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THE 
 
 OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 MADAME CHARLES REYBAUD. 
 
 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SIMJIS & M'lNTYRE, 13, PATERNOSTER ROW; 
 AND 26, DONEGALL STREET, BELFAST. 
 
 1819. 
 
F2]S§T Xf AISISA^E'^Ig. 
 
 GASTON DE COLOBRIERES; 
 
 OK, 
 
 THE YOUNGER SON. 
 
QASTON BE C0L0BRIERB8. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 .ON the high road leading from Paris to Italy, and at a 
 short league from the frontier, near the place where the Var 
 separates Provence from the county of Nice, m&y be perceived, 
 situated in a bare and arid country, the ruins of an old 
 ch&teau, the front wall of which, still standing, is pierced by 
 large windows whose sashless apertures stand out clear and 
 distinct against the deep azure of the cloudless sky. A massive 
 tower of a style of architecture more ancient than the remain- 
 der of the edifice, overtops these ruins, and on its embattled 
 summit, in which time has worn but few breaches, may be 
 distinguished a slender shaft appearing in the distance scarcely 
 larger than a needle, and presenting very much the appearance 
 of a common lightning-conductor. It is the stump of the 
 flag-staff from which formerly waved the seignorial standard. 
 The hill on which stand these ruined buildings is covered 
 with a thick growth of stunted but highly aromatic vegetation, 
 the sight of which would delight the eyes of a botanist; for 
 the rare plants that distil these overpowering odours, which 
 the breeze frequently wafts to a great distance and even 
 carries several leagues out to sea, thrive upon this arid rock 
 which could scarcely be supposed to nourish even a grain oi 
 wheat. 
 
 About three quarters of a century ago, the chateau and 
 the lands which surround it belonged to a worthy nobleman, 
 the Baron de Colobrieres, the descendant by the female 
 branch of an ancient Italian family, which reckoned in its 
 genealogy twenty cardinals and a pope. The paternal stock 
 was no less illustrious, and dated back from what might bo 
 called the fabulous times of the Provencal nobility. Despite 
 his lofty ancestry, thn Baron Mathieu de Colobrieres was far 
 from being a wealthy noble. His armorial bearings were a 
 thistle sinople issuing from a tower embattled and erected 
 sable, and it might be with truth affirmed that never did 
 armorial bearings tell a truer tale ; for the lands appertaining 
 to the barony were of a degree of sterility which had becoiucj 
 proverbial in the country, where it was a common saying, that 
 *'At Colobrieres there is nothing but sheafs of thistles and 
 fields of stones." The baron's ancestors having alienated by 
 degrees the whole of their seignorial rights, there remained to 
 
8 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 him notlilng but the family mansion and the adjacent lands, 
 the revenue derived from which was of the slenderest descrip- 
 tion. Not one of the country louts who pulled off their hats 
 as they passed beneath the family escutcheon sculptured over 
 the gate of the chateau, would have cared to take a single 
 farm belonging to the barony. 
 
 The Lord of Colobrieres had espoused a young demoiselle 
 as noble, and even poorer than himself, who had brought him 
 as her sole dower and fortune a few rings and trinkets to the 
 value of about a hundred crowns. Heaven blessed this union 
 most superabundantly, and in the space of a few years there 
 sprung from it a family of fourteen children. This numerous 
 progeny was in truth brought up by the hand of Providence. 
 The revenues of the fief of Colobrieres scarcely furnished the 
 daily bread; and as for the rest, it was necessary to make 
 up the deficiency by dint of industry, prudence, and strict 
 economy. The baroness had never purchased a single new 
 gown since her wedding outfit ; she dressed herself, as well as 
 the <^hildren, with the old stuffs which had formerly garnished 
 the beds of the chateau, and thus the little gentlemen figured 
 in the family tapestries, while the demoiselles wore, fashioned 
 into petticoats and gowns, the window and bed-curtains 
 embroidered by the hands of their female ancestors. 
 
 The Chateau de Colobrieres resembled a hive, from whence 
 issued each year the swarms which the paternal dwelling 
 could no longer either shelter or provide for. As the elder 
 branches grew up they left their home and proceeded else- 
 where to seek their livelihood. The baron was too deeply 
 impressed with the dignity of his rank, to suffer any of his 
 children to degrade themselves or their order; and despite 
 the straits to which they were reduced, not one had failed in 
 his nobility. Seven young Colobrieres had become monks, 
 or had entered the king's service, and five daughters had 
 assumed the veil of the order of " Notre Dame de la Miseri- 
 corde," into whose protecting bosoms young women of quality 
 were received without a dower. Of all this numerous family 
 there remained at length at the chateau only the two youngest, 
 a son and a daughter, whom the baron was accustomed to 
 call with a sigh, *' The props of his old age!" 
 
 Gaston de Colobrieres, or as the country people called him^ 
 the Cadet de Colobrieres, was a handsome young man of 
 some five-and-twenty years of age, an intrepid and indefatigable 
 sportsman, and so proud and shy that he was wont to turn 
 his head aside if he chanced to meet a country maiden on his 
 way. This rural Hippolytus roamed daily, gun in hand, over 
 
GASTON DE OOLOBRTERES. 9 
 
 the domains of the barony, which were fertile only in ^ame, 
 ;i species of farming which was happily successful ; for, had it 
 not been for the game which he in general brought home with 
 liim every day to the chateau, the inhabitants of Colobrieres 
 would have frequently been obliged to eat little more than 
 dry bread at their four repasts. 
 
 The baron's youngest daughter, Mademoiselle Anastasia, 
 was a lovely, pensive, and delicate looking brunette. She 
 liad magnificent black hair, eyes whose large dark pupils 
 alternately sparkled or languished beneath their long and 
 slightly curved lashes, taper fingers and exquisitely formed 
 hands, and a rosy mouth, which, at the slightest smile, dis- 
 closed to view a row of teeth of pearly whiteness. And yet, 
 in the eyes of the little world by which she was surrrounded, 
 she did not appear handsome. On Sunday, when she went 
 to mass at the neighbouring village, the country people beheld 
 her pass without evincing the slightest sign of admiration. 
 Her father indeed would confess that she had a certain air 
 which marked her as a young girl of high birth and family, 
 but her mother observed with sadness that almost gipsey- 
 darkness of skin, which in some degree detracted from her 
 good looks, and in place of which the good dame would have 
 been much more gratified to see a healthy floridness of com- 
 plexion. As for the young girl herself, she never dreamed of 
 her beauty, nor even before her mirror had she ever conceived 
 the slightest idea of pride or coquetry. 
 
 The life which this family led at the Chfiteau de Colobrieres 
 was confined and monotonous to the last degree. The 
 neighbouring gentry had but little intercourse with the baron, 
 who cared not to have them as witnesses of his haughty 
 poverty, and all communication with the outer world was 
 limited to the weekly visits of a worthy priest, who for thirty 
 years had discharged the duties of cure of a village at a short 
 distance from Colobrieres. In former days, the lords of 
 Colobrieres had maintained a retinue of pages and equerries, 
 and there was even an apartment in the chateau which still 
 went by the name of the guard-room ; but at this epoch of 
 decay, the whole corps of domestics was reduced to one aged 
 lacquey — ^who entirely neglected the functions of the pantry 
 and antechamber to devote his time and talents to the culture 
 of the kitchen garden — and a maid-servant called Madeleine 
 Panozon, surnamed La Rousse, whose duties would in tnith 
 have been but light, if she had contented herself with merely 
 directing the culinary department of the baron's establish- 
 ment. But the hardy girl in addition to this duty filled the 
 
10 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 office of house-maid and attendant, and also aided her mistress 
 in patching and darning the family linen. 
 
 ^ The architecture of the Chateau de Colobrieres belonged to 
 different epochs. The huge tower, which formed as it were 
 the kernel of the edifice, was in the Roman style — square, 
 massive, and pierced with loop-holes in the centre — while the 
 body of the mansion which surrounded it dated from the 
 renaissance. A Colobrieres, captain in a company of free 
 lances, having passed with success through the great wars of 
 Italy, and having been present at the sacking of Rome, had 
 returned from his campaigns laden with a large share of 
 booty. He rebuilt the hereditary mansion, held open house 
 in it with a crowd of gay companions, and finally died, leaving 
 to his heirs only this fair chateau, filled with pictures and 
 valuable furniture. At the period from which our story dates, 
 the modern buildings which were grouped around the ancient 
 donjon-keep were already in a very dilapidated condition, 
 the furniture had become old and shabby, and had in great 
 part disappeared in Its passage through the hands of five or 
 six generations, while of the ancient splendour of Colobrieres, 
 there remained but some fragments which had passed into 
 the condition of rellques, such as a coffer inlaid v/ith mother- 
 of-pearl and ivory, in which the baron kept his archives, a 
 timepiece with a ring of chimes, and six silver covers engraved 
 with the arms of the Colobriere?. For the last fifty" years 
 no repairs had been made either in the roof or on the exterior 
 woodwork, and In consequence the windows were for the 
 most part deprived of glass and shutters, and every shower of 
 rain deluged the floors. The apartments on the first story 
 were no longer habitable, and the family had established 
 themselves in the vaulted rooms on the ground floor, which 
 enjoyed almost the temperature of a cellar, warm in winter, 
 and fresh and cool in the heart of summer. 
 
 The chapel had fallen into a state of complete decay, and 
 for many years the family had gone to hear mass in the neigh- 
 bouring village. This was a source of great mortification to 
 the poor baroness, who had nourished but one ambitious 
 dream in her entire lifetime, namely, that of seeing herseli 
 mistress of about fifty crowns, in order to repair the chapel 
 and have mass said there on Sundays and holydays by some 
 probationer whom she could afterwards invite to dinner; but 
 there was no appearance of the baron's finances ever being 
 able to furnish the means for such an outlay, and the good 
 lady resigned herself to this hard prlvati(jn. Every Sunday, 
 whether fine or wet, the family proceeded to church on foot, 
 
GASTON DE COLOBUIEUES. 1 1 
 
 dressed in a style in which the change of season caused scarcely 
 any variation. The baron on these occasions wore an old 
 broad-skirted coat, still decent, but whose long and faithful 
 services were attested by the equivocal lustre of the seams. 
 His stockings of coarse yarn, fitting tightly to a limb which 
 in youth had not been ill turned, were lost in a pair of vast 
 shoes ornamented with buckles, and his almost napless three- 
 cornered hat evidently required to be handled with the great- 
 est caution. Madame do Colobrieres followed him, dressed 
 in a petticoat of Tours grogram, a little faded, and a taffeta 
 mantle whicli dated from her marriage. Their children were 
 adorned only with their healthy features and erect and grace- 
 ful carriage. The young boy wore, like the peasants, a coat 
 of serge and a broad-brimmed hat, while his sister had a 
 dress of brown printed cotton, a neck handkerchief of figured 
 muslin, and a little coif set jauntily upon her hair which was 
 combed up from her neck. The sole change which at distant 
 intervals took place in this humble garb was confined to the 
 ribbon of the coif which she was permitted occasionally to 
 renew. Notwithstanding these straitened circumstances — a 
 hundred times more difficult to support than naked and avowed 
 poverty — cheerful content and harmony, and a sort of habitual 
 serenity reigned in the family of Colobrieres. The young 
 people especially were untroubled with anxious desires or 
 uneasy anticipations, contenting themselves with the little 
 they possessed, and never permitting their spirits to be sad- 
 dened bv the fallen foi;tunes of their family. 
 
 One Monday, the second festival of Tentecost, after mass, 
 while the baroness and her children were returning to the 
 chateau, the baron lingered behind for a few moments in the 
 village market-place where some travelling merchants had 
 erected their stalls. It was the village festival, and great was 
 the demand for brass rings, pinchbeck crosses, and chaplets 
 of coloured glass. The baron purchased a yard of ribbon for 
 his daughter, and asked with a sigh the price of a dress of 
 silken stuff, which however, he did not purchase. The same 
 day after dinner he appeared in no hurry to leave the table 
 as was his usual custom, to take his siesta, but remained 
 leaning back in his chair in an attitude of deep reflection, his 
 eyes fixed on vacancy. Gaston and his sister had retired 
 noiselessly, thinking that their parents had fallen asleep on 
 each side of the table. 
 
 In place of sleeping, the baron was engaged in whistling 
 cently between his teeth, which was with him a certain sign 
 of profound thought, while by turns he would tap sometimes 
 
12 THE OLD CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 upon his plate, and sometimes upon his empty glass. The 
 baroness did not long withstand the iniluence of this music ; 
 her eyes closed, and she fell into a doze while engaged in 
 trying to discover what it was that could thus occupy her 
 husband's thoughts. After about half an hour's silence, the 
 baron sighed deeply, and said, raising his eyes to the ceiling, — 
 
 " I heard some news to-day of Agatha de Colobrieres." 
 
 *' What is that you say, monsieur?" exclaimed the baroness, 
 starting up in her chair, and gazing at her husband with an 
 air of terrified astonishment. 
 
 ** I say that at the fair a travelling merchant gave me some 
 news of Agatha de Colobrieres," replied the baron, coldly. 
 
 " Holy Virgin! and what did he tell you?" 
 
 " News which I was most certainly far from expecting to 
 hear. Agatha has been happier than she deserved. First of 
 all, this man — her husband— this Maragnon is dead." 
 
 The old lady crossed herself. 
 
 "And," continued the baron, "he has left a considerable 
 fortune." 
 
 " Are there any children?" inquired the baroness, in a voice 
 trembling with emotion. 
 
 " There were several; but of all the fair line of the Marag- 
 nons there remains but one daughter." 
 
 "And the merchant who told you this has perhaps seen 
 Agatha?" 
 
 " He has seen her; and she told him that if she dared she 
 would send me her regards." 
 
 "Poor woman!" murmured Madame de Colobrieres. 
 
 " She might have sent me her regards, but most certainly I 
 should not have received them," cried the baron, striking his 
 clenched fist upon the table. "Unhappy woman! she still 
 dares to pronounce the name of Colobrieres. She! Madame 
 Maragnon 1" 
 
 " She thought of us — she still loves us," murmured the 
 baroness. 
 
 " What are you talking about, madam?" replied the baron, 
 with an indignant air. "I should like to know what is there 
 now in common between us and this woman? I am very sorry 
 I mentioned anything about the matter." 
 
 With these words he rose from his chair and stalked out of 
 the room, as if to cut short all further parley. The baroness 
 remained alone, absorbed in deep reflection. For thirty years 
 the name of Agatha de Colobrieres had not once been pro- 
 nounced in her presence. It was forbidden to speak of her in 
 the chateau in which she was born ; and Gaston, as well as 
 
GA5T02< DE COLOBRlERiiS. 13 
 
 his young sLster, were ignorant even of her existence. And yet 
 she was nearly reUited to them ; she was the sister, the only 
 sister of the Baron de Colobrleres. 
 
 Thirty years previously, Mademoiselle de Colobrieres had 
 lived in the paternal mansion whose walls she had now quitted. 
 She had attained the full bloom of youthful womanhood. She 
 was no longer one of those tender buds which shelter them- 
 selves timidly under the parent foliage, but a splendid and 
 full-blown rose whose balmy petals the first breath of wind 
 would disperse. This beautiful girl belonged to a family too 
 poor, too noble, and too proud, for her even to dream of 
 marrying in her own sphere of life. It was decided that she 
 should enter a convent ; but as she had no inclination for a 
 life of seclusion, she temporized and remained at the chateau, 
 even after the death of her parents and the marriage of her 
 brother. 
 
 It was, however, considered a settled affair that she was to 
 take the veil ; and she had never thought of expressing her 
 disinclination — only perhaps because she could see no means of 
 escaping her destiny. She fell however at times into ex- 
 cessive lowness of spirits, and would frequently burst into tears 
 in the presence of the baroness, though always refusing to 
 disclose to her the cause of her grief. The family increased 
 from year to year. The lord and master of Colobrieres had 
 already six children, and poor Agatha felt but too plainly that 
 she must yield and give place to these innocents. Neither 
 the baron nor his wife, however, pressed her to fulfil her reso- 
 lution, but her entrance into a convent was considered as an 
 approaching event, and was spoken of in the family every 
 day. 
 
 In the meanwhile, it happened that one evening a party of 
 travelling merchants presented themselves at the gate of the 
 chateau. The weather was dreadful ; the rain, which fell in 
 torrents, had flooded the roads, and these honest fellows were 
 consequently unable to gain the village, where they would 
 have found shelter and beds. The baron generously threw 
 open his doors, which was indeed almost all that he could do 
 for them. They installed themselves in an unfurnished hall, 
 not far distant from the stables where they had put up their 
 mules, and proceeded to make their arrangements for passing 
 the night. 
 
 The baroness had observed their arrival from her window, 
 and later in the evening she said to her sister-in-law : — 
 
 * ' I would willingly spend a six-franc piece with these mer- 
 chants. The children are dressed for the season, but you and 
 
14 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 I — it is mortifying to be obliged to go to mass with our only- 
 coifs and our old neck handkerchiefs. You especiully» my dear 
 Agatha, want a new handkerchief sadly." 
 
 *'For what purpose, sister?" replied Mademoiselle de 
 Colobrieres, with a sigh. "It would serve me such a short 
 time; I shall soon no longer require such things." 
 
 *' That is nothing to the purpose," said the baroness; and 
 stealthily glancing at her husband, who was asleep at the table, 
 his head reclining upon an old peerage of which he read a few 
 lines every night, she added in a lower tone: — 
 
 **I have saved a few fifteen-sou pieces, which I shall now 
 give you. Do not let your brother know anything about it, 
 above all things. By-and-by, when we have retired to bed, 
 you can go to these merchants and choose among their wares, 
 and buy whatever you fancy." 
 
 So saying, she rose and proceeded to an old cupboard, the 
 repository of her most precious effects, and drew from thence 
 a little leathern purse of a very slender appearance, saying, 
 as she placed it in the hands of Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, 
 ** There are in this purse six livres fifteen sous; act prudently 
 with these people. Besides your handkerchief and our ribbons^ 
 endeavour to procure two yards of Italian gauze to make us 
 some new capelines, and some green tafteta to cover our 
 parasols with. You will perhaps have to deal with Jews, so 
 pay strict attention. In short, I trust to you to spend this 
 money prudently." 
 
 " liest satisfied, sister," replied Agatha, taking the purse 
 with a faint smile. " Hold! my brother has opened his eyes 
 and turned over the leaf of his book ; get to bed soon, if you 
 wish me to make your purchases quickly." 
 
 The baron and his wife shortly afterwards retired to their 
 vast bedroom, the windows of which, almost destitute of glass, 
 rave admittance to a fresh current of air which speedily 
 extinguished the lights. Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, on her 
 side, proceeded to the little chamber in which she slept. This 
 apartment, which opened into several very extensive rooms, 
 had served formerly as an oratory for the chatelaines of 
 Colobrieres. Heads of cherubs, enclosed in garlands, interlaced 
 their wings at the ceiling, and everywhere the escutcheon, with 
 the heraldic thistle issuing from the sable tower, figured proudly. 
 A cross of precious workmanship, the delicate chasing of which 
 time had sadly impaired, hung above a worm-eaten praying- 
 chair, the angles of which were ornamented with a row of 
 heads of saints, each of which was shorn of its most prominent 
 feature. The bed, a narrow couch resting upon trestles and 
 
GASTOI^ DE COLUliKlERES. 15 
 
 covered with a large counterpane of faded silk, was placed 
 opposite a table whose only drawer contained all the personal 
 property which Agatha de Colobrieres possessed in the world; 
 viz. her slender maiden's wardrobe, a few pious books, and a 
 little enamelled gold cross, the gift of her mother. The poor 
 gii-1 had scarcely ever handled coined metal in the whole conrsc 
 of her life, and, had her very existence depended upon it, rth.e 
 could not have added a red Hard to the sum amassed by the 
 baroness. On entering her bedroom, she threw the ptP'se 
 upon the table and seated herself in a pensive attitude. She 
 reflected upon all the things which money procures, and she 
 meditated upon the all-powerfulness of this vile yet precious 
 dross. Money for her was the realization of all her wishes, of 
 all her chimeras ; it was happiness, it was liberty. She lifted 
 the purse from the table and shook it, murmuring as she did 
 so, with a long-drawn sigh: — 
 
 **If I possessed twenty or thirty thousand of tnese little 
 pieces, how happy should we be here. I would have the 
 chateau repaired, we should all of us have new clothes every 
 season, and the larders would be stocked with good provisions. 
 We should never be uneasy about the morrow ; we could give 
 something to the poor, and I should not be obliged to take the 
 veil. But I have nothing, absolutely nothing, and I cannot 
 work to gain my livelihood — I must go where the mercy ot 
 the Almighty provides me with bread and clothing." 
 
 She opened the purse and emptied into her hand the money 
 it contained; then, returning it into its receptacle after having 
 for a few moments gazed on it intently, she added bitterly: — 
 
 "After all, what is this for the necessities of the family 
 within these walls? It is like a drop of water falling upon the 
 scorched earth. If this money were mine I would not spend 
 it ; I would cast it to the first mendicant who stopped at the 
 castle-gate." 
 
 At this moment the clock struck nine, and Agatha judged 
 that it was now time to descend. She was too proud and too 
 well-bred to dream for a moment of going alone to seek the 
 merchants, and, therefore, passing into the chamber in which 
 the children slept, she gently awoke the eldest, who was her 
 god-daughter and her favourite. The little girl was soon 
 ready, her aunt took her by the hand, and both stealthily 
 descended the grand staircase. 
 
 The apartment in which the merchants had installed them- 
 selves was a vast hall, which still preserved some traces of its 
 original destination. It had, doubtless, formerly witnessed 
 many a splendid and joyous feast; here and there might 
 
16 THE OLD C0MVEJST8 OP PARIS. 
 
 Still be perceived upon the panels crucifixes interlaced with 
 garlands of roses, and satyrs' heads grinned from ear to ear at 
 each corner of the lofty mantle-shelf, the sides of which were 
 ornamented with the figure of Bacchus carved in gold relief 
 amid the crowd of attributes which characterize the God of 
 Wine. But there was no longer a trace of furniture in this 
 banqueting-hall, abandoned as it had been for more than a 
 century. The moss which covered the marble pavement had 
 replaced the carpet, and the spiders had spun their impalpable 
 curtains across the half-broken windows. The temporary hosts 
 of this dilapidated hall had arranged themselves with the in- 
 dustry and care peculiar to men accustomed to undertake long 
 and arduous journeys. They had improvised a sort of 
 furniture with their effects. Two boxes placed together and 
 covered with a piece of carpeting formed a table ; bales served 
 instead of chairs ; and one of the heavy lanterns which the 
 wagoners suspend at night from the shafts of their vehicles, 
 diffused sufficient light through the apartment. 
 
 Agatha de Colobrieres knocked gently at the door, and 
 entered, holding with one hand her young niece, while her 
 other was hidden in the depths of her pocket, where she had 
 deposited the savings of the baroness. Had she been obliged 
 to present herself thus before persons of quality, she would 
 have experienced an insurmountable embarrassment, she 
 would have felt awkward and ill at ease ; but she experienced 
 no difficulty in confronting these inferiors, and, making a slight 
 inclination of the head, she simply said: — 
 
 " Good evening. Can I, without disturbing you, see a few 
 of your wares?" 
 
 The dealer rose from his seat, a little surprised at the aspect 
 of this beautiful girl who, with an air at once proud, self- 
 possessed, and modest, paused in the middle of the hall, waiting 
 until he should open his packages. Although she wore only a 
 simple and very coarse robe of drugget, she had the air and 
 manner of a princess, and the pride of her race was imprinted 
 as it were on her lofty and open brow. The merchant bowed 
 respectfully, and said, as he brought forward one of his bales 
 which had replaced the absent chairs: — 
 
 "Madam, deign to be seated for a few minutes. Had you 
 sent for me, I should have hastened to obey your orders. In 
 an instant I shall unpack lace, silks, the best of everything I 
 possess." 
 
 '* Show me some handkerchiefs and ribbons," replied Agatha, 
 seating herself upon the bale and taking upon her knee the 
 child who now began to gaze round her with a wondering eye. 
 
GASrON DE COLOBUIERES. 17 
 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrlercs herself observed with some 
 surprise all that surrounded her. The bales of merchandise 
 formed a regular pile at the further end of the hall, and 
 behind this species of screen a man lay asleep wrapped in 
 his travelling mantle. His silver spurs shone in the uncertain 
 light of the lantern, and his long-barrelled gun, leaning against 
 the wall, was within reach of his hand. This measure of pre- 
 caution seemed taken on account of the bad state of the locks 
 and bars of the chateau, and the magnitude of the sums 
 contained in a valise placed upon the table. At the moment 
 when Agatha entered, the merchant was doubtless engaged in 
 putting his accounts in order, as a morocco portfolio, the pages 
 of which were covered with cyphers, lay open beside the 
 valise, from the sides of which escaped handfuls of six-livre 
 pieces mingled with louis-d'ors. The proprietor of this heavy 
 purse was a man still young, and of agreeable features. He 
 did not appear to be above his condition as to language and 
 manners, but there was something intelligent and decided in 
 the expression of his countenance which gave it a sort of dis- 
 tinction. He threw back into the valise with an indifferent 
 hand all this fair money, the sight of which had astonished 
 Agatha, and began to display his handkerchiefs and ribbons. 
 Never had Mademoiselle de Colobrieres seen such magnificent 
 articles. There were kerchiefs of cambrasine from Smyrna, 
 and of satin from the Indies, embroidered with flowers, 
 butterflies, and birds; there were ribbons of all imaginable 
 colours interwoven with gold and silver. The little girl 
 uttered cries of joy at the sight of all these beautiful things. 
 Agatha beheld them with a dazzled eye, and kept silence, 
 as she felt a little embarrassed in declaring that all this was 
 too beautiful for her. The merchant apparently did not 
 divine the motive for this silence and hesitation, for he said, 
 as he pushed aside the open boxes — 
 
 *^ I have perhaps something still better than these." 
 
 •'Seek no further, I beg; it is not worth while," replied 
 Agatha with a sigh, drawing, as she spoke, the little purse 
 from her pocket; " I merely wish for a simple kerchief; some- 
 thing plain and cheap. All that you have shown me is too 
 elegant." 
 
 ** On the contrary, there cannot be anything too elegant for 
 you, Madame la Baronne," replied the merchant, politely. 
 
 *'I am not Madame de Colobrieres," returned Agatha, 
 blushing; "lam her sister-in-law. It would not be fitting 
 for a demoiselle to wear such rich attire." 
 
 "Oh aunt, make yourself beautiful just for this once I" 
 
 2i 
 
18 THE OLD CONVERTS OP PAHIS. 
 
 cried the little girl, innocently; " you know you are never gaily 
 dressed, nor we either." 
 
 " IVhen people live all the year round in the country, they 
 have no occasion for all these fine things," interrupted Made- 
 moiselle de Colobrieres, hastening to put a stop to the child's 
 observations. But the obstinate little girl, excited by the 
 sight of all the beautiful articles which the merchant continued 
 to display before her enraptured gaze, cried out with the 
 utmost volubility: — 
 
 *' On the contrary we ought to buy all these thmgs; then 
 ISTanon the exciseman's daughter would not look so saucy at 
 mass, when she passes our pew with her siamoise dress, and 
 her butterfly coif. We should then be as gaily dressed as 
 herself, whilst now we are obliged every Saturday to mend 
 Qur Sunday clothes." 
 
 A sentiment of natural yet childish pride caused the blood 
 to mount to Agatha's forehead. She imposed silence on the 
 child with a confused air; but overcoming this impression 
 almost as soon as felt, she pushed aside with one hand the 
 pasteboard boxes of silks and satins, and threw with the other 
 her light purse upon the table, as she said with an air of 
 melancholy dignity: — 
 
 *' We are not rich; that is all that I can spend to-day." 
 
 ** No matter, mademoiselle, "returned the merchant, quickly; 
 **do me the honour of choosing whatever may suit you; you 
 can pay me another time." 
 
 Agatha shook her head with a gesture of thanks and refusal, 
 but the merchant persisted in his offer. 
 
 ** You can discharge this little debt in a year, if that suits 
 you, mademoiselle," said he; "in a year's time I shall be 
 returning this way." 
 
 *'I shall not be here then," replied Mademoiselle de Colo- 
 brieres, in a melancholy tone; *' where I am going, neither 
 trinkets nor silken kerchiefs are required ; all that is necessary 
 is a robe of black linen which lasts all the year, and a veil 
 that is never changed." 
 
 "You are about to enter a convent then, mademoiaelle?" 
 said the merchant, with a respectful expression of surprise and 
 interest. 
 
 "Yes, very soon; and I assure you, I have no need of all 
 these fine things," added she in the same resigned and sad 
 tone; "choose for me, I beg, the plainest articles you have 
 got." 
 
 The pedlar, in order to satisfy her, proceeded to open a 
 bale ranged along with the others at the further end of the 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 19 
 
 hall. Whilst he sought out what she required, Agatha 
 amused herself by looking over the merchandise piled up 
 before her. Among the various colTers, boxes, and assort- 
 ments of mercery, she observed a portfolio which she began 
 to look over with curiosity. It was a collection of very 
 beautiful engravings. The greater portion represented grace- 
 ful subjects, such as pastoral scenes, where chubby Cupids and 
 tender deities of Olympus sported with lovely country maidens, 
 and innocent shepherdesses adorned with pink ribbons. But 
 amid these gallant and rustic compositions there was one of a 
 very different kind which singularly struck Mademoiselle de 
 Colobrieres. The artist, evidently seized with a gloomy 
 inspiration, had depicted in all its horror a scene of conven- 
 tual life. Enclosed in the dripping walls of a subterranean 
 vault, feebly illuminated by the flickering rays of an almost 
 exhausted lamp, lay a nun upon her straw pallet. She was 
 expiring at the termination of the in pace, and her emaciated 
 hands and glazed and lustreless eyes were raised towards 
 heaven with an expression impossible to be described. Like 
 the king-prophet, she seemed to be crying from the depths of 
 this abyss and imploring hopelessly the divine mercy. 
 
 Agatha gazed upon this fearful picture with a terrified eye. 
 Every feelmg of repugnance for a monastic life, every senti- 
 ment of horror for the vows she was about to pronounce, 
 which had hitherto slumbered in her bosom, were now violently 
 aroused. She let the engraving fall upon her knees, and 
 burst into tears. At this moment the merchant returned to 
 her side. At the sight of the print he at once comprehended 
 the motive of this sudden outburst of grief, and said in ii 
 compassionate tone: — 
 
 " You are about to take the veil, then, mademoiselle? It 
 is a terrible resolution, if you are not called to it by a decided 
 vocation. Pardon me if I dare to express an opinion upon 
 what concerns you alone, but it seems to me that you commit 
 a crime against yourself in thus burying yourself alive. What 
 regrets you will perhaps one day experience!" 
 
 *' Regrets! I experience them already!" cried Mademoi- 
 selle de Colobrieres, whose feelings, so long restrained, now 
 burst forth impetuously. *'The idea of a convent life is 
 utterly repugnant to me ; the future terrifies me j but I must 
 submit to my lot." 
 
 *' You have a father or a mother who exacts this s(*crifice?** 
 
 *' No; my parents are dead." 
 
 ** Well, who commands you then?" 
 
 "Necessity," replied Agatha, bitterly. *'For a .poor and 
 
20 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PAKIS. 
 
 nobly born gii-1 there remains no other shelter upon the earth 
 save the convent. It is there that the greater portion of the 
 female branches of our family have buried themselves in the 
 flower of their age. For many years the family of Colobrit^res, 
 having no longer any fortune left to sustain their rank, have 
 thus sacrificed us. Alas! why did not God, whose service we 
 thus enter in spite of ourselves, take us from the cradle, when 
 our innocent hearts had as yet formed no attachment to the 
 world I" 
 
 Whilst Agatha spoke thus, raising towards heaven her lovely 
 eyes bathed in tears, the merchant gazed on her with a sin- 
 gular expression. This man was really above the vulgar con- 
 dition. His was one of those prompt and hardy natures whose 
 resolutions are as sudden as their wills are powerful, and who 
 triumph by the aid of boldness and good sense in the most 
 critical and difficult situations. It was to these cjualities that 
 Pierre Maragnon owed already a fortune acquired m hazardous 
 speculations. At the sight of the beautiful girl who now bent 
 her tearful eyes to the ground before him, as if confused at 
 the idea of having allowed a stranger to be the witness of her 
 long pent-up agony, and the confidant of her secret anguish, 
 Pierre Maragnon felt that this uncontrollable impulse might 
 decide the future destiny of both. An almost insensate idea 
 had suddenly presented itself to his mind. With that prompti- 
 tude and energetic coolness which he possessed in a remarkable 
 degree in all his enterprises, he calculated the chances of his 
 situation. They seemed favourable to him ; and he ventured 
 to conceive no less a hope than that of carrying ofi* with him 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, and of making her his wife — the 
 wife of Pierre Maragnon ! To one who could at this moment 
 have read the heart of Agatha, this idea would have appeared 
 the height of presumption and folly. The poor girl never cast 
 a thought upon the man who now fixed upon her beautiful and 
 downcast eyes a glance so deep and penetrating. In the eyes 
 of the indigent grand-daughter of the barons of Colobrieres, a 
 merchant, a plebeian, was not a man ; and Pierre Maragnon 
 inspired her with feelings of haughty benevolence more mor- 
 tifying perhaps for the object of it than perfect indifference. 
 It was first of all necessary to humble this instinctive pride, 
 to destroy this long-existing prejudice, by attacking it openly 
 and without respect. Pierre Maragnon decided to act upon 
 this system, at the risk of incurring at the first word the dis- 
 pleasure of Agatha. 
 
 *' Mademoiselle," he began, in a calm and respectful tone, 
 **you will doubtless think me very bold; but after having 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 21 
 
 expressed my sentiments respecting your situation, I think it 
 my duty to give you yet one more counsel : resign yourself en- 
 tirely to the world rather than enter a convent. You cannot, 
 you say, remain with your family ; they are too poor to main- 
 tain you : well, quit them, and go and live elsewhere. Work, 
 if you must ; it is neither dishonourable nor yet a misfortune 
 to be obliged to do so; and, after all, is not even hard and 
 constant work, with liberty, better far than idleness between 
 the four walls of a convent — that prison, whose gates you can 
 never pass either living or dead?" 
 
 "What you say is perfectly true," replied Mademoiselle de 
 Colobrieres, astonished but not revolted at such language. 
 ' If I could but put off my nobility and renounce my name, 
 from to-morrow, nay, from the present moment, my resolu- 
 tion would be taken ; I would go and live anywhere, and sup- 
 port myself by the labour of my hands, rather than become a 
 nun." 
 
 "Well! what prevents you. Mademoiselle?" said Pierre 
 Maragnon, boldly. " With a little courage and resolution you 
 could descend from the rank which imposes upon you this awful 
 sacrifice ; you could become a bourgeoise. You have no other 
 refuge open to you except the walls of a convent, because you 
 are too poor to wed a man of your own rank ; but a plebeian 
 would esteem himself happy in marrying you without a 
 dowry." 
 
 ** A man of low birth would never venture to ask me in 
 marriage," replied Agatha, with the utmost simplicity. 
 
 "The situation in which you are placed might give some 
 one this audacity," said the merchant, in a grave tone, gazing 
 at Mademoiselle de Colobrieres fixedly as he spoke. 
 
 She understood him. Her cheeks became crimson; a 
 flash of pride, perhaps of indignation, sparkled in her eyes. 
 But this hasty ebullition soon passed away : she made no re- 
 ply, and remained pensive and thoughtful. When Pierre Ma- 
 ragnon saw her thus reflecting, he concluded that his triumph 
 was certain. Dissembling his joy, and the lively sentiments 
 of love and pride which already filled his soul, he began to 
 reason anew upon the sad lot of young girls thus immured 
 against their inclination. • Although Agatha's youth and 
 beauty could not fail to inspire him with a certain degree of 
 confidence, he was sufficiently skilful not to attempt any com- 
 mon methods of persuasion. He spoke not to her of what was 
 passing in his heart; he sought to restrain the admiration, 
 mingled with respect and tenderness, which her beauty had 
 
Q2 THE OLD CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 suddenly inspired Iiim witb, and began to expatliitc on the 
 possibility of an alliance between an enriched plebeian and the 
 descendant of an illustrious but completely ruined family. He 
 explained clearly his position ; it was a prosperous one. An 
 orphan from his infancy, he owed to his labour and assiduity 
 a fortune whicli represented ten times the value of the Chateau 
 de Colobrieres and its dependencies. Agatha listened to him, 
 confused and tempted — not, however, by her heart, but solely 
 by the dictates of reason and common sense, which whispered 
 to her that, after all, it would be far better for her to become 
 the wife of this merchant than to imprison herself in a cloister 
 for the remainder of her days. 
 
 The child had fallen asleep upon the knees of its young 
 aunt ; all was silent in the old mansion. The lord of Colo- 
 brieres, far from suspecting the insult with which he was 
 menaced, slumbered peacefully beside his wife, and dreamed 
 that he found under his pillow a well-filled sack of crowns, 
 with which he had been able to repair the chapel and purchase 
 a new coat. Mademoiselle de Colobrieres and Pierre Marag- 
 non had sufficient time to themselves to speak and listen, and 
 when the clock struck twelve they were still together. Agatha 
 had not, however, yet decided. In proportion as this situation 
 became prolonged she felt more and more the importance of 
 the consent or refusal she was about to pronounce. Pale, 
 agitated, trembling, she had relapsed into almost total silence, 
 replying only by monosyllables, mingled with sighs, to the 
 pressing arguments urged by Pierre Maragnon, who sought by 
 every means in his power to determine her resolution. But 
 during this long conference he had made immense progress : 
 without herself perceiving it, Mademoiselle de Colobrieres had 
 begun to treat him as an equal, and more than once she had 
 called him Monsieur. At last, still unable to make up her 
 mind, she said to him : — 
 
 **In the agitation of mind into which your proposal has 
 thrown me, monsieur, I can decide on nothing. I have need 
 of being alone, of examining my heart, and of praying to God 
 before answering you. I ask a few hours to come to a deci- 
 sion. The night is already far advanced, and you leave this 
 to-morrow morning. Well, as soon as the first gleam of dawn 
 appears behind those hills my resolution will be taken. If you 
 do not see me return, instantly leave the chateau, for in that 
 case I shall have resigned myself to my lot. " 
 
 She rose from her seat. Pierre Maragnon then said, in a 
 submissive and respectful tone: — 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES/ 23 
 
 " Your safety or your ruin are in your own hands, made 
 moiselle; may Heaven inspire your decision, and lead you 
 hither to-morrow morning." 
 
 Agatha raised the sleeping child in her arms, and slowly re- 
 tired from the apartment. It was necessary for her to cross a 
 portion of the chateau in order to regain her bedroom. The 
 silence of the night, the pale moonlight which formed upon 
 the disjointed flooring a series of luminous frames, imparted to 
 these vast halls, uninhabited for such a length of time, a 
 gloomy and deserted aspect which forcibly struck Made- 
 moiselle de Colobrieres. She cast around her a long and me- 
 lancholy glance, as if to note the decay, the utter ruin of her 
 family, and passed onwards, reflecting upon the haughty po- 
 verty and straitened indigence which formed such a sad con- 
 trast with the high nobility, her sole and unhappy dower. On 
 re-entering her chamber she placed the child upon the bed, 
 and seated herself pensively before the crucifix. Her lamp, 
 which she had left lighted upon her table, now threw only a 
 feeble and vacillating gleam upon the blackened wainscoting, 
 which stood out in bold relief against the tarnished background 
 of the wall. Amid the universal silence might be heard the invi- 
 sible cutworm, which gnawed indefatigably in the wainscoting, 
 pursuing its work of slow but certain destruction on the beau- 
 tiful carvings in the oak and walnut-wood. At intervals the 
 sound of the gnawing insect was interrupted by the light rust- 
 ling caused by the hungry mice scampering behind the panels, 
 and the falling of the damp plaster from the old walls. It was 
 the end of October. Already the coming winter caused its 
 chilling influence to be felt, and, as the night advanced, a 
 colder air penetrated into the chamber through the dilapidated 
 casements and made Agatha shudder. The poor girl had 
 thrown herself on her knees. She endeavoured to pray ; but, 
 whilst her spirit essayed to rise towards God, her mind re- 
 mained plunged in the torments of reflection. Like all persons 
 whom no passion, no lively sentiment, irresistibly impels, she 
 stood uncertain and terrified before the two resolutions, one of 
 which it was necessary for her to adopt ; trembling at the idea, 
 that whatever determination she should come to might be re- 
 pented of on the morrow. If she had experienced more sym- 
 pathy and affection from her near relations around her, family 
 attachment would at that moment have triumphed ; she would 
 have reflected on the desolation, the shame, which such an al- 
 liance would cause her kindred. But the baron took no great 
 interest in her lot ; all the affectionate sentiments which he 
 was possessed of were absorbed by the gentle olive branches 
 
24 THE OLD CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 whose number increased from year to year. When all these 
 pretty children would gambol around him he would become 
 thoughtful, like the wood-cutter in the fairy tale, and would 
 calculate that he should be able more easily to rear his young 
 brood when disembarrassed from the presence of poor Agatha. 
 The baroness was a worthy woman, but the inconveniences 
 consequent on their straitened circumstances had made her 
 selfish, compelling her to shifts which in a less, kindly nature 
 than hers would have quickly degenerated into sordid calcula- 
 tions. Mademoiselle de Colobrieres was perfectly well aware 
 of all this, and it was this humiliating, this painful certainty, 
 which enabled her to contemplate without fear the anger and 
 indignation of her relations, which would be excited at the 
 news of her unheard-of marriage. She was still wavering 
 however when, as is very frequently the case in the most im- 
 portant concerns of life, a trifling incident determined her. 
 Whilst her mind was a prey to these conflicting emotions, and 
 while, in an agony of fear, she beheld through the shutters the 
 first approaches of the coming day, the child, who was lying 
 on the bed, moved uneasily and sighed, disturbed by some 
 painful dream. Agatha stooped over her, raised her gently 
 upon the pillow, and kissed her fresh and rosy cheeks, which 
 she bathed with her tears. This awoke the child, who in- 
 stinctively threw her arms round her aunt's neck, murmuring — 
 
 "Aunt, show me all the pretty things the merchant sold 
 you this evening." 
 
 "I have bought nothing," replied Agatha; "come, go to 
 sleep. Should you like me to take you into the other room 
 where your brothers are?" 
 
 "No; I would rather remain here," said the child, gazing 
 round her; "my mother has promised me that I shall have 
 this room because I am the eldest." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, "and she 
 told you that you are to have it soon?" 
 
 " Oh, very soon; so soon as you shall be in the convent," 
 replied the little girl, with the innocent selfishness which 
 children display in all their arrangements. 
 
 " In the convent? — I shall never go there — and I leave you 
 my bedroom, Euphemie!" said Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, 
 rising hastily. 
 
 The child had fallen back upon the pillow, and a minute 
 afterwards was fast asleep Agatha took from the drawer 
 vvhich contained all she possessed, her little enamelled cross 
 and her prayer-book; then she softly opened her chamber 
 door, crossed the chateau with a firm and rapid step, and 
 
GASTON I>E COLOBRIERES. 25 
 
 descended to the banqueting-licall. From the earliest gleam ot 
 daylight Pierre Maragnon had been awaiting her, his eyes 
 turned towards the door leading to the interior of the chatean. 
 Beyond a doubt he had feared and trembled in his soul lest 
 she should not retui'n, for his altered features and the pale- 
 ness of his cheek attested a night of watching and anxiety. 
 At the sight of Mademoiselle de Colobrieres he became still 
 paler, and he felt a flush of pride and joy mount from his 
 heart to his bram ; but at once suppressing this violent emo- 
 tion, he advanced to meet Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, and 
 said in a calm and gentle tone, with the same respect as if he 
 had spoken to a queen :— - 
 
 "Mademoiselle, we are about to start this instant if it is 
 your wish ; in four hours you will be at Antibes. For what we 
 are to do afterwards you will give me your orders." 
 
