him of what we intended, and to oblige him to avoid me? But how is it possible (answered her companion) that this should be as you say? If Monsieur has been so long gone from this place as the Host tells us, you had then scarce framed the design of coming hither. But what cause (replied the Abbess) wilt thou then find for his sudden departure? In fine, whatever her Companion said to her, and whatever arguments her wit could frame to persuade her, she always ended with saying her Sister had done the business, and that nothing could have obliged him to leave his Lodging at that hour, but she. This thought furiously tormented her, her jealousy was augmented by it, and she was assaulted with so many pains at once, that she saw on all sides her nothing but despair. How far different was it with her now, to what it was some moments before; when she was filled with the joyful expectation of seeing her dear Chevalier? Whatever her Companion said to her, to divert her muse, she answered her only with sighs.  
Being at length got home again, they were a little troubled how to dispose of their Horses; but at last, they judged it the safest and easiest way to draw them into the Garden, and tie them to a Tree till it was day, that they might send them back to the Farmer: After that, they had no more to do, than to go straight to the Convent; but they were scarce come to the middle of the Garden, when they fancied that they heard people talk: The Maid, who was three or four paces before the Abbess, and had not her Spirit so pre-occupyed, was the first that perceived it, and turning to her all of a sudden, extremely surprised, told her that, assuredly, there was some body in the Garden. The Abbess harkened very attentively, and found that she was not deceived: 'Twas now that all her pains were suspended, and that she laboured not under any but curiosity. Whatever cause we have of trouble, if we meet with any thing that surprises, it diverts our pains for the time, and they are, as it were, asleep in us. All her suspicion awaked at this noise, she knew that only she and her Sister had a Key from the Convent to the Garden; and this reason alone was sufficient to make her believe, that 'twas certainly she and Monsieur Le Chevalier, that entertained an amorous conversation; at least, she was resolved to be satisfied. Jealousy serves instead of courage to women, and Love makes them hazard every thing. This Lady, that perhaps upon another occasion, would have been terrified with less cause, now feared not to go forward, to discover if her Suspicions were true or no, bidding the Maid (who trembled with fear) to follow her softly. They went so lightly as they could, under the covert of a Hedge, (for the Night was very clear, and they might be seen at a distance) towards a thick Arbour from whence they were a little troubled how to dispose of their Horses; but at last, they judged it the safest and easiest way to draw them into the Garden, and tie them to a Tree till it was day, that they might send them back to the Farmer: After that, they had no more to do, than to go straight to the Convent; but they were scarce come to the middle of the Garden, when they fancied that they heard people talk: The Maid, who was three or four paces before the Abbess, and had not her Spirit so pre-occupyed, was the first that perceived it, and turning to her all of a sudden, extremely surprised, told her that, assuredly, there was some body in the Garden. The Abbess harkened very attentively, and found that she was not deceived: 'Twas now that all her pains were suspended, and that she laboured not under any but curiosity. Whatever cause we have of trouble, if we meet with any thing that surprises, it diverts our pains for the time, and they are, as it were, asleep in us. All her suspicion awaked at this noise, she knew that only she and her Sister had a Key from the Convent to the Garden; and this reason alone was sufficient to make her believe, that 'twas certainly she and Monsieur Le Chevalier, that entertained an amorous conversation; at least, she was resolved to be satisfied. Jealousy serves instead of courage to women, and Love makes them hazard every thing. This Lady, that perhaps upon another occasion▪ would have been terrified with less cause, now feared not to go forward, to discover if her Suspicions were true or no, bidding the Maid (who trembled with fear) to follow her softly. They went so lightly as they could, under the covert of a Hedge, (for the Night was very clear, and they might be seen at a distance) towards a thick Arbour from whence they heard the voice. The Abbess soon knew Monsieur Le Chevalier's, but could not understand distinctly what he said; therefore advancing a little forward, she heard her Sister speak: But do not you consider, (said she) to what you expose me? and how you hazard yourself? for without speaking of what has happened to so many, other unhappy Maids that have abandoned themselves on the Faith of Men, whereof there have been but too many deceived; but granting you to have more honesty and honour than all the World besides, think what discourse my flight will occasion; the furious search my Parents will make for us, and into what strange misery I should cast you, if you should fall into their hands: My God (continued she) once again attempt not any thing so dangerous! Leave me rather to die here with grief, than precipitate ourselves to so hazardous an enterprise. You will have me then (answered the other, that the Abbess knew at first to be Monsieur Le Chevalier) to expose you to all the ills that Jealousy can contrive against you; to all the affronts and injuries that you may receive from your furious Sister, and a hundred other things that makes me tremble for you: You know that I have no longer the liberty to see you here, and that it is forbidden me; and that I cannot for shame present myself here any more, after the ill treatment that I have received; and it is to say that you will have me die. If you love me, Madam,— If I love you (interrupted she) you know it but too well: If you would not have me doubt of it, (pursued Monsieur Le Chevalier) and that my Love and Assiduity have merited that you should do every thing for me▪ as you have told me several times, give me this demonstrative proof of it: Let us render ourselves happy, my charming Queen, since 'tis in our power; our flight is easy, your Valet and mine are at the Garden door, who attends us with Horses; all things favour us, and I promise you in three hours to put you in a place, where not only none shall know where we are, but where there would not be any thing to be feared if they should. Monsieur was then silent, to see what answer his dear Egidia would make him. Get you gone, Monsieur, (said she, sighing) for I'm afraid if you press me longer, that you'll obtain of me more than I ought to grant: I beg of you to go, before my weakness misleads me from my duty. Do you yourself, if you are more reasonable than I, as you ought to be, fortify my heart against yourself, have pity on my sinking virtue, and rest content with the glory that nothing but yourself is able to resist you; for I confess that I am not assured, that I have the power of my self to withstand you and Love. Adieu, leave me. After these words they heard her weep, and Monsieur, Let yourself be overcome (said he) My Dear Soul! Let yourself be persuaded by a Love so tender and so passionate: Give up yourself to my care and my fidelity, that is too well known to you to doubt of it. There was not any thing he omitted to say that might gain her, which tore the heart of the Abbess, as it tendered hers. It is not necessary to represent the different passions of these two Ladies: The Love, the Languors, and tender Sighs of the youngest, no more than the despite, Shame, and Rage of the eldest: Who yet had the patience to hearken to the end of a discourse, as cruel for her as it was charming for her Sister. She saw her wholly disposed to do as Monsieur Le Chevalier would have her, and going to prepare herself to go away with him, for she was to fit herself with a habit more suitable the liberty of the Country, than that she wore; and went to her Chamber to change it. The Abbess let her pass, and stirred not from the place where she was of some time after, that (her thoughts labouring of a design) she took a considerable compass, to come, with her Mask on her Face, into the Arbour where Monsieur Le Chevalier was; who (as she would have it) taking her for her Sister, embraced her with all tenderness. How charming are you, Madam, (said the transported Lover) to make me attend so little in this extreme impatience I had to see you return! Come, let us go, since nothing opposes our design, and serve ourselves of Fortune, now she is for us. After these words, he led the way, because they went in a path that but one could walk in. It is easy to imagine the little pleasure, or rather the despair, wherewith the Abbess received so much sweetness that was not designed for her; and what violence she used to restrain her anger, this being not a time to let it appear, nor make herself known. You ought not to wonder at Monsieurs mistake, considering 'twas Night, and that there was little difference in the stature of these two Ladies, besides a thousand other things which helped to deceive him.  