 "Come, monsieur," replied Agatha, in a broken voice and 
 in a tone at once modest and resolute; " but in place of pro- 
 ceeding directly to Antibes, I wish to pass through the village 
 of Saint Peyre and stop there one hour." 
 
 The mules were already laden, and the two drivers who led 
 them had ranged the animals in file outside the castle boun- 
 daries. A tall young man, the same whom Agatha had seen 
 asleep his gun within reach of his hand, when she had entered 
 their apartment the preceding evening, was standing respect- 
 fully a short distance off, his foot in the stirrup. His resem- 
 blance to Pierre Maragnon was a sufficient indication that he 
 was of the same blood and bore the same name. • 
 
 At a sign from the merchant the little caravan was set in 
 motion. Agatha still remained behind in the hall ; she was 
 employed in looking over a variety of articles, symmetrically 
 arranged upon a table placed in the embrasure of a window, 
 and which consisted of several handkerchiefs, pieces of lace, 
 and stuffs. Amidst all these beautiful things, and placed in a 
 manner so as to strike the eye at first sight, lay a paper upon 
 which was written, "From Mademoiselle de Colobrieres.' 
 The little purse containing the six livres fifteen sous, the fruit 
 of the baroness's savings, had been deposited under the paper. 
 
 "It is.vour nuptial present, mademoiselle; I have taken 
 the liberty ot* offering it in your name," said the merchant. 
 
 "These poor children will be newly clad once at least in 
 their lives I" murmured Agatha, thanking Pierre Maragnon 
 with a look. 
 
 Then she added quickly — 
 
 " Let us go." 
 
 The merchant led out his horso, a stron^r and active animal 
 
26 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 capable if necessary of carrying the four sons of Aymon. He 
 mounted boldly, taking up Mademoiselle de Colobrieres behmd 
 him, and started at a round trot. The caravan had already 
 disappeared round an angle of the road, but the footsteps of 
 the mules, and the tinlding of the bells which were hung to 
 their collars, might be heard in advance. 
 
 On reaching the bottom of the hill, and before entering 
 upon the winding road which led to the village of Colobrieres, 
 Agatha turned, and cast one last glance upon the house of her 
 fathers — a bitter, painful, and melancholy glance, which ex- 
 pressed all the inmost feelings of her soul. 
 
 "Adieu," said she mentally; ** adieu, noble dwelling, from 
 whence poverty has driven me ! Had it but been permitted 
 me to pass sadly and solitarily my life within the shelter of 
 your ruined walls, had I but been left a little corner at the 
 paternal hearth and the right of seating myself at the indigent 
 board, where perhaps I should not have found even my daily 
 bread, I would never have abandoned-my family and renounced 
 my name!" 
 
 These thoughts, this eternal adieu, were mingled with silent 
 tears, which Mademoiselle de Colobrieres wiped away with 
 one hand, while with the other, which was passed round Pierre 
 Maragnon's arm, she instinctively held her position upon the 
 horse. The merchant, proud and happy as a monarch, rode 
 on his way, his head erect, his heart joyous, dreaming of the 
 happiness and honour that awaited him. Once out of sight 
 or the Chateau de Colobrieres he slackened his horse's speed, 
 and took the liberty of asking Agatha if she had any particu- 
 lar design in going to Saint Peyre. 
 
 "The design of marrying you this very day," replied she, 
 simply. 
 
 These words made Pierre Maragnon tremble inwardly. In 
 his rapture he was about to carry to his lips the little hand 
 which pressed the sleeve of his green riding-coat; but re- 
 straining the expression of his sentiments, he contented him- 
 self with replying in the most respectful tone: — 
 
 ** I would not have dared to take upon myself to press you 
 on this subject, mademoiselle, yet I must say that in your 
 position the best course for you to pursue is not to defer the 
 honour you deign to confer upon me, and your resolutiun 
 overwhelms me with joy. If you wish, we will leave my 
 people to proceed on their way slowly, while we hasten for- 
 ward in order to arrive before them." 
 
 "Yes," replied Agatha, "that is a good idea; we must 
 reach Saint Peyre before the hour of mass." 
 
GASTON DE COLOBKIERES. 27 
 
 The merchant gave the spur to his horse, and, turning off 
 from the high road, he proceeded through the fields. By this 
 means he soon outstripped and passed his little caravan which 
 held on its way, slowly defih'ng between two banks so steep 
 and overhanging that a party of ill-intentioned persons might 
 have taken advantage of the position to form a perfect am- 
 buscade. Agatha, not a little alarmed at the increased pace of 
 the horse, dJew in her little feet under her petticoat, and, 
 with both hands retained firm hold of her cavalier, who at this 
 moment bore no slight resemblance to Peter of Provence 
 carrying off the fair Slaguelonne. 
 
 It was about seven o'clock in the morning when the young 
 couple drew up before the church of Saint Peyre. Already 
 had the sacristan rung the first summons for mass, but the 
 inhabitants of the village were in the fields, and there were 
 to be seen only two or three old men seated in the porch and 
 tranquilly warming themselves in the sun. The merchant 
 fastened his horse to the paling which surrounded the curate's 
 garden, and followed Mademoiselle de Colobrieres into the 
 building. Both knelt for a moment at the entrance of the 
 deserted nave, and then Agatha, making a sign to Pierre 
 Maragnon to await her, directed her steps to the sacristy. 
 The cure had already, with the assistance of the little boy who 
 was to serve the mass, arrayed himself in his robes ; he was a 
 young man of considerable learning, of exemplary and tolerant 
 piety, and eminent virtue. Occasionally while visiting his 
 parishioners he had proceeded as far as the Chateau de Colo- 
 brieres, and Agatha was well known to him. 
 
 "May the blessing of heaven rest upon you, mademoiselle! 
 Has any misfortune occurred at Colobrieres?" cried he, alarmed 
 at the appearance of Agatha, who, pale and agitated, now 
 advanced towards him. 
 
 **No, M. le Cure," replied she; "this matter regards my- 
 self alone. I have come to beg that you will on the instant 
 hear me confess." 
 
 The cure, much astonished, made a sign to his little clerk 
 to retire, and seated hunself, after having closed the door of 
 the sacristy. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrieres then knelt down, and after 
 having related to him all that had passed during the pre- 
 ceding night, she declared to him her resolution, and the 
 design with which she had come to seek him. The case was 
 novel and embarrassing. Mademoiselle de Colobrieres being 
 an orphan and of age, could marry whom she pleased ; but 
 then her family, strictly speaking, possessed the power of dis- 
 
28 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PA HIS. 
 
 puting this mesalliance. It was necessary, besides, that the 
 formalities exacted by the ecclesiastical laws, saving in the 
 exceptional cases, should be first accomplished. The good 
 priest at first refused ; perhaps he was in hopes that Agatha 
 would renounce her suddenly .formed resolution, and permit 
 herself to be taken back without scandal or report to Colo- 
 brieres. At the first word which he uttered on this subject, 
 she rose from her knees and said to him in a firm tone : — 
 
 "IsTo, M. le Cure, I have not gone so far only now to 
 recoil from my decision. I will follow Pierre Maragnon 
 wherever he may desire to lead me, and he will marry me 
 when he may so please ; but it is for your conscience to de- 
 cide whether you will let me go thus. Since I have resolved 
 to go with him, is it not better that it should be as his wife, 
 and not as his mistress? Alas! if we were to commit such a 
 sin, it would be indeed despite ourselves." 
 
 This species of argument alarmed the cure. He was a truly 
 religious man, tender of conscience, but of an upright and 
 decided mind. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he, after a moment's reflection, "I 
 consent to marry you; may God grant * you grace to live 
 hereafter without repentance or regret. After the ceremony 
 I will seek an interview with M. le Baron de Colobrieres. 
 At this moment your friends are doubtless in search of you, 
 and will have supposed everything rather than have suspected 
 what has actually taken place. I will intercede for you, but 
 I fear that my application will be unsuccessful. For the last 
 time I entreat you to reflect : are you fully resolved to quit 
 all your friends thus — to separate yourself for ever from your 
 family, who will never perhaps think of you but with anger 
 and shame?" 
 
 "My most ardent desire is that my family may pardon me," 
 replied Agatha, in a tone of melancholy firmness, *' but I have 
 scarcely a hope of it, M. le Cure ; and in quitting Colobrieres 
 I well knew that it was for ever." 
 
 The cure made a sign to her to kneel down again, and after 
 having prayed with her and fulfilled the formalities which 
 were to precede the religious ceremony, he requested her to 
 await his coming in the church, and to tell Pierre Maragnon 
 to come to him m his turn. Upon the order of the priest the 
 little clerk proceeded to seek a couple of the old men who were 
 sunning themselves in the porch, in order that they might 
 serve as witnesses. A quarter of an hour afterwards Pierre 
 Maragnon and Agatha de Colobrieres were man and wife. 
 
 On leaving the church the newly -married couple found the 
 
GASTON DE COLOBlllERES. 29 
 
 caravan, which had just arrived, drawn up in the market- 
 place outside. Pierre then approached the young man who 
 accompanied him in his journey, and said, with an indescrib- 
 able expression of joy and pride, as he pointed to the beautiful 
 Agatha — 
 
 " Jacques, go and give her your hand; she is your sister!" 
 
 In the afternoon of the same day, while the bridal party 
 were proceeding on their journey towards Marseilles, the cure 
 took his way to Colobrieres. The baron and his \ui'e were . 
 still lost in conjecture; they had found Agatha's nuptial pre- 
 sent in the embrasure of the window, but they knew not what 
 it meant, and their minds were distracted between a host of 
 suppositions, not one of which approached the truth. When 
 the cure had simply related the facts as they had occurred, 
 the baron flew into transports of rage and indignation, and the 
 baroness burst into tears. The good dame, despite the natural 
 sweetness and forbearance of her character, was also indignant 
 against her sister-in-Uw, and exclaimed, with an air of comic 
 anger and despair — 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Colobrieres the wife of Pierre Maragnon ! 
 I could conceive, indeed, that she might be weak enough per- 
 haps to love him, but to marry himl never!" 
 
 The Baron de Colobrieres renounced his sister Agatha, 
 solemnly cursed her, and expressly commanded that her name 
 should never again be mentioned in his presence. After this 
 solemn declaration, he constructed a sort of funeral pile of 
 brushwood in the great court-yard, and when it was thoroughly 
 lighted he haughtily cast upon the fire Agatha's nuptial presents. 
 The baroness sighed deeply on seeing the rich stuffs disappear 
 in the flames. She calculated how many new dresses might 
 have been made out of those beautiful things which would 
 soon become but a handful of ashes, but she knew her husband 
 too well to hazard the slightest observation. She was well 
 aware that the worthy baron would rather have clothed his 
 children in sheepskins, as the painters have represented the 
 infant St. John, than have decked them in the wedding present 
 of the abhorred Pierre Maragnon. She grasped with a stifled 
 groan the six livres fifteen sous, which were found intact in the 
 purse, and reflecting that all this unhappiness had arisen from 
 the idea which had occurred to her of spending her savings, she 
 inwardly resolved to be more cautious and prudent for the future. 
 The example of Agatha awakened her thoughts also to the lot 
 of her daughters, the five eldest of whom had not been allowed 
 to see their eighteenth year dawn in the paternal chateau, 
 and long before the age when their aunt preferred marrying a 
 
so THE OLD CO.NVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 plebeian to taking the veil, were securely cloistered and ]:ad 
 talcen their final vows. 
 
 Let us now resume the thread of our story The baroness 
 
 reflected all day upon the news which her husband had brought 
 her. She was in a flutter of astonishment and joy, for her 
 indignation against her sister-in-law was long since appeased, 
 and at the bottom of her heart she had pardoned her her fault. 
 She did not cherish the slightest hope of bringing her husband 
 round to similar sentiments of indulgence, but she said to 
 • herself, and to her simple mind it seemed a vast privilege, 
 that for the future she could at least dare to pronounce before 
 him the name of Agatha, and might even yet hear tidings of 
 her. 
 
 That same day after supper, when La Rousse had removed 
 the covers and when Gaston had gone with his sister to take a 
 stroll by moonlight upon the terrace, the baron once more 
 commenced whistling his martial airs, mezza voce, beating 
 time to the measure upon the table. This time Madame de 
 Colobrieres did not fall asleep ; she quietly awaited the com- 
 munication which she felt would follow this reverie, for she 
 was persuaded that the baron's thoughts were still occupied with 
 his sister Agatha. At the end of about a quarter of an hour 
 he threw himself back in his chair with a deep sigh and said 
 dejectedly, "Wife, did you not perceive last night that it 
 ramed into our bedroom as if it was the open field?" 
 
 *'I have perceived that for many years past, whenever the 
 weather has been bad," replied she, sighing also. 
 
 The baron reflected again for a few minutes, and then re- 
 sumed : — 
 
 *'I do not see how it is to be remedied." 
 
 "I see perfectly well," replied the baroness ; "we must have 
 the sashes freshly glazed and have good new shutters put to 
 the windows." 
 
 "And do you know also where the money necessary to pay 
 for all this, is to come from?" said the baron in a tone of irony, 
 and shrugging his shoulders like a man who hears some sense- 
 less project proposed. 
 
 A sudden idea at this moment flashed across the mind of the 
 baroness ; she shook her head and replied gravely :— 
 
 "Money? without doubt I could tell you where to find it 
 if you wished — " 
 
 The baron looked at her in his turn with an air of astonish- 
 ment, and fancying that he guessed her thoughts, he sai3 to 
 her with a sort of indignation in his tone: 
 
 "Ah, madam! I thought you were too proud to have re- 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 31 
 
 course to this woman's wealth, or ever to dream of contracting 
 the slightest debt of obligation towards her." 
 
 "You have misunderstood me, sir," replied the baroness, 
 calmly; "it is she, on the contrary, who would owe us great 
 obligations. This is the idea that occurred to me. Agatha 
 de Colobrieres must, by this time, be lieartily tired of bearing 
 the plebeian name of Maragnon : to enable her to get rid of 
 it, sell her the tower of Belveser. It is a noble tenure, a true 
 savonnettey a vilaiuy as they term it, and Agatha can then call 
 herself Madame de Belveser, and no one will be able to contest ' 
 her right to bear our thistle sinople upon the panels of her 
 carriage." 
 
 * ' Sell the tower of Belveser ! alienate a property even older 
 in our family than the Chateau de Colobrieries!" cried the 
 baron; "do you know, madam, that our archives prove that 
 this tower was built by Johan de Colobrieres, called Jeannet- 
 Courte-Jambe, from his having met with an accident to one 
 of his limbs in the memorable expedition of the Count of 
 Provence against the Saracens of Fraixinet?" 
 
 **Iam aware of it," replied the baroness, quietly, "and it 
 has always seemed to me that the noble seigneur made a bad 
 choice in the site of his castle — a naked rock surrounded by 
 land which, good year or bad year, produces nothing at all." 
 
 "Formerly it had some fiefs attached to it," murmured the 
 baron ; "there were good lands appertaining to it which have 
 passed into other hands." 
 
 "Well, do you, in your turn, get rid of the bad," returned 
 Madame de Colobrieres, (^julckly — "that will put a little money 
 in your pocket, and it will be a satisfaction to you to think 
 that your sister no longer bears this name of Maragnon ; if 
 she should ever present herself before you, you would not at 
 least be obliged to call her by it." 
 
 "What I suffer this woman ever to appear before my eyes!" 
 interrupted the baron ; * ' why, madam, of what can you pos- 
 sibly be dreaming with your suppositions?" 
 
 "I suppose nothing," hastened to reply Madame de Colo- 
 brieres, "I retract my observation; it is true that Agatha 
 will never dare to present herself here, nor ought we to see her 
 again; but is that a reason for your refusing what I propose? 
 There is no occasion for us to make overtures directly to her; 
 we could ask the cure to write, as if this idea came from him, 
 and he himself could conclude the affair in your name. The 
 tower of Belveser, 1 should think, is well worth a thousand 
 crowns?" 
 
 "It is worth more," replied the baron. "I must confess, 
 
32 THE OLD CO:* VENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 nevertheless, that no one in the country would offer me even 
 a double louis for it." 
 
 "Centuries might pass before a purchaser would present 
 himself!" cried the baroness. "I am almost tired of remind- 
 ing you that your late gi-andfather, pressed by a man from 
 whom he had purchased a horse on credit, offered to give him 
 this property in lieu of payment; and that the latter refused 
 to accept it." 
 
 "That does not astonish me," replied the baron, with the 
 utmost simplicity. 
 
 "Iwill communicate my idea to M. le Cure," resumed 
 Madame de Colobridres, feeling that the moment for taking 
 the initiative had come; " he will be the only one concerned 
 m the matter, for we cannot, I admit, have any direct com- 
 munication on the subject with the widow of Pierre Maragnon." 
 
 It was to the cure of Saint-Peyre, the same who, thirty 
 years before, had married Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, that 
 the baroness reckoned upon committing the care of this nego- 
 tiation. The worthy man had grown grey in his humble 
 curacy, without ever having aspired to a more considerable 
 benefice. He frequently visited the Colobrieres family, and 
 had rendered some assistance in the education of the children. 
 Thanks to his care, Gaston was able to read the Latin authors 
 passably, and to write a letter in good French. When the 
 baroness had opened her mind to the old man on the subject, 
 he considered the project feasible, and promised to write to 
 Madame Maragnon, without, however, making her any direct 
 proposal, and especially without flattering her with the hope 
 of a reconciliation, which he felt was impossible. Some days 
 afterwards he received the following reply: — . 
 "Monsieur le Cure, 
 
 " I was overwhelmed with joy on receiving the news which 
 you sent me of my brother and my dear sister. Although I 
 cannot flatter myself with the hope that they will ever again 
 deign to look upon me with the eyes of friendship, I shall ever 
 cherish for them the warmest affection, and never cease to 
 form wishes for their happiness. If any occasion should pre- 
 sent itseli* of speaking of me to them, tell them, M. le Cure, 
 that I have never ceased to grieve for the loss of their affec- 
 tion, and to regret bitterly having afflicted them by my mar- 
 riage, but that heaven has pardoned me this fault, since it 
 permitted me to be happy with Pierre Maragnon. 
 
 "I thank you for having informed me that the tower of 
 Belveser is for sale, and I hereby send you full powers and the 
 necessary sum to purchase it in my name. It is not with the 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERE9. 33 
 
 intention, however, of ennobling myself a second time that I 
 purchase this old family domain — I wish to bear to the grave 
 the name honoured by the worthy man to whom I was united. 
 
 ** Of the numerous children with which God has blessed me 
 there remains but one girl. All my desires would be fulfilled 
 if one day my brother and sister would deign to call her their 
 niece. 
 
 "I venture to hope, M. le Cure, that you will be kind 
 enough to favour me with a reply, and I recommend to your 
 prayers, 
 
 " Your humble servant, 
 
 "Agatha Maragnon." 
 
 The papers which accompanied this letter were perfectly 
 formal and correct, and the messenger who carried them handed 
 to the old cure at the same time two heavy bags of crown- 
 pieces, the purchase money of the domain of Belveser. No- 
 thing further remained therefore but to conclude the affair. 
 The notary of Saint-Peyre drew out the deed of sale, and 
 brought it to the baron, who signed it, forbidding that the 
 name of Maragnon, which he now for the first time saw coupled 
 with that of Colobrieres, should be again pronounced in his 
 presence. They had not shown him Agatha's letter, fearing 
 lest the firm resolution expressed by her not to renounce her 
 plebeian name to assume that of the noble fief she had pur- 
 chased, might cause him to regret the consent which he had 
 given to the sale of the tower of Belveser. The baroness's 
 heart had been softened on reading her sister-in-law's letter. 
 The affectionate recollections of her early years were aroused 
 within her ; and when the old priest communicated to her his 
 reply to Madame Maragnon, her eyes were moistened with 
 tears as she replied — 
 
 "I cannot hope to see her again before I die. Do me to 
 least the favour, M. le Cure, of telling her that I have ever 
 thought of her with affection, and that I thanked God on 
 learning her prosperity. Tell her also that I embrace her, as 
 well as my dear niece, her daughter." 
 
 The good dame, as may be supposed, forbore speaking to 
 her husband of this sort of postscript which she had added to 
 the cure's letter, and there was no further mention made of 
 Agatha at the Chateau de Colobrieres. Gaston and his sister 
 were kept in ignorance of what had passed, their mother 
 judging it unnecessary to reveal to them the existence of an 
 aunt of whom they had never heard. They were merely told 
 that the tower of Belveser no longer formed a portion of theii 
 
34 THE OLD CONVENtS OP PARIS. 
 
 father's domains, and neither one nor the other thought of 
 asking the name of the purchaser. 
 
 When the baron found himself in possession of a sum of 
 five hundred crowns, he fancied that he should never reach 
 the bottom of his purse. Like the greater number of those 
 who have scarcely ever handled money, he knew not how to 
 calculate its value, and employed it without discrimination. 
 Having learned that some foreign artificers were at work in a 
 chateau a few leagues from Colobrieres, he determined to 
 summon them to the castle and to confide to their care the 
 necessary repairs in the building. They were Italian work- 
 men, skilful artists, but idle, rapacious, impudent, and dis- 
 honest as a band of gypsies. They commenced by restoring 
 the chapel. The mutilated sculptures, under their intelligent 
 hands, resumed their former proportions, the carved wood- 
 work stood out dark and polished upon the white background 
 of the walls, and the leaden window-frames, once more filled 
 with stained glass, permitted only a dim religious light to 
 penetrate into the time-worn building ; but the day on which 
 the keys of the chapel, now completely restored, were placed 
 in the hands of the baron, there remained in his last bag but 
 twenty crowns, and he was consequently obliged to dismiss the 
 workmen. Fortunately the baroness had procured good stout 
 shutters for the windows, and had newly clothed the whole 
 family. She was not astonished when her husband informed 
 her that he had reached the bottom of his purse ; the poor wo- 
 man was too well accustomed to this state of things to make 
 herself uneasy about it. As for the old gentleman, he philo- 
 sophically observed that his broad-skirted coat having lasted 
 thirty years and more, the new one which he had now pur- 
 chased would suffice for the remainder of his days. It seemed 
 to him that henceforth he would not require to spend a single 
 crown. A long habit of self-denial had rendered this contempt 
 of riches easily practised ; and it was in actual good faith that 
 he considered the lot of a ruined noble, needy as himself, more 
 enviable than that of the most opulent plebeian. His children 
 had naturally imbibed the same ideas; and indigence, far 
 from inspiring feelings of avarice or ambition in their hearts, 
 had rendered them high-spirited, generous, and disinterested. 
 
 About three months had elapsed since the baron had signed 
 the deed of sale which transmitted the manor of Belveser to 
 Madame Maragnon. During this time only one event had 
 disturbed the peaceful life of the inhabitants of Colobrieres. 
 This was the death of the old cure. The entire family, and 
 
GASTON DE C0LOBRIERE8. 35 
 
 especially the bai'oness, sincerely lamented his loss. Not only 
 had she lost her director and her spiritual guide, but she was 
 now deprived of the sole possible link of communication exist- 
 insj between herself and Madame Maragnon. The vague hope 
 which she had cherished of one day beholding her sister-in-law 
 again was now extinguished, and less than ever did she now 
 dream of informing her children that they had a near relation 
 of plebeian name. 
 
 One day the entire family were collected in front of the 
 principal portion of the chateau, upon a sort of platform, sup- 
 ported by the old fortifications, and which still bore the name 
 of the terrace. A few stunted mulberry-trees had taken 
 root in the arid soil, and formed a species of. alley, in which, 
 for the last forty years, the baron was accustomed to repair 
 every day after dinner to play a game of bowls. Until lately 
 the good cure had always been his adversary. The old man 
 would approach the castle at a slow and uniform pace, read- 
 ing his breviary, and as soon as the baron perceived his black 
 gown at the foot of the road, he would call to La Kousse to 
 bring the sack of bowls ; but since the death of this faithful 
 opponent he had been reduced to a trial of skill with his son 
 Gaston, who had too much respect for his father to beat him, 
 and willingly abandoned to him the only stake contended for 
 — the honour of victory. Upon this day, therefore, the baron 
 and his youngest son were rolling the heavy bowls in the alley, 
 while the baroness and her daughter, seated upon the ruined 
 parapet, plied their needles while observing the progress of the 
 game. From time to time Anastasia, forgetting the players, 
 would cast a long and pensive glance over the vast landscape. 
 She loved this calm picture, the only one she was acquainted 
 with, for never had her gaze crossed the boundary which se- 
 parated the spot where she was born from the rest of the world. 
 Never had her thoughts wandered beyond this horizon, and 
 for her this corner of earth was the entire universe. It was 
 now towards the close of October, and the setting sun bathed 
 with its purple light those regions whose vegetation the cold 
 breezes of the north never entirely wither. The steep declivi- 
 ties which sloped away on all sides from the chateau formed an 
 immense foreground, as naked and barren as the shore of the 
 dead sea, while beyond this desolate region might be per- 
 ceived the cottages of a village which formerly belonged to 
 the fief of Colobrieres. These dwellings of the peasantry and 
 small proprietors were irregularly grouped together, and em- 
 bosomed amid orchards, in which flourished, side by side, the 
 crab apple with its acid fruit and the aromatic orange-tree. 
 
86 THE OLU CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 A long fringe of poplars marked the windings of the rivulet 
 which watered these humble domains. Beyond this line of 
 verdure, which the autumn had tinged with tints of a pale 
 yellow, extended a chain of grey and calcined rocks, the 
 highest peak of which was crowned by a mass of crumbling 
 fortifications. The walls, pierced with large breaches, formed 
 high in air a series of gigantic festoons of the most fantastic 
 character. This ruined eagle's nest was the tower of Belveser. 
 
 The thoughtful gaze of Anastasia still wandered over the 
 different features of the landscape, which were now rapidly 
 fading away in the distance, when an unaccustomed sound at- 
 tracted her attention. It seemed — a strange event! — that a 
 vehicle of some sort was slowly advancing in the direction of 
 tiie chateau. In fact almost at the same instant she perceived 
 a carriage which had just entered the rugged, stony, and al- 
 most impracticable avenue, hewn in a zigzag direction out of 
 the side of the hill on which the old mansion stood. 
 
 "Look, mamma, look," cried she, "a carriage 1 and one 
 would even suppose that it was coming here!" 
 
 "Holy virgin! who is it that heaven sends us?" murmured 
 the baroness with emotion, beckoning to her husband to ap- 
 proach. 
 
 Gaston de Colobrieres and his sister ran to the extremity of 
 the terrace and gazed with a feeling of stupefaction at the 
 gay equipage which slowly toiled up the ascent. The baron 
 paused in front of his wife, who clasped her hands and raised 
 her eyes to heaven with an air at the same time joyous and 
 alarmed. 
 
 " Some visitor is approaching," said she ; " it is astonishing, 
 for we do not expect any one. You have not received any 
 letter, have you, M. le Baron?" 
 
 "None," replied he, coldly; "I know not who it is that 
 comes thus to pay us a visit, but I warn you if it be this wo- 
 man, this widow of Maragnon's, I will not see her, and I forbid 
 her passing the threshold of the ch&teau. You can go to meet 
 her, and signify my pleasure to her." 
 
 At these words he turned haughtily away and entered the 
 sitting-room where La Rousse was laying the table for supper. 
 Madame de Colobrieres proceeded in trembling eagerness to 
 meet the carriage which was already advancing along the 
 terrace. The coachman stopped his horses, a tall lacquey 
 opened the door, and in place of the aged woman whom she 
 expected to see and perhaps not to recognise, the baroness 
 perceived a young girl who sprang lightly to the ground and 
 cast a timid and anxious glance around her. At the sight of 
 
G.VbTON DE COLOBRIERES. 37 
 
 Mrtdamo de Colobrieres she appeared to licsitatc for a moment ; 
 then drawmg forth a letter hidden in the corsage of her loose 
 morning-dress, she presented it to her with a timid gesture 
 of mingled fear and supplication. 
 
 "My dear child!" cried the baroness, affectionately em- 
 bracing her, *'I do not require to read this in order to learn 
 who you are. How much you resemble your mother! — my 
 poor Agatha! — 'tis she who has written to me?" 
 
 "Yes, my dear aunt, "'replied the young girl, weeping with 
 joy and affection. " She did not dare to come, but has sent 
 me. Oh! how happy she will be when I tell her with what 
 kindness you have received me !" 
 
 "My poor sister!" murmured the baroness ; "I should have 
 been obliged to forbid her entrance here ; but I am not for- 
 bidden to receive her child. No, I shall not close the doors 
 of the Chateau de Colobrieres against this child, and her uncle 
 shall see her I" 
 
 Whilst this little scene was taking place at the entrance of 
 the chateau, Anastasia and Gaston had drawn near. Both 
 gazed on the new-comer with a curiosity full of astonishment, 
 and the youth murmured in the ear of his sister: — 
 
 "It is some city lady. And these tall lacqueys, and that 
 lady who is seated in the carriage are her people! What a 
 train! what an equipage! Why what can all these people 
 mean by coming here?" 
 
 The baroness" had by this time finished the perusal of her 
 letter ; she called her children towards her and said, as she 
 presented them to the young girl : — 
 
 "This is Mademoiselle Eleonora Maragnon, your cousin; 
 keep her company for a few moments, whilst I go and inform 
 your father of her arrival." 
 
 Gaston took off his hat and bowed, recoiling as he did so 
 with a terrified air, whilst his sister on her side made an 
 awkward and timid curtsy to this unknown relation. 
 
 The young girl, already recovered from the slight embar- 
 rassment caused by this species of presentation, held out her 
 hand to Anastasia, saying with that grace and ease of expres- 
 sion which the habit of mingling with the world always 
 imparts : — 
 
 ' * My dear cousin, I see plainly by your manner that I am 
 altogether a stranger to you ; no one has ever spoken to you 
 of me, I suppose. Is it not so? Well, I, on the contrary, 
 know you. The good curate of Saint-Peyre always spoke of 
 you in his letters to my mother, and on coming here I well 
 knew that I should find a charming girl of my own age, and 
 
38 THE OLD CONYENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 I felt quite disposed to love her, as well as my cousin Gaston, 
 dearly." 
 
 *' You do us a great deal of honour, cousin," stammered poor 
 Anastasia, not knowing in what manner to reply to this com- 
 pliment. As for Gaston de Colobrieres, he blushed like a 
 maiden of fifteen when Eleonora named him, and recoiled ano- 
 ther step. 
 
 The baroness's return cut short this embarrassing interview. 
 
 *'Come, my dear niece," said she, in a triumphant tone, 
 taking Eleonora by the hand; "come, your uncle awaits 
 you." 
 
 The baron was seated in the drawing-room upon an old 
 leathern arm-chair, which from time immemorial had served as 
 a sort of throne for the head of the family. He advanced two 
 steps forward to meet his niece, and said to her gravely: — 
 
 '* Mademoiselle de Belveser, you are welcome to the Cha- 
 teau de Colobrieres ! I trust that you will do us the honour 
 of supping and sleeping here." 
 
 The young girl could scarcely repress a smile on hearing 
 herself saluted by this aristocratic appellation. 
 
 **M. le Baron! my dear uncle!" cried she, bending forward 
 as if to kiss the hand he extended towards her ; but the old 
 gentleman raised her up, kissed her forehead, and made her 
 sit down beside him. There was a momentary silence. The 
 baron, proudly enthroned upon his high-backed arm-chair, or- 
 dered supper to be served, and did the honours of his house with 
 the dignified and polished air of a nobleman of the old school. 
 The baroness and her daughter contemplated the new-comer 
 with a curious and admiring gaze. According to their ideas, 
 Eleonora was an accomplished and perfect beauty, while in 
 reality she was merely pretty. Her features were regular but 
 not strongly marked, and her complexion was exquisitely de- 
 licate and blooming. She was small, but she inherited from 
 her mother a certain air in the carriage of the head which was 
 full of grace and distinction. These juvenile attractions were 
 further enhanced by a toilet of the most elegant simplicity. 
 It was composed of a morning-dress of gray and rose-coloured 
 striped taffeta made extremely wide in the skirt, which by its 
 full and swelling outline added fresh attractions to a waist, 
 the slenderest and roundest that was ever imprisoned in the 
 harsh confinement of a corset. A handkerchief of the finest 
 lawn, modestly crossed over the bosom, scarcely permitted the 
 contour of a neck to be seen, whose fairness was enhanced by 
 a large black velvet buckle fastened almost beneath her chin. 
 It would have been a difficult task to decide whether this 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 39 
 
 charming girl was a blonde or brunette, for her hair, crepe 
 in front, was covered with a thin layer of powder, which ren- 
 dered it perfectly white. Her blue eyes and dark eyebrows 
 left the question undecided, and it was only by the rosy hue 
 of her cheek that the spectator could ascertain, and that with 
 difficulty, that her hair was not of the same colour as that of 
 the dark Anastasia. 
 
 Eleonora, on her side, gazed on all that surrounded her 
 with restrained curiosity and a certain degree of astonishment. 
 The table was already laid — that is to say, La Rousse had 
 thrown over it a coai'se cloth, and had arranged sym- 
 metrically four plates of yellow earthenware, accompanied 
 with a saltcellar of wood and an earthen jug, which served 
 the purpose of a water carafe. The furniture of the apart- 
 ment was in strict keeping with the exterior appearance of the 
 chateau, and displayed the remaining fragments of the splen- 
 dour of better days. The ricketty chairs were covered with 
 rich stuffs, but so worn and patched that it would have been 
 difficult to determine, through so many odd and dispropor- 
 tioned fragments, what was the original fabric. The massive 
 tables of old and curiously carved oak, had undergone the 
 degradation of modern repairs performed with the saw and 
 malletj while the famous trunk in which the Baron de Colo- 
 brieres kept his archives was placed between the windows, 
 and, in reality, formed the handsomest piece of furniture in 
 the room. There was not a vestige of tapestry upon the walls; 
 but as this hall had been formerly the salle-d'armeSi the warlike 
 trophies which the ancient lords of Colobrieres had suspended 
 aloft, would have formed a more appropriate decoration than 
 hangings of leather or tapestry, had not the arms long since 
 disappeared, and there remained now only the nails to which 
 they had been formerly attached. From these iron hooks, 
 which projected here and there from the walls, hung a collec- 
 tion of dried plants, arranged in long garlands by the baroness, 
 who preserved in this manner her stock of mugwort, thyme, 
 and mint. 
 
 '*My dear niece," said the baroness, recollecting at that 
 moment the elegant equipage which had brought the young 
 girl, " you have left your people outside; we must ask them 
 to come in, and have the horses put up." 
 
 ''No, aunt, no, I thank you — it is not worth while," re- 
 plied she, quickly. *' Permit me merely to go and give some 
 orders." 
 
 Saying these words, she rose, holding out her hand to Ana- 
 
40 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 Stasia as if to request her to accompany her, and both returned 
 to the terrace. The carriage was still before the door. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said Eleonora, addressing the person who 
 had accompanied her, ** Comtois will take you back to Bel- 
 veser. Pray tell my mother that the Baron and Baroness de 
 Colobrieres have kept me. The carriage can return for me 
 to-morrow afternoon." 
 
 **Holy virgin! To set out alone at such an hour! I am 
 horribly afraid of these bad roads !" cried a little sharp piercing 
 voice from within the carriage. 
 
 " Do not be alarmed, my dear Mademoiselle Irene, no harm 
 will happen you," replied Eleanora; **I wish you a safe 
 journey." 
 
 Then addressing the coachman, she said, with a slight ges- 
 ture of authority — 
 
 ** Go on." 
 ^ Anastasia was so astonished at hearing her speak thus, that 
 she ventured to ask her who this lady was whom she had sent 
 back to sleep at the tower of Belveser? 
 
 " It is Mademoiselle Irene de la Roche-Lambert, my gover- 
 ness, and my mother's companion," replied Eleanora, quietly. 
 
 ** How, cousin! your governess is a person of quality?" ob- 
 served Anastasia, with naive impertinence. 
 
 "Oh, yes," replied Mademoiselle Maragnon, laughing. 
 "Another time I will introduce her to you; but to-day I 
 would rather that she should return to Belveser to my mother." 
 
 "To Belveser!" repeated Anastasia, turning her large bril- 
 liant eyes towards the horizon where the crumbling walls of 
 the tower formed a dark tracery against the evening sky ; "can 
 it be possible that there are any inhabitants there save the 
 bats?" 
 
 " I will take you there, I hope, some of these days, and you 
 shall see!" replied Eleanora, passing her arm through her 
 cousin's, and taking their way back towards the hall. 
 
 Whilst the baron conversed with his niece, after having re- 
 newed the order to serve supper, La Rousse and the old do- 
 mestic held council in the kitchen with Gaston, who exclaimed, 
 with a terrified air— i 
 
 " Why, it is a perfect shame to offer this handsome lady a 
 plate of lentils and a crust of bread and cheese for supper!" 
 
 " What a pity it is that she should have arrived here just 
 to-day, on the eve of a feast!" said La Rousse; "Neither 
 four-footed game nor feathered game are wanting in the larder. 
 But a fast-day, M. le Chevalier ! It would have been better 
 
GASTON DB COLOBRIERES. 41 
 
 if you had brought me a dozen of eggs instead of this beautiful 
 grouse — " 
 
 "What! are there no means of making even an omelet, 
 or procuring us a plate of fruit?" cried Gaston. 
 
 La Rousse shook her head. 
 
 "No, M. le Chevalier," replied she with a sigh; "our 
 hens have been running wild through the fields laying I know 
 not where for the last week. There is only Cocotte, Made- 
 moiselle Anastasia's pullet, that never leaves this; but the 
 stupid thing is always rambling about in the upper rooms. I 
 am sure she hides her eggs in the corner of the balcony near 
 the part which fell lately." 
 
 "Ah ! you think she lays her eggs there?" demanded Gaston. 
 
 "Yes," replied La Rousse; "but as the flooring is half 
 gone, and as no one could reach the balcony without risking 
 their neck twenty times at least, the eggs will never leave the 
 nest except in the shape of young chickens." 
 
 " There are some beautiful pears also on the great pear- 
 tree at the far corner of the enclosure," added the old domestic ; 
 " but they are hanging on the highest branches. If it were 
 daylight, M. le Chevalier might get them down by cutting 
 the branches with a gun-shot, but it is already dark night." 
 
 " Very good," said Gaston, leaving the kitchen, "we shall 
 see about that ; finish laying the cover, and do not fail to put 
 the silver plate upon the table." 
 
 After an interval of about a quarter of an hour. La Rousse, 
 who had just finished placing, with a feeling of pride, the six 
 silver covers engraven with the arms of Colobrieres beside the 
 yellow earthenware plates, returned pale as death to the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " M. le Chevalier has not been in the sitting-room," said 
 she to the old domestic; " do you know where he is, Tonin?" 
 
 The latter having replied in the negative, she exclaimed : — 
 
 " Oh, heavens! I am certain that he has gone up stairs — 
 that he is trying to climb the balcony ! Ah, unhappy wretch 
 that I am ! — and it is I ! If he falls I will throw myself after 
 him!" 
 
 She darted up the staircase, crossed several halls completely 
 dismantled and exposed to every blast, and reached the 
 entrance of a ruined turret, the sole window of which was a 
 large breach in the wall from which projected a stone balcony, 
 Gaston was standing upon the embrasure. He had already 
 seized his booty and was endeavouring to regain the door of the 
 turret. Madeleine Panozon knew perhaps better than he the 
 peril which he incurred in crossing this space which might 
 
42 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 crumble to pieces beneath his feet ; she leaned forward in an 
 agony of terror and alarm, and cried in a stifled voice, — 
 
 " Do not advance a step ! — keep along by the wall — gently!" 
 
 For a few minutes all was silence, and then La Rousse 
 heard the footsteps of Gaston de Colobrieres whose form was 
 hidden in the gloom, and who advanced towards her, keeping 
 near the wall. 
 
 " Here," said he, holding out the little basket in which he 
 had placed the eggs ; " take care that you do not break them, 
 and hasten down as quickly as you can to the kitchen. As 
 you pass, you can take the pears which I left at the bottom of 
 the staircase." 
 
 "Holy virgin! And how did you ever manage to get 
 them?" cried the young girl. 
 
 ^'Parbleuf I climbed up the pear-tree to be sure," replied 
 Gaston. 
 
 "And, almost at the sanae moment, you have twice risked 
 vour life to add two dishes to this lady's supper!" murmur«d 
 La Rousse with singular bitterness. 
 
 Then, without knowing wherefore, she burst into tears. 
 Prom this moment a feeling of aversion and smothered hatred 
 for the pretty cousin of Gaston de Colobrieres took possession 
 of Madeleine Panozon's bosom. 
 
 After having accomplished these perilous enterprises, Gaston 
 noiselessly entered the family drawing-room and seated himself 
 apart from the rest, for the presence of this young girl who 
 conversed with so much ease and grace intimidated and 
 embarrassed him. During supper he did not once address 
 her directly, and it was with deep vexation that he felt the 
 blood mount to his brow each time that, raising her eyes of 
 an undecided blue to his face, she seemed to question or reply 
 to him. When the clock struck nine the baron rose from his 
 arm-chair, and making a sign to the baroness to take a light, 
 proceeded, according to old-fashioned custom, to conduct the 
 new-comer to the bedchamber assigned to her. This room, 
 which was also the one in which Anastasia slept, was the same 
 that Agatha de Colobrieres had formerly occupied. Nothing 
 had been added to or changed in regard to the furniture; 
 there the same arrangement was still observed, and the apart- 
 ment presented the same careful and almost elegant appear- 
 ance. 
 
 The baron and his wife retired after having tenderly 
 embraced Eleonora. When they had left the room the young 
 girl threw herself on a chair, and, leaning her forehead upon 
 Anastasia's shoulder, burst into a flood of tears. 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 43 
 
 *' Dear cousin! what is the matter? what has happened?" 
 demanded the latter affectionately. 
 
 "Ah!" replied she, "I did not expect so kind a greeting. 
 The Baron de Colobrieres calls me his niece, he receives mo 
 under his roof; but my poor mother I can plainly see has 
 not been forgiven. When I endeavoured to speak of her to 
 him, he frowned and changed the conversation. Alas! will 
 he never pardon her?" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The day following the arrival of Mademoiselle Maragnon at 
 the Chateau de Colobrieres, as the first beams of the rising 
 sun were penetrating through the chinks of the badly-joined 
 shutters, and bathing in its rosy light the apartment in which 
 the two cousins slept, Eleonora suddenly awoke, and raising 
 herself on her elbow, contemplated for a moment the decayed 
 furniture, the finely chiselled sculptures, and the mouldering 
 ceiling, at the four corners of which the cherubims covered 
 with their interlaced wings the heraldic thistle of the Colo- 
 brieres; then turning round with an infantine gesture, she 
 passed her hand across the still closed eyes of Anastasia as if 
 to chase away sleep, and said as she kissed her forehead: — 
 
 '* Good morning! cousin." 
 
 "Good morning!" returned the latter, embracing her. 
 "But come, quick — quick, let us rise; the day will seem so 
 short to us !" 
 
 They dressed themselves hastily, and then knelt down to pray . 
 together. The tvro cousins had passed a great portion of the 
 night in conversation, and Anastasia had at length learned 
 the sort of family secret which had been so long and so care- 
 fully concealed from her. The proud young girl was astonished 
 that a daughter of the blood of Colobrieres could have thus 
 lowered herself; but the prejudices of her education could 
 not succeed in stifling the feeling of sympathy and friendship 
 with which the daughter of Pierre Maragnon had already 
 inspired her, and it was with a sort of transport that she 
 abandoned herself to this new and charming intimacy. 
 
 Eleonora opened the window and stepped out upon the 
 narrow balcony, where a melancholy pictur-e was presented to 
 her view. At her feet she perceived the principal court-yard, 
 still in part paved with large slabs, between which sprang up 
 
44 THE 0I1> CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 the sterile briar and useless dog-grass. At the back of this 
 open space stretched a long suite of apartments, whose yawning 
 windows had long since l3een destitute of glass or shutters, 
 while the huge square tower, which went by the name of the 
 donjon, overtopped with its solid masonry these ruined walls. 
 The two wings which formed the sides of the court were in the 
 same state of dilapidation ; all the windows were completely 
 open to every breeze of heaven, and the swallows now built 
 in the^ ceiling of the old hall, where formerly had commenced 
 that romantic adventure which was concluded in the church 
 of Saint-Peyre. 
 
 ** This, then, is the dwelling and domain of the ColobrieresI" 
 murmured Eleonora with a sigh; "what ruin! what decay!" 
 
 She leaned pensively over the balcony, her eyes swimming 
 in tears. The aspect of this dilapidated spot made a painful 
 impression on her heart, and at this moment the rich heiress 
 of Pierre Maragnon regretted that she did not bear the name 
 of Colobrieres, which would have given her the right of re- 
 storing these fast crumbling ruins. 
 
 "We are poor, cousin," said Anastasia with tranquil pride ; 
 *' but look you, nobility is better than riches, and our father 
 lives here as contented and as highly respected as a king. 
 And, after all, what does it matter if time demolishes these 
 vast halls which we do not inhabit? — the portion of the chateau 
 which we occupy is still solid ; and if it should threaten to 
 decay, we will establish ourselves in the donjon. The donjon 
 tower will not fall ; it will stand for ages, although it is as old 
 as the name of Colobrieres itself." 
 
 "The tower of Bel veser was still older, it is said," said 
 •Eleonora, turning her eyes towards the ruins which were 
 visible upon the horizon. 
 
 "Yes, so my father says; but it was not time which over- 
 threw it," replied Anastasia quickly ; " it was taken by assault, 
 sacked, and dismantled, by the Spaniards in the time of 
 Charles the Fifth. One of their commanders, Garcilaso, a great 
 poet and a brave captain, was mortally wounded in the assault, 
 and the Emperor his master, by whom he was greatly beloved, 
 gave no quarter to the besieged. A Colobrieres, who com- 
 manded the garrison, was killed in the breach. Gaston read 
 ine the whole history during the long evenings. Well, cousin ! 
 it is a pretty title that of the lady of Belveser, and the old 
 tower is a noble edifice ; only I cannot conceive how you have 
 managed to find a spot fit to live in there." 
 
 "Live up there?" said Eleonora with a smile; "no one 
 ever thought of such a thijig, I imagine, since the passage of 
 
GASTON 1)E COLOBillERES. 45 
 
 the Emperor Charles the Fifth's soldiers ! My mother preferred 
 building another chateau." 
 
 "A chateau!" repeated Anastasia, casting her eyes round 
 the plain. 
 
 ''Come," continued Eleonora, "let. us climb to the top of 
 the donjon, and from thence I will show you the spot where 
 my mother now lives. Perhaps at this very moment she 
 is seated upon the terrace, and turning her eyes in this 
 du'ection." 
 
 " I have never ascended the tower alone," replied Anastasia, 
 whose curiosity was vividly excited ; " but we will go and call 
 Gaston." 
 
 They descended the staircase hand in hand. There was 
 no one in the sitting-room. The baron was under the hands of 
 the barber, who came every Sunday to shave him ; Madame 
 de Colobrieres was lecturing La Kousse in the kitchen ; and 
 Gaston had become invisible. 
 
 "Ah, the naughty fellow 1" said Anastasia, after having 
 called him repeatedly in vain ; "I begin to think, cousin, that 
 he is afraid of your pretty face." 
 
 "He must positively accustom himself to it, however," 
 replied Eleonora, gaily. 
 
 "We can ascend the tower alone," continued Anastasia; 
 "we shall encounter neither wood-demons, evil spirits, nor 
 in short any one. Come, follow me!" 
 
 Beyond the court of honour, and behind the main portion 
 of the dwelling-house, there ran a ditch or fosse whose depth 
 was concealed by a thick growth of bramble which completely 
 filled it. On the other side of this abyss opened the door of 
 the tower. It had formerly been reached by a drawbridge, 
 but this means of communication had long ceased to exist, and 
 its place had been in a manner supplied by filling up the moat 
 so as to form a narrow causeway strengthened by sloping 
 banks. The timid Eleonora crossed this narrow bridge, 
 trembling at every step, and following her cousin closely ; for 
 she heard the green lizards rustle beneath the brambles, and 
 the frogs croak mournfully at the foot of the old tower. These 
 sounds, to which her ear was not accustomed, caused an in- 
 definable sensation of terror in her breast, and her uncle's 
 chateau began to appear in her eyes a most melancholy abode. 
 Anastasia boldly pushed open the door of the donjon, which 
 had long remjiined ajar, as the key no longer revolved within 
 the rusty lock, and mounted first the rugged staircase which 
 wound in spiral rings up to the higher stories of the tower. 
 The aspect of the place presented nothing terrifying ; the sun 
 
46 THE OLD CONVENTS OP PATHS. 
 
 shone brightly down upon the time-worn steps, and the spar- 
 rows fluttered gaily about the wmdow-sills. After having 
 climbed about a hundred steps, the two young girls found 
 themselves upon a narrow landing. 
 
 **We must now ascend to the summit," said Anastasia, 
 pointing to another staircase still more steep and narrow than 
 the preceding one, and which was supported on one side by 
 the wall, and bordered on the other by a slight wooden 
 hand-rail. 
 
 This stone ladder led straight to the summit of the donjon, 
 and opened upon a little platform between the battlements, 
 which formed a species of balcony of about half the height of 
 a man's body. 
 
 " Come on!" cried Eleonora, this time distancing her cousin. 
 They mounted the staircase nimbly and paused at the top, 
 charmed at the aspect of the landscape which lay stretched 
 beneath their feet. The sun had scattered the veil of mist 
 which during the night had rested on the valley, and its con- 
 quering rays now seemed to penetrate every corner of creation. 
 The autumn had strewn here and there its sombre tints; but 
 the new vegetation had already begun to appear beneath the 
 yellow vine leaves which the wind "had scattered abroad, and 
 in the fields the young wheat stems could already be seen 
 sprouting^ up above the soil. Eleonora placed her hand upon 
 her cousin's arm, and said, as she pointed out to her the 
 rivulet with its fringe of poplars which flowed through the 
 plain : — 
 
 "Look there, Anastasia: do you see beyond those trees a 
 bridge thrown over the stream?" 
 
 ** Yes," replied she; **and beyond- that again I can distin- 
 guish something like an immense garden, and still farther off 
 the front of a splendid edifice. Yonder house cannot have 
 been built long, cousin?" 
 
 " It is scarcely finished yet," replied Eleonora; ** when my 
 mother purchased the tower of Belveser, about three months 
 ago, she wished to increase her property, and bought at the 
 same time a piece of land in the valley. In place of repairing 
 the tower, bhe erected a handsome dwelling-house at the foot 
 of the hill, and it is the new Chateau de Belveser that you see 
 yonder." 
 
 "A beautiful new chateau!" said Anastasia, admiringly. 
 
 *' We shall henceforth reside at Belveser half the year," con- 
 tinued Eleonora; "the situation pleases my mother, and she 
 can almost fancy that she is still at Colobrieres. When we 
 stroll together in the evenings on the terrace, our eyes are 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 47 
 
 constantly turned in this direction ; but wc can only perceive 
 the battlements of this old tower." 
 
 "It commands all the neighbouring country," said Anas- 
 tasia; "it was here that the seignorial standard formerly 
 waved." 
 
 While thus speaking she turned her eyes towards the flag- 
 staff, which rose like a lofty mast from the interior parapet of 
 the platform ; but scarcely had she cast her eyes upon it when 
 she exclaimed : — 
 
 "Holy Virgin! the flag-staff is all blackened, as if it had 
 been in the flames, and the iron escutcheon which was nailed 
 to the foot of it has disappeared!" 
 
 She approached nearer and looked over the parapet. 
 
 "Ah, heavens!" said she, recoiling in alarm, "the floors 
 have crumbled away and the tower is like a huge empty hive ! 
 This disaster must have occurred during the last storm : it 
 has been struck by lightning, that is certain." 
 
 She struck the charred wood with her hand, and at the 
 slight shock the- flag- staff* tottered for an instant and fell over 
 the parapet, a fragment only of the pole remaining fixed in 
 the stone. 
 
 "The lightning has struck it," said Anastasia, with a sort 
 of stupor; "this forebodes some direful event — some mis- 
 fortune will surely happen to the house of Colobrieres." 
 
 "Oh! cousin, let us descend," cried Eleonora'; "the place 
 we are standing on may perhaps fall also." 
 
 "IsTo; these walls are solid," said Anastasia, stamping on 
 the stones with which the platform was flagged ; "the wood- 
 work alone is damaged ; fear nothing, cousin — I will go first — 
 follow me." 
 
 So saying, she quickly descended the first flight of steps, 
 and on reaching the landing-place turned round, as if by a 
 gesture to summon Eleonora to her side. The latter, before 
 descending the first step, placed her hand upon the balustrade 
 to assure herself of its stability ; but the electric fluid, after 
 having struck the flag-staff*, had glided along the staircase, 
 reducing to powder the iron damps which fastened the light 
 wood-work to the stone steps, and the frail barrier immediately 
 became detached and fell with a crash into the depths below. 
 Eleonora started back with a piercing cry. She was seized 
 with vertigo at the sight of those narrow steps, suspended as 
 it were over an abyss; her knees trembled; it seemed to her 
 that an invincible power impelled her towards the gulph, and 
 she instinctively grasped the parapet, turning away at the 
 same time hor head. 
 
48 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PAllIS. 
 
 *"= Oil, my mother!" she cried, with an indescribable accent 
 of terror and despair; "Oh! my mother! Oh! my dear 
 Dominick! come to my assistance." 
 
 "I will come and help you, cousin; don't be afraid," cried 
 Anastasia. 
 
 In fact, the courageous girl did ascend a few steps, but her 
 heart failed her when she beheld the abyss beneath her feet, 
 and, leaning against the wall, she in her turn uttered screams 
 of distress. 
 
 This time Gaston heard her. A moment afterwards he 
 arrived breathless upon the landing. Seizing his sister by the 
 hand, he made her seat herself on the ground, then with 
 rapid bounds he ascended the perilous staircase. Eleanora 
 was leaning against the parapet ; he took her in his arms and 
 pressed her to his bosom, saying : — 
 
 " Your head is giddy — close your eyes." 
 
 Then he descended with firm and cautious steps, and depo- 
 sited her in safety beside his sister on the landing-place. The 
 young girl remained for a moment as if senseless. She was 
 deadly pale, and made no reply to her cousin, who called aloud 
 her name and embraced her, shedding at the same time a flood 
 of tears. Gaston gazed upon her with emotion, but kept 
 silence. Arousing herself at length from her stupor. Made- 
 moiselle Maragnon threw herself into the arms of Anastasia, 
 and then turning quickly towards Gaston, she embraced him 
 warmly, crying: — 
 
 "My good cousin! Oh, how my mother will love you 
 when she hears that you have done this !" 
 
 This innocent and spontaneous burst of gratitude produced 
 almost the same effect upon Gaston as the sight of the dark 
 abyss of the tower had done on Eleonora ; he changed coun- 
 tenance, turned away his eyes, and replied in a broken 
 voice: — 
 
 " Cousin, what I have done is quite simple and very natural." 
 
 " You have risked your life to bring me from yonder ter- 
 rible place," said Eleonora with animation. 
 
 Gaston recollected at this moment the perilous ascent which 
 he had made the evening before for the acquisition of a dozen 
 eggs, and he murmured with a sigh, and smiling faintly: — 
 
 "I have sometimes risked my life for a less matter." 
 
 He advanced again towards the staircase, and seeking at 
 least to disguise the agitation he could not yet overcome, he 
 affected to contemplate with attention the havoc which the last 
 storm had caused in the donjon. 
 
 ** What a disaster!" said he, looking down ; "all the ceilings 
 
GASTON DB COLOBRIERES. 49 
 
 have fallen in, and the woodwork is lying in a heap upon the 
 vault of the ground-floor. All is gone ; the knight's hall, that 
 of the archives, and the treasury no longer exist." 
 
 " Fortunately they were empty," observed Anastasia, with 
 lif/'he simplicity. 
 
 "It is useless to inform my father of this event," continued 
 Gaston; "he never comes here. He will remain ignorant 
 that the donjon possesses now only the staircase and the four 
 walls. We shall merely show him that the flag-staif is 
 broken." 
 
 "Yes, yes, it will be better so," said Anastasia, eagerly; 
 "I trust at least that he may not hear of his misfortune 
 to-day." 
 
 "In order that he may not date the occurrence as taking 
 place the. day following my arrival at the Chateau de Colo- 
 brieres," said Eleonora sighing and pressing her cousin's hand 
 within her own; "Alas! I trust that my presence here may 
 not be a presage of misfortune!" 
 
 Thus speaking, she rose to descend, but her knees still 
 trembled, and in place of leaning on Anastasia's arm she took 
 Gaston's, saying to him in an affectionate and plaintive voice : — 
 
 "My good cousin, it seems to me as if the very stones 
 trembled beneath my feet; but with you I am not afraid." 
 
 Gaston did not reply ; he also was trembling, and one would 
 have said his arm sank iDeneath the pressure of the little hand 
 that rested upon it. After having slowly descended the stair- 
 case, Eleonora paused at the foot of the tower upon the narrow 
 causeway, and gazed around her, listening to the sounds which 
 alone disturbed the silence of this deserted spot. The frogs 
 continued their melancholy croak; quick sudden rustlings 
 might be heard under the dark foliage ; and the atmosphere 
 was impregnated with a slight aromatic odour, which an- 
 nounced the presence of reptiles concealed in the damp recesses 
 of the moat. 
 
 "Cousin," said Anastasia, taking the other arm of the young 
 girl within her own, as if to completely reassure her, "confess 
 that if you were here alone, you would be hugely afraid of 
 those reptiles which crawl about below there?" 
 
 " The Chateau de Colobrieres must appear to you a melan- 
 choly abode," added Gaston, timidly; "you will perhaps carry 
 with you, on leaving it, a very unfavourable impression of it?" 
 
 "Oh! no, I am sure I shall not," replied Eleonora quickly, 
 " the aspect of this place is sad it is true, and I feel here a 
 sort of secret fear, an inexpressible melancholy ; but my soul 
 delights in these impressions." 
 
50 THE OLD CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 "You will not willingly recall to mind our expedition to 
 the donjon," said Anastasia; "you will tremble every time 
 you think of the staircase leading to the platform." 
 
 "I shall never think of it without a shudder," replied 
 Eleonora; "but it is very singular, it seems to me that I shall 
 also delight to dwell on the recollection of it. It is the first 
 time in my life that I ever really knew what fear was, and I 
 could not have believed that the joy of escaping so great a 
 danger should leave so pleasurable an emotion in one's mind." 
 
 While thus speaking she involuntarily raised her lovely eyes, 
 beaming with the softest emotion, to Gaston's face, then aban- 
 doning the young man's arm, she proceeded onwards leaning 
 on that of his sister. 
 
 " My dear cousin," said the latter, uneasily, "you are still 
 very pale, you are suffering?" 
 
 "A little," replied Eleonora, passing her hand across her 
 forehead; "my poor head is swimming — the open daylight 
 dazzles me." 
 
 She tottered forward a few steps farther, and on entering 
 the sitting-room she fainted away. 
 
 " Oh! heavens, my dear niece, what has happened?" said 
 the baroness, taking her in her arms, whilst Anastasia in 
 dismay drew forward her father's arm-chair, and cried to La 
 Rousse to bring some vinegar. 
 
 "AYhat has happened?" repeated Madame de Colobrieres, 
 bathing the young girl's temples with cold water, and making 
 her inhale the vinegar cruet which La Rousse had brought. 
 
 "We were walking near the moat," replied Anastasia, 
 "and my cousin was afraid of the serpents." 
 
 "Poor girl! she has not been brought up in the country; 
 she is not accustomed as we are to these horrid reptiles," said 
 the baroness. " What an idea to take her to that place above 
 all others, where I verily believe all the insects of the creation 
 are swarming. You ought to have taken her on the terrace, 
 where she would have seen only the pretty little green lizards 
 and the grasshoppers." 
 
 Eleonora now sighed faintly, opened her eyes, and mur- 
 mured as she pressed her aunt's hand: — 
 
 ' ' Dear aunt ! I feel better already ; pardon me the uneasi- 
 ness I have caused you : I felt very weak, but it has already 
 passed away, and I am now quite myself again." 
 
 She endeavoured to rise, but the baroness gently compelled 
 her to reseat herself. 
 
 "Yes, my child, thank heaven it is nothing," said she; 
 * but you must remain here very quiet. The second bell has 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 61 
 
 already rune for mass, but you must not come with us. 
 Anastasia will remain at home to take care of you and keep 
 you company ; in such a case as this, you are not obliged to 
 att(,^d mass and so you are both excused for to-day." 
 
 The baron had already preceded them. Madame de Colo- 
 brieres searched everywhere for Gaston; but he also had Ir.i'fc 
 the house without having been perceived. 
 
 "Can he have already gone down to the village? I have 
 Kot seen him this morning," said the baroness, a little asto- 
 nished. " Excuse him, my dear niece, he is shy and fears 
 being troublesome." 
 
 The worthy dame took her prayer-book and her parasol of 
 green taffeta^ and called the servants. Old Tonin stood respect- 
 fully aloof, ready to follow his mistress at the first command, 
 and La Rousse had run out and now paused before the 
 chateau, seeking Gaston on every side with an uneasy eye. 
 At length she perceived him. 
 
 "M. le Chevalier is already below on the road," said she, 
 returning to the house; "he is walking as if he would be 
 there the first." 
 
 *' Come on then, I do not wish to be last at church either," 
 said the baroness. 
 
 She kissed her niece, and proceeded on her way followed 
 by Tonin and La- Kousse, both in their Sunday garments, and 
 walking with heads erect like the servants of a noble family 
 in gala costume. 
 
 . The two young girls, left alone in the apartment, looked at 
 each other with a smile, and Anastasia exclaimed gaily: — 
 
 " We are now sovereign mistresses here, and command for 
 the present the domain of Colobrieres in all its extent. Come I 
 what shall we do? First of all, cousin, you must remain 
 quietly in that huge arm-chair, whilst I give my birds their 
 seed, and water my flowers ; after that we will take our coffee — 
 some very nice coffee of roasted grey peas which La Rousse 
 makes famously, and which we will sweeten with some honey 
 from our own hives. You will find it is excellent." 
 
 "It will be delightful!" replied Eleonora, with the same air 
 of contentment and gentle gaiety. 
 
 And yet the tears started to her eyes, for she could not 
 but suspect the straitened circumstances which obliged the 
 Colobrieres family to replace the Mocha herb by an indigenous 
 plant, and colonial sugar by the produce of their bees. 
 
 Anastasia opened the osier cage in which fluttered her green 
 linnets and goldfinches, and made them come out one after the 
 other, callino^ each by its name. The little creatures spread 
 
52 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 themselves joyously over the embrasure of the window, and 
 began to pick up the o^rain which the young girl had thrown 
 them, A moment afterwards she recalled them, and they 
 quietly re-entered their prison. 
 
 "They are indeed very well bred," said Eleonora; "but 
 do you not think that they would be happier in the fields? If 
 I were in your place I would give them their liberty. Ah ! 
 cousin, how joyously they would fly away." 
 
 "]N'ot at all, I have tried them," replied Anastasia; "I 
 have repeatedly allowed them to leave the cage, and once ac- 
 tually chased them from the place. They remained outside 
 all day, and in the evening returned and began fluttering 
 round their cage, endeavouring to get in again. This circum- 
 stance led me to reflect deeply, and has relieved my mind from 
 a very painful feeling." 
 
 "You have already had cause for sorrow, then, my dear 
 Anastasia?" said Mademoiselle Maragnon, with a degree of 
 interest not unmixed with astonishment. 
 
 The young girl drew a chair near Eleonora's couch, and, 
 taking her hand affectionately, she replied in a simple and 
 unaffected, yet serfous tone — 
 
 "You have been brought up in the world, my dear cousin, 
 while I have always lived the life of a poor recluse ; and yet 
 events have passed around me which have made me reflect and 
 weep. The tranquil and monotonous existence which we lead 
 here has been chequered by several of those events whi(3h leave 
 deep and lasting regrets in a family, and, young as I was, I 
 have felt how painful it is to part for ever from those that are 
 dear to us." 
 
 She checked herself for a moment, as if overcome by recol- 
 lections which recurred the more forcibly to her mind that 
 she was not accustomed to dwell upon them ; then she re- 
 sumed in an agitated voice: — 
 
 " I had six sisters, cousin ; the eldest I never saw ; she was 
 already in the convent of La Misericorde when I was born. 
 But I can recollect the others well. As I was the youngest, 
 they lavished on me a thousand ^marks of affection and kind- 
 ness. They did their utmost. to spoil me, and in return I 
 loved them with all my heart. Alas! I saw them depart, one 
 after the other, for the cloister ; and my great brothers, as I 
 used to call them, left us also. At each separation we felt a 
 new pang. Our feelings were not displayed openly, however ; 
 everything in the household appeared to go on as usual ; my 
 father's firmness never for an instant deserted him, but my 
 mother would remain 'melancholy a long time, and I wept 
 
GASTON DE COLOBllIERES. 53 
 
 every day on seeing another vacant place at the table. It is 
 now five years since my last sister took the veil. The grief 
 that I experienced on seeing her depart has become mitigated ; 
 but since I have ceased to be a child, and have begun to re- 
 flect, I have felt serious uneasiness and fear. I have no in- 
 clination for a conventual life. I feel that a convent is only 
 another name for a prison, and I have fancied that my sisters 
 must be very unhappy. Sometimes I have thought that if 
 it should be my father's will to doom me to a like fate, I could 
 not accustom myself to the cloister, and should for ever regret 
 my liberty. And yet when I saw my birds accustom them- 
 selves to their cage so well that they had no longer any wish 
 to leave it, I thought that my sisters had perhaps also ended 
 by growing reconciled to their convent, which is a tranquil 
 and easy prison ; then I felt in a measure consoled, and our 
 eternal separation appeared to me depicted in milder colours." 
 
 Wliilst Anastasia was speaking. Mademoiselle Maragnon 
 had clasped her in her arms. 
 
 " My sweet cousin," cried she, pressing her to her bosom, 
 " all these sorrows are past and gone; your sisters, doubtless, 
 live contented and happy, and you will never enter a convent, 
 will you?" 
 
 " I believe that it is my father's wish to keep mc with him," 
 replied the young girl; " yes, I hope to remain here always." 
 
 "And we shall often see each other, and we will love each 
 other like two sisters, shall we not?" resumed Eleanora. 
 
 " Oh, yes indeed! I wish for nothing so much," cried 
 Anastasia. ** I fancy I love you already almost as well as my 
 last sister, my poor Sidonia, who is now called sister Anne of 
 the Trinity." 
 
 They remained for a few moments silent and melancholy ; 
 then, with the quick transition of feeling so natural to theii* 
 age, they began to speak of the incident which had so seriously 
 alarmed Eleonora. 
 
 "Cousin," said Anastasia all at once, "when you were 
 leaning against the parapet calling for help, you called your 
 mother, and then afterwards another person." 
 
 "Yes, my cousin Dominick," replied Mademoiselle Marag- 
 non : " oh yes, I remember; I thought of him then, and called 
 him." 
 
 " Ah! you have a cousin then whom you love dearly also?" 
 said Anastasia, in a tone of regret. 
 
 "Yes, my sweet Anastasia; I will introduce him to you, 
 and you will I hope love him also a little. He is the son of 
 
54 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 my uncle Jacques Maragnon, a very honest man, and one cf 
 the richest merchants ot Marseilles." 
 
 *'I should like with all my heart to know all your family," 
 said Anastasia, with some embarrassment; " but my father has 
 peculiar ideas. Who knows, dear cousin, if he will permit 
 me to return your visit?" 
 
 " Yes, it is indeed doubtful/' murmured Eleonora, saddened 
 by this observation; "he has not pardoned my mother, and 
 yet I have found favour in his eyes. Although I bear the 
 name of Maragnon, he called me his niece." 
 
 *' Yes, his niece, Mademoiselle de Belveser," replied Anas- 
 tasia, shaking her head. " However, we shall see what his 
 will is. And tell me, cousin, is M. Dominick a young man 
 of Gaston's age?" 
 
 "Yes, very nearly," replied Eleonora; "and if you only 
 knew how amiable, how lively, and how handsome he is!" 
 
 " As handsome as Gaston?" asked Anastasia, ingenuously. 
 
 "Oh! no, cousin," replied Mademoiselle Maragnon, without 
 hesitation. 
 
 During this conversation Mademoiselle de Colobrieres had 
 drawn forward the table, on which La Kousse had previously 
 arranged two large yellow cups, the pot of honey which served 
 in place of sugar, and a large loaf of household bread, in the 
 composition of which more rye than wheat had certainly been 
 employed. 
 
 "Cousin," said she, placing on the table an old earthenware 
 vessel, containing the bitter decoction which the inhabitants 
 of Colobrieres called their coffee, "we shall now go to break- 
 fast if you please." 
 
 As soon as the coffee was served, a large brindled greyhound, 
 which had been sleeping under the table, rose from his lair and 
 piaved his long serpent-like head upon Anastasia's knee. 
 
 ''This is Lambin, my brother's dog," said the young girl, 
 patting him; "an animal of the very worst character, I warn 
 you, cousin." 
 
 And as Eleonora put out her hand to caress him, she added 
 quickly : — 
 
 " Do not touch him! he would bite you even if you were to 
 offer him something to eat. He is a charnaigre, one of the 
 most ferocious species of dogs." 
 
 "He has not in fact a very prepossessing appearance/* 
 said Eleonora, drawing back: "what a ferocious eye! Oh, 
 the horrid animal 1 See, cousin, he knows I am speaking ill 
 of him — look how his hair is rising on his back!" 
 
GASTON DK COLOBRIEBES. 55 
 
 He hears some noise outside," said Anastasia, turning her 
 * L's towards the window. 
 
 " He would bark if it were a stranger?" 
 
 ' ' No, he is what is called a treacherous dog ; he does not 
 i)rirk, but merely bites. Something annoys him at this mo- 
 1 IK' lit — see how uneasy he is." 
 
 W^hilst his young mistress spoke, the dog, without moving 
 Ills head, turned his glaring eye towards the door, and threw 
 hai'k his slender and pointed ears. 
 
 • • Most probably some traveller is passing along the road 
 below the chateau," continued Anastasia; "or perhaps there 
 is some one outside." 
 
 *' All the doors are open and we are alone," observed Eleo- 
 nora, uneasily. 
 
 **Do not be alarmed, cousin; Lambin guards us," replied 
 Anastasia, with a smile ; " he is wicked, it is true, but then 
 he is brave and faithful." 
 
 At this moment the dog roscj his hair bristling^ and his eye 
 glaring ; he had heard a hoarse voice murmuring under the 
 window : — 
 
 "Charity in the name of the Saviour, good souls of the 
 Lord! Charity, if you please!" 
 
 " It is some poor man," said Anastasia, cutting off a lump 
 of bread. " Here, Lambin! here! Don't bite the poor man; 
 go and lie down!" 
 
 The dog obeyed, growling, and Anastasia went up to the 
 window to hand the piece of bread to the mendicant, who, far 
 from thanking her, said insolently: — 
 
 *' It is not bread I want, I must have money." 
 
 " Go away, I have no money," replied the young girl, 
 coldly. 
 
 And as the beggar insisted in an almost threatening tone, 
 she repeated haughtily : — 
 
 " I have no money to give you — begone." 
 
 "I have some!" said Eleonora in alarm, and searching in 
 her pockets. "Here, cousin, send away that horrid man as 
 quickly as you can*" 
 
 The imprudent girl had scarcely uttered these words when 
 the mendicant entered the gate of the chateau, and advanced 
 boldly into the grand court-yard. He was a man still in the 
 prime of life. His long uncombed beard descended upon his 
 naked breast ; he carried a wallet like a mendicant friar ♦ and 
 one would have said that the squalid rags with which he was 
 clothed had formerly been some military uniform. 
 
56 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 ' ** O, Heavens!" said Eleonora, more dead than alive, " the 
 wretch is coming in here. Who knows with what design? I 
 am dreadfully frightened, cousin!" 
 
 The mendicant advanced to the door of the room. 
 
 "Begone!" cried Anastasia aloud, "leave this instantly, or 
 I will let loose my dog upon you!" 
 
 The mendicant raised his knotted cudgel with a sneering 
 laugh, and advanced another step. 
 
 "At him, LambinI — ^guard the door!" cried Anastasia. 
 " Seize that man! Tear him!" 
 
 The greyhound darted forward open-mouthed, his long tail 
 trailing on the ground like that of a panther, sprang at the 
 throat of the beggar, pulled him to the ground, and began 
 silently to throttle him. 
 
 "Call off your dog! Mercy! I am a dead man!" cried 
 the wretch in a stifled voice. 
 
 Anastasia recalled the dog, who, animated by the combat, 
 had fallen furiously upon his prey, and seemed in no hurry to 
 obey her commands. At length however he loosened his 
 hold. The beggar arose uttering fearful curses, regained the 
 terrace, and instantly disappeared at a turning of the road. 
 
 "He would have killed us," said Eleonora, with an air of 
 conviction. 
 
 "No, I do not think so," replied Anastasia, calmly; "he 
 would have taken your money, and that pretty watch he saw 
 glittering at your belt. He would have perhaps amused him- 
 self with exciting our fears, but I do not think that he would 
 have offered us any violence." 
 
 "No matter," said Eleonora, advancing her pretty little 
 hand towards the dog — "no matter, even at the risk of being 
 bitten, I must pat the pointed muzzle of brave Lambin, who 
 so courageously defended us." 
 
 "These are agreeable incidents, however, in your expedi- 
 tion to the Chateau de Colobrieres," said Anastasia, with me- 
 lancholy gaiety; " twice in the same morning you have been 
 almost frightened to death." 
 
 "The first time, I confess, I was very much alarmed," re- 
 plied Mademoiselle Maragnon, "but I have already quite re- 
 covered. A few more encounters like these, and I shall be 
 able to cross an abyss without shuddering, and no longer fear 
 the most determined bandit, not to speak of serpents, green 
 lizards, or anything else, animate or inanimate." 
 
 About noon the baron and his lady were descried ascendinp^ 
 the road leading to the Chateau de Colobrieres. They found 
 
GASTON Dii COLOBllIERES. 5? 
 
 the two cousins awaltin*^ their approach, strolling up and down 
 the piece of waste land bordered by mulberry-trees, "which 
 the old gentleman called the grand alley. 
 
 *' My lord," said Eleonora, advancing with an air of winning 
 respect, " I was not able to pay my duty to you this morning. 
 Permit me now to wish you good morning, and to enquire 
 afber your health." 
 
 *'l'am quite well, my dear niece," replied the baron, gal- 
 lantly kissing the mitten which half-covered Eleonora's hand, 
 **and how are you? Madame de Colobrieres informed me 
 that you were rather unwell this morning, and I was truly 
 sorry to hear it." 
 
 *' I feel most grateful for the interest you are kind enough 
 to express, my dear uncle," replied she; *'I am quite reco- 
 vered again, and I only regret that my indisposition has de- 
 prived me of the pleasure of accompanying you. I am so 
 happy to be with you and with my dear aunt, that I should 
 not wish to lose a single one of the moments I am permitted 
 to pass in your society." 
 
 ** She is charming," murmured the baron, elevating his 
 great bushy eyebrows, and turning towards his wife, who re- 
 sponded by a gesture of assent, accompanied with a deep sigh. 
 
 "But where is my brother Gaston?" demanded Anastasia, 
 perceiving that only old Tonin and La Rousse accompanied 
 her father and mother. 
 
 " Has he not yet arrived? That is astonishing," said the 
 baroness. **This morning he left the castle without waiting 
 for us, and I fancied that he had gone on to church before 
 us; but not at all; he did not arrive until after the lessons. 
 As soon as service was over he left church before us, and 
 strode off through the fields at the rate of three leagues an 
 hour; why, I wonder, since he has not yet arrived here." 
 
 " I would lay a wager that M. le Chevalier will re-appear 
 at dinner hour with some dish of his own providing," whis- 
 pered Tonin in La Rousse's ear. 
 
 "A dish for dessert, which he has most probably gathered 
 from some precipice!" murmured the latter, bitterly. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame de Colobrieres entered the chateau. 
 Since their marriage they had never once omitted on Sunday, 
 after mass, playing a game of cards before dinner. On these 
 occasions, in order to render it interesting, the baron would 
 draw from his pocket a few sous, which figured ps the stake, 
 the half of which sum he would lend to the baroness, who never 
 by any chance paid him when she lost, but never failed to ko^'p 
 idl when she won. 
 
58 THE OLD CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 In place of following the old people, Eleonora and lier 
 cousin continued their stroll upon the terrace. Their hands 
 clasped, their heads gently inclined, they paced up and down 
 in silence, crushing with an absent air the little red flowers of 
 the aromatic geranium which carpeted the soil. Each time 
 that they reached the parapet they paused for a moment, and 
 cast a glance along the road. 
 
 After walking thus for about half an hour in profound 
 silence, broken only by a few unconnected observations, Ma- 
 demoiselle Maragnon seated herself, as if fatigued, at the door 
 of the chateau, and said, shaking her head with an air of con- 
 viction — 
 
 " I really believe, cousin, that I frighten your brother." 
 
 "It is very probable," replied Anastasia, gaily; "but, as 
 you said just now, he must accustom himself to your features !" 
 
 The BaroD de Colobrieres religiously preserved certain old 
 customs, in obedience to which Tonin always rang at dinner 
 hour the only bell the chateau could boast of. Its loud and 
 prolonged tones resounded afar off in the silence of the sur- 
 rounding country, startling for a moment the tribe of mag- 
 pies, bold as they were, who were accustomed to hop up even 
 to the terrace. 
 
 "We are going to dine without your brother!" said Eleo- 
 nora, rising. " G-ood heavens ! can anything have happened 
 to him? Does not his absence cause you uneasiness?" 
 
 " He will soon be here," replied Anastasia; " his dog which 
 was following us has disappeared, and since Lambin is no 
 longer here, Gaston is not far off." 
 
 In fact, a moment afterwards Gaston de Colobrieres arrived, 
 holding in his hand an enormous bouquet of flowers inter- 
 mingled with fruit. His dog followed him, fawning on him 
 with a gruff air, and sweeping the ground with his long tail. 
 
 "I am sure he has been to the^Goatherd's Valley!" cried 
 Anastasia; "it is a good league from this even through the 
 fields, and I cannot conceive how he has had time to be there 
 and back." 
 
 So saying she ran to meet her brother, and took the bouquet 
 in her apron, not being able to hold it in her little hands. 
 
 "I have'arrived in time, have I not? — you have not been 
 waiting for me, have you?" said Gaston, drawing the arm of 
 his sister under his own, whilst Eleonora walked on alone and 
 a little in advance with a satisfied and pensive air. 
 
 On entering the family sitting-room, Gaston bowed to his 
 father as if to excuse himself. 
 
 "Hola! M. le Chevalier, you choose your time badlv for 
 
GASTO.N DE COLOBRIERES. 59 
 
 your walks, said tlie old gentleman, with a frown ; *' it is not 
 fitting to bo absent in this way when there are guests at the 
 chateau, for it is po^'t of your duty also to do the honours. I 
 hope you will not leave us any more during the day." 
 
 Gaston de Colobrieres bowed a second time with a gesture 
 of respect and submission, without even endeavouring to ex- 
 plain and justify the act which had drawn on him the paternal 
 admonition ; but Eleonora, hastily taking the bundle of flow erg 
 and fruits which A^astasia held in her apron, placed them 
 before the baron, and said with her most graceful smile : — 
 
 "It was to have the pleasure of presenting you with this 
 lovely bouquet that my cousin took so long a walk ; if he had 
 offered it to me, most certainly instead of scolding him I 
 should have thanked him with all my heart." 
 
 "Howl my pretty niece, has he not hastened to pay that 
 homage to you?" cried the baron; "in my time the young 
 gentlemen were more attentive to the ladies, more ardent, 
 more gallant. In good truth I was much more amiable for- 
 merly when I paid my court to Madame de Colobrieres. 
 Permit me, mademoiselle, to teach monsieur my son how he 
 ought to act in such a case." 
 
 At these words the baron rose, made a profound salutation, 
 presented the bouquet, and kissed one after the other the two 
 fair hands which were extended to receive his offering. 
 
 At this last stroke Gaston altogether lost countenance, and, 
 instead of taking his place at the dinner-table, he felt more 
 inclined to rush out of the room and hide himself in some 
 obscure corner of the chateau. It seemed to him that his 
 charming cousin was inwardly laughing at his awkwardness 
 and timidity, and this thought was so paibful to him that he 
 felt his heart swell with mortification and self-reproach. 
 Although he well knew how to restrain himself, and although 
 the sort of lesson he had just received appeared not to have 
 left the slightest traces of anger or irritation on his features, 
 Eleonora felt that he was secretly annoyed and suffering, and 
 she endeavoured to efface this disagreeable impression. 
 
 " Cousin," said she, "where have you been able to procure 
 these beautiful flowers, and these fruits already rare for the 
 season ? Here is a branch of lemon-tree covered with buds, 
 and jujubes upon the stalk, and ripe pomegranates, and Al- 
 pine strawberries with their beautiful glossy foliage, and jes- 
 samines, and Avild carnations! Where is the garden that 
 yields such beautiful products?" 
 
 " It is a little valley, sheltered by the rocks, which goes bv 
 the name of the Goatherd's Valley," replied Gaston: "m 
 
60 THE OLD COr^VS-NTS OF PAUIS. 
 
 the year round you will find there verdure and flowers, and 
 even in the depth of winter I have sometimes gathered rose- 
 buds in it." 
 
 '*And the owner of this little terrestrial paradise permits 
 you to glean in this manner?" demanded Eleonora. 
 
 " The owner is the Almighty," replied Gaston, with a smile; 
 "and few people care to take the trouble of scaling this para- 
 dise, which is reached only with extreme difficulty by creeping 
 along the pointed rocks." 
 
 "There is no danger, I hope?" demanded the baroness, 
 turning quickly towards her son. 
 
 Then, by a second movement, she cast a rapid glance over 
 her son's new coat, and examined it with some anxiety, fearing 
 to discover some irremediable rent ; but she perceived not the 
 slightest damage, nor the least alteration in the colour of the 
 stuff. 
 
 "Proceed, my son," said she with an air of satisfaction; 
 " you were speaking to us of the sharp rocks which you have, 
 in truth, scaled very safely." 
 
 "And you have not told us why this spot is called the 
 Goatherd's Valley," added Eleonora ; "do you know, cousin?" 
 
 " Yes, but not so well as my father ; for it is not an affair 
 of our time," replied Gaston, turning to the old gentleman 
 with an air of deference. 
 
 " That is well spoken, my son," replied the latter, gravely ; 
 " I certainly am better acquainted than you with the origin of 
 the name which has been given to this spot. The story is a 
 
 simple one, but it has always appeared to me interesting 
 
 About sixty years ^o, a man, a stranger to this part of the 
 country, came and settled below there among the rocks. My 
 father, who had the right of chase and pasture over all the 
 chain of hills which extends from the tower of Belveser to 
 Saint-Peyre, sold him the valley for forty crowns. It was a good 
 price, seeing that the spot was almost inaccessible, and that it 
 was a mere mass of stones. The stranger set to work. He 
 had the strength of an ox and the patience of an ant. After 
 having for two years carted soil upon his rocks, he planted 
 trees, and afterwards constructed several cisterns which 
 served to irrigate his garden. In short, he cultivated this 
 corner of land so well, that, by-and-by, he procured his sub- 
 sistence from it. As he had a little flock of goats, they called 
 him the goatherd. He never invited any one to his dwelling, 
 but all those who scaled his domain were well received. I 
 remember going there once in my youth. The place was like 
 a garden, and the little cabin which he had constructed ibr 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 61 
 
 himself looked neat and comfortable. lie offered me some 
 ' ranges, which I brought to Madame de Colobrieres, and his 
 manners appeared to me polished and well-bred. I fancied 
 that he was a sort of misanthrope, who, deceived either by- 
 wife or mistress, had broken off all connexion with the world ; 
 or, perhaps, some gentleman ruined at play, who, no longer 
 able to liquidate his debts of honour, had voluntarily buried 
 himself in this solitude. Our good friend, the late curate of 
 Saint-Peyre, inclined towards this latter supposition. At last 
 the mystery was cleared up : the goatherd, having attained to 
 an extreme old age, was one day found dead in his cabin upon 
 his straw pallet, a crucifix in his hands, like a hermit. On 
 raising the body to inter it, they saw that he had the Jleur-de- 
 Z25 upon his shoulder, and perceived that he was a convict, 
 who, after having navigated in the royal galleys, had come to 
 terminate his career in peace in this desert spot." 
 
 " The cabin has now become a ruin," added Gaston ; " the 
 trees interlace their branches at random, the fruits have be- 
 come wild, and it is the wind which sows the flowers between 
 the rocks, where scarcely any one ever gathers them." 
 
 "I should like some day to visit this wild paradise," said 
 Eleonora, plucking off one by one, with a thoughtful air, the 
 sprigs of jessamine she held in her hand, and which she was 
 about to make into a bouquet. 
 
 "The enterprise is difficult," observed Anastasia. "The 
 Goatherd's Valley is an almost inaccessible spot ; and you 
 would be very much alarmed, cousin, when you found your- 
 self on the sloping brink of a rock almost as perpendicular as 
 a wall." 
 
 " If I were alone, I doubtless should ; but, leaning on some 
 one's arm, I should not be in the least afraid," replied Ma- 
 demoiselle Maragnon, glancing at her cousin Gaston with an 
 ingenuous air. 
 
 The family dinner was not a splendid one: a lean fowl, 
 which had that very morning been seeking Its living through 
 the fields, and the grouse shot by Gaston, figured alone by the 
 side of a species of epergne which Anastasia had prepared for the 
 occasion with the bunches of fruits and flowers placed in a 
 wicker basket ; but the old gentleman did the honours of his 
 table with a cordiality which supplied all deficiencies. Old 
 Tonin, erect behind his master's chair, anapldn over his arm, 
 waited according to the best traditions of the family, and 
 poured out for the guests to drink the beautiful clear water 
 furnished by the well of the chateau, in the same manner and 
 with the same air as he v/ould have offered Tokay in Bohe- 
 
62 THE OLT> CONVENTS OP PARIS 
 
 mian glasses, or presented hydromel In a silver fla<?on. At 
 the conclusion of.tlie repast, the baron politely offered his 
 hand to Mademoiselle Mara^non, and invited, her to adjourn 
 to the terrace to witness the game of bowls. Before com- 
 mencinof, he requested her to place the mark ; and when she 
 had, with her own fair hands, adjusted the little bowl at the 
 extremity of the alley, he reconducted her ceremoniously to 
 the parapet where the baroness and Anastasia had already 
 taken their places. It was easy to see that the .worthy gen- 
 tleman wished to pay all the honour possible to Mademoiselle 
 Maragnon, and to procure her all the amusements that could 
 be enjoyed at the Chateau de Colobrieres. 
 
 Eleonora became really interested in this rather monotonous 
 spectacle, of two men, during an entire afternoon, going 
 through all the motions incidental to the game of bowls. 
 Anastasia held her cousin's hand clasped in her own, and ob- 
 served with a sigh the shadows lengthening in the valley and 
 the sun which was now rapidly descending on the horizon. 
 At length the sound of carriage wheels was heard on the road 
 beneath. 
 