As this was not a proper place to entertain her in, he said but little to her, and thought only of securing her and himself where he had designed; and to what he did say she answered him not a word, whereof he took no notice, having his mind so full of his enterprise. They went in this manner quite to the Garden door, where Monsieur was not a little surprised to find it shut; but she quickly eased him of his pain, and took the key that she had about her and opened it. By what means, or rather by what happiness, (said he then to her, knowing that none but the Abbess kept that Key) came you by this Key? She answered him no more than before, at which he stayed not but hastened to get a Horseback; but his Horses were not there, and his Valet, who had been looking them, told him, with a very sad tone, that he did not know what was become of them, and that he had been more than two hours in pursuit of them to no purpose; that he was come to tell him of it, and going again to seek them, for he knew they could not be lost, and that no body went that way. I could never learn the Abbess' design, whether what she did was only subtly to prevent this enterprise, or whether she would in earnest have taken the place of her Sister; but this I can tell you, that as soon as she heard what the Valet said of the Horses, she returned into the Garden, and shut the door upon her. Never was man more surprised than this Lover, scarce could he believe what he saw, that his Mistress should leave him in such a manner, and what was more strange to him, the shutting the door after her. I believe that none but himself can describe his thoughts in so cruel an adventure. He knocked five or six times at the door! called his Mistress! complained of Love and Destiny! Cursed! Swore! threatened to kill his Valet! and, in short, there was no extravagancy that his rage made him not to commit. In the mean time, the Abbess returned towards her companion full of joy, for what she had done, and to hear her traitorous Le Chevalier in that passion. She was not yet come to the Arbour, that I spoke of, when she heard the noise of one coming that way, and who, in all likelihood, must be her Sister, whom with a slow pace, she went to meet. This poor Lady, that had not all the courage in the world, and who, besides the fear she was in, and that attends all such actions, walked musing upon a thousand obstacles and accidents that she might meet with in the way. She no sooner cast her eyes upon the Abbess, than she believed she was a Spirit, and trembling with fear, she made a dreadful outcry; and flew with all her might back to the Convent. The Abbess acquitted herself very agreeably of these adventures, and believed she was in part revenged of the displeasures her Sister had caused her; whom she let flee, and that while returned to seek her companion, who expected her with extreme impatience, being furiously terrified to be alone in the midst of the Garden, exposed to all the noises she heard, and even assassinated with fear: She related to her all that she had done since she left her, how she had deceived Monsieur Le Chevalier, and terrified her Sister; wherewith they were very merry, and laughed heartily. They stayed a little, to see if she would return, but 'twas in vain; for she, poor Lady, was so dismayed, that she almost died with the fright; and was forced by it, to keep her Bed a long time. The Abbess and her companion retired at last, and took care that none should go out of the Convent, having double locked the door of it.  
This is (said Madam d' Eyrac, in concluding her Story) all the particulars that I know of these Lady's adventures with Monsieur Le Chevalier. He can tell you now what I have not been informed of: I will only add, that 'twas no sooner day, than the Abbess sent for her Valet, and asked him what was become of him the Night past, and why he had not been at the door she appointed him? The Fellow told her, that he had been with the Farmer, and his Horses were not at home, and that at his return he saw two Gentlemen going into the Garden, whom he durst not come near, for fear of being known; and that returning half an hour after, he found the door shut. The relation of this fellow finished the discovery, and the Abbess questioned no longer, but they were Monsieur Le Chevalier's Horses that she had made use of. She gave order to her Valet, to turn them out of the Garden, but so as they might be found.  
'Tis from you (added Madam d' Eyrac, turning to Monsieur Le Chevalier) that we must expect the rest: All the company made him the same request, so that he could not deny them. Madam d' Eyrac (pursued he) has told you so much, that I have no more to do than to close up the Story. You must know then, that after my ill treatment in the Garden by Egidia and the Abbess, by whose appointment I came there, I prepared all things for my departure, but first I writ this Letter to Egidia.  
I Know not, Madam, what I have done to be so cruelly treated as I have been. The Abbess desired to have in interview with me, and though she had expressly commanded me to conceal it from you, I forbore not to give you an account of it by a Letter, which I sent by my Valet. Is this to betray you? I see well you design my death! Ah! Well, Madam, you shall be satisfied, but shall not have the pleasure to see it, for I stay not here a moment; but you shall quickly hear the success of your unjust proceedings, and if the death of the faithfullest of Lovers is capable of touching such a heart as yours, I can promise myself that you will, in a little time, repent of having given it me. Adieu, too cruel fair▪ and Adieu for ever.  
As I finished my Letter, I saw people come from the Abbess, who, after having in vain entreated me to stay that night, would have hindered in good earnest my going away; but seeing me upon the point of being angry, they opposed me no longer: But my Valet was somewhat long, and I was afraid the Abbess would come herself, to try once again her power over me, which constrained me to depart, and leave him with my baggage. I gave him my Letter to Egidia, with order to deliver it into her own hands, and bring me an Answer if she'd write one; and thus I forsook a place, that for a years time, was the dear Scene of all my pleasures, lost, as I may say, with sadness, and overwhelmed with different pains, without coming to myself, or recovering my Senses in all the way between the Abbey and my Lodging. It may easily be guessed, that when I came there, I desired neither to eat nor sleep: True Lovers, in the estate I was reduced unto, feast only upon Tears, and Sleep avoids them as a mortal enemy. 'Twas in the heat of these cruel moments, that one came to tell me there was a Valet below would speak with me: I bid that they should bring him into my chamber, and saw that 'twas one that belonged to my dear Egidia. I embraced him kindly, who, after he had complemented me from his Mistress, gave me a Letter, wherein I found these words.  
YOu do not think I wish your death; you know me too well, and are sufficiently persuaded that if you had done me all the injuries in the world, you have but a word to say to make me believe you have not wronged me. I know not what Letter you mean, for 'tis above three days since I had any from you: Come and tell me what it is, for I shall die with displeasure if you leave me thus, with the fear that I have done you wrong. I hear that my Sister could not prevail with you to stay with us this evening; if you love me better than you do her, will you not do something more at my request? Return, I conjure you, I am of a humour to pardon you all things, and if you would have me believe that you love me, you will give me this proof of it; for I shall not sleep till I see you, and will expect you two hours after midnight, in the Great Arbour in the Garden, and I will judge of the force of your Love, by the little time you make me stay for you. Adieu.  
So soon as I had read this Letter, I got a Horseback, and arrived in a very short time under the Walls of the Garden, where I knew there was a place that I could get over with ease: But having found the door open, I profited myself of the occasion, which, I confess, surprised me at first, but upon second thoughts I imagined, that it happened through the contrivance of Egidia. I bid her Valet tie our Horses to the foot of a Tree, and go to advertise my Servant to prepare himself to come away with me in an hours time. After I had given this order, I went, or rather flew to the Arbour, where I was to find my dear Egidia. 'Twas then that the Abbess, returning to the Garden door, found my Horses that she took for her Farmers, and made use of them to make me that extraordinary visit.  
But not to dwell upon a little Story, that begins already to seem tedious, I will only tell you, that Egidia received me in the Arbour with a joy, that made me forget all the ill usage wherewith she had so lately treated me. We let some time pass in transports and tenderness, and the fairest day in the world was never so agreeable to me, as that charming Night. When I spoke to her of the Letter I had writ to her, and that she assured me that she never received it; we concluded at first that 'twas fallen into the Abbess' hands; and that my Valet had either been guilty of a mistake, or betrayed me. In fine, after much justification on both sides; after, I say, many new amities, sighs, and languors, that Lovers abound with in a happy reconciliation, I proposed to her to steal her away, as you have heard from Madam d' Eyrac; and pressed her with so much earnestness, that in the end, she consented, and went to prepare herself to follow me I confess her quick return a little surprised me, but who would then have thought of Madam the Abbess? I saw her masqued, in the habit of the Country, that she did not scruple to go with me; and, in a word, if my Horses had been ready, I do not doubt but I should have carried her away instead of her Sister.  