 **Alas! the moment is come to bid farewell !" said Eleo- 
 nora, rising. 
 
 *' A sad moment," murmured the baroness, turning towards 
 h^r daughter ; "now I would give all the world that this child 
 had never come here." 
 
 "Why, mother?" asked Anastasia, quickly. 
 
 "You will soon know, my child," replied the good dame, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 The baron approached. At the moment when Eleonora 
 was bidding him farewell, and was about perhaps to hazard 
 another appeal In behalf of her mother, he said to her in a 
 serious and dignified to£ie : — . 
 
 "Mademolsella de Belveser, I thank, you for having come 
 to visit us. The baroness, my children, and myself, will ever 
 remember you with affection, and from our retreat here will 
 ever offer up prayers for your happiness. May you be as 
 happy,^ dear niece, as you are good and beautiful! and 
 in all important circumstances of your life, ever remember 
 that you have the blood of the Colobrieres flowing in your 
 veins." 
 
 So saying, the old gentleman embraced Eleonora with visi- 
 ble emotion ; and after having signed to his wife and children 
 to accompany her to her carriage, he saluted her once more, 
 aiid re-entered the chateau. . 
 
 "Dear aunt," said the young girl, her heart oppressed 
 
GASTON DE C01.0BRIERE8. 63 
 
 with melancholy forebodings, "my uncle addressed me as if 
 he were never going to see me again !" 
 
 "Alas! my child, such is his will," replied the baroness; 
 "he already loves you — he is happy in possessing so charming 
 a niece — but he will never pardon his sister." 
 
 " ;My father forbids us, then, ever to see my cousin again !" 
 ejaculated Anastasia, sorrowfully. 
 
 "No, my child, happily he did not speak of that," replied 
 Madame de Colobrieres. "This is his will, such as he made 
 it known to me on returning from mass : I repeat his own 
 words — * I have recognised Mademoiselle de Belveser as my 
 niece, and I have thought it proper that she should come and 
 make acquaintance with our children ; but her place is not 
 amongst us, for never shall her mother enter this chateau 
 again. It must not be said that the Baron de Colobrieres, 
 after having renounced his sister because she married a ple- 
 beian, pardoned her because she became enriched by her 
 marriage. I forbid you, as well as our children, ever to see 
 Madame Maragnon ; and I declare to you, that you will incur 
 my deepest indignation if, unknown to me, you visit the Cha- 
 teau de Belveser, under pretext of returning this visit.' " 
 
 " Ah !" murmured Eleonora, "this is, indeed, cruel I Dear 
 Anastasia, I should have been so happy to have received you 
 in our house — in my mother's house !" 
 
 The two young girls threw themselves, sobbing, into each 
 other's arms ; the baroness also put her handkerchief to her 
 eyes : Gaston alone did not weep, but he drooped his head 
 with a mournful air, and inwardly stifled his grief, the cause 
 of which he was unable to comprehend. 
 
 At length the baroness recovered a little, and after a few 
 moments' reflection she said to the two distressed cousins : — 
 
 "My children, I have thought of a means of obeying the 
 baron's orders, without your ceasing to see each other. My 
 niece will not return to the chateau, nor can we return her 
 visit at Belveser, but it h not forbidden us to meet somewhere 
 half-way." 
 
 " Oh, mother, what a good idea!'* interrupted Anastasia. 
 
 "Dear, good mother, how well you know how to advise in 
 all things !" said Gaston with animation. 
 
 "Ah, aunt, how frequently I shall come and walk in this 
 neighbourhood, if I may hope to meet you sometimes !" cried 
 Eleonora, pressing the old lady's hands to her heart. 
 
 '^1 scarcely ever leave the chateau," returned Madame de 
 Colobrieres; "I am obliged to keep the baron company ; but 
 
04 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 Gaston and his sistor take long walks, and they will often 
 meet you at the limits of the domain of Belveser." 
 
 " There is a place in the valley below, just under the hill, 
 where Anastasia and I used frequently to go last winter," 
 added Gaston : "it is called the Capuchin's Rock." 
 
 *' Because the good people of the neighbourhood fancy they 
 can discern on the rock the impress of a sandal," said Eleonora ; 
 ** I also have often strolled that way, and am well acquainted, 
 both with the Capuchin's Rock and all the neighbourhood 
 round it." 
 
 " It is there then that we will meet," said Anastasia ; " I will 
 come there with Gaston, and you can join us." 
 
 "Yes," replied Eleonora; "Mademoiselle de la Roche- 
 Lambert will accompany me ; the distance is not great and 
 we can easily accomplish it on foot." 
 
 "What, both alone through the fields?" interrupted Anas- 
 tatia; "do not be so venturous, cousin; the valley is very 
 lonely and you might meet ill-disposed people." 
 
 "If I had my cousin's dog with me I should not fear; he 
 would be quite sufficient escort," said Mademoiselle Maragnon 
 with a smile ; "but in default of brave Lambin, I will endeavour 
 to find some one to protect us." 
 
 The carriage had now reached the entrance of the terrace, 
 
 , and at a sign from Eleonora the coachman stopped his horses. 
 
 Tender adieus were mutually exchanged ; the baroness pressed 
 
 Mademoiselle Maragnon to her heart calling her her beloved 
 
 niece, and whispered in her ear: — 
 
 "My dear child, assure your poor mother of my continued 
 love, and embrace her for me — for me you understand?" 
 
 "Come, mademoiselle! come, your mother is impatient to 
 see you again," cried Mademoiselle de la Roche-Lambert from 
 the interior of the carriage. 
 
 Eleonora embraced Mademoiselle de Colobrieres once more 
 and then turning towards Gaston who stood aloof, she held 
 out her hand to him with a timid gesture, and said in a tremb- 
 ling voice: — "Farewell, cousin." 
 
 In another moment the carriage was rolling rapidly on its 
 way towards Belveser, and the Colobrieres family had entered 
 their dwelling pensive and melancholy. This visit had been 
 a great event for the entire family. Anastasia's thoughts as 
 well as her mother's dwelt constantly on it, but it seemed as 
 though a tacit convention had been entered into never to 
 speak of it in the baron's presence, and at supper the name of 
 Eleonora was not once pronounced. 
 
GASTON DB COLOBRIERJIS. 65 
 
 The evenings were already long, and they spent this one 
 seated around the table. The baron once more commenced 
 his game of cards with his wife, Anastasia leaned pensively 
 on the table as if watching the game, and Gaston strolled out 
 to muse on the terrace. For the first time in his life he com- 
 prehended certain ideas which he had found in books, and 
 which the old cure of Saint- Peyre had but imperfectly ex- 
 plained to him. Faculties hitherto unknown were aroused 
 within him, new chords vibrated in his heart, and he aban- 
 doned himself to these impressions with a sort of astonishment. 
 But he was too inexperienced, too simple-minded to unravel 
 the conflicting sensations which were passing within him, or 
 to take alarm at this vague tenderness, this indescribable sad- 
 ness which had taken possession of him. Whilst Gaston, erect 
 against the parapet, his gaze lost in the depths of the darken- 
 ing landscape, mused over the incidents of the day, recalling 
 one by one to his recollection every incident that had marked 
 its progress, La Rousse glided along the platform, and silently 
 seated herself a few paces distant from him. La Rousse was 
 a tolerably pretty girl, tall, slender, and of an equivocal fair- 
 ness of complexion, which had procured for her the surname 
 of the Red-haired. Her light grey eyes were bordered by 
 long pale eyelashes, and her complexion was that dull white 
 tint which braves the sun's most ardent caresses. 
 
 It was now about five years since Madeleine had first entered 
 the baropess's service, in which she might reasonably look 
 forward to remaining all her life ; for in the old families of 
 that day great regard was paid to good service, and to the 
 attachment of their inferiors, and in reality these were looked 
 upon as forming a portion of the family. The result on their 
 part was, a feeling of profound respect mingled with a certain 
 degree of confidence, and the most devoted attachment to their 
 masters. La Rousse would have laid down her life for all the 
 Colobrieres, but the afiection with which Gaston inspired her 
 was an extreme tenderness, the true name of which she was 
 in her innocence ignorant. The poor girl believed with the 
 best faith in the world that it was a perfectly natural and 
 proper sentiment ; she gloried in it, and openly said that she 
 would give her life and salvation for her young master. She 
 obeyed him with even blinder submission than did his dog 
 Lambin, and was certainly not so well recompensed; for 
 Gaston spoke much more frequently to the great brindled 
 greyhound which followed him every day to the chase. And 
 yet Madeleine sought these short interviews, at the conclusion 
 of which she would often weep without suspecting the cause 
 
66 THE OLD CONVERTS OF PARIS. 
 
 of her tears. Gaston had never suspected in the remotect 
 dep:ree the existence of this secret passion, which, we may- 
 add, he would not by any means have been flattered at having 
 inspired. Upon this evening, Madeleine, who felt dejected 
 and melancholy, endeavoured instinctively to contend with 
 her feelinofs, and shake off certain images which beset her; but 
 her rebellious imagination constantly represented them to her 
 in the most vivid colours. 
 
 " Monsieur le Chevalier, what a day!" said she all at onee 
 to Gaston ; "how changed everything is in a house when there 
 are strangers present!" 
 
 "Yes, the hours seem to pass more quickly," replied he 
 without turninof his head. 
 
 La Rousse sighed deeply and continued: — 
 
 **If we had known of this visit we could have made some 
 preparations. In the first place, Monsieur le Chevalier, I 
 would have saved you the trouble of going yourself to seek 
 the dessert at the Goatherd's Valley — " 
 
 ** By no means," interrupted he, *' I should not have per- 
 mitted it. Do you imagine that you would have been able to 
 choose and carry home without breaking them those pretty 
 bunches of grapes and those branches laden with flowers, 
 which my cousin admired so much ?'* 
 
 '* And yesterday evening. Monsieur le Chevalier," continued 
 La Rousse, sadly, "you climbed the balcony without saying a 
 word about it, whereas I ought to have gone myself. Is it not 
 my duty to fetch the provisions for the kitchen?" 
 
 "Your duty is to do what you are commanded," interrupted 
 Gaston, " and I certainly would not have commanded you to 
 do that." 
 
 " This young lady is very pretty, and she appears very 
 rich," continued La Rousse; "she must be amiable too, for she 
 has made every one love her all at once. Madame the Baro- 
 ness and Mademoiselle Anastasia have overwhelmed her with 
 kindnesses, as well as Monsieur the Baron also. Even Lam- 
 bin was taken with her, for when she patted him he did not 
 bite her." 
 
 Then after a moment's hesitation La Rousse added: — 
 
 "Will this young lady return, Monsieur le Chevalier?" 
 
 " No," replied Gaston, in an abrupt tone, at the same time 
 moving away a few steps, as if to break off an interview which 
 began to appear to him already too long. 
 
 "Ah ! she will return no more," murmured La Rousse, with 
 a tone of extreme satisfaction; " so much the better! These 
 visits disturb every one. This evening Mademoiselle Anas- 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 67 
 
 inAii is sad, Madame plays without looking at her cards, and 
 yondei is Monsieur le Chevalier pacing up and down alone 
 with a pensive air, in place of reading as he usually does at 
 the end of the table. Ah! most certainly our happiness would 
 be destroyed if strangers and city ladies were to come often I" 
 
 At the extremity of the chain of barren hills which com- 
 manded the Tower of Belveser, there was a narrow valley 
 sheltered by a rampart of rocks which had but one opening 
 towards the south. Even in the winter season the tempera- 
 ture was mild in this enclosure which the sun bathed all day 
 long in his genial rays, while in it the chilling influence of 
 the northern blasts was never felt. A little spring bubbled 
 up In the hollow of the valley and formed a tranquil basin at 
 the foot of the granite mass which was called the Capuchin's 
 llock. On leaving the lake the waters entered the bed of a 
 ravine which they had gradually hollowed out for themselves, 
 and the gravelled banks of which formed two rural paths inter- 
 sected here and there by clumps of willow-trees. Not a trace 
 of cultivation was to be discovered in this spot, and although 
 the eager peasant came sometimes by stealth to cut the dense 
 foliage which was claimed by none, the luxuriant vegetation 
 everywhere clothed the steep rocks with masses of verdure. 
 
 One morning Gaston and his sister descended the barren 
 slopes on the summit of which stood the Chateau de Colobrieres, 
 and took their way towards the valley. They intended thus, 
 without infringing their father's orders, to return the visit which 
 Mademoiselle Marasrnon had paid them eight days before. 
 Anastasia bounded forward with a light and buoyant step, her 
 heart filled with joyous anticipations. Her brother Gaston 
 on the contrary seemed in no hurry to reach his destination, 
 and turned aside every moment from the road to beat the bushes 
 with his huge greyhound Lambin. As he drew near to the 
 place of meeting he slackened his pace, and one might have 
 supposed that he really dreaded attaining the goal of his expe- 
 dition. And yet he had looked forward all the week to this 
 rendezvous, and would have dared any danger sooner than 
 have failed in it. Nothwithstanding this violent and secret 
 attraction he let Anastasia advance alone to meet Mademoiselle 
 Maragnon, who was already awaiting her and watching her 
 approach from the pathway which led to the Capuchin's 
 Rock. The two cousins embraced afiectionately as if after a 
 long absence, andEleonora began to caress Lambin, who having 
 recognised her snuffed the air around her and growled gently 
 in token of friendship. The lovely young girl advanced to- 
 wards Gaston and said to hira in a tone of gentle reproach:-^ 
 
68 TilB OLD CONVKNTS OF TAttlS . 
 
 ** Cousin, you arrive the last, and Anastasia tells me that if 
 she had left you alone you would have probably remained on 
 the road until evening." 
 
 Poor Gaston stammered forth some excuses with downcast 
 eyes, fearing to meet Eleonora's gaze, and called Lambin to 
 afford him countenance. 
 
 ** And now," resumed Eleonora, **let us go and find Made- 
 moiselle Irene, who is awaiting us under the Capuchin's 
 Rock with another person." 
 
 "Another person?" repeated Anastasia with an air of timid 
 curiosity. 
 
 "My cousin Dominick Maragnon," whispered Eleonora in 
 her ear; "you know I wished to introduce him to you as well 
 as to your brother." 
 
 Dominick Maragnon was a young man of good . figure and 
 pleasing features, and possessed moreover that easy grace 
 which the habit of mingling with the world alone supplies. 
 Whilst Anastasia made a curtsy, blushing as she did so, and 
 Gaston de Colobrieres returned his salutation with constrained 
 and rather awkward politeness, he exclaimed with a tone of 
 good humour and frank cordiality : — 
 
 "How heartily I thank my cousin for having permitted me 
 to accompany her ! She has spoken so much of her visit to the 
 Chateau de Colobrieres, and of the kind reception she met with 
 there that I ventured to hope for some small share of this 
 affection for myself." 
 
 Happily for poor Anastasia, to whom this remark seemed 
 particularly addressed, Mademoiselle de la Ex)che-Lambert 
 now took her share in the conversation. She was an old maid 
 who painted, adorned herself with patches, and put on high- 
 heeled shoes to take excursions in the country. 
 
 "Young ladies," said she, drawing a book from her pocket, 
 and arranging her pocket-handkerchief, her snuff-box, her fan, 
 and her cassolette oi aromatic vinegar upon her knees, "I 
 presume that in place of remaining quietly here you are going 
 to search for violets in the grass and chase butterflies ; but for 
 my part I shall stay here and await your return while I 
 amuse myself reading * The Proof a of Sentiment y* unless 
 indeed these gentlemen will do me the honour of keeping me 
 company." 
 
 Dominick Maragnon bowed his thanks, and discreetly fol- 
 lowed the Cadet of Colobrieres, whilst the two cousins descended 
 the pathway holding each other by the hand. This time Eleo- 
 nora had avoided with delicate attention any appearance of 
 luxury in her toilet ; she had abandoned the lace, the rich silks. 
 
GASTON BE COLOBRIETIES. 69 
 
 and all the charming trinkets with which her mother loved to 
 deck her. An undress robe of Persian cotton of vivid colours 
 scarcely compressed her slender waist, and a little Marli hat 
 trimmed with ribbon was placed on one side of her head, 
 while the light sprinkling of powder which covered her hair 
 did not entirely conceal its tints of golden auburn. She 
 resembled in this costume one of those pretty shepherdesses 
 which Watteau introduces into his landscapes, and which we 
 still find on the fans bequeathed to us by our grandmothers. 
 Yet the dark Anastasia was still more beautiful with her faded 
 petticoat, her scanty frock, and her dark hair simply drawn 
 up under her lawn coiffe, than Eleonora in her fresh country 
 costume. It was the first time that Mademoiselle de Colo- 
 brieres had ever seen any young man resembling this cousin 
 Dominick, whose wit and good manners Eleonora had so highly 
 lauded. The name of Maragnon had, it is true, shocked her a 
 little at first ; but she had already become accustomed to it, 
 and had drawn a comparison between the young plebeian and 
 the descendant of the Colobrieres which was not entirely to the 
 advantage of the latter. She thought that Dominick Maragnon 
 had quite a polished air with his elegant Polonaise and his 
 round hat with its steel buckle ; whilst Gaston walked as it 
 were all of a piece in his Sunday coat, and seemed with his 
 broad-brimmed grey beaver rather like some miller than a 
 gentleman. 
 
 On his side Gaston de Colobrieres secretlj^ observed young 
 Maragnon. He had experienced a painful impression at the 
 sight of this handsome youth who had the right of accompanj^- 
 ing Eleonora. He had a vague sort of impression that Domi- 
 nick must be in love with his cousin, and that his affection 
 was perhaps reciprocated, and the thought of this love turned 
 into gall all the happiness he had that day promised himself. 
 He replied coldly to the young man's advances, and was twenty 
 times on the point of leaving him alone with the two cousins, 
 and of returning to Mademoiselle de la Roche-Lambert. At 
 times he felt indignant with himself at the feeling of vexation 
 which filled his heart, and he endeavoured to overcome it; but 
 almost immediately afterwards suspicion would dart its enve- 
 nomed fangs, and he was jealous before he understood that he 
 was in love. He paused, sad and pensive, near an old willow- 
 tree which had fallen across the rivulet, whilst the two cousins, 
 assisted by Dominick, were gathering the last flowers of autumn 
 in the thickets, or pausing to listen to the gentle murmurs of 
 the foliage and the waters. At the end of about an hour the 
 shrill voice of Mademoiselle de la Roche-Lambert aroused the 
 
70 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARI8. 
 
 echoes of the valley: the governess was calling the young 
 girls who ran to obey her summons. A little surprise awaited 
 them. Madame Maragnon had sent a slight repast to the 
 banks of the little lake, and the covers were laid on the grass. 
 The opulent merchant's widow had recollected that there were 
 no services of plate at the Chateau de Colobrieres, and had 
 consequently refrained on this occasion from displaying the 
 sumptuous luxury of her establishment. The simple viands 
 were accordingly served in common dishes, and rush baskets 
 replaced those of silver. The two tall lacqueys who had 
 brought this rural feast having been dismissed, Mademoiselle 
 Maragnon prepared to do the honours of the table. 
 
 " Anastasia, come here next to me, on my right," said she, 
 seating herself on the grass ; " cousin, will you take the other 
 place beside me?" she added, inviting Gaston with a sweet 
 smile to approach. She then turned towards young Marag- 
 non, and said to him laughingly: — 
 
 ' * As for you, Dominick, follow our example and endeavour 
 to get a seat near Mademoiselle Irene." 
 
 This was the first time that Gaston had heard Eleonora 
 address her cousin. This familiar and unconstrained manner 
 of speaking was far from confirming the suspicions which tor 
 mented him. He had sufficient penetration to comprehend 
 that sisterly friendship alone would employ such a formula, 
 and he felt that, brought up as they were together, the young 
 couple could not fail to cherish for each other the same pure 
 and calm affection that united Anastasia and himself. This 
 certainty restored to his mind the joy aud peace he had for a 
 moment lost. He felt his pride all at once vanish, and it was 
 with his entire heart and with the most cordial friendship, that 
 when about to set out for Colobrieres he offered his hand to 
 Dominick Maragnon. 
 
 The two cousins did not separate without promising to see 
 each other again ; and, dating from their first meeting at the 
 Capuchin's Rock, they often found themselves together in this 
 rural valley, which seemed as it were a neutral ground on the 
 confines of the Barony of Cok)brieres and the domain of 
 Madame Maragnon. The cold season did not interrupt these 
 promenades. Whether a gentle winter's sun shed its beams 
 over the landscape, or the sky was covered with misty clouds 
 distilling a cold and humid air, Gaston and his sister would 
 descend the rocky hills on the summit of which stood the 
 seignorial manor-house, while Mademoiselle Maragnon and her 
 companion would also leave the new Chateau de Belveser, 
 escorted by young Maragnon, and the two parties would meet 
 
a ASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 71 
 
 in the valley and frequently stroll about until towards evening. 
 Those almost daily meetings quickly led to a pleasing and 
 innocent familiarity. Gaston de Colobrieres and Dominick 
 Maragnon became close friends. The very constrast in their 
 education and their positions in the world still more strongly 
 cemented this friendship. The citizen's son felt a sort of re- 
 spect for the proud poverty of the young noble, and he found 
 in Anastasia a natural dignity and a degree of modest pride 
 which at once awed and charmed him. The two young girls 
 abandoned themselves to the pleasures of this intimacy without 
 for a moment suspecting to what extent their hearts were 
 implicated ; and, in the innocence and purity of their minds, 
 they took for the emotions of fraternal affection these sweet 
 and secret transports. Sometimes Eleonora would say to her 
 cousin: — 
 
 "How happy I feel I I had no sister, and Heaven has 
 given me one in you, dear Anastasia! I have now two brothers 
 also whom I love with all my heart. Can one help loving 
 when bound in the ties of such close relationship?" 
 
 One day, while she spoke thus, Mademoiselle de Colobrieres 
 replied ingenuously : — 
 
 "Dear Eleonora, I also love you like a sister, and would 
 willingly love your cousin Dommick as well as my brother ; 
 yet we have not in our veins a drop of the same blood I" 
 
 One beautiful December morning the two young girls de- 
 clared their intention of making an excursion to the Goatherd's 
 Valley, and they set off gaily on their expedition, notwith- 
 standing the remonstrances of Mademoiselle Irene who ex- 
 claimed aloud that she could not go alone on foot so far. Now 
 it was impossible to take a carriage along the rocky roads which 
 led up the steep ascent of the hill. 
 
 In passing near a peasant's cottage situated about a gunshot 
 distant from the village where the Colobrieres family went 
 every Sunday to hear mass, Dominick Maragnon spied two 
 long shaggy ears protruding between the bars of a wooden 
 gate. 
 
 " Make yourself easy. Mademoiselle Irene," cried he; "you 
 shall travel commodiously without any fatigue." 
 
 "I can perceive neither a sedan nor a carriage, however," 
 observed the governess with a sigh. 
 
 "No; but there is in yonder stable an animal of most 
 peaceable gait, firm upon his legs, and who will ask nothing 
 better than to carry you gently to the top of the hill." 
 
 " I have ridden on horseback in my time," replied Made- 
 moiselle Irene, casting a disdainful glance upon the ass, which 
 
72 THE OLD CONVENTS OF VABTS. 
 
 rubbed its grey muzzle against the bars; "but one must 
 indeed be either the wife or dauorhter of a miller to travel upon 
 this animal. 
 
 *'What say you, mademoiselle," interrupted Dominick 
 Marasfnon, "of the flisfht into Egypt? I could show you, in 
 addition, twenty different pictures where the most venerable 
 personages have had no other conveyance." 
 
 "At any rate it is better than going on foot," muttered 
 Mademoiselle de la Roche-Lambert between her teeth. 
 
 Dominick Maragnon entered the peasant's cottage, and 
 throwing a crown piece on the table, he requested that they 
 would lead out the ass saddled and bridled on to the road. 
 The two cousins and Gaston had stopped at about twenty 
 paces from the cottage. Whilst the peasant hastened to get 
 his ass out of the shed, and his wife brought out the saddle 
 and bridle, a woman who all this time had been seated in the 
 sort of barn which served at once for sitting-room and kitchen, 
 stealthily approached the window which was kept constantly 
 closed with an oaken shutter, and looked through the chinks. 
 She had thus a full view of the persons whom she had only 
 caught a glimpse of when Dominick opened the door, and she 
 immediately recognised Anastasia, Mademoiselle Maragnon, 
 and Gaston de Colobrieres. A moment afterwards the peasant 
 entered with his wife, and both exclaimed: — 
 
 " What is the matter with you. La Rousse? how pale you 
 are!" 
 
 "Nothing is the matter — I am cold," replied she, drawing 
 nearer to the hearth, on which blazed and crackled a handful 
 of olive branches; "I am so cold that I am all trembling. 
 But tell me, Master Tiste," added she turning her eyes 
 towards the road, "I fancy I saw my young master and 
 Mademoiselle Anastasia out there, in company with some 
 other persons." 
 
 "You were not mistaken, god-daughter," replied the pea- 
 sant; "I have often met them thus. It would appear that 
 M. le Baron is reconciled again to his sister, since their children 
 roam about together. They even talk in the country of a 
 marriage. You ought to know that already, La Rousse." 
 
 * ' I know nothing at all about it — all that is not true — we 
 shall soon see that," replied she, sharply. "A Colobrieres 
 marry a Maragnon indeed!" 
 
 "Pooh!" said the peasant, "why not? we all know well 
 enough that a Maragnon has already married a Colobrieres ; 
 and this time I think we might very well see a double wedding." 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRTERES. 73 
 
 '* Yes, god-father, when you get a velvet coat to dauce in at 
 the wedding," replied La Rousse, with ironical and furious 
 disdain. 
 
 *'I only repeat to you what people say," returned the old 
 peasant, phlegmatically ; " the talk of the neighbourhood is, 
 that the Colobrieres are going to marry their title-deeds to the 
 crown pieces of the Maragnons, and, after all, it would he the 
 best affair the old baron ever concluded in his life." 
 
 While returning to the chateau. La Rousse recalled to mind 
 a crowd of circumstances which seemed evidently to prove that 
 Gaston de Colobrieres and his sister attached great value to 
 these meetings, which they carefully concealed from their 
 father. She divined, with all the quick-sightedness of a love- 
 sick girl and a peasant, that the baroness was the confidant 
 and accomplice of her children ; the instinct of her own pas- 
 sion revealed to her that of Gaston, and jealous, despairing, 
 furious, she resolved to inform the baron of what was passing 
 in his family. 
 
 Whilst La Rousse, almost beside herself, took her way to 
 the chateau, and in her preoccupation repeated aloud what she 
 was about to disclose to the baron, the young people were 
 joyously climbing the belt of rocks which surrounded the 
 Goatherd's Valley. The day was perhaps the happiest and 
 most serene of all those they had passed together. They had 
 reached the loveliest and fairest page of the book of human 
 life — that charming page on which are inscribed the transports 
 of a heart which as yet aspires not to reality — the chaste emo- 
 tions of a soul which desires without suifering, and which 
 still dreams of the love it feels. 
 
 It had been found necessary to leave Mademoiselle Irene at 
 the foot of the rock in company with her steed and Lambin, 
 who on a sign from his master had placed himself as sentinel 
 over her. The two cousins, after having resolutely climbed 
 the almost impassable steps hewn out of the rock, began to 
 explore the wild domain of the man with the fleur-de-lis. 
 
 " This, then, was the dwelling of the poor convict!" mur- 
 mured Eleonora, seating herself upon a block of stone which 
 had been detached from the rustic wall of the cabin. "It 
 was here that he died." 
 
 "And was doubtless interred," said Anastasia, pointing 
 out to her cousin a rude wooden cross half hidden in the 
 grass. 
 
 Both rose, and remained for a moment erect and silent, 
 before the humble tomb. Gaston de Colobrieres and Do- 
 
74 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 minick Maragnou stood aloof without interrupting them ; they 
 guessed that they were praying for the dead. 
 
 The Goatherd's Valley was almost entirely planted with 
 evergreens, in the shelter of which the spring-flowers had 
 already begun to blow, the bees were humming in the sun- 
 shine, and the birds carolled amid the branches, between the 
 leaves of which, although still green, the new blossoms were 
 beginning to peep forth. 
 
 How happily could one live here!" said Anastasia, gazing 
 around the narrow precinct. *'I could almost envy the 
 lot of the poor man who found a retreat among these 
 rocks." 
 
 *' I also should like to pass my life here like him; but not 
 alone," said Dominick Maragnon, glancing involuntarily at 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrieres. 
 
 In the evening, at the moment when Gaston and his sister 
 were about to retrace their steps to Colobrieres, Eleonora 
 embraced her cousin more tenderly than usual, and said to her 
 in a low voice, sighing deeply: — 
 
 "My uncle Muragnon arrives to-morrow, and his coming 
 will perhaps interrupt our walks for a few days. He is 
 bringing some visitors with him to the chateau. Ah ! cousin, 
 how sad I shall be during our separation 1" 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 After this long and delightful expedition to the Goatherd's 
 Valley, Gaston and his sister passed nearly a week without 
 descending into the plain, as, independently of the temporary 
 obstacle which the arrival of the uncle Maragnon had placed 
 to the interviews of the two cousins, all the elements seemed 
 combined to prevent their meeting. The entle winter's sun 
 had hidden himself behind a sombre veil of mist, through which 
 his radiant disk shed but a cold and cheerless light. Piles 
 of clouds, heavily charged with rain, bounded the horizon, 
 discharging immense sheets of water as they traversed the sky. 
 The entire plain was inundated, and even upon the barren 
 height of Colobrieres might be heard the roars of the 
 mountain torrents as they rushed with a sound like thunder 
 down the ravines below. 
 
 The baron's family, who met every day in the general 
 sitting-room, formed a melancholy picture. The old gentle- 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRTERES. 75 
 
 man, his antique coat buttoned across his chest and his nap- 
 less beaver pulled over his eyes, sat near the hearth, his feet 
 resting upon the fender, and his hands buried in the profound 
 depths of his capacious pockets. He would pass entire hours 
 thus, in an immoveable attitude, never breaking silence save 
 to whistle between his teeth the air of some old Christmas 
 carol or some equally ancient war-song. 
 
 The ladies of the house, seated in the embrasure of a 
 window, plied their needle diligently, exchanging at intervals 
 a few words in a low voice. The baroness was engaged in 
 mending an old silk waistcoat which the baron had worn on 
 his wedding-day, and the fabric of which she might almost have 
 been said to create for the second time, since the various threads 
 which she crossed and recrossed with her needle formed a 
 species of network almost entirely concealing the original 
 material. Anastasia was repairing in the same manner the 
 taffeta mantle which her mother had worn every Sunday for 
 the last thirty years. Though apparently calm and occupied 
 with her work, her heart was oppressed with a sensation of 
 indescribable sadness, and she communed inwardly with her 
 recollections. Sometimes she would raise her head and with 
 a sigh would watch the huge dark clouds, which, driven forward 
 by a furious wind, swept along the crests of the mountains 
 and poured forth their watery contents upon the already 
 deluged plain. Gaston had in some sort isolated himself in 
 the embrasure of the other window, where, his form bent for- 
 ward and his elbows leaning upon the little table which served 
 him as a sort of desk, he appeared to be absorbed in the study 
 of his Horace ; but his eyes, in place of following the inspired 
 pages of the Latin poet, wandered over the plain, and seemed 
 to seek those much loved sites now partly concealed from his 
 view by the opaque and watery mist. Lambin who lay crouched 
 at his master's feet seemed also to feel the influence of the bad 
 weather ; he moaned in a low tone, and his blood-shot eye, 
 turned towards the heavens, expressed a sensation of mournful 
 weariness. From time to time La Rousse half opened the 
 door of the apartment and observed with an uneasy glance 
 the attitudes of these different personages; sometimes she 
 entered under the slightest possible pretext and hovered around 
 Gaston, who, annoyed at being thus disturbed in his reveries, 
 gave her some order without thinking or caring what it might 
 be, and dismissed her again to the kitchen. 
 
 Both the baroness and her children had remarked the 
 sombre mood which had all at once taken possession of the old 
 gentleman; but far from suspecting the revelations of La 
 
76 THB OLD CONVENTS OP iPABIfe. 
 
 Kousse or the true motive of the gloomy reverie to which 
 the baron was a prey, they attributed it to the protracted 
 tempest which desolated the country and completed the ruin 
 of the chateau. 
 
 ** Holy Virgin !" said the baroness to her daughter, **I dare 
 no longer cafi my eyes toward the court of honour; who 
 knows if the roofs have not entirely fallen in?" 
 
 " Patience, my dear mother," replied the young girl with 
 resignation; "we are still in shelter here; before the rain 
 succeeds in penetrating these vaults, let us trust that Provi- 
 dence will dissipate the storm." 
 
 * * We must hope so, my child, but we shall feel its effects 
 all the rest of the year," murmured the baroness with a sigh; 
 "your father is anxious, and not without reason; our best 
 lands have been sown, and perhaps at this moment the waters 
 have carried off all, both grain and soil." 
 
 ** Providence will surely not permit so great a misfortune 
 to happen to us I" said Anastasia, with a pious sentiment of 
 confidence and hope. 
 
 Yet even at this moment the formidable voice of the storm 
 was heard on every side; torrents of rain beat violently 
 against the windows, driving in the squares of parchment 
 which here and there replaced the glass, and, penetrating the 
 frail barrier, poured down in an icy stream upon the drooping 
 head of Anastasia. 
 
 " Good Heavens! the storm redoubles in fury!" cried the 
 baroness; "come nearer me, my child." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrieres seated herself at her mother's 
 feet, and murmured, as she wrung the damp from her glossy 
 hair — 
 
 "I wonder if my dear Eleonora is thinking of us at this 
 moment 1" 
 
 The baroness was not deceived in her foreboding. Towards 
 evening the storm having lulled for a moment, the baron left 
 the castle in order to ascertain the amount of damage which 
 the rains had caused in his domain. The destruction was 
 complete. Upon the slopes, where there had been previously 
 a scanty portion of soil capable of cultivation, only the naked 
 rock was now visible. Even the spot which was called the 
 orchard, and in which a few vine plants and stunted almond- 
 trees languished, had been laid waste by the floods. After 
 such an event, it seemed natural that the baron should be 
 anxious and thoughtful. His children did not attempt to 
 rouse him from his gloomy reverie, and contented them- 
 selvea with testifying the sympathy they felt in the common 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 77 
 
 misfortune by redoubling their deference and respect towards 
 their father. The baroness herself made no effort to penetrate 
 what was passing in her husband's mind, and, attentive, gentle, 
 and submissive as ever, she sought to console him less by- 
 words than by silent marks of attachment. 
 
 At length one evening towards sunset the clouds which 
 were piled upon the horizon burst asunder, the heavens were 
 dyed in a blaze of purple, while the blue firmament appeared 
 beyond tliis luminous zone. At this presage of returning fme 
 weather the brother and sister pressed each other's hands in 
 silence, the same hope beating in both their breasts. They 
 then proceeded to the terrace, where, leaning over the parapet, 
 they remained for a length of time, their eyes wandering over 
 the landscape now faintly tinged with the last rays of the set- 
 ting sun. 
 
 ** It is over — the bad weather has passed away," said Gaston, 
 with an indescribable feeling of joy ; *' we will go to-moiTow 
 to the Capuchin's Rock." 
 
 " Who knows if the roads are passable on the Belveser 
 side?" observed Anastasia, uneasily. **For us the passage 
 will be easy, as the pathway skirts a slope where the ram 
 never lodges, but on the plain below the land is perhaps 
 inundated, and Eleonora I fear will not dare to venture on so 
 unsafe a journey." 
 
 *' Will not her cousin Dominick be there to assist her over 
 the difficult places?" replied Gaston de Colobrieres. ** I am 
 certain she will come." 
 
 On the following day the sun rose resplendent in the heavens, 
 the azure expanse of which was of a pure transparent hue. 
 Large pools of water glanced here and there in the hollows, 
 but the torrents had already subsided, and the roads, washed 
 by the rains, formed in the plain long lines of a pale yellow 
 colour, bordered by the tender green of the budding vegeta- 
 tion. Gaston de Colobrieres and his sister escaped joyfully 
 from the castle after dinner, and proceeded to descend into 
 the valley. Gaston, his fowling-piece over his shoulder and 
 his game-bag on his back, marched along with a heart more at 
 ease and a step more light and joyous than that of his noble 
 ancestor when returning from the sack of Rome laden with 
 glory and booty. Anastasia followed him with a more com- 
 posed step ; she too was happy with a happiness she could not 
 define, but which filled her whole being. Lambin careered 
 before them, bounding and barking in a paroxysm of mad 
 delight. In this manner they gained the entrance of the 
 valley, when Anastasia said to her brother: — 
 
78 THE OI^D CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 " I am sure that we are first ; it is early yet ; but no matter, 
 we will wait." 
 
 "No, my cousin is already here!" interrupted Gaston, his 
 heart beating with emotion, and in an agitated voice, pointing 
 as he spoke to the recent impress of a little foot upon the 
 moist sand. 
 
 In fiict at that moment Eleonora was seen descending the 
 road leading to the valley and advancing to meet them. She 
 walked quickly, but, on perceiving them from a distance, she 
 slackened her pace, and at last stopped altogether and waited 
 their approach. 
 
 "Ah! my dear cousin, how I longed to see you again!" 
 cried Anastasia, clasping her in her arms. 
 
 Mademoiselle Maragnon embraced her in return, holding 
 her for a moment pressed against her heart, then turning 
 towards Gaston without raising her eyes to his face, she said 
 with an altered voice, while a deep blush overspread her cheek 
 and forehead: — 
 
 " Good-day, cousin." 
 
 Gaston de Colobrieres remarked that she did not hold out 
 her hand to him as usual, and a feeling of bitterness was 
 already mingled with the joy which filled his heart. 
 
 " How sorry I am that we did not arrive first!" exclaimed 
 he, with a lively sensation of regret. "You have waited 
 perhaps, cousin — but where is Dominick?" added he, per- 
 ceiving Mademoiselle Irene seated alone at the foot of the 
 Capuchin s EocL 
 
 "He is gone," replied Eleonora; "he has retui-ned to 
 Marseilles with my uncle." 
 
 On hearing these words Anastasia felt the calm and gentle 
 emotions of content which had hitherto animated her, change 
 all at once into deep sadness. A sensation of painful astonish- 
 ment darted through h iv breast, and for a moment she ceased 
 to breathe; but no change of countenance betrayed this secret 
 agony, and she merely said with a sigh: — 
 
 "Eight days ago when we were rambling so gaily in the 
 Goatherd's Valley we little dreamed of this sudden sepa- 
 ration." 
 
 "Dominick has been gone these four days," resumed 
 Eleonora in an altered voice, "and my mother and I shall 
 soon quit Belvescr also." 
 
 " Soon!" cried Gaston de Colobrieres, turning pale, "soon 
 did you say? And you have come here to-day to bid us 
 farewell?" 
 
 *'AlasI we leave this to-morrow!" said Mademoiselle 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERE8. 79 
 
 Maragnon, endeavouring to restrain her tears. " My uncle 
 wished to take us with him ; but never — never would I have 
 consented to go without returning here once again." 
 
 "You are going to leave us, perhaps never to return T* 
 said Mademoiselle de Colobriercs. *' Oh, my dear Eleonora! 
 how far was I from expecting this cruel blow." 
 
 "You did not think of this departure eight days ago," 
 added Gaston, with an accent of the deepest sadness; "eight 
 days ago we were forming plans for the remainder of the 
 winter." 
 
 "Alas! how could I foresee what has occurred?" replied 
 Mademoiselle de Maragnon with a sigh. "Everything is 
 changed for me." 
 
 She seated herself upon the fallen trunk of an old willow- 
 tree which lay across the pathway, and taking Anastasia by 
 the hand drew her gently towards her, while Gaston remained 
 standing in front of the two girls. 
 
 "My sweet cousin," continued Eleonora, in a tone of 
 dejection and melancholy which contrasted singularly with 
 her words, "my sweet cousin, I was unwilling to Jeave this 
 without coming to inform you of the most important event of 
 my life, and to make you a sharer in my happiness : my mother 
 and uncle have resolved that I shall be married, and in a few 
 days I am to wed my cousin Dominick." 
 
 " Is it possible !" murmured Anastasia with a sort of stupor. 
 
 Gaston did not utter a word, nor let a single gesture escape} 
 him ; he merely closed his eyes and leaned upon the barrel of 
 his fowling-piece, as if he felt the ground tremble beneath his 
 feet, and the earth opening to engulph him. 
 
 The violent shock which the news of this marriage caused 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrieres pierced her heart like a pointed 
 steel, and tore aside the veil which had hitherto hid from her 
 her own feelings. The intensity of her sufferings all at once 
 revealed to her her passion, and she began to comprehend 
 with a feeling of painful fear that she loved Dominick Ma- 
 ragnon. Pale, dejected, with downcast eyes, she pressed the 
 cold hands of Eleonora within hers, and forced herself to sur- 
 mount the secret despair which was busy with her heart. 
 There was a moment of painful silence, and then Anastasia, 
 making a violent effort, said in a calm voice : — 
 
 " Doubtless, my dear Eleonora, your mother and uncle have 
 long since planned this marriage ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied she, still in the same melancholy and dejected 
 tone, "but they never spoke of it to us. It is true that while 
 I was vet quite a child, and when Dominick was at school. 
 
80 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 they talked to us of some such projects. My cousin used to 
 say to me, seriously, that if I was a very steady little girl he 
 would one day marry me, and I used to call him beforehand 
 my little husband ; but as we grew up we forgot all that. 
 "Who would have imagined that our parents remembered it, 
 and that they had all along planned our marriage ? Alas ! we 
 had not the least suspicion of such a thing eight days ago ; we 
 were so happy, so gay, during that ramble which was to be 
 our last !" 
 
 At this recollection, her tears overcame her, and she hid her 
 face in her handkerchief with so natural and vivid a movement 
 of grief, that Gaston's heart bounded with a bitter joy. 
 
 "It is singular," resumed Mademoiselle Maragnon drying 
 her tears, "for the last eight days they have spoken to me of 
 nothing but my happiness ; they never cease repeating to me 
 that I shall be the happiest of women, and yet I have never 
 wept so much during my entire life." 
 
 *' My dear Eleonora, these feelings of inquietude will pass 
 away," said Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, making a violent 
 effort to command her feelings. " They were right in predict- 
 ing a happy destiny for you ; he to whom your mother unites 
 you well merits the treasure confided to him — he is worthy of 
 his happiness." 
 
 " Alas! he feels this happiness as little as myself," replied 
 Mademoiselle Maragnon ingenuously. " If you only knew 
 how sad and embarrassed "we both were when our marriage 
 was resolved on. First of all, they spoke to each of us sepa- 
 rately, and then when all had been decided, Dominick and his 
 father came into the drawing-room where I was sitting with 
 my mother and Mademoiselle de la Roche-Lambert. My 
 heart felt so full that I could not have uttered a word without 
 bursting into tears ; I went to the window and pretended to 
 look at the sky. My cousin approached my mother and 
 spoke to her for a moment ; then he came towards me and 
 pressed my hand — it was all he could do apparently to ex- 
 press his satisfaction. A moment afterwards, my mother rose 
 and left the room, taking Mademoiselle Irene with her ; my 
 uncle followed them, and I remained alone with Dominick. 
 Before it had been settled that he was to be my husband, we 
 used to chat gaily together, and were the very best friends in 
 the world ; but after what had passed we had no longer a 
 word to say to each other. My cousin began to pace up and 
 down the room, and I on my side continued looking out of the 
 window. Happily Mademoiselle Irene shortly afterwards 
 returned. She sat down at the harpsichord as if to give us 
 
GASTON DE COLOBUIBRES. 81 
 
 an opportunity of continuing our conversation. I felt relieved, 
 for my cousin, who cannot endure her music, left the room 
 immediately. Since that day we have never been alone again 
 
 — I really believe because we mutually avoid each other 
 
 Three days ago, however, at the moment of parting, Dominick 
 approached as if to bid me farewell, and said to me in a me- 
 lancholy tone, without using the familirir terms in which he 
 had been accustomed to address me : — 
 
 " * My dear Eleonora, before quitting Belveser you will 
 see your cousin Gaston again ; tell him that I leave this with 
 regret in not being able once more to press his hand.' 
 
 " * And Anastasia,' said I — ' am I to say nothing to her ?' 
 
 " * Assure Mademoiselle de Colobrieres of my respect,' re- 
 plied he, ' and entreat her to recall sometimes our ramble to 
 the Goatherd's Valley ; — tell her, besides, that all the marks 
 of kindness with which, out of friendship for you, she has 
 honoured me, have left an undying remembrance in my 
 heart.' " 
 
 These words diffused a secret glow of consolation through 
 Anastasia's bosom ; she comprehended vaguely the regrets 
 which Dominick Maragnon had carried with him, and she 
 suddenly felt within herself the courage to endure, and the 
 strength to support for a length of time, the sad and solitary 
 life that awaited her. She feebly pressed Eleonora's hand, 
 but dared not reply. 
 
 *'I promised Dominick to tell you all this," continued Ma- 
 demoiselle Maragnon, *' and I added that I would at the same 
 time pledge myself to return in the spring to commence once 
 more those pleasant rambles which he regretted as much as I 
 did myself; but he shook his head, and replied with a sigh: — 
 
 " * We shall not return to Belveser this year: my lather 
 has decided that aft^r our marriage we are to make a long 
 tour in a foreign country.' " 
 
 The young girl here interrupted herself, and remained for 
 a length of time absorbed in bitter reflections. 
 
 *' The idea of this departure afflicted you," said Anastasia ; 
 "you inwardly rebelled against your uncle's will?" 
 
 " No, it was not that which made so painful an impression 
 on me," replied Eleonora ; *' it was the word which Dominick 
 had uttered " 
 
 She hesitated for a moment before completing the sentence; 
 then she continued, in a melancholy tone : — 
 
 " It was the first time that my cousin had made any direct 
 allusion to our approaching marriage. I know not what passed 
 through ray mind — it was a strange and mingled impression 
 
 F 
 
82 THE OLD COI< VENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 of fear, of grief — almost of anger. I hastily withdrew my 
 hand, which Dominick had hitherto held within his own, and 
 turned away with a sort of shudder. Doubtless he perceived 
 this movement and was struck with it, for although my eyes 
 were cast down I felt that he was gazing intently on me, and 
 I heard him murmur to himself: — 
 
 " * Alas! poor child.' 
 
 '*An instant afterwards he entered the carriage with his 
 father. I feared that T had grieved him — I felt a sort of re- 
 morseful sensation, and I approached the can-iage door to bid 
 him once more adieu ; but he did not see me, his eyes were 
 turned towards Colobrieres, and most probably in his heart 
 he was bidding you farewell." 
 
 *'Most certainly he was not angry with you," said Anas- 
 tasia with a sigh, **and the recollection of the slight wrong 
 you did him need not afflict you. Take courage, therefore, 
 dearest Eleonora — the courage necessary to become the hap- 
 piest of women." 
 
 During this conversation, Gaston de Colobrieres had thrown 
 his fowlinjT-piece upon the grass, and had seated himself a little 
 behind Eleonora, his elbow supported on his knee and his 
 brow leaning on his hand. 
 
 Several times the young girl had turned half round towards 
 him, as if expecting a word or a look ; but one might have 
 supposed that, in place of thinking of her, he was occupied 
 in counting the nails in the collar of his dog Lambin, who lay 
 at his feet. Eleonora at length turned round altogether, and 
 said to him in a tone of plaintive sweetness : — 
 
 *' Cousin, we have but a few moments longer to pass to- 
 gether — come nearer us." 
 
 He rose silently and seated himself beside her. The two 
 young girls, absorbed in their thoughts, spoke no more. Ma- 
 demoiselle Maragnon had let one of her hands remain clasped 
 in those of Anastasia, while with the other she plucked ab- 
 sently the long tufts of gras3 that had sprung up around the 
 fallen trunk on which she was seated. As she threw away 
 these frail stalks, Gaston gathered them up one by one and 
 kept them. A moment afterwards, Lambin having placed his 
 shaggy head upon his master's knees, Eleonora ceased plucking ■ 
 the long and delicate grasses and began to caress the grey- 
 hound. Then Gaston de Colobrieres took this soft, cold 
 hand, pressed it to his lips, and retained it within his own. 
 
 There was another long silence. Already the shadows of j 
 evening began to fall on the valley, a light mist rose from the 
 surface of the water, and the atmosphere became suddenly 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 83 
 
 ■ 
 
 ^^^■Iv under the humid breath of the easterly wind which 
 Ij^^wcommenced to murmur between the willows. Mademoi 
 selle Irene, who had been sitting reading for the last two hours 
 on the banks of the little lake, now hastened to close her vo- 
 lume, crossed her mantilla on her chest, and rose from her 
 seat, crying in her harsh, shrill voice — 
 
 ' ' Come 1 mademoiselle — come ! you will catch cold : the air 
 
 (juite chilly already." 
 
 At this moment they heard at the entrance of the valley 
 tlie wheels of the carriage which Madame Maragnon had sent 
 for her daughter. Gaston relinquished the hand which he was 
 holding, and the two cousins rose. 
 
 ** Farewell! my dearest Eleonora," said Mademoiselle de 
 Colobrieres, in a tone of the deepest grief and resignation : 
 ** farewell ! — do not forget us — live happily !'* 
 
 Eleonora smiled sadly, and said, raising to heaven her lovely 
 eyes filled with tears : — 
 
 "I know not the lot that awaits me, I am ignorant of the 
 happiness which the future may have in store for me ; but 
 what I do know is, that my happiest days in this world are 
 already passed — that the fairest moments of my life have been 
 spent here. May God, who hears me, pardon me, but it 
 seems to me as if I should now be content to die, since I have 
 nothing better to expect upon earth!" 
 
 At these words she threw herself once more into Anastasia's 
 arms, made a gesture of adieu to Gaston, and with rapid steps 
 left the valley, followed by Mademoiselle Irene. 
 
 Gaston de Colobriei*es and his sister slowly ascended the 
 road leading to the chateau, almost in silence. The wound 
 which both had received was too deep and too recent to be 
 touched with impunity. Without making any interchange of 
 confidences, they mutually understood each other, and did not 
 require to explain the state of their hearts. On reaching 
 home, however, it became necessary to inform the baroness of 
 the news they had heard. 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed the good dame, in a tone of 
 alarm, *'then my niece will always bear the name of Marag- 
 non? It is like a new mesalliance. The child has the blood 
 of the Colobrieres in her veins ; she is immensely rich ; she is 
 handsome as an angel ; her mother might have chosen a hus- 
 band for her out of the lower ranks of the nobility, might have 
 even married her to a lawyer, whose name would have sounded 
 better in the ears of the world than the plebeian one of Ma* 
 ragnon! What will your father say when he hears of this 
 marriaore?" 
 
84 THE OLD CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 ** We will leave him in ignorance of it," said Anastasia, 
 hastily; **we ourselves, mother, will speak of it no more; 
 there are certain things which ought not to be recalled to 
 mind." 
 
 "You are right, my child," replied the baroness, sighing; 
 " we ought not to speak of our afflictions if we desire to live in 
 peace." 
 
 The projected marriage of Eleonora with her cousin re- 
 mained a secret known only to the baroness and her children. 
 La Rousse herself, who observed them continually, watched all 
 their movements, and listened to all their conversations, knew 
 nothing of this event. The ^^'xihappy girl perceived the pro- 
 found sadness of Gaston de Colobrieres, without divining the 
 cause, and witnessed, but without guessing its motive, the me- 
 lancholy which had taken possession of her young mistress. The 
 conduct of the baron seemed also altogether inexplicable. The 
 very day on which she had discovered the relations subsisting 
 between the families of Colobrieres and Maragnon, La Rousse 
 had related the whole affair to the old nobleman, adding to it 
 all the details and commentaries which the imagination of a 
 jealous and love-sick girl could furnish. The baron listened 
 to her with the greatest calmness, enjoined her to observe the 
 strictest silence, and then, in place of playing his game of 
 bowls according to custom, he proceeded to take a solitary walk 
 in the iSelds. The same day he wrote a letter which La 
 Rousse secretly conveyed to the messenger who performed 
 each week the journey from the village to the neighbouring 
 town, in order to put into the post the correspondence of the 
 entire country. After this affairs had proceeded in their ac- 
 customed order ; there was nothing new save the bad weather 
 which had destroyed their harvest, and a certain sadness de- 
 picted upon every face in the chateau. Gaston and his sister 
 left home almost every day according to their usual custom, 
 but, in place of turning their steps in the direction of the val- 
 ley, they chose the more unfrequented paths, and gained the 
 heights where they were sure of meeting no one. There they 
 seated themselves under the shelter of a rock, and remained 
 for a length of time, exchanging a few words at rare and un- 
 frequent intervals, while keeping their eyes fixed on the dis- 
 tant lines of the horizon. However when they once more 
 entered the chateau they resumed mechanically the monotonous 
 habits of their in-door life, and nothing betrayed the secret 
 sufferings, the mournful weariness in which they were plunged. 
 The baron still retained the same severe and anxious counte- 
 nance ; he no longer played his game of bowls, but passed entire 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 85 
 
 oaysin pacing up and down the orchard with his hands be- 
 hind his back, apparently inspecting the labours of old Tonin, 
 who had courageously undertaken to repair the disasters caused 
 by the recent rains. During meals he was silent, and after 
 supper he pored over the same old volume of the peerage which 
 he had been accustomed to penise every evening. The baroness 
 alone preserved that serenity of mind, that placid and equable 
 temper which had so well assisted her in supporting all the 
 troubles of life. Certain things however struck her, and ren- 
 dered her uneasy. She remarked that Gaston hunted no more 
 of late/ and that he returned every day with an empty game- 
 bag, and that Anastasia no longer chatted with her as she used 
 to do while sewing in the evenings round the table. It seemed 
 to her also that the young girl was contending against some 
 secret oppression — some feeling of dejection that at the 
 slightest cause fdled her eyes with tears which she endeavoured 
 to conceal and secretly wipe away ; but the baroness was too 
 simple-minded, and had lived too long in a state of utter igno- 
 rance of the passions, to suspect what was passing in the 
 minds of her children, and not knowing what grief or pain it 
 was necessary to solace, she confined her efforts to testifying 
 towards them a greater degree of affection and tenderness. 
 
 One afternoon, whilst Gaston and his sister were taking 
 their accustomed walk, and whilst the baron was pacing up 
 and down the orchard, his head drooped upon his chest and 
 whistling more vehemently than usual, the baroness, who was 
 working near one of the drawing-room windows, perceived to 
 her great astonishment the village messenger, who was at that 
 moment crossing the court of honour with a letter in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Heavens!" criod she, rising from her seat in alarm, **a 
 message for us! — one of our children has written to us." 
 
 She received the letter with a trembling hand, and first of 
 all glanced at the seal: it was in red wax, and bore, in place 
 of a cypher or armorial bearings, the anagram of the Saviour. 
 
 "Heaven be praised!" murmured the baroness, sighing as 
 if relieved from a great fear, "it is not a black seal; all my 
 children are living. This letter bears the Paris post-mark — 
 if I am not mistaken it is from my eldest daughter." 
 
 La Rousse, who was ever on the watch, ran to inform the 
 baron. The latter came forthwith and broke open the mis- 
 sive, the seal of which his wife had respected. He read it in 
 a low voice entirely through, then refolded it coldly, placed it 
 in his pocket, and turned towards the door. 
 
 '* Monsieur, you do not tell me anything — you do not speak 
 
SC) THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 to me of the contents of this letter?" cried the baroness, de- 
 taining him. 
 
 And as he did not reply, she added with a sort of terror: — 
 
 "It is a letter from Euphemia, from our eldest daughter, 
 who is now La Mere Angelique de la Charite, Superior of the 
 convent of Notre Dame de la Misericorde at Paris. Heavens ! 
 what has she written that you fear to tell me?" 
 
 ** What she wrote to me formerly when she was in the con- 
 vent of Aix, and when I had sent her word that one of her 
 sisters was prepared to join her," replied the baron. ^ 
 
 Madame de Colobrieres remained for an instant stunned 
 and motionless under the shock she had received. Never for 
 an instant had it entered her imagination that Anastasia, her 
 dearly loved and youngest child, would be torn from her arms 
 like her sisters and buried in a cloister. This iinexpected 
 blow was the most cruel that her mother's heart had ever 
 experienced, and she was unable to resign herself to it. Her 
 despair inspired her with sudden energy, and, for the first 
 time in her life, she dared to rebel against the authority of 
 her husband. This woman hitherto so submissive and feeble 
 raised her head and said with the firmness inspired by grief: — . 
 
 "No, sir, I will not abandon my daughter to you; I will 
 not suffer all the objects of my tenderness to be torn from me, 
 one after the other, even to the last. God alone knows what 
 I have already suffered! God alone knows what tears I have 
 shed when I beheld all those dear creatures, whom I had 
 brought up with so much love, depart from me for ever! 
 Would to heaven I had then rebelled against your will ! There 
 is no necessity so pressing as to oblige a mother thus to drive 
 away her children. There was bread enough here for all, and 
 if that had failed I could have worked with my own hands to 
 procure it. Yes, my lord, in place of sending away those inno- 
 cents who wept to leave us, in place of imprisoning some 
 within the grating of a convent and abandoning others to 
 the dangers of a worldly life, it would have been far better to 
 have kept them in the house in which they were born, and, 
 trampling all pride under foot, to have tilled along with them 
 the baronial lands " 
 
 "Enough, madam!" interrupted the baron, indignantly; 
 " degrade not further the name you bear. Your children 
 have the honour of being born noble, and I swear that while 
 I live they shall not disgrace their origin!" 
 
 "None have disgraced it, my lord," replied the baroness, 
 whose energy already began to give way, and who felt her 
 resistance melting away in tears. " Our elder children 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 87 
 
 adopted the mode of life that you commanded, and, If it please 
 God, they are satisfied with their lot ; but Jthe necessity which « 
 forced us to part from them in no way constrains us to place 
 Anastasia In a convent. She is a child of a gentle and sub- 
 missive temper, though at times low-spirited, and her docility, 
 her respect, her love for her parents, are boundless : she is the 
 ornament and joy of our house. I confess the weakness of my 
 heart ; when she is by my side I no longer regret my other 
 daughters — she replaces them all. Heaven has bestowed her 
 upon us to watch over and comfort our old age, and she ought 
 to remain with us and close our eyes. Sometimes when I 
 consider her meek deportment, her sweet voice, her angelic 
 features, a hope darts through my mind " 
 
 ** A chimerical hope," interrupted the baron, hastily; *'a 
 girl of noble birth, without a dowry, will find no husband save 
 a nameless man " 
 
 " I was poor, M. le Baron, and yet a gentleman did me the 
 honour of espousing me!" replied Madame de Colobrieres, 
 proudly. 
 
 ** A similar piece of good fortune is too rare, for you to hope 
 that it may also happen to your daughter," replied the baron, 
 with most superb ndwcte. 
 
 ** Well, then, she need not marry," hastily rejoined the wor- 
 thy dame; " she can live here with us, and when we shall be 
 no more she will still have her brother, our Gaston " 
 
 '* I have not yet made known to you my designs relative to 
 the Chevalier de Colobrieres," resumed the old gentleman, in 
 a tone of decision ; *' the moment has arrived when it becomes 
 necessary for him also to take some decisive step." 
 
 "What I my son about to quit us alsol" cried the baroness, 
 beside herself with indignation; "you wish then to make me 
 curse the day when I married in order to bring into the world 
 children whom I was to lose one after the other, and that not 
 by the hand of the Almighty? But I have still one hope left, 
 sir! Your son, your daughter, will not obey you, and I, their 
 mother, will support them in their disobedience. I dare to 
 say it to your face !" 
 
 At these words she fell exhausted and almost senseless upon 
 her chair. Whilst La Rousse hastened to her assistance, the 
 baron left the room and reached the door of the chateau. At 
 that moment Gaston de Colobrieres and his sister were return- 
 ing from their walk, and slowly ascending the rocky path 
 leading to the terrace. The old gentleman had fully made up 
 his mind to carry out, in spite of all resistance, the resolution 
 he had formed. The disclosures of La Rousse had wounded 
 
88 THE OI.D CONVENTS OF PAllIS. 
 
 him in the most sensitive point — namely, his feeling of autho- 
 rity and his pride of birth. All that he had learned respecting 
 • the relations subsisting between his children and those of the 
 Maragnon family had aroused feelings of the deepest indigna- 
 tion in his breast, and he had now firmly resolved to render 
 impossible this double alliance, which the gossips of the neigh- 
 bourhood had had the, impertinence to consider as a good 
 affair for the Colobrieres family. 
 
 The baron paused gravely at the entrance of the terrace, 
 and when his children advanced to salute him he ordered 
 Gaston by a gesture of his hand to join Tonin in the orchard, 
 and said to his daughter in a severe tone: — 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, I desire a moment's conver^ 
 sation with you." 
 
 •*Iam ready to attend you, father," replied she, a little 
 astonished at this formula, which was only employed by the 
 baron on the gravest occasions. 
 
 He conducted her to the extremity of the terrace, and 
 making her sit down on the parapet he took his place by her 
 side ; then drawing from his pocket the letter of La Mere Ange- 
 lique de la Charite he placed it in her hands, saying: — 
 
 " Read; — ^this will sufficiently make known to you my will. 
 Kead aloud." 
 
 Anastasia opened the letter and read it slowly, without 
 agitation, surprise, or alteration of voice: — 
 
 Paris, lOth January , 17 — . 
 
 " Sir, and most honoured Father, — I experienced a lively 
 degree of gratification and joy on the receipt of the letter, in 
 which you declared your intention of placing in the convent 
 of Notre Dame de la Misericorde your youngest daughter, my 
 dear sister Anastasia. The cloister is the gate of salvation 
 for those who, like the elder branches of your family, are called 
 thither by a true vocation. I shall receive this new spouse 
 of the Lord into our house with feelings of real satisfaction, 
 and our entire community, to whose prayers I have already 
 recommended her, partake the impatience that I feel to behold 
 her amongst us. 
 
 " Our very dear sisters of the convent of Aix, to whom I 
 have written begging that they will seek a confidential per- 
 son to accompany our young novice on her journey, are 
 employing all the zeal imaginable in the matter. They inform 
 me that they have discovered in their city a lady of quality, who 
 is on the point of setting out for Paris, and who will willingly 
 take Mademoiselle de Colobrieres in her carriage. I give you 
 
GASTON DB COLOBRIERES. 89 
 
 timely notice of this, in order that you may. make arrange- 
 ments for her departure without further delay. 
 
 ** Assure my mother of my attachment and respect. I re- 
 commend myself to her prayers, as I would to those of a saint. 
 
 " I await whatsoever orders you may be pleased to give me 
 for the good of religion and the interest of our family, begging 
 you to believe. Monsieur and most honoured father, in the in- 
 violable affection and profound respect of your daughter and 
 most humble servant." 
 
 The baron narrowly watched the countenance of Anastasia 
 during the perusal of this letter. He had expected weeping 
 and resistance — but she shed not a tear ; and when she had 
 finished she returned him the letter, saying in a voice which 
 betrayed not the slightest inward struggle — 
 
 *'I am ready to obey you, father." 
 
 This submission touched the old gentleman. The anger 
 which he had nursed at the bottom of his heart suddenly va- 
 nished, and he was obliged to exert a great effort over his 
 feelings to say to Anastasia — 
 
 "Well, my child, you will start the day after to-morrow for 
 Aix. You see time presses. Besides it is better that this se- 
 paration should take place at once, instead of preparing for it 
 by painful leave-takings. You will thus spare your mother 
 many tears." 
 
 "My mother!" murmured the young girl, hiding her face in 
 her hands, as if this single word had overturned all her firm- 
 ness of mind ; but, resuming almost immediately the calm re- 
 solution she had at first manifested, she again assured her 
 father of her obedience, and begged of him to permit her to 
 remain alone for a few moments to collect her thoughts before 
 entering the chateau. 
 
 The baron left the terrace without farther addressing her, 
 and proceeded to seek Gaston. He anticipated on the part of 
 his son a warm and lively opposition to his wishes, for he had 
 no difficulty in conceiving all that La Rousse had told him re- 
 specting the passion of Gaston de Colobrieres for Mademoiselle 
 Maragnon. It was only by separating him from the object of 
 his love that he could hope to stifle this attachment in the bud, 
 and the baron was so well convinced of this that he had deter- 
 mined to remove him for a length of time, and even if neces- 
 sary for ever. He proceeded straight towards Gaston, and 
 leading him through the alleys of the now waste and desolate 
 orchard, he said to him with the most cold and imperious air — 
 
 "Have you never thought, M. le Chevalier, that a day 
 
90 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 might arrive when it would be necessary for you to follow the 
 example of your brothers?" 
 
 "Pardon m^, sir," replied Gaston, in a tone of dignified 
 submission; " no later than to-day I was thinking of the dif- 
 ferent careers which my elder brothers have embraced, and 
 before following their example I had resolved to open my mind 
 to you, in order that you might direct my choice according to 
 your wishes." 
 
 *'I have never constrained the inclinations of my sons," re- 
 sumed the baron, in a milder tone; " the elder branches have 
 adopted the profession of the church, the younger ones that of 
 arms; but I have never said to one, ' you shall be a monk,' or 
 to another, * you shall serve your king.' You can therefore 
 choose. It is not as in your sister's case ; for her there is but 
 one door open, that of the convent." 
 
 *'Then you have decided, sir, that my sister shall enter a 
 convent?" said Gaston de Colobrieres, with emotion; " she is 
 about to join her elder sister?" 
 
 And, as the baron made a sign in the affirmative, he added — 
 
 " For my part I feel that a worldly life has no attractions for 
 me, and perhaps I ought in place of endeavouring to obtain a 
 footing in it at once to join your eldest son. Father Cyril, at 
 the great convent of the Capuchins of Aix." 
 
 ** That requires reflection," said the baron, hastily ; " I have 
 already four sons in the mendicant orders ; that is sufficient 
 I think for the edification of the world. However, acfc accord- 
 ing to your inclination." 
 
 " My inclination would be, if the king should declare war, 
 to enter the army that I might be killed," murmured poor 
 Gaston ; ' ' but since I cannot die at once, I must needs bury 
 myself in a monk's frock." # 
 
 ** Did you speak? What say you, my son?" demanded the 
 baron, who had heard him imperfectly. 
 
 "I said, sir, that I am ready to obey you in all that you 
 may command," replied Gaston de Colobrieres, with a sign. 
 
 *' Very well, my son; I will explain myself further another 
 time," said the baron, touched, and above all astonished at 
 this absolute submission, which accorded so little with what 
 La Rousse had told him. It was not likely that his son would 
 be thinking of taking the frock if his marriage with the heiress 
 of Pierre Maragnon had been arranged. The baron ended by 
 supposing that these projects which had so vividly roused his 
 indignation were not quite so far advanced as he had at first 
 supposed, and that in place of a marriage being fixed upon, it 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 91 
 
 was merely a budding inclination that was in question. This 
 certainty suddenly modified his plans, and without altogether 
 renouncing his determination, he regretted having so impera- 
 tively manifested it. 
 
 The worthy man returned pensively to the chateau, and 
 while awaiting the supper hour he ascended to a sort of garret 
 which he called his library, under pretext of seeking the se- 
 cond volume of his peerage, but in reality to recover from tlie 
 feelings of grief and commiseration which the words of his 
 children had aroused within him. Whilst he turned over with 
 a careless hand the mouldy papers and the dilapidated and 
 irat-eaten volumes which lay upon the old and rotten planks, 
 the baroness left the sitting-room in order to seek Anastasia. 
 She found her seated in the same place where her father had 
 left her, her hands upon her knees, her head bent down, and 
 her eyes turned towards the plain where the paths she had so 
 often traversed on her way to the Capuchin's Rock disappeared 
 in the distance. At the sound of her mother's voice Anastasia 
 started, and passed her hand across her face to conceal her 
 tears. The baroness seated herself beside ;her child, and said 
 in a tone of protection, tenderness, and trembling firmness, 
 impossible to be described — 
 
 " Be calm, my dearest child, your mother will never permit 
 you to be sacrificed thus; she will have sufiicient courage to 
 defend you. Weep no more, you shall not enter the convent." 
 
 "Oh! mother, I request on the contrary your permission 
 to enter it," cried the young girl, sobbing bitterly, and laying 
 her burning cheek on her mother's hands; '*yes, I long for 
 that retreat where one thinks only of God, where one forgets 
 the world. Yes, I will joyfully obey my father, and I have 
 only one wish, xhat of speedily accomplishing my sacrifice." 
 
 Madame de Colobrieres remained for a moment mute with 
 surprise and dismay. Anastasia had never to her eyes mani- 
 fested any disposition for a conventual life, and this sudden 
 inclination seemed to conceal things she trembled to think of. 
 
 *'My child," said she, hesitatingly, "then you are not 
 happy here?" 
 
 The young girl shook her head with a gesture of despair, 
 and murmured gently: 
 
 "I die a thousand times every day of regret and sorrow." 
 
 ** Time will remove this grief, my dear child," resumed the 
 baroness in a lower tone of voice, as if she were afraid of 
 hearing her own words; "you will forget the cause of your 
 sorrow. Absence takes away the remembrance of all things, 
 
92 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 my child — you will once more find contentment and peace of 
 mind — in a few months you will be happy again." 
 
 "And when they shall return!" said Anastasia, pointing 
 with an enertretic gesture to the hill, behind which the new 
 Chateau de Belveser lay hid. " They will return," continued 
 she, with an accent of bitter grief, "but I shall then be no 
 longer here." 
 
 Then she added: — 
 
 " Oh, mother, I must be very unhappy — my torture must 
 be very great — to give me strength to leave you !" 
 
 The baroness was utterly overcome ; her heart bled, wounded 
 in the most vital part ; and like all weak-minded and timid 
 persons, she accused herself of being the cause of the evil 
 which she had not known, and reproached herself for faults 
 she had been unable to foresee. 
 
 "Alas! my child, your brother also has appeared sad for 
 some time back, " said she, still hesitating to confirm her sus- 
 picions, and to probe this new wound; "I have perceived his 
 grief — he suffers," 
 
 "As I do, mother," replied Anastasia, raising to heaven 
 a look which expressed at the same time the burning pain of 
 a loving heart and the exalted spirit of a martyr. 
 
 Madame de Colobrieres remained for a few moments as if 
 completely prostrated by the blow of this double disclosure, 
 but she did not sink into the moody despair of violent natures. 
 With her moreover resignation soon sprang up from the utter 
 abnegation of all selfish feelings, and she supported this last 
 trial with the passive devotion of a mother who counts her 
 own happiness as nothing when that of her children is at stake. 
 She once more assumed an appearance of firmness, and raising 
 Anastasia, who had sunk sobbing on her knees, she said to her 
 in a calm and gentle voice : — 
 
 "My child, you must conquer your grief, and hide your 
 tears. Let us both be courageous in these our last moments 
 together. Come, we will go and seek your father. Let the 
 subject not be mentioned again, for this evening at least; 
 we are affected now, and perhaps our hearts would fail us. 
 Women ought to weep only when they are alone." 
 
 In fact, the baroness entered the sitting-room with a tranquil 
 countenance, and, as on the evening before, took her needle 
 and began to work until supper should be ready. Shortly 
 afterwards the baron descended, his arms full of mouldy volumes 
 and his hat covered with cobwebs. He called to Gaston to 
 assist him in his \vork, and began to arrange and collate his 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERE8. 93 
 
 old torn and dusty volumes as if he had taken the greatest 
 interest in their preservation. The baroness, on seeing the 
 trouble her husband was giving himself, said in a low voice to 
 her daughter: — 
 
 "Your father is very unhappy." 
 
 That evening and the following day passed off as usual ; 
 neither the separation nor the departure was spoken of. Tonin 
 merely received orders to bring out from a sort of cellar which 
 served as coach-house, a species of machine on four wheels 
 which the baron called his carriage, and upon which the fowls 
 were accustomed to roost in bad weather. This chariot, whose 
 origin certainly dated from the first years of the reign of Luuis 
 le Grand J and in which the Colobrieres family had in all pro- 
 bability made the journey to court, was lined with a yellowish 
 brown fabric which had formerly been crimson velvet, and the 
 doors were hung with leather curtains on which might still be 
 distinguished traces of armorial bearings. It was in this vehicle 
 that the baron had successively carried away all his daughters, 
 eaoJi time performing a journey of six days in order to place 
 them in their convents. 
 
 The old domestic sorrowfully shook off the layer of dust 
 which covered the antique chariot, brushed the seats, and put 
 a little sack of oats into the provision box. 
 
 ''Is anybody going away?" inquired La Rousse, uneasy at 
 the sight of these preparations. 
 
 "I know nothing about it," replied Tonin, a tear trembling 
 in his eye; "but I fear this forebodes that to-morrow there 
 will not be four covers on the table." 
 
 "Good heavens!" ejaculated La Kousse, turning pale, "who 
 can be going then? — the baron perhaps, on account of the 
 letter he received? No one else can have any business abroad, 
 eh, Tonin?" • 
 
 "I know nothing about it," repeated the old domestic. 
 
 "When shall we know?" cried the young waiting-maid, 
 more and more uneasy and alarmed; "at the risk of failing in 
 my respect to them, I will go and question Mademoiselle and 
 M. le Chevalier." 
 
 "Do not attempt it," replied Tonin, holding her back ; "per- 
 haps M. le Baron has not informed them. At any rate, we 
 shall soon know what it is all about, for I have orders to go 
 to-morrow morning to Master Tiste, your godfather, for his 
 mare, the baron having borrowed it for some days." 
 
 . The same day the baroness with her own hands prepared 
 some provisions which she caused to be placed in the carriage, 
 and when the night had come, instead of waiting in the sitting- 
 
94 THE Oij^ CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 room for supper, she proceeded to her bedchamber, where 
 Anastasia and Gaston soon joined her. This chamber was a 
 vast and almost dismantled apartment, in which a fire had 
 never been lighted during the memory of man. An antique 
 bed, half hidden beneath its heavy curtains of a sombre hue, 
 a wardrobe of curiously carved walnut-wood, a table, and a 
 few dilapidated chairs, were arranged at equal distances, so 
 as to occupy as much space as possible; but even by this 
 arrangement they were far from being sufficient to furnish the 
 chamber, which at the first glance appeared completely bare. 
 It was now the end of January, and the wind which whistled 
 between the ill-joined panels, diffused a dry cold atmosphere 
 through the room, and on every side were felt icy gusts of 
 wind which made the furniture creak, and almost extinguished 
 the little lamp whose vacillating flame flickered amid the 
 shadows of the vast apartment. Madame de Colobrieres, after 
 searching for a long time in the deepest drawer of the ward- 
 robe, placed upon the table a cofier and a little leather purse, 
 the same which, many years before, she had confided one 
 eventful evening to the beautiful Agatha. Then she bade her 
 children approach. 
 
 The casket contained the rings and trinkets she had brought 
 as her dower to the Baron de Colobrieres. They consisted of 
 antique rings ornamented with precious stones, a gold watch 
 which had not gone for the last half century, and a few other 
 ornaments of a similar kind. 
 
 "My son," said she, addressing herself to Gaston, "this 
 belonged to me, and I give it to you, not that you may preserve 
 it as I have done, but that you may sell it and apply the pro- 
 ceeds according to your wants. Take this purse also; it 
 contains the savings of many years, and the first crown I put 
 into it was the cause of many misfortunes in our family. I 
 have left it there, adding to it all that I could^ spare, in hopes 
 that a happy day might arrive when I should make it a present 
 to my last daughter. Alas ! it is her wedding present that I 
 give you." 
 
 She was silent ; the fast flowing tears checked her utterance, 
 but as she saw that her two children were also weeping,^ she 
 made a violent effbrt to subdue her grief, and resumed in a 
 tranquil, and almost cheerful tone: — 
 
 *'A11 this together makes up a sum sufficiently large to 
 enable you not only to accompany your sister to Aix as your 
 father wishes, but also to Paris." 
 
 "Ah, mother!" cried Anastasia, "this is the greatest con- 
 solation that your tenderness could have offered me ! I would 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 95 
 
 not have asked it, — I would not have even dared to Lope for 
 it." 
 
 "Poor child! she would have seen, — I would have followed 
 her on foot," murmured Gaston de Colobrieres. 
 
 Shortly afterwards the baron entered the room and seated 
 himself beside his wife. Already the clock had struck nine, 
 and the covers had been long since laid in the sitting-room ; 
 but on this evening no supper was eaten. After having waited 
 for a length of time, the old domestic proceeded to seek La 
 Rousse and said to her with an air of consternation : — 
 
 "No one has sat down to table; most certainly our young 
 master and mistress are going away." 
 
 "Are you quite certain of that?" said La Rousse, grasping 
 her yellow locks with a sudden gesture of despair. Then she 
 added, consoled apparently by.ai^udden idea: — 
 
 "They will not refuse to take me with them!" 
 
 Not a word, not a sound could be heard in the baroness's 
 apartment ; Gaston de Colobrieres and his sister sat in silence 
 beside their mother, who seemed to pray mentally. The baron, 
 erect upon his chair, mute and motionless as a statue, was lost 
 in deep and sad reflections on the duties which a lofty descent 
 and the duties of a true nobleman imposed upon him. When 
 the clock had struck the half hour after nine, Madame Colo- 
 brieres pressed the hand of her daughter with an almost 
 imperceptible shudder ; then Anastasia rose, and in place ot 
 maiking a reverence to her father according to custom before 
 retu'ing for the night, she knelt before him and asked his 
 blessing. The old nobleman stretched out his hand over the 
 beautiful head that was bent down before him, and then, carried 
 away by the emotions of his heart, he embraced her closely, 
 whispering in her ear as he pressed her to his heart: — 
 
 "My child, I release you from your obedience. Do you 
 wish to remain with us?" 
 
 She shook her head with a gesture of refusal, and pressing her 
 father's hands with transport to her lips, she rose suddenly 
 and darted out of the room without bidding adieu to her 
 mother who was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her face hidden 
 in her handkerchief. 
 
 At daybreak on the following morning Tonin harnessed 
 Tvlaster Tiste's mare to the antique equipage, whilst La Rousse 
 secured the light baggage of the travellers to the board behind. 
 Lambin, who had been previously chained up, howled in the 
 
 )urt-yard, and Anastasia's birds chirped mournfully in their 
 
 !ge, which had remained all night at the window. Shortly 
 afterwards the brother and sister descended the stairs together. 
 
96 THE OLD CONVENTS X)F PARIS. 
 
 La Rousse, who had disappeared for a moment, now returned 
 in her Sunday clothes,her large flat hat upon her head, and a 
 packet under her arm. 
 
 "^Vhere are you going, Madeleine, that you are so gay?" 
 inquired Gaston, with an air of surprise. 
 
 *'I am going with you if it is your good pleasure," replied 
 she, in a half supplicating half resolute tone. * ' If I incommode 
 you in the carriage I will make the journey on foot — it is not 
 so far to the city of Aix." 
 
 "But it is not to Aix alone, it is to Paris that we are going," 
 interrupted the young man, at once embarrassed and touched 
 with this mark of devotion. '*It is so far, so very far, that we 
 cannot take you with us." 
 
 "It is a good month's journey," added the old domestic. 
 
 "Return to your kitchen, my child," continued Gaston de 
 Colobrieres. "I recommend poor Lambin to your care — he 
 knows that we are going, and is howling piteously. Come, 
 good-bye." 
 
 At these words he held out his hand which she touched 
 mechanically. Anastasia then approached and said to her in 
 a broken voice : — 
 
 "Good-bye, La Rousse. I have left out for you in my 
 bedroom a little bundle of my old clothes ; they are all that 
 I can give you. Take great care of my mother, and speak to 
 her often of us." 
 
 She entered the carriage, and Gaston took his place by her 
 side. A little peasant boy, who was to drive them to Aix 
 and afterwards bring back Master Tiste's mare, jumped upon 
 the driving seat, making his long-lashed whip whistle round 
 the ears of the animal. 
 
 "Farewell, mother!" cried Anastasia, casting a last glance 
 towards the closed shutters of the baroness's chamber ; fare- 
 well — I shall see you no more. Alas ! could I have experienced 
 a more severe trial than this separation?" 
 
 At this moment the vehicle having turned, she perceived 
 through the morning mist the summit of the Capuchin's Rock 
 bathed in the golden light of the rising sun. Mademoiselle de 
 Colobrieres cast a long and lingering glance upon the plain 
 before her and the tranquil valley, and repeated in her 
 heart: — 
 
 "Farewell!" 
 
 Then she closed her eyes and threw herself back in the car- 
 riage which rolled swiftly on, the little animal that drew it 
 starting off at a round trot. La Rousse, motionless on the 
 terrace, followed for an instant with her eyes the progress of 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERE8. 97 
 
 the vehicle, which, jolting along, soon reached the foot of the 
 hill. She then began to run madly forward down the road, 
 while Lambin, who had managed to break his chain, passed her 
 like an arrow, and bounded forward on the traces of his master. 
 
 The young waiting-maid and the dog ran behind the carriage 
 for about a quarter of a league, but the travellers perceived 
 only Lambin, who barked and jumped against the wheels, 
 whilst La Rousse, pale and breathless, cried out in a voice 
 which was lost in the distance: — 
 
 ** Monsieur le Chevalier! — Mademoiselle! — I want to go 
 with you — take me!" 
 
 She lost ground, however, whilst Lambin still kept ahead of 
 the carriage, despite all the- lashes of the little driver's whip. 
 At length the intelligent animal paused for an instant, made a 
 sudden spring, and fell upon the front seat on which Gaston 
 was seated. The latter was about to drive him back, but 
 Anastasia held him by the collar, and said as she patted his 
 shaggy coat : — 
 
 ''Let us take him with us, brother." 
 
 La Rousse had fallen exhausted and breathless on the road- 
 side. For another moment she gazed after the carriage which 
 was proceeding onwards surrounded with a cloud of dust, and 
 when it had disappeared, she murmured: — 
 
 "To Paris! Good Heavens! — to Paris! — oh! I will go 
 there too!" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 At the period when the events of the simple tale we have 
 undertaken to relate happened, there stood in the centre of 
 Paris, in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, a building of unpre- 
 tending architecture and of a sombre and forbidding aspect. 
 The constant mists which rise from the waters of the Seine 
 had imparted to the walls that mouldy tint which is always 
 seen on buildings whose exteriors have for several centuries 
 been neglected. The door was as massive as that of a prison, 
 and the few windows which opened towards the street were 
 furnished with double bars. It was at the entrance of this 
 building that a travelling carriage stopped one morning in 
 the month of February, and Mademoiselle de Colobrieres 
 alighted. As for Gaston he had repaired to a neighbouring 
 hostelry, until the hour should arrive when he could present 
 himself at the parlour of the convent of Notre Dame de la 
 Misericorde. 
 
98 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 Anastasia, conducted by a lay sister, traversed the damp 
 and gloomy court-yard which separated the street from the 
 cloistral buildings. She then entered a species of vestibule 
 at the further end of which was a door painted black and 
 surmounted with a cross. The lay sister rang gently. Im- 
 mediately afterwards the wicket opened, and a wrinkled face 
 appeared behmd the grating ; then a cracked and trembling 
 voice and the clash of a large bunch of keys were heard simulta- 
 neously. 
 
 *' Jesus be praised!" ejaculated the voice, while the keys 
 grated in the heavy and rusty locks, "it is Mademoiselle de 
 Colobrieres that has arrived! what a happy event! — what joy 
 for the community!" 
 
 The massive door at length swung open, and the old nun to 
 whom was confided the functions of porteress, took Anastasia 
 by the hand, exclaiming: — 
 
 "Enter — enter, mademoiselle. Sweet Saviour, how glad 1 
 am to see you! — Permit me, my child, to be the first to 
 embrace you." 
 
 With these words she touched with her lips the rosy cheeks 
 of Anastasia, who, grateful for this warm reception, murmured 
 a few words of thanks, while she felt that sort of sinking at the 
 heart which she had experienced on hearing the cloister door shut 
 behind her, gradually vanish. She allowed herself to be led 
 through a long corridor, and, guided by the porteress, entered 
 a little cold, bare, and ill-lighted room ; this apartment was 
 the superior's parlour. The walls, which were simply white- 
 washed, were adorned, instead of pictures, with pious inscrip- 
 tions enclosed in blue and yellow foliage of a most primitive 
 taste. A table and a few straw-bottomed chairs composed the 
 entire furniture. At the further end of the room was a large 
 grated opening through which visitors were allowed to converse 
 with the inmates of the convent. 
 
 "Be seated for a moment, mademoiselle," said the lay sister 
 with an affectionate air; "I will go and inform our mother 
 that you are here. What joy for her to present to the com- 
 munity so charming a person, and one also so nearly related 
 to herself! What a blessed day for our house!" 
 
 So saying, with a light step she turned from the parlour, 
 the bunch of keys, which were suspended from her girdle, 
 jingling as she went. Anastasia sank almost exhausted u})ou 
 a chair. The fii'st sight of the convent had appeared to her 
 very gloomy, and in fact the dilapidated chateau of her 
 father was a palace of delight in comparison with this edifice 
 surrounded with its bl^Qkoned walls, and in which everything 
 
GAbTON DK COLOliRIEUES. 99 
 
 announced the renunciation of worldly pleasure, and the hard 
 and pinching poverty of the monastic life. But she was not 
 left long to her reflections ; the parlour door opened and a nun 
 slowly entered, her arms crossed upon her breast and her hands 
 concealed beneath the ample sleeves of her robe. 
 
 "My dear child, you are welcome!" said she, kissing Anas- 
 tasia's forehead, while at the same time she gazed upon her 
 with a melancholy and satisfied air. 
 
 *' You are my sister — my sister Euphemia!" cried the latter, 
 taking her sister's hands and pressing them to her heart. 
 
 " I am Mother Angelique de la Charite," replied the superior 
 with a smile ; *'here, my child, spiritual relationship replaces the 
 ties of blood. I am no longer your sister, for 1 am your mother 
 in Christ. You are then one of us, my daughter?" added she, 
 fixing upon Anastasia her clear and penetrating gaze; "I long 
 thought that you would not rejoin the elder branches of your 
 family, and that the will of our parents was to retain you by 
 their side to watch over their declining years." 
 
 "It is not alone my father's will that has led me liither," 
 replied Anastasia, "it is my vocation." 
 
 "A sudden vocation?" demanded the nun. 
 
 "Yes, my mother," replied Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, 
 lowering her eyes, as if she feared that the penetrating gaze oi 
 La Mere Angelique would have read her inmost thoughts ; "yes, 
 I have taken a sudden disgust for a worldly life, and although 
 the Chateau de Colobrieres is a very tranquil abode — a solitude 
 which bears some resemblance to those retreats which holy 
 . persons inhabit in the deserts — I longed for a yet closer retire- 
 ment; I wished to take refuge here." 
 
 "And when you entered here, your soul, having at length 
 attained the summit of its desires, leaped with joy ?" said La 
 Mere Angelique ; " and you exclaimed, like Saint Bridget — 
 * This place is the garden of delight which leads to life eternal 1' " 
 
 Anastasia sighed deeply and remained silent. 
 
 " My child," continued the nun, with a slight smile, " these 
 were not altogether, I can see, the feelings you experienced 
 on passing the door of the cloister ; this first proof has some- 
 what depressed you. But that ought neither to repel nor as- 
 tonish you : there are some hearts v»^hlch the Lord does not 
 wish to receive at once." 
 
 *'ii' he is merciful, if he is just, he will take mine: I can 
 bestow it with good-will!" cried tlie jkhji- clilld, weeping bit- 
 terly. 
 