I will not enlarge, by telling you with what astonishment I was seized to see her go back again into the Garden, and shut the door after her: At first I believed that she only designed to make sport with me, but as the raillery lasted a little too long for people that had no time to lose, and that she did not return; in spite of me I concluded this was no longer jest. I thought that she had consented to follow me only to deceive me, and that I had been the most abused man in the world. 'Twas then that shame, despite, and disdain, excited terrible tempests in my Soul, which together with the displeasure of not knowing what was become of my Horses, nor what I should do with myself, put me in so furious a passion, that I vented a thousand complaints and reproaches against the perfidious Egidia. I considered this as the greatest affront that a Man could receive; I examined every particular, and there was no circumstance that seemed not impossible to me. In this humour I took my way to the Village, that being the best course I could then think of; and went to lodge at my ancient Hosts, where I passed a much more cruel Night than the first time I had been in that House. I called to mind all the cares and services I had rendered to this ingrate; and all the false promises of amity that she had made me; and being astonished not to have found out the lightness of her humour, I accused myself of stupidity and blindness, adding to my first despair, an indignation against myself. What extravagant discourses had I with myself that Night! What numbers of unlikely designs I framed! In truth, one is liable to many follies when one loves extremely. It was no sooner day, than I called to my Valet for Ink and Paper to write to her, but it was with so much trouble and disorder, that whatever I writ I defaced it as fast. Nothing pleased me, sometimes I fancied I complained too sweetly, and sometimes I feared to offend her; sometimes I resolved to take leave of her for ever, and a moment after I repented of that resolution: But at last I writ thus to her.  
YOu ought, Madam, rather not to have obliged me, than repent of it so soon; nor to have come to the door with me, to forsake me in such a manner: 'Twas my ill fortune that my Horses were lost, you saw 'twas not my fault, and you ought rather to have comforted me, than treat me with that cruelty, as to leave me without saying a word to me: But above all, why did you shut the door? Or why did you flee from me? Did you fear any violence from me? And wherefore did you promise me so much happiness, if you did not intend it? I see well what I ought to conclude from all this, and that I was deceived to believe you ever loved me. The Masque is off now, and without accusing you of Ingratitude or Perfidy, I leave you to make yourself the reproaches you merit, whilst I go to to waste the remainder of my miserable life, in some place more happy for me than this. Adieu.  
This Letter was given her by her Valet, who an hour after brought me another from her, telling me withal that she was very ill, which I might easily perceive by her writing, that I could scarce read; and where I found these words.  
ALl that you have writ to me terrifies me in such a manner, that I believe I shall die with it: I know not what door you talk of, and all I can say is, that I never saw you after I parted with you in the Arbour, but met a Spirit as I was coming, the fright whereof will I think kill me: 'Twas certainly the same phantasm that you speak of, and which, without doubt came to you in my shape. Behold l how God corrects those that are not wise! I have not slept since, and I always fancy I see the Spirit that pursued me. I see the hand of Heaven in it that I have so long offended, let us profit of its advice, my dear Monsieur, let's endeavour to be wise; for my part, I am wholly resolved to lead a better life, and if you love me you'll do so too. We were going to ruin ourselves, and God would preserve us, let us render him▪ the thanks we owe him for his goodness: See me not of some days, I will think a little of my salvation, and do invite you to do the same, and to look upon me no longer but as one of your friends. Adieu.  
I was exceedingly surprised with the reading of this Letter; but to tell you the truth, if she had not been very sick, I should have taken all she said for chimaeras and pretences that she made use of to excuse her inconstancy: Though I never gave much faith to such foolish stories as that of the Phantasm; yet when I reflected upon what she assured me, that she had not seen me since she left me in the Arbour, I began to be afraid to examine all that had happened to me with this pretended Spirit: I remembered very well it had not said a word to me, that it was come sooner than I could have expected Egidia; I fancied even that it had opened the door without a key, and that it vanished when it left me: In a word, I yielded insensibly to that error, which served to make me think in good earnest of my Conscience, and to make my peace with God. I was some days without ever going to the Convent, to avoid the sight of the Abbess, though she sent several times to desire me to take up my Lodgings at her house as formerly; excusing myself so well as I could, till I received this Letter, that Egidia made one of her Friends write to me.  