 "Be not moved, my child; dry your tears," said La Mere 
 Angelique, gently. " Come ! recover yourself, and think no. 
 
100 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PA^lS. 
 
 more of all this. Take tliis book, my child, and read, whilst 
 I write to the Chevalier de Colobrieres to request him to 
 come and sup miih us this evening." 
 
 " What ! my brother? — in this convent?" exclaimed Ange- 
 tasia in astonishment ; " is it then permitted to open the door 
 of the cloister to men?" 
 
 "By no means," replied La Mere Angelique, hastily ; " our 
 ecclesiastical superiors, and the princes of the royal blood, have 
 alone the right of penetrating into the cloistral buildings ; but 
 with my permission all can present themselves at the grating, 
 and it is in this parlour that your brother will sup with us to- 
 night." 
 
 So saying she approached the table, opened a little desk, 
 and began to write, having first placed in the hands of Anas- 
 tasia a work entitled the *' Perfect Nun." 
 
 While reading the p'ious volume of Father Maltagne, Ma- 
 demoiselle de Colobrieres cast now and then a furtive glance 
 towards the imposing personage whom she had not yet dared 
 to examine openly, and towards whom her heart was already 
 attracted by a sort of timid tenderness. 
 
 La Mere Angelique de la Charite had already attained the 
 middle age ; but a slight degree of embonpoint, and the pale 
 freshness of her complexion, gave her still a youthful appear- 
 ance. Her features were large and regular, and her finely- 
 formed mouth was often partly opened by a gentle smile. She 
 inherited from her mother that soft limpid expression peculiar 
 to eyes of an undecided tint between blue and greyish green. 
 Yet the slightly-arched line of the eyebrows, and the large 
 and open forehead, recalled the severe countenance of the 
 Baron de Colobrieres ; and the ensemble of the features ex- 
 pressed decision, firmness of mind, and austere kindness. The 
 costume she wore displayed to advantage the regular beauty 
 of her features. It was a robe of a Moorish grey, with a 
 scapulary of white serge which descended to her feet. The 
 hood, arranged in such a manner as to cover a portion of the 
 cheek, entirely concealed her hair, and an ample black veil 
 floated over her shoulders. A black crucifix attached to a 
 ribbon of the same colour hung from her neck, and seemed 
 like the insignium of her religious profession. i 
 
 " The Chevalier de Colobrieres scarcely expects my invita- 
 tion, I presume," said La Mere Angelique, closing the note she 
 liad been writing. " The poor boy knows not a living soul in 
 this Babylon, and the time must appear to him very long. He 
 is alone, I suppose?" 
 
 "Alone with his dog Lambin," replied Anastasia, naively. 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 101 
 
 ' 'Not knowing where to take counsel," murmured La Mere 
 Angelique, "without a single protecting hand, and perhaps 
 scant of money ! What a situation !" 
 
 " It is Gaston's intention, I believe, to follow the example 
 of his elder brothers, and retire also from the world," said 
 Anastasia. 
 
 "Now may Providence aid us !" interrupted La Mere Ange- 
 lique ; " this must not be. I am but a poor recluse, shut up 
 from my youth in a cloister, yet I can give perhaps some good 
 advice to those living in the world. This evening I will speak 
 to your brother. In the mean time, my daughter, let me pre- 
 sent you to the community : come with me." 
 
 The convent of Notre Dame de la Misericorde was not one 
 of those pious retreats founded by royal personages and en- 
 riched by their gifts. A devout lady and a pious priest had 
 commenced the building about the middle of the seventeenth 
 century, and at length, with the assistance of Providence and 
 the alms of the faithful, were enabled to complete it. It was 
 in truth Anne of Austria who had laid the first stone of the 
 church, but her munificence was confined to the gift of some 
 altar ornaments, and the Maison de Paris was almost as ill en- 
 dowed as the other houses of the order, which, although it was 
 not a mendicant order, was one of the poorest in Christendom. 
 The property of the monastery had scarcely increased with 
 time, and the humble flock presided over by La Mere Ange- 
 lique did not live in the well-fed indolence of the Benedic- 
 tines, the Visitandines, and other communities endowed by 
 opulent benefactors. The nuns of La Misericorde spent less 
 of their time in the choir than in the workroom ; they ac- 
 complished perfect marvels of needlework, and created in that 
 material chefs-d'oeuwe by the side of which those of the Lydian 
 Arachne would have appeared but abortive attempts. Their 
 lives were spent in creating those delicate embroideries and 
 magnificent pieces of lacework with which the court ladies 
 loved to deck their persons, and which the grand seigneurs 
 wore in the shape of frills and ruffles. Many a furbelow at 
 which these cloistered workwomen had laboured for a year, 
 left their pious hands to adorn the short petticoat of a dan- 
 sense ; many a pair of ruffles, the almost impalpable threads of 
 which the young novices had barely completed, were forgotten 
 by some petit-maitre upon the toilet-table of a marquise, or 
 torn to pieces in a drunken brawl. 
 
 On leaving the parlour. La Mere Angelique led Mademoiselle 
 de Colobrieres through a long dark gallery, on one side of 
 irhich opened about twenty little doors. These were the dor- 
 
102 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 mltories of the sisterhood. In the centre was a large clock 
 surmounted by a cross. A few unframed sheets of canvass, 
 daubed with horrible pictures, decorated the walls, the saints 
 whom they represented seeming to mount sentinel at each 
 door, and to lend an ear to the ticking of the clock, the hand 
 of which marked the seconds of their eternity. An icy chill 
 seemed to exude, as it were, from these tattered canvasses, 
 penetrating soul and body. Poor Anastasia again felt the 
 impression she had experienced on passing the cloister door : 
 she paused, shuddering, and said in a faint voice : — 
 
 *• What darkness 1 — what silence ! One might suppose that 
 there was not a creature in the house." 
 
 The superior smiled and raised her finger towards the clock, 
 which almost at the same instant struck twelve. The stroke 
 of the hammer was still echoing, when a joyous hvim of many 
 voices was heard in the interior of the convent ; children's 
 voices were mingled with those of more mature age, and their 
 animated prattle reached even the dormitory gallery. 
 
 "These are our boarders, whose play-hour has arrived/* 
 said La Mere Angelique. " My dear little lambs are playing 
 in the court- yard, and their gaiety spreads through the whole 
 house. You will scarcely ever meet them except in church, 
 my dear daughter ; but you will be able to see them laugh 
 and play through the windows of the novices' dormitory ; it is 
 an amusement that I will occasionally permit you." 
 
 "Thanks, my dear mother," replied Anastasia, who began 
 to perceive that in a convent the most trifling amusements 
 are not to be despised. 
 
 It was also the hour at which the nuns took their recreation. 
 They had assembled in a room which was called the winter 
 promenade, and which opened upon the garden. This apart- 
 ment was even more simply decorated than the superior's 
 parlour ; the furniture, which had already served several gene- 
 rations of nuns, was composed of a long massive table, and a 
 few oaken benches disposed along the walls. A species of 
 chair marked the place reserved for the superior ; but this 
 peculiar seat was neither softer nor more commodious than 
 the benches appropriated to the nuns, and its occupant could 
 not hope to repose very luxuriously upon this solid stool, 
 which nevertheless represented a throne — the throne of an 
 absolute sovereign over her circumscribed empire. The win- 
 dows were hung with curtains of linen, through which might 
 be perceived the convent garden. Neither was the prospect 
 on this side more cheerful ; the walls, whose height surpassed 
 that of the neighbouring houses, formed a regular enclosure. 
 
GASTON DE COLOBIIIETIES. 103 
 
 j*n the centre of which a basin of stagnant water held the place 
 of a fountain. Two alleys, bordered by stunted and distorted 
 lime-trees, which presented much the appearance of two rows of 
 inverted brooms, extended in parallel lines to the end of the 
 irarden, and not a blade of grass could be perceived in the 
 huge square which was dignified by the title of the parterre. 
 At equal distances against the cloistral wall were formed 
 niches of pebbles, ornamented with plaster statuettes and gar- 
 lands of shells ; these were oratories erected by the nuns, who 
 in spring decked them with the languishing flowers which 
 budded in their garden. 
 
 AVhen La Mere Angelique appeared at the entrance of the 
 winter promenade followed by Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, 
 all conversation ceased — every eye was turned towards the 
 new-comer with curious interest, and the community, erect 
 and motionless, awaited in respectful silence the words of 
 their superior. The latter advanced slowly to her place, her 
 handsome features wearing an expression of gentle severity, of 
 austere calm, the power of which was irresistible. It mi^lit 
 easily be seen that she was conscious of the absolute dominion 
 she exercised over all these minds, whether timid or resolute, 
 depressed or exalted, satisfied or sufiering, over all these na- 
 tures brought into subjection, at least in appearance, by the 
 power of religion. 
 
 " My dear sisters," said she in a grave and gentle voice, 
 " behold the new lamb which the Lord has joined to our flock* 
 As my sister by the ties of relationship, as my spiritual daugh- 
 ter, I recommend her to your affection and your prayers." 
 
 In an instant Anastasia was surrounded by the entire sister- 
 hood. There was something singularly ingenuous in the tes- 
 timonies of their friendship ; and the formula of compliments 
 v/hich they employed bore but slight resemblance to those 
 made use of in the world. 
 
 " Sweet Saviour! how glad I am !" said one of the younger 
 nuns ; '* your place will be near me in the refectory, my dear 
 ■4er. Do you like fruit ?" 
 
 "Yes, sister," replied Anastasia, astonished at the question. 
 
 **That is delightful!" replied the nun, quickly. ** With 
 our mother's permission I every day retrench my dessert, in 
 order by this little mortification to correct myself of the sin ot 
 gluttony to which I am subject ; it is you, my dear sister, who 
 shall eat my apples." 
 
 *' What a joyful day for us, my child, will that be on which 
 you take the veil !" said an old nun, touching with her long 
 yellow fingers the printed cotton dress of Mademoiselle de 
 
104 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 Colobrieres ; *' but as long as you wear the livery of the world 
 I dare not rejoice — you will not be altogether ours." 
 
 ** How long the time of your probation will appear to us!" 
 added another nun. *' There are two doors to the novitiate, 
 as La Mere Perpetue, our former prioress, used always to say : 
 the one is the great door of salvation which leads into the 
 convent, the other the door which the tempter holds half open, 
 and through which he invites us to return to the world. My 
 dear sister, I will recite every day the Psalm * Deus nostcr 
 refugium,' in order that Providence may grant you grace to 
 persevere in your vocation." 
 
 *' Come this way, my dear sister; we will show you how to 
 make the agnus," cried a group of novices, drawing Anastasia 
 towards the table where they had spread out the images, which 
 they amused themselves by cutting out and framing in gold " 
 and silken embroideries. 
 
 The various groups which the arrival of Mademoiselle de 
 Colobrieres had disturbed were formed anew, and the nuns 
 recommenced chattering away with that eagerness peculiar to 
 persons condemned every day to several hours of silence. 
 Their innocent and childish conversation, and little discreet 
 bursts of laughter might be heard from one end of the hall to 
 the other. Anastasia observed with a certain degree of 
 interest this picture which a painter would have taken 
 pleasure in sketching, for it contained those striking types 
 which are to be met with only in the cloister. A few vene- 
 rable sisters, seated together upon the same bench, were de- 
 ploring the sudden disappearance of a huge black cat, an 
 inmate of the house, who for the last three days had not been 
 seen in the refectory. They spoke of him as a prodigal son, 
 and were gravely indignant at his misconduct. Behind these 
 discreet personages, two young nuns were conversing together 
 in a low voice. The poor girls added perhaps an additional 
 pleasure to this recreation by conversing upon forbidden topics. 
 Further off, the novices were busily engaged in cutting out 
 their agnuses, while relating to Anastasia some one of those 
 histories which are handed down by tradition in all convents. 
 One of them, a fair pale-cheeked girl, was seated apart near • 
 the window. A large volume lay open upon her knees, while 
 her eyes followed with a melancholy expression the sparrows, 
 who, after having for a moment alighted in the garden would 
 again wing their flight over the wall. 
 
 At a quarter to one the bell rang, its shrill chimes calling 
 the nuns into the workroom. 
 
 "What can you do, my child?" inquired the superior of 
 
GASTON DE COLOBUIERES. 10i> 
 
 Anastasia, whilst the mistress of the novices was distributing 
 the afternoon tasks. 
 
 *' Not much, my mother," replied the young girl; "I have 
 only been taught how to mend worn things and to repair 
 skilfully clothes of which the stuff is threadbare." 
 
 "I was taught that also, formerly," said La Mere Angeliqne 
 with a sigh; *'the Demoiselles de Colobrieres never had a new 
 dress, and the baroness, our good mother, is clothed like the 
 blessed Madeleine de Saint Joseph who wore the same petti- 
 coat for thirty -five years." 
 
 "Divine goodness! she had then made profession in a house 
 whose treasury was no richer than our own?" observed Anas- 
 tasia, with ingenuous simplicity. 
 
 ' ' She was superior of the convent of the Augustines at 
 Madrid," replied La Mere Angelique; **it is a house of royal 
 foundation, enjoying a revenue of a hundred thousand livres 
 a year, and in which the queens of Spain often go to hear 
 vespers and take supper." 
 
 The nuns had now begun to work, a dead silence being 
 observed by all. Anastasia seated herself before an embroi- 
 dery frame and began tracing a few light garlands upon an 
 Indian muslin collar. This occupation left free scope for 
 her mind, which wandered away among a thousand uneasy 
 thoughts, ever returning to her dearly cherished but painful 
 recollections. From time to time the poor child would lean 
 over her work and secretly dry her eyes, blinded with tears ; 
 then she would resume her task more actively, and would en- 
 deavour forcibly to drive away the image which she carried with 
 her in the recesses of her heart, and which obstinately remained 
 in spite of her resolutions, her scruples, and her remorse. 
 
 At lunch hour, a lay sister went round with a basket, offering 
 to each nun a slice of dry bread. Anastasia took hers me- 
 chanically, placed it at one corner of her embroidery frame, 
 and continued her employment. 
 
 "Eat, my dear sister," whispered a nun, who was seated 
 by her side, "it will do you good. The first day that I 
 passed in this house, like you my heart was heavy; when 
 they distributed the luncheon, I said to myself that it was the 
 bread of penitence, a bitter morsel which I was to moisten 
 with my tears, and I could not take a single mouthful ; the 
 following day, I had more appetite, I ate it, and I can assure 
 you, I found it very good and very nice. However, the rules 
 do not forbid us treating ourselves with a few little delicacies, 
 and if you will be good enough to accept my chocolate 
 lozenores " 
 
ion THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 With these words, she drew from her ample pocket a species 
 of comfit-box, and presented it open to Anastasia. 
 
 '* Thank you heartily, my dear sister," replied Mademoiselle 
 de Colobrieres, touched with this mark of attention; *'I am 
 not accustomed to these delicacies, and I can content myself 
 very well with this good white bread." 
 
 She broke her bread and endeavoured to eat a little ; but 
 her tears flowed again: she recalled to mind with regret the 
 meagre dinners which were served on her father's table, and 
 the rye bread manufactured by La Kousse. 
 
 "This is nothing, my child; do not be astonished," con- 
 tinued the nun, who had observed her. " The first meal one 
 eats in a convent is always thus ; one weeps, but that does not 
 prevent the vocation." 
 
 It was almost night when the bell called the nuns into the 
 choir. Mademoiselle de Colobrieres followed them thither, 
 r.nd at a sign from the superior took her place near the 
 grating on the novices' side. It was the first act of her 
 reliofious lifii, and she felt herself impressed with a strange 
 feeling of sadness and fear while kneeling for the first time m 
 the sanctuary, at the foot of that altar where she was to pro- 
 nounce her vows. [N'ever had the thought of this dreaded 
 engagement struck her as it did at this moment; never had 
 she so clearly perceived the entire extent of her sacrifice. In 
 vain she endeavoured to join in the prayers of the nuns; her 
 lips alone murmured the psalms of the Virgin's ofl3ce; she 
 could not attain that degree of inward prayer which comes 
 from the heart alone, and despite all her efforts to the contrary, 
 her eyes wandered over surrounding objects with a sort of 
 painful curiosity. 
 
 Daylight was now gone, and the twilight which struggled 
 through the windows scarcely permitted the enclosure of 
 the choir to be visible. The nuns, erect in their stalls, 
 their eyes half closed, their formularies in their hands, 
 chanted from memory the service which their rule obliged 
 them to recite each day. Through the grating which separated 
 the choir from the church might be distinguished a portion of 
 the nave, faintly illumined by the lamp which burned before 
 the high altar. A few devout women, kneeling at the foot of 
 the holy table and shivering with cold, were saying their 
 prayers and repeating the responses after the nuns. At one 
 corner of the choir and near the grating, stood a little 
 altar surrounded by funereal symbols, upon which burned a 
 taper \7hose pale ray disclosed the miniature effigy of a cof- 
 fined figure enveloped in a winding-sheet, the brow en- 
 
ASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 10/ 
 
 Circled with palm leaves, and the hands graspinpr a crucifix. 
 When Anastasia perceived this gloomy figure she no longer 
 turned away her eyes ; it was an enigma the solution of which 
 she sought in vain to divine. One of the novices perceiving 
 her absence of mind, said in a low voice, touching her elbow 
 as she spoke:— 
 
 *• Pay attention, my dear sister; they are about to rise for 
 the Vexilla liegis.'* 
 
 And as Anastasia pointed towards the lugubrious figure, 
 looking at her at the same time inquiringly, she added : — 
 
 "It is the effigy of our holy founder, Father Ivan, whose 
 relics we are fortunate enough to possess. He is interred 
 there in the hollow of the wall." 
 
 " Oh, heavens! it is a tomb," murmured Anastasia, struck 
 with a vague emotion of fear, and saddened by this gloomy 
 neighbourhood ; but almost at the same instant her attention 
 was diverted from this painful impression by some one who 
 had entered and whose figure she could perceive through the 
 grating: it was Gaston de Colobrieres. After having wandered 
 all day through the streets of the great city, with the melan- 
 choly weariness of a poor stranger who knows not what is to 
 become of him in the midst of this splendid and muddy 
 labyrinth, he had come, harassed with fatigue and shivering 
 with cold, to repose himself in the house of God until the hour 
 should arrive when he could present himself at ^he parlour of 
 the convent of La Misericorde. Anastasia felt immediately 
 consoled on perceiving her brother; she began to experience 
 the compensations which there are in a monastic life, and to 
 feel the infinite value which the constant suppression of all our 
 desires, all our wishes, all our inclinations, gives to the slightest 
 gratification of them. A gentle emotion caused her heart to 
 beat ; her eyes, which during this day had been so frequently 
 moistened with tears, now overflowed with joy, and she mur- 
 mured to herself with indescribable tenderness: — 
 
 "My dear Gaston! it is he!" 
 
 Perhaps Mademoiselle de Colobrieres was not the only 
 person conscious of the presence of this handsome young man. 
 He had advanced modestly among the devout women who 
 were repeating their paternosters before the high altar, and 
 after having prayed in an erect position for an instant, had 
 seated himself, hat in hand, and his head slightly drooping 
 upon his breast, in an attitude of pensive meditation. Gaston de 
 Colobrieres was truly a charming cavalier and was remarkable 
 for his good mien and carriage, despite the slightly antiquated 
 taste of his costume. He wore the new coat which his mother 
 
10» THE OliD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 had had made for him at the memorable epoch when the baron 
 received the five hundred crowns arising from the sale of 
 Belveser. The village tailor, who had been called in to fashion 
 this garment, had conscientiously employed all the stuff pur- 
 chased by the baroness, and consequently the skirts floated 
 halfway down the leg, and the lapels could at need have 
 crossed from one shoulder to another. But the slight and 
 gracefully moulded figure of the young man gave a sort of 
 distinction to this species of sack ; and although he did not 
 wear powder like the youths of the day, and although his 
 glossy black hair was confined at the neck by a simple ribbon, 
 his features and general appearance were not the less noble 
 and distinguished. 
 
 After the service and while the nuns were withdrawing 
 from the choir, Anastasia approached La Mere Angelique, 
 and said to her in a low voice, turning her eyes as she spoke 
 towards the nave: — 
 
 " That young man yonder is our brother Gaston." 
 
 "Oh! my child, how much he resembles our dear mother! 
 I recognised him at once!" replied the superior, in a tone of 
 affectionate regret. 
 
 A quarter of an hour afterwards Gaston presented himself 
 at the parlour grating. 
 
 "My brother, my dear brother, at length we meet again!" 
 cried Anastasia, as if she had found him after a long absence. 
 
 La Mere Angelique silently held out her hand to him through 
 the bars, gazing on him as she did so with a sigh. The idea 
 that this fine young man thought of becoming a monk, asto- 
 nished and saddened her. She felt convinced that this voca- 
 tion must have other motives than those of exalted piety, and 
 that human passions had a greater share in his decision than 
 divine love. Gaston, on his side, gazed on her with inex- 
 pressible sadness ; he recollected this elder sister, although he 
 was still a child when she was in the first flower of her youth. 
 He could'recall to mind however the fresh beauty, the dimpled 
 graces of those features which he now beheld again so pale and 
 serious under the black veil. A tear started to his eye, and he 
 pressed the cold white hand of the nun to his lips as he said : — 
 
 "Alas ! sister, it is the destiny of the female branches of our 
 family to bury themselves in a cloister. Anastasia also has 
 come to join you." 
 
 La^ Mere Angelique made a slight movement of the head, 
 and simply replied: — 
 
 "She will perform her probation; then the will of God will 
 decide. But you, brother, you, chevalier, are you certain of 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 109 
 
 ^you^ocatlon for a monastic life? have you como to llie firm 
 resolution of taking the vows of the order of St. Francis?" 
 
 **I know not if it is my vocation," replied Gaston ; " I feel 
 only in my heart an extreme desire to renounce the world, to 
 bury myself, as it were, beforehand in the tomb, in order 
 to flee from the afflictions and pains which are found upon this 
 earth — Alas, I wish to die!" 
 
 "Not yet, my brother; you must wait," said La Mere Ange- 
 lique, gravely; *'you must not commence your novitiate until 
 you have tried fgr some time the life of the world. A poor 
 girl cannot attempt this species of probation, but a man outrht 
 in the first place to contend against ill-fortune, against him- 
 self. AVhen one is twenty-five years of age, and has a face 
 and figure like yours, and bears the name of Colobrieres, he 
 does not go straight to the convent of the Capuchins without 
 knocking at some other doors first." 
 
 "Oh! brother, I did not venture to say all that to you, but 
 I thought it," added Anastasia. "You must reflect yet a 
 little before assuming the frock." 
 
 "And in the mean time, Monsieur le Chevalier," continued 
 La Mere Angelique in an almost playful tone, "be kind enough 
 to take a seat. I thought you would be good enough to accept 
 the supper that our poor convent offered you." 
 
 A lay sister completed the arrangement of the table, and 
 without violating the sanctity of the cloister Gaston was really 
 about to sup with the superior of the convent of La Misericorde. 
 A large wicket constructed in the grating, and which on such 
 occasions as this could be opened, permitted of a portion of the 
 table being placed in the exterior part of the parlour ; by this 
 arrangement the nuns were separated from their guests only 
 by the dark grating which divided this species of neutral 
 ground placed between the cloister and the world. The 
 covers were laid with that careful and scrupulous neatness 
 which is the luxury of religious houses, and Gaston de Colo- 
 brieres was treated according to the traditions of monastic 
 hospitality. The lay sister placed before him a bottle of old 
 wine, a savoury fowl, and several plates of delicacies ; then 
 she arranged symmetrically at the other end of the table 
 bread, water, a plate of a})ples, and a box of dried fruits. 
 
 "Sup, chevalier ; we too are going to partake of a collation," 
 said La Mere Angelique gaily, placing herself at the table after 
 having recited aloud the JBenedicite. A fourth guest now 
 approached familiarly to take his share of the repast ; this was 
 Lambin, who placed his pointed muzzle on the table, turning 
 with a sigh his dragon-like eye towards Anastasia whilst the 
 
110 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 young girl extended her hand and patted him through the 
 bars of the grating. 
 
 There was neither stove nor fireplace in the parlour ; but 
 the exterior cold did not penetrate through the massive walls 
 of this room, the temperature of which was heightened also 
 by a species of brazier which the lay sister had placed under 
 the table. Thick curtains were drawn before the windows, 
 and the atmosphere was impregnated with a slight aroma, like 
 that of the incense which is burned in churches. The first 
 view of this monastic interior was severe and forbidding, but 
 the eye soon became accustomed to it, and the calm, the 
 silence of the place, acting upon the senses threw the mind 
 into a not unpleasing state of melancholy. Gaston felt this 
 influence ; the anxieties of his mind became appeased, the most 
 poignant feelmgs of his heart became in some sort blunted, 
 and for the first time for many a day he felt himself living 
 without effort and without suffering. After supper he leaned 
 pensively against the grating which separated him from his 
 sisters, and said to them seriously : — 
 
 "Why are we not still living in the times of the blessed 
 Robert d'Arbrissel ! If now like then, the monks and nuns of 
 the same institution could live in spiritual and temporal com- 
 munion, praying in the same church, inhabiting the same house, 
 I would not hesitate, I would immure myself along with you, 
 my sisters : you are happy here — " 
 
 ** Yes, when we have no other thought than our salvation," 
 replied La Mere Angelique, "when we follow the ways of the 
 Lord without ever casting a glance backward, and are entirely 
 detached from worldly things ; but he who is not without hatred 
 as well as without love for the world ought not to come to us. 
 Monsieur le Chevalier, we will speak no more of your vocation ; 
 let us think rather on the means of establishing you for some 
 months in this modern Babylon, which I know not it is true, 
 but whose perilous ways and whose frightful precipices I can 
 fancy. And first of all we must calculate your little resources." 
 
 "I am rich, madam," replied Gaston with a smile, drawing 
 from his pocket the purse and sort of casket which the baro- 
 ness had given him. "As the locks of the hostelry where I 
 put up did not appear to me very solid, I took the preoautiou 
 of carrying my fortune about my person." 
 
 "We will keep it here; that is still safer," said La Mere 
 Angelique. "I will lock up both money and jewels for you 
 in the convent treasury." 
 
 So saying she rose and opened with a key which she dre^v 
 from her pocket the double locks of an iron safe let in to the 
 

 GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 1 11 
 
 .1. Anastasia having turned her head mechanically in that 
 irection, experienced almost the same astonishment as Agatha 
 de Colobrieres had done when she beheld the six- franc pieces 
 and the louis-d'ors which rolled in waves from Pierre Marag- 
 non's half open valise. 
 
 " Ah, heavens !" cried she, " what riches !" 
 
 " It is the treasure of our poor convent," replied La Mere 
 Angelique with a satisfied smile ; "it is the money which we 
 amass to divide with those houses of the order in which they 
 know not how to work as we do. The family of Notre Dame de 
 la Misericorde is numerous and necessitous. Those who are 
 admitted into it engage themselves to work all their lives for 
 their fellow-creatures. Besides the three religious vows, they 
 make a fourth, that of receiving all young women of quality 
 who, unable to establish themselves in the world and not even 
 possessing dower sufficient to enter another convent, seek a 
 refuge in La Misericorde. Many come, my child, and this 
 innocent flock must be fed. Almighty Providence, and the 
 labour of our dear sisters, provide their subsistence. According 
 to the spirit of the rules, their lives are divided between ac- 
 tion and contemplation ; they pass each day an hour in the 
 choir, and the remainder of their time they employ in fabri- 
 cating those mundane adornments the value of which you see 
 here. The intention sanctifies the work, and the demon re- 
 joices not when the vanity of the age furnishes daily bread for 
 the children of God." 
 
 " But, my dear mother," said Anastasia, *" why do they not 
 work thus in all houses of the order ?" 
 
 ** Because there are certain monasteries where a life of con- 
 templation is led in preference to one of action," replied La 
 Mere Angelique simply ; " there are several roads leading to 
 salvation: Samt Martha and Saint Mary equally went to 
 heaven." 
 
 Eight o'clock struck at this moment. The superior rose. 
 
 *'The evening recreation is over," said she; "our sisters 
 are going to prayer. My daughter, bid your brother good- 
 night." 
 
 "Alas! already?" murmured Gaston de Colobrieres. 
 
 " Good-nif^ht, brother! — good-night, Lambin !" said Anas- 
 tasia, extending her two little hands through the grating.—* 
 '•Adieu until to-morrow, Gaston; my dear mother gives 
 you permission to return." 
 
 "Yes, every day," added La "Mora Angelique. " Mny GuO 
 keep you, my dear child'" 
 
^^■^ THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The presence of Gaston de Colobrieres had for the moment 
 consoled Anastasia ; but so soon as he was gone, so soon as 
 she found herself once more in that long, sombre corridor, 
 peopled with its figures of saints which seemed to rise before 
 her in dim array, and point to the symbols of their martyr- 
 dom — she relapsed into a state of nervous terror. 
 
 The evening prayers lasted scarcely a quarter of an hour, 
 and as soon as they were over the nuns retired in silence to 
 their several cells. Anastasia ascended to the novices' quar- 
 ter, and entered with them into their dormitory. A lay sister 
 opened the door of the last cell, lighted the iron lamp which 
 hung against the wall, saluted Mademoiselle de Colobrieres 
 with an ave Maria, and left her alone in her narrow chamber. 
 
 The cells were furnished in the same simple style as the 
 rest of the house ; a prie-Dieu, a table, a chair, a curtainless 
 bed, and a few prints attached to the walls, composed the en- 
 tire furniture, which in a certain degree recalled to her mind 
 the little chamber she had occupied at her father's chateau, 
 and which she had shared for one night with Mademoiselle 
 Maragnon. Saddened by the recollection, the young girl 
 mechanically raised her eyes to search for the heraldic thistle, 
 and the cherubs with their outspread wings which had for- 
 merly smiled upon her each morning on awaking from the 
 slumbers of the night; but perceiving only the blackened 
 beams which crossed the ceiling, and the hideous images which 
 seemed to grin at her from the wall, she began to weep bit- 
 terly^ as she recalled to mind with transports of grief the 
 dilapidated roof of her old and cherished home. It seemed as 
 if an immeasurable distance separated Colobrieres from the 
 spot where she now was, and as if she lived in another hemi- 
 sphere, upon a quarter of the globe not lighted by the same 
 stars. Prompted by a sudden impulse she ran to the window 
 and gazed upwards at the heavens. The breeze had scattered 
 the clouds, the atmosphere was pure, and the stars sparkled 
 in the firmament like diamonds of a sombre hue, while, brilliant 
 above all, shone the constellation of Orion amidst the dark 
 azure of infinite space. Anastasia recognised with a feeling 
 bordering on transport the radiant sign towards which she had 
 so often raised her eyes during her evening walks upon the 
 terrace of the chateau. It seemed to her as though a ray from 
 those tranquil orbs descended upon her. imparling peace and 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERBS. Il3 
 
 comfort to lier ailllcted mind. She closed her window gently, 
 and slowly made the circuit of her chamber, lamp in hand, as 
 if to familiarise herself with the objects it contained. She 
 first examined the prie-Dieu : it was empty, save that upon 
 the little desk had been placed an hour-glass and the form 
 of prayer used by the community. The table was as naked 
 as the prie-Dieu, and the narrow couch with its white cover- 
 let recalled to her mind the funereal bed on which reposed 
 the holy founder of the house. While pursuing her investi- 
 gations, Mademoiselle de Colobrieres raised her lamp towards 
 the prints upon the wall, and she then perceived upon the 
 white-washed surface certain characters traced with some sharp 
 instrument. It was no easy task to decipher the sense of these 
 uneven and half-effaced letters ; however Anastasia succeeded 
 in reading a name — the profane name of Hector — and a little 
 further on the following extract from the book of Job : — "My 
 days are past, my purposes are broken off, even the thoughts 
 of my heart. They change the night into day : the light is 
 short because of darkness. If I wait, the grave is mine house : 
 I have made my bed in the darkness. And where is now my 
 hope ? as for my hope, who shall see it ? They shall go down 
 to the bars of the pit, when our rest together is in the dust." 
 
 Anastasia placed the lamp upon the prie-Dieu and seated 
 herself at the foot of her bed, her eyes fixed upon the lines 
 which some novice, perhaps the last occupant of the cell, had 
 traced upon the damp plaster. Nothing was left to complete 
 the sense of this inscription ; no other trace remained of her 
 whose hand had written these gloomy words. She had passed 
 by like a traveller in an inn, who disappears from the scene 
 to give place to another inmate, without even leaving behind 
 a name in the abode common to all. Mademoiselle de Colo- 
 brieres reflected long on the fate of this unknown, who had 
 bequeathed to her as a remembrance these thoughts of death ; 
 but at length, exhausted with fatigue and half frozen with 
 cold, she stretched herself with a shudder upon her pallet, and 
 fell into a heavy slumber. 
 
 Daylight had not yet appeared when a feeble light shining 
 on Anastasia's face awoke her. It was the superior who had 
 gently entered her cell. In one hand she held her lamp, and 
 in the other she carried the robe and scapulary of the order. 
 The white flame of the lamp shone full upon her countenance, 
 the gentle gravity of which was mingled with a shade of sad- 
 ness. Seen by this light she was so beautiful that the young 
 girl, suddenly roused from a deep sleep, fancied at first that 
 
114 THE OU) CONVENTS OF PA EIS. 
 
 she beheld an apparition, and that the figure of one of the 
 blessed was approachins: her bed. 
 
 **My dear chiki," said the nun, showing her the grey stuff 
 dress, "here is your new garment. I do not think it right 
 that you should solemnly take the veil. That ceremony is a 
 first engagement for which you are not yet prepared. In sim- 
 ply exchanging your secular habiliments for the dress of the 
 Drder you are but a postulant, and remain in the same condi- 
 tion as those persons of the world whom we permit to share 
 our spiritual retreat." 
 
 ** Alas ! mother," replied An astasia with a sigh, ** can I ever 
 return to the world ?" 
 
 "After a year's probation we shall see, my child," answered 
 La Mere Angelique ; " until then you will not assume a reli- 
 gious name ; you shall still be Mademoiselle de Colobrieres." 
 
 *'• ^lother, you are aware that no daughter of our house has 
 retained this name until her death," observed Anastasia in a 
 melancholy tone. 
 
 " Not even our aunt Agatha," said the superior with a sigh. 
 *' We have seen what vocation was hers ! What would have 
 become of that poor soul, had not Providence watched over 
 her safety?" 
 
 " Oh ! my dear mother," cried Anastasia, with extreme as- 
 tonishment, "then you approve of the marriage of our aunt 
 Agatha with Pierre Maragnon ?" 
 
 "Yes, my daughter, I do approve of it," replied La Merc 
 Angelique ; "it was better, a thousand times better, that she 
 should remain in the world by becoming the wife of a ple- 
 beian, than have entered the cloister to make a bad nun." 
 
 " Can there possibly be bad nuns?" murmured Anastasia, 
 involuntarily raising her eyes towards the lugubx'ious verses 
 traced upon the wall. 
 
 "Yes, my daughter, there are such," replied the superior ; 
 " and I have had the grief to behold, even in this house, nuns 
 who inwardly detested their vows, incurring by this secret 
 rebellion condign punishment. Consequently, it is not until 
 after a long proof that I admit novices to make their px'ofes- 
 sion. After the vesture I watch more attentively than ever 
 for symptoms of their vocation, and if I perceive the slightest 
 lukewarmness I postpone their final vows. The Lord has 
 blessed my intentions ; there are now no longer amongst us 
 any of those despairing souls, and all our sisters advance with- 
 out effort in the path of salvation." 
 
 " Sometimes, my dear mother, novices are found who do 
 
GASTON DB COI.OBUl£jRl:,S. 115 
 
 not persevere in their religious vocation," said Anastasia, hesi- 
 tatingly ; " there are some who do not obtain here the conso- 
 lations and repose they expected ?" 
 
 **It is true, my daughter. To these latter I point out the 
 door of the cloister still open for their retreat ; they must 
 return to the world which they regret. Alas ! when they 
 cannot — " 
 
 '* When they cannot?" repeated Anastasia. 
 
 "They die !" replied La Mere Angelique, sadly. 
 
 "And the novice who occupied this cell before me — is she 
 dead, mother?" continued Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, 
 
 "Who told you that, my child?" demanded the superior 
 in astonishment ; " who has spoken to you of that poor girl?" 
 
 Anastasia pointed with her finger to the wall, and made a 
 3ign to La Mere Angelique to read what was written beside the 
 print of Notre Dame des Douleurs. The superior slowly de* 
 ciphered the ill-formed characters, and as she by degrees com- 
 prehended the meaning of the inscription, her eyes filled with 
 tears. When she had finished the perusal of the lines, she re- 
 turned to Anastasia and simply remarked : — 
 
 " She was called in the world Mademoiselle de Lansac ;^-. 
 she was an orphan and without fortune. A young and wealthy 
 cavalier of good birth loved her and wished to marry her, 
 but his father threatened to disinherit him if he persisted 
 in this project; their union thus became in fact impossible, 
 for Mademoiselle de Lansac was herself of too good a family 
 to pass over the aflfront of such a refusal. Like all young 
 ladies of birth who have no dowry wherewith to enter a con* 
 vent, she came here. Unhappily this house, where she waa 
 received and welcomed in her distress, could not afiord her a 
 refuge against the inward pangs she brought hither. For two 
 years she languished in alternate paroxysms of fervour and 
 disgust, despair and tranquillity; then she died." 
 
 This simple narrative deeply aflfected Anastasia. There 
 existed a painful similarity between Mademoiselle de Lansac's 
 destiny and her own. She raised her drooping face, bathed 
 in tears, and repeated in her heart the words of Job:— "The 
 tomb will be my dwelling, and I will repose in eternal dark;- 
 ness." 
 
 At thij moment the parlour clock struck five, and almost at 
 the same moment the bell began to ring. 
 
 "It is the first bell for mass," said La Mere Angelique; 
 "dress yourself, my daughter; we must descend to the choir." 
 
 Thus admonished, Mademoiselle de Colobrieres put on the 
 robe of grey cloth and the white scapulary, tv*isted up her long 
 
116 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 and silky tresses and concealed tliem under the begum, and 
 assumed the giiimpe and the veil. This grave and severe 
 costume imparted to her features an indescribable beauty, and 
 one might have imagined her a St. Theresa in the melan- 
 choly fervour of her first vocation, when, still retained by the 
 world but already aspiring to Heaven, she prayed, prostrated 
 in her oratory, and closing her ears to the nocturnal serenades 
 of the young cavaliers of Avila. La Mere Angelique with her 
 own hands attached the crucifix to the breast of the young 
 novice, after which she said to her: — 
 
 "My dear child, you are about to recommence to-day all 
 you did yesterday ; here one day exactly resembles another, 
 and you may know beforehand the employment of your life to 
 its very last hour." 
 
 Gaston de Colobrieres passed an hour every evening in the 
 parlour of the Convent of La Misericorde ; the remainder of 
 his time he spent in a very desultory manner, not knowing 
 how to employ the long and dreary days. At first he had 
 endeavoured to distract his thoughts from their accustomed 
 channel, and even to amuse himself a little ; but he knew not in 
 truth in what consisted the pleasures of the great city, and he 
 confined himself to strolling through the streets and gazing into 
 the shop-windows like a poor provincial as he was. Every- 
 thing concurred to increase his weariness ; it was still the depth 
 of winter, and the heavens, obscured from morning until night 
 by motionless leaden-coloured clouds, distilled a continual 
 drizzling rain amid the foggy atmosphere. Gaston took many a 
 melancholy walk through the busy crowds, by whom he was 
 elbowed on all sides, and amongst which he in vain sought for 
 one friendly countenance. Lambin also trotted after his master 
 with drooping tail and downcast visage through this labyrinth 
 of streets, and more than once the ill-advised passengers who 
 chanced to tread on his toes experienced the effect of his ill- 
 humour. 
 
 Gaston however soon became tired of these endless and 
 aimless rambles, and no longer quitted the house during the 
 day, but awaited in his apartment the hour when he could re- 
 pair to the convent. The day following his arrival in Paris, 
 he had, upon thai recommendation of La Mere Angelique, 
 removed his effects to the dwelling of a devout woman who 
 kept a sort of furnished lodging-house in the Rue de la Par- 
 cheminerie. A few students in law. and medicine, young men 
 of regular habits and good morals, overflowing with science 
 but very light of cash, were his fellow inmates ; but Gaston 
 was too timid and too shy to make acquaintance with them. 
 
 i 
 
i 
 
 GASTON I>E COLOBillERES. 117 
 
 and all the intimacy existing between them was confined to a 
 passing salutation when they chanced to meet on the staircase. 
 
 The young cavalier's lodging consisted of a single chamber 
 on the fourth floor, the furniture of which was at least as dila- 
 pidated as that of the apartment he occupied in his father's 
 chateau. But although worn out, it presented a very different 
 appearance from that at Colobrieres. There the remains of the 
 old furniture still displayed some traces of past splendour; and 
 it was apparent that time alone with its unsparing hand had 
 tarnished the gilded wainscoting, and torn in fragments the 
 rich hangings. In the house of the Rue de la Ptircheminerie, 
 on the contrary, there were only worn out articles of modern 
 furniture, and it was evidently the careless hands of three or 
 four generations of students which had marbled them with stains 
 and disfigured them with rents innumerable. The bedstead 
 of painted wood was garnished with curtains too short by half 
 a yard, and repaired throughout their entire length with a 
 multitude of patches. A rickety arm-chair, through the tattered 
 covering of which protruded handfuls of cow-hair, was placed 
 in front of a table covered with a cloth which was formerly 
 black, but had long since assumed a dull rusty hue, spotted, 
 tiger fashion, with large stains of ink. Two straw-bottomed 
 chairs, on which it was necessary to sit down with the greatest 
 caution, accompanied the arm-chair. Above the chimney- 
 piece was a mirror of considerable dimensions, but of so green 
 a shade that those who looked at themselves in it recoiled at 
 first in terror at the aspect of their own faces, which appeared 
 to them as livid as that of a corpse. In compensation, how- 
 ever, the mantel-shelf was adorned with a timepiece of copper 
 gilt; but as this latter was unfortunately out of order, the 
 works had been removed and the framework only left standing. 
 The mistress of ^the house had certainly warned Gaston of this 
 accident, assuring him at the same time that it would be re- 
 paired with as little delay as possible; but as she had made the 
 same speech to every new lodger for the last fifteen years there 
 existed not the slightest chance of young Colobrieres ever hearing 
 the hour strike in his apartment. A wardrobe, the drawers 
 of which had not closed from time immemorial, and a mat 
 which served as a bed for Lambin, completed the furniture. 
 
 The gay room-papers which now-a-days decorate the hum- 
 blest garrets were still at this period a species of luxury, and 
 the walls of this bachelor apartment hadbeen originally plastered 
 with a coating of the most brilliant yellow ochre, the lively tone 
 of which had gradually softened down to pale nankeen. The 
 students who had succeeded other in the chamber had embel- 
 
118 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 lished this uniform groundwork with a crowd of arabesques 
 traced with charcoal, innumerable sentences and devices of 
 their own composition, and French or Latin rhymes, the fruits 
 of their poetic leisure. During rainy days poor Gaston, im- 
 mured in his chamber, read as a sort of pastime these flowers 
 of rhetoric, freshly culled from the imaginations of his prede- 
 cessors. They consisted for the most part of amorous ditties, 
 madrigals to adorable unknowns, and frequently elegies to 
 faithless mistresses. Amidst all this nonsense there were here 
 and there sentences full of deep thought, bursts of passion, 
 reflections pregnant with painful truths, which found an echo 
 in Gaston's heart — that pining and sorrowing heart w^hich time 
 was unable to cure. 
 
 It is not impossible to live in solitude when we are sur- 
 rounded with the mighty spectacles of nature, when we see 
 stretched before us the vast expanse of ocean or the boundless 
 firmament of Heaven. Human voices are then hushed, but we 
 hear other voices speaking to our souls. These sounds which 
 spring up on every side around us people the most desert 
 re^rions: we are no longer alone upon the shore on which the 
 tide dashes with melancholy murmur, nor upon the lone moun- 
 tain crest round which the storm howls and rages, nor in the 
 sombre forest amid the singing of the birds, nor on the arid 
 sands whose silence is broken only by the vague harmonies 
 floating through the air. But solitude amid a crowd saddens 
 and terrifies the heart ; we wander blindly through this frightful 
 desert where the incessant hum of unknown voices sounds in 
 our ears, where living walls on all sides arrest our gaze. 
 Gaston de Colobrieres soon experienced this painful solitude. 
 As soon as he had satisfied the first feelings of curiosity which 
 had urged him to gaze around in order to see the place in 
 which he was about to sojourn, he turned away his eyes and 
 sunk still deeper into that state of mournful gloom which 
 was slowly wasting him away. His days were now spent in 
 altx^rnate fits of violent resolution and abject despair. At 
 one time he longed for an active life, for the perils of a 
 profession in which he should expose his life every day, and 
 ho Wished to become a soldier: at another time he would turn 
 his thoughts towards the cloister, and ask himself if it were 
 not better to immure himself at once in a living tomb where 
 he miobt drag on his weary existence until death should relieve 
 him from his suflTerings. There was but one hour out of the 
 twenty-four that did not hang heavy on his hands: it was 
 that which he spent in the evening at the convent of La 
 Misericordo with his sisters. The one was happy in her severe 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 119 
 
 pro^^-ssion, the other appeared resigned. La Mere Angeh'que 
 was moreover gifted with a strong mind and a gentle and 
 serene temper which communicated itself to all who approached 
 her. Its cheering influence restored calmness and courage to 
 Gaston's heart ; in her presence he no longer felt so unhappy, 
 and, notwithstanding her penetration, she fancied that like 
 most young men of his age he allowed himself to float down 
 the stream of life, indifferent as to the end of his voyage. 
 She never however left him alone in the parlour with his 
 sister Anastasia, dreading perhaps for both those bursts of 
 affection and those mutual confidences by which their hearts 
 might become unduly excited. Without exactly knowing the 
 state of their hearts, she suspected that certain fondly-cherished 
 and painful recollections were ever present to them, and she 
 sought to remove from their reach the dangerous consolation 
 of abandoning themselves to their mutual grief. It was be- 
 sides all that she could foresee. 
 
 Anastasia frec^uently spoke of her mother, and recalled to 
 mind those she had left behind her in the world, but she never 
 once pronounced the name of Eleonora, and Gaston imitated 
 her reserve : there was tiever any mention made of the Ma- 
 ragnon family in the presence of La Mere Angelique. Some- 
 times the young novice would describe to her brother the life* 
 at once calm and monotonous, which they led in the convent. 
 
 *' It is surprising," she would say to him, *' we perform the- 
 same tasks every day, we take the same recreations, we recite 
 the same prayers — in short, commence over again every morn- 
 ing the occupations of the preceding day — and yet the time 
 flies swiftly on in this monotonous round. Here to live long or 
 to die soon appears a matter of perfect indifference." 
 
 Once, however, the superior having for a moment left the 
 parlour, Gaston approached the grating beside which Made- 
 moiselle de Colobrieres was seated, and leaning his head against 
 the bars he said to her in a low voice : — 
 
 ** Alas ! my dear Anastasia, is it indeed true that those who 
 inhabit this holy dwelling no longer remember the world — no 
 longer experience either sorrows or regrets ?" 
 
 " I should have been dead long ago," murmured the young 
 Jrl in reply, "had not the piety, the affection, the angelic 
 vil'tlie of my dear mother sustained me." 
 
 * ' Just heaven ! my poor sister, what do I hear !" cried Gaston i 
 
 ** And yet I do not desire to return to the world," continued 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, in a tone of nervous excitement ; 
 *' when I find tnyself too unhappy here, I think of what is 
 paissing yonder — brother! they are married now !" 
 
120 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 " Yes, we must remain !" murmured Gaston in a stifled 
 voice ; "we must remain here, for they will return to Bel- 
 veser!" 
 
 La ]\Iere Angelique at this moment entered the parlour, and 
 resumed the conversation where it had been broken ofF, with- 
 out appearing to perceive that the tears still trembled in the 
 downcast eyes of Anastasia, and that Gaston de Colobrieres 
 was deadly pale. 
 
 Easter approached, and during the holy week no one was 
 admitted to the superior's parlour. The community of La 
 Misericorde observed the strictest retirement, and embraced a 
 life of contemplation ; the workroom was closed, and pious 
 exercises occupied every hour of the day. This temporary 
 separation nearly overwhelmed Gaston's remaining strength, 
 and he pined away with weariness and grief. "No one around 
 him could perceive his sufferings, and he supported them with 
 the apathetic resignation of despair. Every morning the 
 servant who put his room in order found him up and seated 
 at his window, his eyes mechanically turned towards the op- 
 posite house, which with its six stories overtopped that in 
 which he lived, interceptiRg from him at the same time both 
 air and sunshine. The clumsy wench, in her coarse cotton 
 petticoat, would hastily arrange his bed, rake up the logs of 
 wood which burned slowly upon the handful of ashes, and 
 would then cast a sidelong glance upon the poor young man, 
 whose sober habits she observed with disdain, and exclaim in 
 her rough, harsh voice: — 
 
 "Will monsieur take his cup of milk this morning, and shall 
 I bring up also a penny loaf?" 
 
 "Yes, I shall be much obliged to you," Gaston would reply 
 without turning his head. 
 
 A moment afterwards the frightful Hebe would return with 
 the breakfast, and before placing it on the table would stretch 
 out her rapacious hands to grasp the sou pieces which Gaston 
 had previously left for her on the mantelpiece. Then she 
 would cast a glance at Lambin, whose rough hide bristled up 
 at the mere sight of her, salute Gaston with the usual empty, 
 formal sentence, "Can I do anything more for you, sir?" 
 and without waiting for his reply, would retire, grumbling 
 to herself; "I wonder which of the two eats this grand break- 
 fast? Upon my faith, I believe it is the dog." 
 
 And she was not mistaken. The mistress of the house, who 
 was a devotee, strict in the performance of her duties and 
 exquisitely polite, ascended once to inquire after the health of 
 her lodger, and as he assured her he was quite well she was 
 
Il 
 
 GASTON J)K COJLOBRIERES. 121 
 
 rrfectly satisfied to believe him and proceeded to church to 
 rej)eat her paternoster. 
 
 The holy week passed away in this manner. On Easter- 
 day Gaston rose from his bed a little revived at the thought 
 that in the evening he should once more go to the convent of 
 La Misericorde and see Anastasia and La Mere Angelique in 
 the parlour. He feared, however, lest his strength should fail 
 him and he should be unable to reach the convent; the slow 
 mental fever had blanched his cheek, and he supported himself 
 with difficulty on his tottering limbs. When the servant had 
 finished arranging his room, he dragged his arm-chair to the 
 open window, and leaning his elbow on the balcony, raised 
 his eyes to the small scrap of blue sky which could just be 
 perceived between the lofty houses of the Rue de la Parche- 
 minerie. A warm breath of wind fanned his face, rustling 
 the leaves of a sickly looking plant which vegetated on the 
 balcony of a neighbouring window. He felt that the glad 
 sprmg was returning once more, and that the sun, whose 
 radiant disk he was unable to perceive, shone down upon the 
 black roofs of the modern Babylon. Then in imagination he 
 visited that lovely clime where the roses flourish all the year, 
 he recalled to mind the green hedges, under whose sheltering 
 boughs the delicate anemones and pale primroses were already 
 opening their petals to the gentle airs of heaven, he once 
 more roamed through the wild glades of the Goatherd's Valley. 
 In imao^ination, he followed throuorh this brio^ht and laughinoj 
 scene a fair young girl, who sometimes crossed with agile step 
 the rugged rocks, sometimes seated herself pensively by the 
 path side on the trunk of some fallen willow, and anon, 
 ascended towards the Capuchin's Rock, and bent her lovely 
 face over the sleeping waters of the little lake. 
 
 A gentle tap at the door dispersed the images of this 
 delightful day-dream. Lambin raised his head and cocked 
 his ears with a frightened air, while Gaston de Colobrieres 
 said, without turning round: — 
 
 ♦' What is that? Who's there?" 
 
 *' 'Tis I," replied La Rousse, entering the room, her black 
 felt bonnet upon her head, her little bundle in her hand, and 
 her thick-soled leather shoes splashed to the ankle. 
 
 "What! is that you?" said Gaston, stupified with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 The poor girl was pale with emotion and joy; she let her 
 little bundle fall, and sank upon a chair, saying: — 
 
 '*I must sit down, saving your favour. Monsieur le Cheva- 
 lier; my limbs fail me. Ah! I have walked so far." 
 
122 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 "And what did you come here for, my child?" inten*iipted 
 Gaston, uneasy and yet touched at seeing her arrive thus. 
 
 " I came to give you news of M. le Baron and her ladyship 
 your mother," replied she; *'all at the castle are well, thanks 
 be to heaven, saving Mademoiselle Anastasia's birds which 
 have been rather languishing since her departure. I wished 
 to bring her one ot* two of them in a cage, she would perhaps 
 have liked to see them again ; but Tonin advised me not." 
 
 ** And he was quite right!" said Gaston. '* And you made 
 the journey on foot?" 
 
 "Yes, walking." replied La Rousse; "I started three Wfeeks 
 ago, on St. Joseph's day." 
 
 " And was it with my mother's permission that you tinder- 
 took the journey?'* asked Gaston again. 
 
 *'I said nothing about it to the baroness ; she would perhaps 
 have prevented nie coming,'* replied the girl with some em- 
 barrassment. "I did not metition my idea to any one save Old 
 Tonin, who did his best to dissuade me, but he was not able^ 
 poor man!" 
 
 "But," continued Gaston, "you must have been aware 
 that both my father and iny dear mother have written to let 
 me know how they were. 1 also have sent two letters, and 
 there was no necessity for your undertaking so long a journey 
 — two hundred and forty leagues on foot " 
 
 "I would have gone a thousand to see you agairij Monsieur 
 le Chevalier!" replied La Rousse, impetuouslyi 
 
 At these words Gastott de ColobriereS began to have a 
 glimmering of the truth. The simple-hearted youth blushed 
 slightly, and turned away his eyes with the shy timidity of 
 the beautiful Hippolytus. 
 
 "I fully expected you Would reproach me,*' continued La 
 Rousse in a calmer tone, and with a certain sadness of man- 
 ner. "You are a little angry with me because I have comfe 
 without your permission, but you see I could not live yonder 
 knowing the way you were in her6. Monsieur le Baron read 
 us aloud the letter in which you spoke of the streets of Paris, 
 and of the bad weath61% and of your chambet where yOu were 
 alone with Lambin. We Wept, because we felt that you must 
 be suffering greatly. That idea never left my mindj and the 
 same evening I said to Tonin — * I must go and seek our young 
 master ; I will take care of him, and he will be no longer 
 alone, for I will keep him company. As to the journey, that 
 does not trouble me much ; it is not as if one was obliged to 
 cross the sea ; one can go by land to Paris. I have no need 
 either of carriage or horse; my limbs will carry me.' WelU 
 
Gaston de coLOBraEBES. 123 
 
 I then made my little arrangements. It is now seven years 
 last Christmas since I entered the service of the baroness. I 
 had three crowns a year wages, out \j? which' I never spent 
 much. At the end of the year I had always about ten livres 
 remaining, which I used to lend to my godfather. Master 
 Tiste. The good man returned me half of this money, I 
 made up my best clothes into the little bundle you see here 
 and started on my journey. Tonin had warned me that Paris 
 was such a great city that one might as well look for a needle 
 in a bundle of hay as go from door to door seeking for any 
 one ; but the baron well knew the address he had put on his 
 letter, I begged him to tell it me, and I remembered the 
 name of the street and the number of the house ; so by asking 
 my way I was able to come straight here. Oh, sir, do not be 
 angry with me I Look at poor Lambin how glad he is to see 
 me again I he has been whining with joy ever since 1 came in. 
 AVell, and I have done right in coming. Consider how ill you 
 are served here ! your bed is not half made, and there is dust 
 everywhere — and then I think you look paler and thinner than 
 you used to do — Stay ! I am pale too," added she, perceiving 
 her face in the glass. " Gracious 1 does the air of Paris make 
 one look so ?" 
 
 *'No, my child," replied Gaston de Colobrieres, smiling ; 
 *' I have been rather unwell these last few days — that has 
 made me pale ; and as for you, it is the green glass which 
 gives you that livid tint." 
 
 " You have been ill !" cried La Rouse, gazing anxiously on 
 Gaston's sunken cheek. 
 
 *'I am better — I am quite well," replied he, " my poor 
 Madeleine ; speak no more of that." Then he added with some 
 embarrassment: — "It is of you that we must now think. 
 What are we to do ? You will not be so comfortable here as 
 at the Chateau de Colobrieres, and you will soon regret having 
 left it." 
 
 *• I, regret!" cried she ; " never ! I have been too unhappy 
 for these last few months, and yet the baron and baroness 
 were very kind to me. Since Mademoiselle Anastasia's de- 
 parture I was constantly with the baroness ; in the afternoons 
 she kept me beside her on the terrace, whilst the baron played 
 his game of bowls with Tonin. Frequently in the evening I 
 brought my sewing to the table, and on Sunday I watched 
 them play at cards. But all that only increased my weariness. 
 I roamed about the chateau looking on every side as if to seek 
 you, and when I thought to myself that you were gone for 
 ever I would burst out crying. Every time I passed your bed- 
 
 i 
 
1*24 THE OLD CONVERTS OF PARIS. 
 
 room door I would somehow tremble all over : the very sight of 
 the places where I was accustomed to meet you produced the 
 same effect. I could no longrer bear to go near them ; I was 
 in despair night and day. You say that I shall not find my- 
 self so comfortable here. Ah ! Monsieur le Chevalier, you do 
 not know how I have wept yonder!" 
 
 *' I understand," murmured Gaston de Colobrieres, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 He did in fact now begin to comprehend the passion which 
 La Rousse had just analyzed in her own way, and which 
 perhaps she hardly even confessed to herself. This discovery 
 grieved him. Although Madeleine was a very pretty girl, 
 despite her red hair and colourless complexion, he was by no 
 means charmed at having made the conquest of her affections, 
 and she inspired him only with a certain feeling of compassion 
 mingled with uneasy scruples. He began to reflect upon what 
 he was to do with La Rousse : the situation in which he was 
 placed was awkward and embarrassing ; in his position he had 
 no occasion for a servant, and it was not a very easy matter 
 to find out and to propose to her another condition. The case, 
 however, was urgent; it was necessary to find her some suita- 
 ble shelter, and to obtain her consent to be taken thither at 
 once. Gaston's thoughts naturally reverted to the convent of 
 La Misericorde. 
 
 I ** Contentment has taken away all my fatigue already," 
 said the young girl rising from her seat. " Well, Monsieur 
 le Chevalier, what commands have you to give me ?" 
 
 *'None at all," replied Gaston; **I have nothing for you 
 to do. Take this cup of milk and this penny loaf and eat 
 some breakfast." 
 
 ' "I am not hungry: joy has taken away all my appetite," 
 said she, sighing and turning towards Gaston de Colobrieres 
 her light grey eyes, animated with a sort of languishing ar- 
 dour. 
 
 "Listen to me. La E-ousse," resumed he in a tone of 
 gentle authority, **you cannot remain here: I have neither 
 the means nor the will to keep you with me ; but I know a 
 place where you will be able to live happily and comforta- 
 
 ** You are going to send me away from you 1" cried the poor 
 girl in a doleful voice. 
 
 *• A place where I go every day," continued Gaston. 
 
 ** And where I shall be able to see you?" interrupted she 
 again. 
 
 ** A place where you will once more meet Mademoiselle 
 
GASTON DB COLOBRIERES. 125 
 
 Anastasia," continued he, evading the question. *' She will 
 be very glad to see you again." 
 
 " Holy Virgin! you wish me to go to the convent '."ex- 
 claimed La Kousse in consternation, but a little consoled, 
 however, by the thought that Gaston was not going to send 
 her away altogether. 
 
 "Certainly; I must take you there this evening," replied 
 Gaston de Colobrieres. "In the mean time, we will go and 
 hear mass at the church of Saint Severin hard by, and then 
 afterwards, if you fancy it, you can go and take a walk with 
 Lambin to see the city." 
 
 As she still appeared to be in a state bordering on despair, 
 and as it was evident that respect alone prevented her from 
 bursting into tears and rebelling against his authority, Gaston 
 undertood the task of convincing her. He spoke to her for a 
 length of time, sometimes authoritatively, sometimes gently, 
 and at length succeeded. She resigned herself to enter as a 
 lay sister into the convent of La Misericorde. 
 
 In the evening Gaston arrived in the parlour with La 
 Rousse. Neither he nor his sister suspected the sort of accusa- 
 tion which she had preferred against them, and which had 
 exercised so great an influence on their father's determination. 
 Anastasia greeted her joyfiJlly, and was much touched at the 
 mark of devotion she had shown Gaston. La Mere Angelique 
 consented without difficulty to receive her into the convent, 
 and before giving her in charge to the lay sister who was to 
 introduce her into the house she was permitted to remain for 
 a few moments in the parlour. Anastasia questioned her mi- 
 nutely upon all that had passed at the chateau and in the 
 neighbourhood since her departure ; she inquired after all the 
 villagers she had been accustomed to see on Sundays at mass, 
 and informed herself of the events which had taken place in 
 their several families ; but it was not until the last moment, 
 when La Rousse was leavmg the parlour, that she said to hei 
 with suppressed emotion, and almost trembling: — 
 
 *'And my cousin. Mademoiselle Eleonora Maragnon, can 
 you give me any news of her also ?" 
 
 " She is at Belveser," replied La Rousse, laconically. 
 
 ** Ah!" murmured Anastasia in a feeble voice, *' she has re- 
 turned there after her marriage." 
 
 "What marriage?" exclaimed La Rousse, in astonishment. 
 
 " Her own marriage," replied Mademoiselle de Colobrieres. 
 
 ** She is not married!" said the young waiting-maid. 
 
 " Not married!" repeated Gaston, looking towards his sister. 
 
 Both had turned pale on hearing these words ; but no other 
 
126 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 symptom of emotion betrayed the surprise and joy with which 
 this unexpected news had filled them. Anastasia kept silence, 
 and Gaston merely remarked with an appearance of indiffer- 
 ence : — 
 
 *< Indeed ! can you give us any intelligence of what is pass- 
 ing there, and why my cousin's marriage has been put off?" 
 " *' Was she going to be married then ?" said La Rousse in a 
 dry tone of voice. ''N'oone knew anything of it in the 
 country. But what is very certain, is that she is still single — 
 I know no more." 
 
 ** You may retire, my child," said La Mere Angelique, 
 pointing to the door where a lay sister awaited her. 
 
 From this day Gaston de Colobrieres and his sister had an 
 additional pang to endure. A painful impression quickly 
 succeeded to the joy which the words of La Kousse had left 
 in these suffering minds ; they fell into a state of cruel anxiety, 
 for they were now reduced to tremble and shudder in the ex- 
 pectation of an event which they had believed to be already ac- 
 complished. Gaston returned to his garret, sadder, more worn 
 with care, more unhappy than ever, and Mademoiselle de 
 Colobrieres remained a prey to bitter uneasiness, and to the 
 torments of an imagination exalted by recollections which the 
 exterior calm and unvarying routine of a convent life only 
 inflamed the more. 
 
 The rule, that occult and inflexible power, quickly subdued 
 the naturally violent and passionate temper of La Rousse, for 
 the lay sisters were kept in close subjection though they took 
 only simple vows. The elders watched over the novices in 
 their humble functions, directing them with that admirable 
 tact which is the stay and strength of religious commi^nitles. 
 The austere habits of monastic life permitting of no connexion 
 being established between the lay sisters and the rest of the 
 community, La Rousse never met Mademoiselle de Colobrieres 
 save in the choir, during the celebration of the conventual 
 mass which the lay sisterhood attended every day: as to 
 Gaston, she had not once met him, either In the convent or in 
 the street, where she went but rarely, and then always in the 
 company of a sister of well tried vigilance. 
 
 Soj^e weeks passed away in this manner. One evening the 
 superior, in place of retiring according to custom to her cell 
 ^fter evening prayers, proceeded to the quarter where the 
 novices' dormitory was situated, and entered Anastasia's cell. 
 The young girl had already laid aside her veil, and her beau- 
 tiful dishevelled locks floated in rich profusion, like a silken 
 mantle, over her coarse woollen robe. 
 
GA8TQN DB COJ.QBBIEBE8. 12? 
 
 **You look just now like St. Madeleine," said I<a Mere 
 Angelique, passing her hand over Anastasias jet-black waving 
 tresses. "There is no worldly attire so beautiful aq this veil 
 bestowed by the hand of the Almighty." 
 
 *'Ere long, my dear mother, I must despoil myself of it," 
 replied Anastasia with a melancholy smile ; ** one moment 
 will see it fall beneath the scissors." 
 
 La Mere Angelique shook her head with a sigh, and resumed 
 in a more serious tone : — 
 
 ' ' My daughter, I have this day received a letter addressed 
 to you. According to my duty I unsealed and read it first. 
 It ia from your cousin Mademoiselle Maragnon, and I may 
 therefore give it to you ; hete it is." 
 
 ** Oh! my dear mother, it is Eleonora who has written to 
 me," murmured Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, trembling and 
 hesitating to take the letter; ** doubtless it announces an 
 event — Alas 1 what need have I of learning what is passing in 
 the world ?" 
 
 *' Shall I read it to you, my child?"* said the superior, 
 gently. 
 
 She opened the letter and read as follows 
 
 "from the chateau of belveser, this 20lh of Mat/, 17 — 
 "My dearest Cousin, — It is now some time since I returned 
 to this dear solitude, towards which my heart had a thousand 
 times flown back during my absence, and where I fondly hoped 
 to have met you again ; but in place of the wished-for happi- 
 ness I have found only bitter regret. Oh ! my dear cousin, 
 is it possible that you could have thus departed without so 
 much as leaving a ren^embrance, an adieu, for your Eleonora? 
 I could not resign myself to this sad separation, I made in- 
 quiries, and learned that you were at Paris, in the great con- 
 vent of La Hisericorde. I quickly formed a resolution, 
 Anastasia, which I am now about to make known to you ; you 
 shall see if my frfendship is lasting — I am about to give you a 
 sure proof of it. But first of all I must relate to you what has' 
 passed since that melancholy day on whioh I bade you adieu 
 ^t the Capuchin's Rock. 
 
 " On quitting you, I entered the carriage, weeping, and left 
 Belveser, my heart torn with regrets which I cannot express 
 to you. All along the road, I in vain endeavoured to over- 
 come my grief; I sighed without ceasing and my poor heart 
 was so full that every instant I felt as though choking with 
 my sensations, and ready to burst into sobs and lamentations. 
 My good mother was uneasy ; Mademoiselle Irene said that I 
 bad the vapours, and made me ill by dint of compelling me to 
 
128 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PAllIS. 
 
 inhale her smelling-salts, and talking of tlio magnificent wed- 
 ding presents, the list of which my uncle Maragnon had al- 
 ready, shown her. 
 
 *'When we arrived at Marseilles I was really ill; I ex- 
 pected to be married immediately, and this thought caused 
 me inexpressible agony. Happily I was soon relieved from 
 this anxiety ; my uncle came to meet us with an expression 
 of annoyance on^his countenance, and informed us that an. af- 
 fair of the last importance had obliged Dominick to start sud- 
 denly for Barcelona, where he would be detained for at least 
 a fortnight. At this news I embraced him cordially, and felt 
 my heart unburdened of a great weight. I had then fifteen 
 days to recruit myself and tranquillise my mind, and after that 
 fifteen days more, and then a fresh delay of a week ; so that 
 Lent had arrived before the return of my intended, and my 
 marriage in consequence was again deferred. 
 
 "During this lapse of time I had reflected deeply, and had 
 formed several resolutions ; but I dared not open my heart to 
 my mother, and still less to my uncle or Mademoiselle Irene. 
 My mother would have asked my reasons for wishing to put 
 off this engagement, and in truth I could have given her none. 
 My uncle would have treated these ideas as the caprices and 
 fancies of a child, and Mademoiselle Irene would not have 
 failed to repeat to me sententiously the axiom which she had 
 already inflicted upon me at least twenty times before: — When 
 the heart of a young girl has not pronounced in favour of any 
 one, she ought to allow herself to be married according to her 
 parents' wishes. 
 
 " Amid these perplexities heaven inspired me with an idea, 
 a happy idea, which all at once tranquillised me. Then, in 
 place of fearing Dominick's return, I awaited it with a sort of 
 impatience, and when he arrived I met him with a contented 
 countenance. My mother was delighted, as was my uncle 
 also. Dominick appeared surprised at this reception, and did 
 not testify much joy at it ; but far from feeling vexed with 
 him for this coldness and reserve, I felt on the contrary a sort 
 of gratitude which strengthened me in my design. After 
 supper, when we were all together, I took my cousiti's hand 
 familiarly and drew him out upon the balcony, where I knew 
 no one could hear us. 
 
 " *My dear Dominick,' said I, in the same friendly and fa- 
 miliar manner with which I used to address him, ' my dear 
 Dominick, you know that they wish our marriage to take place 
 after Easter. Is there no means of putting it off' — of deferring 
 it for a year, for instance ? We might thus have time to ac- s 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 129 
 
 custom ourselves to the idea of this marriage which at present 
 
 ■iates us so much.* 
 
 • 'My dear Eleonora,' replied he, ' I will do all that you 
 desire.' 
 
 . " * Well, then,* said I to him, * say to your father that you 
 wish in the first place to take a journey to the Levant ; it has 
 been frequently talked of already, you know, and they were 
 going to send a clerk of the house in your place.' 
 
 " * Yes, my father will perhaps listen to that,' said Domi- 
 ni ck, reflecting ; ' we wish to establish a house at Broos, and 
 my presence there will be better than an agent's.' 
 
 ' ' Then he added, with a sigh — 
 
 " *But, my poor child, your destiny and mine too, must 
 nevertheless be accomplished.' 
 
 " ' No matter,' said I; * at all events it will not be for some 
 time yet.' 
 
 *' Then he took my hand, and continued, in a penetrating 
 tone — 
 
 ' ' * Child that you are ! You do not see into the depths of 
 your own heart. May Heaven keep you in this ignorance! 
 As for me, I know what is passing in mine. I know that it 
 aspires to impossible happiness. Never have I conceived the 
 slightest hope, never have I endeavoured to realize its visionary 
 day-dreams. I am resigned. May you act like me! How- 
 ever, I will now do as you desire.* 
 
 ** So saying, he left the balcony. Eight days afterwards he 
 departed, and we returned to Belveser. Alas ! cousin, I then 
 learned that you had quitted Colobrieres, that you were in the 
 convent, and that you had resolved to take the veil. A sudden 
 idoa then flashed across me as if by inspiration. 
 
 ' ' You see, cousin, I am a young girl whose education has 
 not been by any means completed. My poor mother, having 
 lost all her other children, brought me up with extreme fond- 
 ness and indulged me in every whim. I am a true spoiled child, 
 and, as Mademoiselle Irene says, the gifts of nature have not 
 been cultivated in me. Happily there is still time left to re- 
 pair this imperfect education. This is what I said to my mo- 
 ther when supplicating her to place me for a year at the 
 convent of La Misericorde. I have a whole host of faults, 
 of which I shall be able to correct myself in your holy house 
 I shall lose the habit of always obeying only my own will ; the 
 good examples around me will render me humble, submissive, 
 patient, and I shall feel so contented living with you that 
 every duty will seem easy to me. My good mother at first 
 resisted n little, but I gave her such good reasons for this step 
 that she at last vielded. As it had been decided that I sliould 
 
130 TUB OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS, 
 
 leave France immediately after my marriage for a long tour 
 abroad, the idea of this separation did not much afflict her, 
 and at length she consented to all that I desired. It is now 
 settled that I shall enter your convent as a boarder, and my 
 uncle will himself take me to Paris. My mother, who doats on 
 the country, and who has undertaken some extensive improve- 
 ments at the chateau, will remain all this year at Belveser with 
 Mademoiselle Irene. 
 
 " Oh! my dear Anastasia, I shall then see you again! My 
 poor heart trembles at the thought, and I now experience as 
 much joy as I felt grief in parting from you. 
 
 *' Do you know, cousin, what my uncle Maragnon said to 
 me the other day ? That I loved you so well that I was capa- 
 ble of taking the veil in order to pass my life beside you ! 
 
 "Adieu, my dear friend and sister; you whose soul is so 
 peaceable and holy, you who have now perhaps only a little 
 corner in your heart for terrestrial affections, love me a little 
 nevertheless, and pray for your Eleonora." 
 
 Anastasia listened to the perusal of this letter with inex- 
 pressible interest, and with a sort of painful joy, which pene- 
 trated her heart and caused the silent tears to course rapidly 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 " Well, ?ny daughter?" said La Mere Angelique, glancing 
 at her interrogatively as she spoke. 
 
 "Ah! mother," replied she, " I shall be delighted to see 
 Eleonora again ; but the poor child has no idea cuf the life we 
 lead here. She is not aware that the boarders are separated 
 from the novices, and that she will scarcely ever see me save 
 in the choir. I dread for her besides the little privations to 
 which every one here is subjected. She has been brought up 
 with so much delicacy, and in such a wealthy family. How 
 will she be able to accustom herself to the discipline of the 
 class, and to the dry bread?" 
 
 "I am certain she will find herself very comfortable here," 
 replied La Mere Angelique, gravely. " It is very evident that 
 her inclinations are forced with respect to this marriage ; we 
 shall see how things turn out by-and-by. In the mean time, 
 my dear child, you have my permission to write and s^ay that 
 we sh^ be happy to receive her." 
 
 I 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 131 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FE morning, about tlie hour when the busy crowd begins to 
 circulate upon the ever-muddy pavement of the central quar- 
 ter of Paris, a post-chaise suddenly turned the corner of the 
 Rue du Vieux-Colombier, and stopped before the Convent of 
 Notro Dame dc la Misericorde. The foot passengers drew up 
 on either side to make way for the dusty equipage, and the 
 citizens of the neighbourhoodp hearing the cracking of the pos- 
 tillion's whip, appeared at the thresholds of their shops. As 
 the novices. and boarders who came to reside at the Coijvent 
 of La Misericorde seldpm arrived in carriages^ all eyes \7ere 
 turned with curiosity towards the pcst-chaise, through the 
 half-raised blinds of which might be perceived the bluff, 
 ruddy, but yet regularly handsome features of a man in the 
 decline of life, ani the delicate profdc of a very young, fair, 
 and slender girl, as fresh and lovely as a summer flower. At 
 the appearance of these two faces a sort of murmur ^rose 
 among the neighbours and passers-by. It was a sort of stifled 
 expression of the ideas which at thi§ ,epocl^ fermented in every 
 brain. 
 
 *' Oh! the monster of a father, ^oiiig to immure his beauti- 
 ful child in a convent!" indignantly exclaimed a worthy dame. 
 " She is too old to be going as a boarder^ sj^e is cpi*tainly 
 about to take the novice's veU.** 
 
 *' You might just as well say that her unnatural father i$ 
 about to bury her alive," added an old bachelor rentier. 
 *' What barbarity! To tear from the bosom of society these 
 young virgins whom nature had destined to become virtuous 
 wives and tender mothers ; to immure them in the icy soli- 
 tude of a cloister I Woe to the man who commits this abo- 
 minable crime— the crime of treason against humanity!" 
 
 " How lA.any victims have already disappeared in this 
 eepulchre!" cried a gentleman attired in black? turjiiug towards 
 the old rentier, as if replying to his ejaculation — "how }p-^ny 
 innocent beauties immolated to the demon of fifnaticism I" 
 " Levez-vous 9> ma yoix, victimcs malheureuscsi 
 Levez-vous ! entendez mes plaint,es 4ouloureuSBs! 
 Accablez a-vec moi jt'oppresseur abhorr6, 
 l)ont je n'ai pu fl6chir le coeur d§natur6 !'• 
 emphatically declaimed ^ young clerk- — -4 bu^dipg gA^i^^ 
 who had read the *' Melanie" of La Ha^pe — ^casting ^ furigu^ 
 glance upon Uncle Maragnon. 
 
 During this explosion of disjoint-ed sentences, the post- 
 
132 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS 
 
 chaise had turned; it entered the little court in fronttof tho 
 cloistral buildings, and the heavy gates of the convent were 
 noiselessly closed in the faces of the curious spectators. 
 
 A lay sister presented herself, aided the travellers to alight, 
 made them a discreet reverence, and invited them to enter. 
 They followed her up an ill-lighted, narrow, and steep stair- 
 case, which led to an apartment where she left them. This apart- 
 ment was the exterior portion of the parlour, that which was 
 reserved for the accommodation of the secular personages who 
 came to visit the recluses. The black curtain drawn m front 
 of the grating formed a lugubrious contrast with the whiteness 
 of the walls, imparting a certain sepulchral air to the little 
 Apartment, through the lozenge-paned window of which strug- 
 gled a doubtful and greenish-coloured daylight. The furni- 
 ture was in keeping with the apartment ; a dozen of massive 
 chairs arranged in a row before the grating seemed to await 
 the presence of visitors, and a hideous representation of St. 
 Lawrence the martyr, suspended opposite the door, gazed at 
 them eternally from his gridiron. In whatever part of the 
 room the visitor placed himself he could not escape encounter- 
 ing his fixed, contracted, and haggard eye, sparkling from 
 beneath the motionless eyelid. 
 
 Uncle Maragnon seated himself upon one of the straw-bot- 
 tomed chairs, in such a manner that his back might be turned 
 towards the picture of St. Lawrence, took a huge pinch of 
 snuff, and gazed around him with a certain sensation of imeasi- 
 ness. Eleonora surveyed the apartment on all sides, clasped 
 her little hands together, and cried with an air of profound 
 content — "At last we are at the Convent of La Misericorde! 
 What tranquillity, what silence ! How peacefully ought one 
 to live here ! It is a blessed retreat. It is indeed the house 
 of the Lord!" 
 
 Uncle Maragnon stared at her with astonishment, and 
 shrugged his shoulders. In his opinion the atmosphere of the 
 parlour was damp, the ground slippery, the furniture of the 
 meanest, the picture of St. Lawrence frightful, and the general 
 aspect of the convent horribly gloomy. 
 
 ** How impatient I am to see the rest of the house!" conti- 
 nued- Eleonora; ** I can already fancy I beheld the cell of my 
 dear Anastasia, and the cloister, and the garden. Perhaps we 
 can catch a glimpse of a little corner of the garden through 
 this window." 
 
 She ran with the vivacity of a child to the casement, placed 
 her cheek against the opaque glass, but saw nothing save a 
 blank wall, the only openmg in which was a grated loop- 
 hole. 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIEBES. 133 
 
 At tills moment a slight sound announced that some ono 
 had entered the reserved portion of the apartment, and almost 
 immediately afterwards the black curtain was withdrawn and 
 two veiled figures appeared behind the grating. Eleonora 
 turned round with a slight cry, approached the grating, trem- 
 bling with joy, and murmured as she passed her little hands 
 through the bars ; — 
 
 "Dear cousin! — at length I am with you again 1 How 
 happy I am!" 
 
 "Dear Eleonora! I also am happy to see you," replied 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrieres in a low voice, partly withdraw- 
 ing her hand from her large sleeve as she spoke, in order to 
 touch the young girl's hand with the tips of her fingers. The 
 latter appeared neither surprised nor grieved at this reception, 
 which by no means responded to the interest and joy which 
 she had herself manifested, and continued in a tone of mingled 
 gaiety and sensibility : — 
 
 "I have come to immure myself along with you for an 
 entire year ; I have come to do penance beforehand for the 
 sins which I shall commit hereafter in the world. My dear 
 uncle has been kind enough to take charge of me himself to 
 the threshold of this house " 
 
 "Mademoiselle Maragnon is welcome here," said La Mere 
 Angelique, addressing herself equally to both uncle and niece, 
 " but before I open the door of the cloister to her, it is neces- 
 sary she should become acquainted with the life that is led 
 among us — it is necessary that she should learn the rather 
 severe regulations to which she will be temporarily sub- 
 jected." 
 
 "Yes, madam, that is only prudent," said M. Maragnon, 
 gazing through the grating at the uninviting picture which 
 the interior of the parlour presented to view, and endeavour- 
 ing to discern under the dense black veil the lineaments of the 
 superior's countenance. 
 
 " My dear daughter," resumed the latter, addressing herself 
 to Eleonora with that tone of earnest zeal and severe firmness 
 which was peculiar to her, "our boarders are subjected to 
 duties little less severe than those of the novices; you will 
 divide your time between prayer and assiduous work. Labour 
 is here the principal obligation after that which wo owe to God." 
 
 "I shall submit myself to this regulation joyfully, in order 
 to repair so many hours lost in frivolous occupations," replied 
 Eleonora, gaily. 
 
 "The nustross of the boarders will exercise absolute autlio- 
 rlty over you," resumed La Mere Angelique; " she will con- 
 stantly put your submission to the proof." 
 
134 THE OLl) CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 *'Ali! nmdam, I have had my own way so long that in 
 truth I no longer care for it," cried the young girl, laughing ; 
 " this cannot therefore be called a sacrifice." 
 
 *' "^ou will be clad in a very coarse black cloth dress," con- 
 tinued La Mere Angelique, laying an emphasis on each word ; 
 *'you will rise every morning at the first Angelus, you will 
 partake only of the ordinary food of the community, which is 
 a perpetual lenten fare, and, finally, you will be entirely sepa- 
 rated from the novices during the hours both of work and 
 recreation, and vou will not see your cousin Anastasia save 
 in the choir or the parlour." 
 
 *^ This last privation will be a severe one," said Eleonora, 
 with emotion; *'but I will support it, since I shall have the 
 hope of sometimes meeting my dear Anastasia here." 
 
 *' So you persist, my daughter," continued La Mere Ange- 
 lique; "you persist m your design of entering as a boarder 
 into our poor convent?" 
 
 *' Yes, madam, I persist," replied Mademoiselle Maragnon. 
 
 "It is inconceivable!" murmured the uncle, who since the 
 commencement of this dialogue had kept repeating in a low 
 voice to his niece — " You see this convent life is not an agree- 
 able one. Should you like me to take you back to Mar- 
 seilles'^" 
 
 "Monsieur," said La Mere Angelique to him, "embrace 
 Mademoiselle your niece. I am going to open the door of the 
 cloister to her; we will restore her to you in a year." 
 
 *^ I should hope so!" cried the stout old gentleman in an 
 almost surly tone ; for although not gifted by nature with a 
 great stock of sensibility, he felt affected at this separation, 
 and certain prejudices which he had always nourished against 
 the monastic state were now vividly aroused in his mind. He 
 advanced towards his niece, took her. head between his two 
 large hands, kissed her forehead, and said to her in a low 
 voice: — 
 
 " In truth I cannot conceive wty you cairie here, and why 
 jrou persist in remaining. However since you have decided, 
 and since your mother has consented, you must act as you 
 please. But recollect what I now tell you : you are the only 
 surviving child of my poor brother, who worked hard all his 
 life to leave you a dowry of several millions of francs. You 
 are pretty, charming ; you have been brought up to live in 
 the world, and neither your mother nor myself will ever suffer 
 you to become a nun. In a year I will come for you — in a 
 year to the day, and on arriving at Marseilles you shall marry 
 Dominick. It is decided, promised — it is a settled affair. 
 Good-bye, niece." 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 135 
 
 He bowed to La Mere Angelique, and hurriedly left the 
 parlour. 
 
 "My uncle is going away in anger," said Eleonora, with a 
 sigh. **He is a very worthy, excellent man, but what he 
 desires he will have done." 
 
 " Like my father," murmured Mademoiselle de Colobfieres, 
 to whose mind this simple reflection had suggested a crowd of 
 melancholy thoughts. 
 
 ^ Mademoiselle Maragnon quickly recovered from the dejec- 
 tion into which her uncle's last words had thrown her, and 
 joyfully followed the lay sister who conducted her to the door 
 of the cloister, and gave her into the hands of the portress, 
 who was to introduce her into the interior of the convent. La 
 Mere Angelique and Anastasia received her at the entrance 
 of the cloister. Both had raised their veils. Eleonora exa- 
 mined for a moment the countenance cf tlie superiol-, and 
 Exclaimed naively : — 
 
 *'Ah! madam, you ought always io alio# yourself to be 
 seen ; why then did you lower your veil before your hand* 
 some countenance when you came to the grating?" 
 
 ** Because the rules oblige me," replied La Mere Angeliqii^, 
 with a slight smile; "the nuns of La Misericorde cannot 
 appear with their faces exposed except before their near rehi- 
 tiong." 
 
 "'I'hatis indeed a great pity !" replied Mademoiselle Ma- 
 ragnon, quickly; ** for the nun's costume is so becoming to a 
 handsome woman." 
 
 ** Here is a young lady who seems to understand perfectly 
 the renunciations of a monastic life I" said the superior, id a 
 tone of gentle irony. " St. Lawrence I how she would scandalise 
 oUr dear sisters — how she would be admonished by the clas^ 
 mistress were she to speak thus before the community ! I see 
 plainly that she must be instructed a little in our usages before 
 she enters the boarders' quarter." 
 
 "My dear mother," said Anastasia, " if your charity will 
 intrust me with this task, I shall acquit liiyself ^ith all the zeal 
 in my power, and also with infinite satisfaction." 
 
 " I doubt it not, my daughter," replied the superior, kindly; 
 "it is to your care that I confide our young boatder; you 
 shall guide her in all the exel*cises of this day, but first of all 
 take a few moments' recreation, and until the dinner hour lat- 
 her see the house. Go; I permit you." 
 
 This hour of liberty was a rare favouf, a priceless boon, 
 which Anastasia hastened to profit by. She led Mademoiselle 
 Maragnon through a labyrinth of halls and corridors, where 
 they did not meet a single creature, for the entire community 
 
136 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PABIS. 
 
 v/ere assembled in the workroom. At length she paused at 
 the entrance of the garden. 
 
 " This is a very agreeable place," said Mademoiselle Ma- 
 ragnon. 
 
 " Most decidedly, cousin, you seem determined to be pleased 
 with everything in the convent," said Anastasia, with a faint 
 smile. "This spot, whose aspect charms you, has ever ap- 
 peared to me extremely sad ; one cannot even perceive here 
 the return of spring." 
 
 And in fact the genial influence of spring had not yet enli- 
 vened the severe features of the scene. The lime-trees, which 
 formed two long alleys parallel with the cloister wall, were 
 scantily clothed with a thin and sickly foliage, through which 
 their twisted boughs and gnarled and blackened branches were 
 plainly visible. Under the shelter of this gloomy canopy vege- 
 tated a few indolent, lifeless, and scentless Guelder roses. The 
 flower-bed was a sort of undefined neutral ground where 
 some sickly tufts of gillyflowers flourished at i-andom, and to 
 speak the truth there was but one single green spot in the 
 enclosure — viz. the pond, whose surface was overspread with 
 a thick carpet of moss and chickweed. A few unhappy gold- 
 fish shot to and fro beneath this marshy vegetation, which also 
 sheltered some frogs with their hoarse and piercing notes. 
 The two cousins seated themselves upon a solitary bench at 
 the farther end of the alley, and remained for an instant silent, 
 their eyes swimming in tears, and their hands clasped together 
 in a mutual embrace. Mademoiselle de Colobrieres was a 
 prey to that fatal joy which takes possession of the soul when 
 fresh agitations have succeeded to deep, silent, gnawing 
 pains in which the faculties have been for a length of time 
 absorbed. The poor girl felt old recollections revive within 
 her. The presence of Eleonora recalled to her mind the deep 
 emotions, the sufferings, the transports of that brief and deeply 
 regretted period which seemed to fill and absorb all her past 
 existence. 
 