I Believe God will grant me the mercy of a longer time for repentance: The Physicians have some hopes of my recovery, however it happens come and see me, to the end that if Death parts us, I may, in dying, have at least this consolation of discharging my duty, by telling you things that I am obliged to tell you. I expect you. Adieu.  
This scene (pursued Monsieur Le Chevalier) will divert you but little, it being all of tears. I went to see her, and I avow to you I was so sensibly touched with her condition, that I was in one little better myself. I could not master myself, nor forbear to ease my afflicted mind by a torrent of tears: All those that were present bore me company, and none but the Abbess that was not moved to see me thus afflicted. This poor creature, who suffered with me, made some efforts to say things to me the most kind and tender in the world: She spoke to me as if she were to die that day, and certainly none thought she could live much longer: But Heaven would preserve her to oblige the world with a most rare example of constancy, and a most honest and sincere friendship, wherein we have since lived.  
You know not perhaps (said Madam d' Eyrac to him) that none contributed so much to her recovery as I; which was in this manner.  
This Maid, or if you please, the Companion of the Abbess, which, as I told you more than once, had much confidence in me, failed not to give me an account of this last adventure in the Garden, and the fear your Mistress was in, that it was not hard for me to guests the cause of her illness, and to find out means for her cure. Every body observed an extraordinary trouble in her eyes, and such disorder in her words, as though she were in a continual study: I pitied her extremely, and though it was an injustice to my Friend to declare the secret wherewith she had trusted me, I believed that in the extremity whereto this poor Lady was reduced, I ought not to omit any thing for her recovery: I took my time when there was none with her but a young Wench that served her, and that I could not suspect; and asked her with an air of confidence, if her indisposition proceeded not from some disturbance in her Mind, and if she believed me not enough her friend, to trust me with it. She looked fixtly on me and blushed, believing I meant to speak to her of Monsieur Le Chevalier; but when I told her afterwards that I knew the cause of her illness perhaps better than she herself, and that I could deliver her from the fear she had been in, in the Garden, she raised herself of a sudden upon her Bed, My God Madam, (said she) is it possible that in my rave I have spoke of any such things! No, no, (answered I interrupting her) I know it by another way, and I believe no body has heard any such thing from you: The persons that caused you this fear, told it me; and I believed I ought not to leave you longer in this pain: I imagine you'll be so discreet, as I shall have no reason to complain of you, and that you'll use as you ought the confidence I have in you. She promised me secrecy, and I told her all that had passed in the Garden, as I was informed of it; at which she was so astonished she could scarce believe it, if I had not told her all that had happened to herself, to the discourse between her and Monsieur Le Chevalier She blushed at it, and I saw well she was ashamed that I knew this particular of her Life: But to be short, since that time her Mind was composed by degrees, till it came to its first settledness. She recovered her health, and in a little time her strength also: I do not know how she has since carried herself towards you, but this I know, that she made strong resolutions, though she could not forbear loving you, to do it in such a manner as should not offend God.  
I'll assure you, Madam, (answered Monsieur Le Chevalier) she had kept them, and that our friendship is no more than what might be between a Brother and Sister; though in truth, I have had much pain to reduce myself to it, but at last I have brought my will to hers. Tell us a little, I beg of you, (said the Marchioness de Sandal) what you did with the Abbess, and how you were rid of her. I believe (pursued Monsieur Le Chevalier) that the Abbes, was furiously exasperated since that last evening, and that what she heard when I was in the Arbour, perfected her cure. I always avoided being alone with her that little time I was in the Abbey; and when I took my leave of her, 'twas in the presence of five or six Ladies, her Friends.  
Thus Monsieur Le Chevalier finished his History, to the general satisfaction of the Company.