 "Oh! my dear Eleonora," said she at length breaking 
 silence, "how strong a proof of your friendship do you give 
 me in coming to bury yourself along with me in this retreat, 
 in submitting to the privations, the severe duties, the perpe- 
 tual self-denial, to which all are subjected here!" 
 
 " The sacrifice is not so great as you imagine," replied Ma- 
 demoiselle Maragnon ; < ' would to Heaven it were permitted 
 me to remain here all my life!" 
 
 " You would wish then to take the veil!" cried Mademoi- 
 selle de Colobrieres. "Ah! you know not what it costs to 
 renounce the joys as well as the sorrows of this world! One 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 137 
 
 ought to be predestined by Heaven, or unable to see aught 
 but afflictions upon earth, before immuring themselves here." 
 
 " There is no longer any hope of happiness for me in this 
 world," said the young girl, with a deep sigh, "and I have 
 already suffered severe afflictions." 
 
 **You, Eleonoral" cried Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, 
 gazing with an £^stonished and almost incredulous air on the 
 fair face, the brilliant and yet soft and gentle eyes, and the 
 rosy and smiling mouth which had just given utterance to such 
 melancholy words. **AhI dear, dear child, unhappiness to 
 you is an impossibility!" 
 
 *' That is just what all the world thinks," said she, in a me- 
 lancholy tone; " my mother herself believes it." 
 
 "Alas!" resumed Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, " you exag- 
 gerate to yourself a few passing troubles, a few slight sorrows, 
 from which the destinies of the happiest are not exempt. My 
 dear Eleonora, be not ungrateful to Providence ; consider the 
 blessings which He has conferred upon you. Of what sorrows 
 can you speak? Until now you have lived as a young girl 
 upon whom Heaven has lavished all its blessings. Your mo- 
 ther has brought you up with extreme tenderness, anticipating 
 your slightest wishes, your most trifling caprices. In truth 
 she must have looked upon you until now as a gay, thought- 
 less, and, above all, happy child." 
 
 Eleonora gazed on her cousin fixedly, and replied — 
 
 '* Neither my mother nor any one can guess what is passing 
 in my mind." 
 
 She drooped her head at these words and her countenance 
 assumed another expression; some serious and deep-seated 
 feeling was suddenly revealed on her infantine features. 
 
 " My dear Anastasia," resumed she, in a serious tone of 
 voice, " they call me, and they imagine me, still a child. 
 They have never suspected what I have felt, what I have suf- 
 fered. I saw that I ought to conceal it within my own breast, 
 that I might not afflict those who loved me, those who desire 
 only my happiness, but who are even now unwittingly prepar- 
 ing my future and eternal misery. It is this marriage, this 
 fatal marriage." 
 
 " "Why did you not open your mind to your mother, my dear 
 Eleonora?" interrupted Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, in a sub- 
 dued voice ; " she would have broken off this engagement, she 
 would have restored to you at any price your happiness and 
 peace of mind." 
 
 " She would not have been able," replied Mademoiselle 
 Maragnon with a sigh. Then she added, vehemently — 
 ** No, lio, no — I felt that all was in vain, and that I must re- 
 
1 38 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PAKIS. 
 
 sign myself td my fate, as Dominick to his. My mother and 
 micle fancy they know better than we do what can assure our 
 happiness, and they will never relinquish their Ideas. In a 
 year my lot must be accomplished. I will obey; I shall wed 
 a man whose heart is devoted to another." 
 
 " What do you say?" murmured Anastasia, in a faint and 
 agitated voice. ' 
 
 " He loves ; I know it — I have discovered it," replied Eleo- 
 nora; " it is his secret, and I ought not to have revealed it. 
 Alas ! ■ he Is very unhappy. We will both submit to our evil 
 destiny — we will marry. Then, I pray Heaven that I may not 
 long remain upon this earth — that I may soon die of grief!" 
 
 Then, after a short silence, she added with a sigh — 
 
 ** However, I have still a year before me — a year of life." 
 
 She passed her handkerchief over her eyes to wipe away her 
 tears, and appeared to make an effort to restrain those feelings 
 which, despite her endeavours, had overflowed within her 
 heart. Anastasia sighed, and pressed her hand In silence. 
 Her own feelings enlightened her sufficiently as to those of 
 Eleonora, and enai)led her to comprehend the secrets of that 
 tender and innocent heart which guarded within its deepest 
 recesses so faithful a love for Gaston de Colobrleres. She had 
 no need of a more entire confidence to enable her to compre- 
 hend her cousin's grief and her regrets. Mademoiselle Marag- 
 non soon succeeded In recovering herself; the traces of her 
 recent tears were effaced from her downy cheek, her eyes re- 
 sumed their limpid serenity, and after a long silence she 
 exclaimed abruptly— 
 
 *' Dear cousin, give me some tidings of your brave Lambln 
 who followed you to Paris !" 
 
 Had Anastasia entertained any doubt in her mind as to the 
 secret sentiments of her friend with regard to Gaston, this ob- 
 servation alone would have been su&cient to dispel them, and 
 she accordingly replied with a smile — 
 
 '' Lambin is very well ; he is with mv brother, and we shall 
 certainly See both this evening. Gaston domes every day to 
 the parlour, my dear cousin." 
 
 *' So I thought," exclaimed Mademoiselle Maragnoh, inge- 
 nuously. Then she added, as if speaking to herself — "I 
 wonder if he ever thinks of our ramble to the Capuchin*s 
 Hock!" 
 
 The bell rang at this moment. ** Come," said Anastasia, 
 rising; *'it is dinner-time already. Our repast will seem a 
 meagre one to you in comparison with those to which you have 
 been accustomed in your mother's house." 
 
 "What makes you think so?" replied Eleonora, quickly; 
 
GASTON BE COLOBRIERKS. 139 
 
 ** with a contented heart one can dine well on a piece of bread 
 and an apple! and to-day I feel very happy 1" 
 
 Thus chatting they proceeded towards the refectory. Already 
 were the nuns standing before their places, waiting in silence 
 until the superior should say the Beuedicite. The latter- 
 mentioned personage entered the room last, cast a glance 
 round her flock to assure herself that all were assembled," 
 struck a slight blow upon the table, and before sitting down 
 recited the prayer which precedes the repast. In the refec- 
 tory as well as in the halls she had a particular seat, a sort 
 of throne rather more elevated than the benches appropriated 
 to the use of the nuns. She caused a chair to be placed beside 
 her for Mademoiselle Maragnon, and Anastasia seated herseli 
 near her cousin. The lay sisters, after having brought in the 
 dinner, stood aloof for the purpose of assisting in waiting — by 
 no means a difficult task, on account of the required simplicity 
 of the repast, llie long narrow tables were covered with 
 coarse white linen table-cloths, the dinner service was, of the 
 plainest description, and the opaque carafes which accompa- 
 nied the pewter drinking-cups contained only clear water. 
 The food was the same for the entire community, and the 
 superior, equally with the youngest lay .sister, had but one 
 dish for dinner. Silence was absolutely required in the 
 refectory, and during the repast a nun read aloud portions of 
 some pious work; conversations however in a low tone of 
 voice, and the innocent gaieties which the novices permitted 
 themselves, were tolerated by the superior. 
 
 ** Cousin," said Eleonora, a little astonished at the aspect 
 of this austere banquet, "will these ladies speak no more 
 when they leave table than they do at present?" 
 
 "You will see during the hour of recreation," replied Ma- 
 demoiselle de Colobrieres with a smile. 
 
 "Tell me, cousin," continued Eleonora, "who is that tall, 
 pale girl waiting at the first table, who mdkes so devout a 
 genuflexion every time she passes the crucifix?" 
 
 " It is La Rousse," replied Anastasia, in a low voice; " a 
 poor servant we had at the chateau, who came to seek Gaston 
 in Paris because she fancied he had need of her services; 
 little imagining the embarrassment, on the contrary, which 
 her arrival would cause him. He brought her over here at 
 once." 
 
 "And she consented without difficulty to become a lay 
 sister?" asked Eleonora. 
 
 Anastasia shook her head in the negative and replied—-" At 
 first she did not like the convent at all. She had a violent 
 self-willed spirit which it was not easy to subdue. It would 
 
140 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 have been a vain task to attempt to persuade her had she not 
 herself turned to God; but all at once grace touched her 
 heart, and, as our mistress of the novices says, * she is now 
 on the highway to perfection.* If she were permitted to do 
 as she pleased, she would practise mortifications beyond her 
 strength. The other day she threw herself at oirr mother's 
 feet, beseeching her to permit her to wear the hair-cloth, and to 
 take the discipline for the space of a miserere every Friday." 
 
 "And Madame consented?" interrupted Eleonora. 
 
 *' No, my dear child," replied La Mere Angelique, taking 
 part in this dialogue; "these austerities are contrary to the 
 spirit of our rules. I refused Sister Madeleine the permission 
 she solicited, and I sent her back to her work, merely doubling 
 her usual task." 
 
 So saying, she rose to say grace. The dinner was already 
 over. The nuns on leaving the refectory dispersed them- 
 selves in groups through the garden ; the elder sisters strolled 
 together in the sun, and threw bits of bread to the gold and 
 silver fish ; the younger ones, with that delightful familiarity 
 peculiar to children and persons entirely separated from the 
 world, eagerly surrounded the new-comer. They addressed 
 a thousand questions to her, and lavished on her all sorts ot 
 vows of friendship and pretty flatteries. All expressed their 
 hopes that she might take the veil. What especially charmed 
 and astonished them was the expression of content displayed 
 on the countenance of Mademoiselle Maragnon. 
 
 "She is quite at home here at once," said one; "never 
 was there a novice who had so gay a face the day of her en- 
 trance into the convent ; one would imagine she had passed 
 all her life herel" 
 
 *' That is just what I thought when I saw her in the refec- 
 tory," said another; "to see the appetite with which she ate 
 our lentils, I judged she had the vocation." 
 
 "You were quite right," murmured Eleonora in her cou- 
 sin's ear; " how these good sisters chatter to be sure!" 
 
 On coming to immure herself in the convent for a year, 
 Mademoiselle Maragnon had changed her costume. A simple 
 undress of violet cotton had replaced her silken robes, she 
 had left off powder, and her hair which until lately had been 
 curled and pomatumed with infinite art and care, now fell in 
 fair and silken ringlets from beneath a little gauze cap orna- 
 mented with a sky-blue ribbon. In this simple attire she 
 looked charming, and from an ingenuous feeling of coquetry 
 she requested permission to retain it during this first day, de- 
 ferring until the morrow the assumption of the black dress and 
 bcguin of the boarders. 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 141 
 
 As the evening drew on, the lovely Eleonora became thought- 
 ful ; she experienced those indescribable anxieties and inward 
 tremblings which the approach of long desired happiness ever 
 causes. Some faint reflection of what was passing in her mind 
 shone upon her countenance, imparting to it an unspeakable 
 expression of gentle felicity. After the employments of the day 
 she proceeded along with the community to repeat the office, 
 and took her place beside Anastasia in the choir. The nuns 
 who observed her admired the prompt vocation she appeared 
 to manifest. In general the first sight of this cold and for- 
 bidding sanctuary chilled the warmest hearts; they felt a 
 thrill of sadness and terror when kneeling before that altar 
 where sacrifices such as theirs had been so frequently accom- 
 plished; they thought of those who had preceded them, and who 
 having passed their lives within the walls of the convent, now 
 reposed in the sleep of death in the chapel vaults. Mademoi- 
 selle Maragnon, far from appearing to be under the influence 
 of these lugubrious impressions, gazed with a cheerful coun- 
 tenance on all that surrounded her, and smiled from time to 
 time behind the formulary they had placed in her hands. 
 
 On leaving the choir the two cousins and La Mere Ange- 
 lique ascended to the parlour. Already Gaston de Colobriercs 
 was awaiting their coming at the grating. Mademoiselle 
 Maragnon advanced, blushing, and, scarcely raising her eyes 
 to the young man's face, said in a faltering voice, "Good- 
 day, cousin." Then she began to caress the greyhound, who 
 had raised himself upon his hind legs and thrust his tawney 
 muzzle between the bars of the grating. Gaston replied to 
 her laconic greeting by a respectful salutation, and took his 
 seat, holding back Lambin, who having recognised Eleonora 
 testified his joy by various anti-monastic gambols. The con- 
 versation had proceeded no further when another visitor un- 
 expectedly entered the parlour and approached the grating ; it 
 was uncle Maragnon. The worthy man had determined to sec 
 Eleonora once more before his departure ; he could not under- 
 stand this sudden predilection of his niece's for a cloistral 
 life, and he fancied to himself that she must be already re- 
 gretting that she had entered the convent. On M. Marag- 
 non's entrance La Mere Angelique and Mademoiselle de 
 Colobriercs immediately lowered their veils and made him a 
 mysterious reverence. 
 
 "Monsieur," said La Mere Angelique, after having invited 
 him to be seated, "permit me to mtroduce to you the Cheva- 
 lier Gaston de Colobriercs." 
 
 Uncle Maragnon bowed to the young gentleman, and 
 coughed slightly in his cravat, a sure sign with him that some 
 
142 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 sudden idea was feraientino: in his brain. He then took his 
 place beside Gaston, and §aid to him with fi se.copid jjiclination 
 of the head : — 
 
 " J an^ enchanted, sir, to have the pleasure pf ?p.ee|;ing ypij. 
 Have you been long in Paris?" 
 
 '''No, monsieur, a few months only," replied QagtQw; *'I 
 accompanied ijay sifter J^deii^oiselle ^nast^-siade Ppjobrieres 
 to Paris." 
 
 "That dear cousin whose absence Eleonora so much la- 
 mented, and whom she came here to seeE?" said old Mar^-gnon, 
 with an air of good humour; "I now begin to perceiye wjiy 
 my niece finds the convent so agreeable a sojourn." 
 
 After having thus negligently given vent to his idea, he 
 coughed afresh, drew from his pocket a bonbonniere formed 
 of shell, offered fraston some lozenges, and began to converse 
 with the superior about a journey he had formerly made to 
 Rome, and of a beatification, in the ceremonies of which he had 
 taken part. "^Vhilst he edified La Mere Angelique by this 
 discourse, Eleonora and Gaston de Colobrieres conversed only 
 by timid glances, and Anastasia, silent and pensive, thought 
 of their long interviews at the Capuchin's Rock. 
 
 M. Maragnon was a man of sense and experience, and had, 
 besides, the sagacity and the prompt and unerring eye of his 
 brother Pierre. The mere presence of Gaston de Colobrieres 
 had revealed to him the solution of the enigma which ever 
 since the previous evening he had been endeavouring to di- 
 vine. He saw clearly to the bottom of his niece's heart, and 
 rapidly calculating what steps ought to be taken to break off 
 this connexion, he at once formed a decisive plan. Pefore re- 
 tiring he begged, in a low voice, La Mere Angelique to grant 
 him another interview that evening. As she hesitated, he 
 added that he wished to speak tp her without witnesses on 
 certain secret and important subjects which concerr^ed the 
 mutual well-being and tranquillity of the two families. Ije 
 then retired, having cordially saluted Gaston d,e Colobrieres, 
 who soon followed his example for Jbjje convent bell was 
 already tolling for evening prayers. 
 
 An hour later, when the nuns amj novices ha(} retjred to 
 their several cells, La Mere Angeliquje rcturn^id alone to the 
 grating. The old merchant's words h^d ,caused her thoughts 
 to wander more than once during prayers : she was far from 
 suspecting the motive of this second visit, and she never 
 dreamed that there could possibly be any question of Eleonora 
 and Gaston de Colobrieres ; for despite her penetration, she 
 had no suspicions of the secret which old Maragnon ha^ dhco- 
 vered at the first glance. The latter arrived in the parlour 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERE8. 14^ 
 
 almost at the same moment as she herself. The worthy man 
 seated himself opposite this motionless veiled figure, which 
 remained silent after having saluted him through the grating. 
 He ransacked his brains lor some phrase which might ren- 
 der more suitable to the ear of a nun the profane subject 
 he was about to discuss ; but he could find no terms of the 
 monastic vocabulary which could explain even the most deli- 
 cate cases of conscience, and, making an effort, he simply 
 said — "My reverend mother, I sinqerely asjk your pardon; 
 but, at the risk of scandalising you, I ipust tell you that it is 
 of a love affair I am about to speak." 
 
 "When it concerns the salvation or interest of a fellow- 
 creature, persons of our profession can and ought to h^ear all," 
 replied La IMere Angelique gravely. 
 
 "In that case," said old Maragijon without further pream- 
 ble, "you must know, madam, that my niece Elconpra loves 
 the Chevalier de Colobrieres, and that, according tg aif ap- 
 pearance, it is a reciprocal inclination." 
 
 "Heavens! what a misfortune!" murmured La Mere An- 
 gelique. 
 
 "It certainly is a misfortune," continued M. Maragnon, 
 "but by no means an irremediable one. This jourr^ey has 
 aggravated the evil, however. Who could have imagmed what 
 was passing in my niece's mind? The child is assuredly no 
 fool. She never once mentioned in my presence this handsome 
 cousin, of whose very existence almost I was in truth igno- 
 rant. It is most unfortunate that they ever knew and loved 
 each other, for you can easily conceive^ madam^ that this mar- 
 riage is impossible." 
 
 "Impossible?" repeated La Mere Angelique, in a ;tone of 
 voice which did not display entire conviction. 
 
 * * Absolutely impossible, " continued uncle Maragnon . * * Even 
 were we to renounce a project, formed so many years back^ of 
 wedding Eleonora to my son Dominick— even were we to 
 consent to break off this match, suitable as ^t is in every pojnt, 
 the daughter of Pierre Maragnon would never espouse Gaston 
 de Colobrieres. We know with what an unfavourable eye 
 such marriages are viewed in your family ; we know the J^ride 
 of the Colobrieres. My brother's widow will never expose 
 her daughter to the disdain of her noble relatives. It would 
 be a fine affair truly to see the old baron refuse for his spn my 
 niece's hand and her nine hundred thousand crowns!" 
 
 " We must make some allowances for the vanity of rank," 
 said La Mere Angelique. " My father is a worthy gentleman, 
 a little too deeply imhi\ed perhaps with the pride of his birth, 
 
144 . . THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 but he loves and cherishes his children, and who knows if in 
 the end he might not consent?" 
 
 *' Pardon me, madam," interrupted the old merchant, in a 
 vain-glorious tone which fully matched the Baron de Colo- 
 brieres' explosions of pride ; " pardon me, but it neither 
 suits us to await nor to solicit such an honour. Each family 
 has its own sort of fame, and perhaps to-day that of the Ma- 
 ragnons is quite on a par with the Colobrieres'. Your name 
 holds a distinguished place in the peerage, but ours is fa- 
 mous in the four quarters of the globe. The firm of Jacques 
 Maragnon and Son is known in the interior of China. So 
 much for renown: I speak not of the rest," added he, jingling 
 the gold pieces in his immense waistcoat pockets, "that is 
 nothing to the purpose at present. The question is how I am 
 to repair the fault I committed in bringing this little girl to 
 Paris, where she has again met her cousin Gaston." 
 
 *' That is easily done, sir," replied the superior. " I shall 
 withdraw from your niece the permission of coming to the par- 
 lour; she shall see the Chevalier de Colobrieres no more." 
 
 " True, so long as she remains here," interrupted M. Ma- 
 ragnon, "and at the end of the year they will meet at the 
 convent door. No, no, it requires more efficacious means to 
 break off this connexion ; the Chevalier de Colobrieres must 
 leave Paris instantly. The young man must have some career 
 in view, I suppose?" 
 
 *' He wishes to become a capuchin," replied La Mere An- 
 gelique, with a sigh. 
 
 "That is a very desperate resolution," answered M. Ma- 
 ragnon; "we shall easily persuade him to adopt another. 
 He ought to think of making his fortune, and we will assist 
 him to do so. I speak not of employing him in business, the 
 blood of the Colobrieres would rise within him at the thought ; 
 he would think it derogatory to his rank. Besides, he would 
 not perhaps accept anything from me. But I have got 
 another project. I have some interest with certain persons 
 in power, and I can obtain for the Chevalier de Colobrieres 
 an important employment out of the kingdom. We will send 
 him to India; he will make a considerable fortune there, he 
 will marry some nabob's daughter, and return home in about 
 twenty years laden with wealth and honours. When he is at 
 the other end of the world he will forget my niece, and she, 
 on her side, will think no more of him; she will marry her 
 cousin Dominick, and will live happily with her husband." 
 
 "Poor children!" murmured La Mere Angclique with a 
 sigh. 
 
GASTON »E COLOBRIERES. 145 
 
 **I shall remain in Paris to hasten the conclusion of this 
 affair," continued M. Maragnon; *' In the mean time, do you, 
 madam, make known to the Chevalier de Colobrieres that 
 interest is being exerted in his favour in high quarters, and 
 that a splendid career for his ambition is about to open before 
 him." 
 
 "I shall mention to him what you say, sir, but I cannot 
 answer for his consent," said La Mere Angelique ; "to re- 
 nounce his family and his country, perhaps for ever, is a ter- 
 rible resolution." 
 
 *'It will be far better for him to go to the East Indies 
 than to become a capuchin," muttered old Maragnon almost 
 angrily. Then he added in a milder tone : " I am certain that 
 the Chevelier de Colobrieres will not even hesitate. It is just 
 the same in love affairs as in trade ; people end always by 
 abandoning unfortunate speculations. A hopeless passion is 
 precisely similar to a transaction in which one loses cent per 
 cent ; after a certain time we get tired of awaiting profits 
 that never arrive, and give up the whole thing as a bad job. 
 With this, madam, I shall take my leave, begging you to se- 
 cond me in my plans, and to consider me as your most devoted 
 and obedient- servant." 
 
 La Mere Angelique's reflections after this interview were 
 long and melancholy. She had no objections to urge against the 
 wishes or projects of M. Maragnon; she was, in fact, deter- 
 mined to second his intentions, but she felt a lively emotion 
 of pity for these poor children who loved each other and were 
 to meet no more. During a great part of the night she re- 
 mained in prayer, beseeching the Almighty's assistance to 
 strengthen her in her duty, and to restore peace to the souls 
 desolated by human passions. On the following morning she 
 announced to the two cousins that they were about to enter 
 into retirement with the novices for the entire eight days of 
 the festival of the holy sacrament. 
 
 It was now necessary, as she safd, to decide upon the 
 vo(;ation of Gaston de Colobrieres, and in the evening when 
 he came to the grating, where he found her alone, she com- 
 menced the task of sounding his inclinations for the new career 
 which had been proposed for him. It required all the tact 
 and marvellous address of a woman and a nun to change the 
 dispositions of his mind, still intoxicated with the recent happi- 
 ness of having discovered the object of its love. It was necessary 
 to make the painful certainty of inevitable misfortune assume the 
 place of confused hopes of present happiness. Without alluding 
 to his passion, which Gaston de Colobrieres imagined was a 
 secret carefully concealed at the bottom of his heart. La Mere 
 
146 THE OLD CONTENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 Angelique was able to strike a death-blow to the vague hopes 
 which he still perhaps entertained. She spoke at great length 
 of the marriage of Eleonora with her young cousin, of the 
 projects of their Aunt Agatha for the happiness of her only- 
 child, and of the impatience of M. Maragnon for the conclusion 
 of this marriage. Gaston listened to her with a mournful air, 
 shaking his head from time to time with a gesture of despairing 
 conviction, and replying only by half-uttered monosyllables. 
 
 ' * It is thus we all endeavour to provide for our happiness 
 in this world until we depart to render account of our deeds 
 in the next," added La Mere Angelique as a sort of corollary; 
 "you alone, chevalier, scarcely bestow a thought on your 
 interests here below." 
 
 "They are of so little consequence," murmured the young 
 man. 
 
 "And yet, my dear brother, the care of our fortune is the 
 most important affair after that of our salvation," resumed 
 La Mere Angelique gently. " I have interested myself about 
 your future prospects ; certain persons are making exertions 
 in your favour; you have powerful protectors, and I hope 
 soon to obtain for you a good appointment." 
 
 " I do not wish for it," replied he, in a tone of discourage- 
 m.ent ; ' '- what need have I of the goods of this world ? I long 
 only for retirement." 
 
 "^¥hatl still talking of becoming a capuchin!" interrupted 
 La Mere Angelique hastily; "most certainly I venerate the 
 habit of St. Francis, it has been borne by men of eminent 
 virtue, several of whom have received signal favours froni 
 Heaven, but you do not possess the pious ambition of walking 
 in their footsteps and of becoming a saint. Be advised by 
 me ; renounce these ideas, accept what I propose to you, and, 
 in place of retiring to a cloister, depart for the East Indies 
 and make your fortune." 
 
 "Across the ocean! through a thousand perils!" cried 
 Gaston de Colobrieres,«his eyes flashing with sudden energy; 
 " yes, you have divined my true vocation ! I will go!" 
 
 Old Monsieur Maragnon kept his word; his application 
 met with prompt and complete success, and he obtained for 
 Gaston an appointment in one of the government offices in the 
 East Indies. The old merchant had secretly provided every- 
 thing necessary, and now hastened the departure of young Colo- 
 brieres with incredible activity. Before the last day of the 
 Fete-Dieu had dawned, Gaston had quitted Paris for L'Orient, 
 there to embark on board a ship bound for Chandernagor. 
 He departed without again beholding Mademoiselle Maragnon, 
 without even bidding his sister farewell: and both were stiH 
 
GASTON DB COLOBRIERES. 147 
 
 in ignorance of his sudden determination when he was already 
 on board the vessel which was to transport him to the other 
 extremity of the world. 
 
 During their eight days' retirement the cousins had taken 
 part in the exercises of the conimunity imder the immediate 
 superintendence of the mistress of the povices, and they hacj 
 not once seen the superior save in the choir. On the morning 
 of the Fete-Dieu after the convent mass, the latter summoned 
 them to attend her m her cell, and when there met together, 
 addressing herself to Anastasia, she said in a calm tone ol* Yoice, 
 though the tears stood in her eyes: — 
 
 "My dear daughter, God has willed that you should he 
 tried by a severe affliction. Your brother Gaston has thought 
 it his duty to accept an opportunity which presented itself to him 
 of ameliorating his fortune ; he has departed for the East 
 Indies, and doubtless his absence will last many years. We 
 must pray divine Providence to watch over him during hh 
 long voyage, and to grant that we may behold him again 
 before we die." 
 
 At this news Anastasia clasped her hands pasaioiudely 
 together, crying: ** Gaston 1 — my brother! — I hi im 
 
 no more!" Then she burst into sobs and la us. 
 
 Eleonora turned deadly pale, but she did not shed a bingle 
 tear. She seated herself beside her cousin, and said in A 
 broken voice, yet with a sort of firmness and self-possession : — 
 
 *'My dear Anastasia, we must submit to the will of God." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrieres then threw herself into hev 
 cousin's arms, exclaiming: "Ah! you at least still remain tQ 
 me I" 
 
 " Yes, for a year," said the young girl with bitter resigna- 
 tion ; " after which we must both of us bend to the irrevocable 
 decree of Providence. I shall obey the will of my relations, 
 I shall marry." 
 
 "And I shall become a nun," added Mademoiselle de 
 Colobrieres, in an almost inaudible voice. 
 
 "Alasl" murmured La Mere Angelique, deeply afflicted;* 
 " it is not in my power to succour them ; I cannot save them 
 from these forced vocations!" 
 
 Before the end of the year, however, certain events occurred 
 which overturned all their plans, and changed those destinies 
 which had seemed irrevocably fixed. It was now the year 
 1789, and the first steps of the Revolution had been already 
 accomplished. Although the secluded inhabitants of the Con- 
 vent of La Misericorde occupied themselves but little with 
 public afikirs, the revolutionary movement did not fail to pene- 
 trate into this retreat, hitherto closed to all wordly rumours. The 
 
148 THE OLD COI« VENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 emigration had commenced, the nohlessevfere already dispersed, 
 and the court ladies no longer thought of purchasing the rich 
 lace and magnificent embroideries manufactured at the convent. 
 Almost instantaneously the skill displayed by the nuns in these 
 difficult arts became a useless talent, and they no longer earned 
 anything by the product of their needles. The establishment 
 had no other revenue ; the rules prohibited the daughters of La 
 Misericorde from hoarding treasure, and the surplus gain had 
 hitherto been scrupulously divided annually among the poor 
 houses of the order. When their work ceased the community 
 found themselves on the brink of poverty, and La Mere Ange- 
 lique reflected with grief that a day might perhaps come, when, 
 like the establishments of the seraphic order, they should be 
 obliged to seek their daily bread from door to door. The nuns, 
 however, were still in ignorance of the destitution which 
 threatened them. The superior and the treasurer of the convent 
 were alone aware of the extremities to which the departure of 
 the grand ladies of Versailles had reduced them. In this 
 difficult crisis La Mere Angelique displayed admirable pru- 
 dence and strength of mind : she provided for the wants of the 
 community out of the slenderest resources, and the day on which 
 the decree abolishing religious vows was promulgated there 
 remained but a six-livre piece in the convent treasury. La 
 Mere Angelique forthwith assembled the nuns in chapter, and 
 read aloud to them the decree : she then desired the portress 
 to hand over the keys to her, saying as she placed them before 
 heron the table: "My dear sisters, from this moment the 
 doors of the cloister are opened." 
 
 There were doubtless some hearts which bounded for joy 
 at this unheard-of news, but in general it was received with 
 a sort of stupor. On the following morning a few of the 
 younger nuns declared that they wished to return to their 
 families, and they were permitted to depart freely. The older 
 members of the sisterhood imagined that the beginning of the 
 end was accomplished, and that the termination of the world 
 approached. Some ventured as far as the convent gates but 
 almost immediately drew back, terrified at the noises of the 
 street and the appearance of the passers-by. 
 
 Some days after the promulgation of the degree. La Mere 
 Angelique received two letters ; the first was from the Baron 
 de Colobrieres, and was to the following effect : — 
 
 Chatbaxj ue CoLOBRiEkEs, Feb. Ist, 1790. 
 
 ** My dear Daughter, — Since the departure of your brother 
 Gaston, who wrote to me from the port of L'Orient, I have not 
 heard any news of you, and under present circumstances feel 
 considerable anxiety respecting your situation. It is with 
 
GASTON IJE COLOBRIERF/S. 140 
 
 extreme pain that I have been informed of the troubles which 
 desolate the kingdom. Not being in the habit of seeing the 
 gazettes, I have no clear information as to the course of events ; 
 but I can see enough to learn that the revolutionary spirit has 
 penetrated evervwhere. 
 
 " The villagers here have for a long time back displayed 
 certain colours, which they call national, in place of the 
 fleur-de-lis, and other changes no less deplorable are taking 
 place around us. A rumour has reached my ears that cer- 
 tain ill-designing persons have expressed their intention of 
 pillaging and destroying the chateau, but up to the present 
 time aU is tranquil in the barony. 
 
 *'I shudder, with all true gentlemen of France, at the 
 misdeeds of the people. Having learned that our princes, as 
 well as the higher ranks of the nobility, have taken refuge 
 abroad, I have been reflecting whether it is not my duty also 
 to quit this unhappy country ; but the advice and entreaties 
 of your mother have hitherto restrained me. 
 
 "People talk of the sale of ecclesiastical benefices, the 
 destruction of the convents, and other similar abominations ; 
 these reports make me anxious respecting the nine children 
 that I have in the religious orders. Write to me and let me 
 know respecting your safety and well-being. Your mother 
 and myself send you as well as our daughter Anastasia our 
 heartfelt blessing, praying God to succour you in these 
 tribulations, and to take us all under his protection. Do not 
 forget us in your prayers, my dearest daughter, and rest 
 assured of the unchanging afiection and tender love of your 
 father, 
 
 "Baron de Colobriebes." 
 
 The second letter was from M. Maragnon, and was as 
 follows: — 
 
 " Madame la Superieure, — The decree lately promulgated 
 abolishing religious orders changes aU our arrangements. It 
 is an event of paramount force, necessarily annulling the pro- 
 mise we made Eleonora to let her remain at the convent during 
 a year. Neither her mother nor myself can go to Paris at 
 this present moment, and we beg you will be good enough to 
 find some confidential person to take charge of her during the 
 journey. Madame Maragnon desires that her daughter may 
 perform the journey with all the ease possible, in a good post- 
 chaise, attended by such domestics as you may think propel 
 to select, &c. &c. I beg that no expense may be spared ic 
 fulfilling her intentions, and I send you to this efiect an ordei 
 for five thousand livres. 
 
150 THE OID CONVENTS OF TARTS. 
 
 " Accept, Madame la Snperieure, the Lomaire of my pro- 
 found respect, and believe me to remain your most humble, 
 - obedient, and devoted servant, 
 
 " Jacques Maragnon and Son." 
 
 On reading the signature affixed by the old merchant to the 
 conclusion of the letter, as if it had been a commercial despatch, 
 the worthy nun could not restrain a smile, and turning to the 
 two cousins who were with her in the now deserted workroom, 
 she said: — 
 
 •*Here is a letter from the firm of Maragnon and Co. 
 requiring restitution of the precious deposit th^y had confided 
 to my hands." 
 
 "A letter from my uncle!" cried Eleonora, taking with a 
 trembling hand the paper presented to her by the superior. 
 
 "'Tis well, my dear mother," said she, after having atten- 
 tively read the letter; *' but see! you have missed the post- 
 script" — and she read aloud with feelings of emotion the 
 lines traced at the back of the page : — 
 
 *'*My dearest child, I shaill await you at BelveSer, for 
 these last decrees abolishing^ religious vows will inevitably 
 close the convents. Say to my dear niece. La Mere Ange- 
 llque, that I offer to her, as well as to such of the nuns as may 
 wish to follow her, a shelter in my house. Bring me all these 
 holy sisters. I embrace you with all my heart.' 
 
 *' You will come, my dear mother ?" added Eleonora eagerly; 
 ** there is room for the entire community at Belveser!" 
 
 ** Ah!" murmured La Mere Angelique as if speaking to her- 
 self, and the tears standing in her eyes, * ' it might be so ! God 
 might permit that I should behold once more the spot where 
 I was born — my family — my mother!" 
 
 La Mere Angelique summoned together all that remaitied of 
 the community, but her flock was already almost entirely dis- 
 persed. The monastic hive once overset, the terrified swarm 
 had flown at random through the world, and there now re- 
 mained only a few of the old sisters who persisted in clinging 
 to the violated precincts of the convent. They declared that 
 it was their intention to seek a refuge in the Catholic Nether- 
 lands, and to continue their religious profession in some house 
 of the order of St. Augustine. The lay sisters, who were en- 
 gaged only by simple vows, adopted the same resolution ; and 
 among the sisters of the white veil La Rousse alone declared 
 that she would follow La Mere Angelique. These several reso- 
 lutions were promptly carried jato eifect. A few days after- 
 wards at nightfall, a post-chaise was drawn up in waiting in the 
 court-vard of the Convent of La Misericorde. A sad and solemn 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 151 
 
 momeiif Was that in which La Mere Angelique issued ibrth from 
 the house which she had so loiiir governed, and in which she had 
 imagined she should have drawn her latest breath. She was the 
 last to pass through the cloistral door, and kneeling on the 
 threshold she offered up a short prayer ; she then entered the 
 carriage with the two cousins and La Rousse. On leaving the 
 convent she had laid aside her grey dress and the scapulary 
 and black veil of the daughters of La Misericorde ; Anastasia 
 also had changed her novice's attire, and both were modestly 
 clad in an undress of a sombre hue. This costume was as a 
 sort of transition state between the usual attire of the world 
 and the strict and peculiar garb of the convent. 
 
 On hearing the carriage wheels rolling beneath the heavy 
 arched entrance of the convent yard, the neighbours appeared 
 on the thresholds of their shops, as they had done some months 
 previously when they beheld the travelling carriage of M. 
 Maragnon stop before this holy habitation. The young clerk, 
 who knew by heart the verses of La Harpe, recognised by the 
 light of the lanterns the rather pale complexion of Eleonora, 
 and exclaimed with a tragic gesture, parodying the impreca- 
 tion of Melanie and apostrophizing in thought the round fat 
 features of honest Jacques Maragnon : — 
 
 " Dieu! — e'est lo dernier cri de sa fiUe expirante 
 Qui seul retentira dans son ame tremblante !'* 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 It was the beginning of the month of March ; a mild and gentle 
 breeze murmured between the branches, now just donning their 
 spring attire ; the night had closed in, and the slender crescent 
 of the moon rose behind the ruins of the tower of Belveser. 
 A travelling carriage rolled rapidly forward through the silent 
 country. After having deposited Eleonora on the threshold 
 of Madame Maragnon's sumptuous dwelling, it proceeded to- 
 wards the Chateau de Colobrieres. When it had reached the 
 entrance of the rocky road which led directly up to the old 
 tower, it stopped, and three female figures descended; — 
 these were La Mere Angelique, Mademoiselle de Colobrieres, 
 and La Rousse. They climbed on foot the rude and rocky 
 path, and gained the terrace. The most profound silence 
 reigned around the chateau, and one might have imagined it 
 utterly uninhabited had it not been for a feeble ray of light 
 which struggled through the worm-eaten shutters of the apart- 
 ment where the family ordinarily assembled. 
 
162 THE OLD CONYENTS OF TARIS. 
 
 **My dear child," said La Mere Angelique, stopping short 
 
 and leaning on Anastasia's arm, "joy suffocates me my 
 
 heart fails me! I dare not approach — our dear parents are 
 there." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Colobrieres gazed around her with an in- 
 describable expression of interest, and also hesitated to cross 
 the threshold. 
 
 "Come," said she, "let us approach gently; we shall be 
 able first to see my mother through the window." 
 
 They advanced with the utmost precaution and gazed 
 through the disjointed shutters. The picture which they then 
 beheld struck a sudden chill into their hearts. The interior of 
 the apartment was lighted by a little lamp whose feeble and 
 vacillating flame was almost lost on the black and dingy back- 
 ground of the wainscoting ; the furniture was ranged in the 
 usual order, but in place of fire there was only a handful of 
 cold ashes in the grate, and the table was bare. The baroness 
 was alone in this vast apartment, and was working at her 
 needle with mechanical activity. She was seated in her usual 
 place, in front of her husband's empty arm-chair. While 
 working she moved her lips as if in prayer, and from time 
 to time she would let fall her work into her lap to wipe away 
 the big tears which rolled down her pale cheeks. 
 
 "My father!" murmured Anastasia — "I do not see my 
 father — some misfortune has happened — " 
 
 La E-ousse now knocked vigorously at the door of the cha- 
 teau, calling, loudly for Tonin. The baroness tremblingly 
 hastened forth at this summons, and drew the bolts. 
 
 "Is that you, Madeleine?" cried she, gazing at the lay sister 
 with a stupified air; "have you come from Paris! — and my 
 daughters — my children?" 
 
 " Are here, Madame la Baroness," replied La Rousse — 
 " see!" 
 
 The worthy old lady stretched forth her arms, murmuring. 
 
 * ' My children ! Ah ! providence sends you to console me. 
 
 Her daughters embraced her with tears of joy and led her 
 into the sitting-room. There, seated between her children, 
 a hand of each clasped in hers, she gazed on them in turns 
 with rapture; then, while the tears stood in her eyes, she ex- 
 claimed: — 
 
 ' • ]\Iy dear Euphemia, it is now nearly twenty years since I 
 parted with you, never slS I then imagined to behold you 
 again! God is indeed very gracious to me: he has accom- 
 plished for me a desire that I had not even dared to form 
 
 My dear Anastasia, my beloved child I you are also restored 
 
GASTOK DE COLOBRIERES, 153 
 
 to Die. Blessed be this day I" She clasped her hands together 
 and added, raising her eyes to heaven : — ** Oh, that your father 
 were with us !" 
 
 '*My father!" said Anastasia timidly; "alas! is he not 
 here then ?" 
 
 " He left home yesterday with Tonin," replied the baroness. 
 ** I am to rejoin him soon." 
 
 "And where has he gone then, mother?' inquired Anas- 
 tasia. 
 
 "He has emigrated to the other side of the Var," replied 
 Madame de Colobrieres with a sigh. "It was an idea that he 
 had long since entertained. Many things have occurred in the 
 country which have annoyed him greatly: the lower orders 
 insult the nobility ; the peasants pillage and burn the chateaux. 
 Amid all these disturbances we have not suffered the slightest 
 damage, but your father could no longer support the sight of 
 these calamities ; he had besides an idea that sooner or later 
 we should be victims of the revolution, so last night, accom- 
 panied by Tonin, he crossed the frontier. I am in momentary 
 expectation of intelligence from him. Doubtless he will send 
 for me to rejoin him in Italy; you will accompany me, my 
 dear children ; happily it is not far." 
 
 La Rousse on her arrival had proceeded straight to the 
 kitchen, rummaged the safe, and now without saying a word 
 began to prepare supper. When she entered the room to lay 
 the cloth the baroness exclaimed: — 
 
 " Is there anything to put on the table? Since yesterday I 
 have not thought of eating." 
 
 During supper La Rousse, who had for a moment left the 
 room, hastily returned with a terrified air — 
 
 "Heavens!" she exclaimed, "something extraordinary is 
 going on down below in the village." 
 
 The baroness and her daughters ran out upon the terrace : 
 in the distance was heard the sound of the alarm-bell ringing, 
 and the vivid reflection of an extensive conflagration was visible 
 on the horizon. 
 
 " They have set fire to some chateau again!" cried Madame 
 de Colobrieres. "When will these calamities cease! Pray 
 heaven that the baron be in safety on the other side of the 
 river!" 
 
 "The tocsin sounds from the village church of Belveser," 
 said Anastasia uneasily; "who knows if these wicked people 
 have not attempted to burn down my aunt's chateau?" 
 
 "Be tranquil, my child; they would not attempt such a 
 thing," replied the baroness. "Young Maragnon is at the 
 head of what they call the commune ; he has been appointed 
 
154 THE OLD CONVJENTS OF PARTS. 
 
 mayor of the district, and he wages fierce war against the 
 malefactors." 
 
 Anastasia's heart bounded at this name ; the sweetest recol- 
 lections of her past life were again pictured in her thoughts, 
 and something seemed to whisper to her that the happiness 
 she regretted was not lost for ever. This evening the baro- 
 ness kept her children beside her for a long time, and then 
 conducted them to the little chamber they had formerly occu- 
 pied. This apartment, so long abandoned, was now scarcely 
 liabitable ; the heraldic thistle was efFacecl by the damp and 
 mildew of the plaster ; the wind had blown in the window, 
 and the swallows built their nests beneath the wings of the 
 cherubim. La Mere Angelique gazed with a moistened eye 
 upon this desolate spot, and said, as she gazed at the bed : — 
 
 ' ' I can remember, as if it was yesterday, the night my aunt 
 Agatha embraced me and v/ept over me before going to be 
 married to Pierre Maragnon, and left me here in Ker place." 
 
 "Poor woman !" murmured the baroness with a sigh, "I 
 can scarcely hope that it will ever be permitted me to behold 
 her again." 
 
 "■ Who knows, mother ?" cried Anastasia ; *' so many things 
 whicb appeared impossible have already come to pass.'* 
 
 These words were like a prophecy. The following morning 
 a messenger sent by Eleonora brought unheard-of tidings : the 
 old Baron de Colobrieres and his domestic Tonin, -after having 
 passed a single night upon the territory of Nice, had re-crossed 
 the Var and found themselves once more in France. Their 
 motives for retracing their steps werenotvery clearly explained. 
 Scarcely had they again entered the kingdom when they fell 
 into the hands of one of those armed bands which from time to 
 time patrolled the country, and would have run considerable 
 risk had it not been for the timely intervention of young Ma- 
 ragnon, who after having delivered them from their assailants 
 conducted them to Belveser. Eleonora wrote to the baroness 
 in her mother's name, begging her to leave the chateau where 
 she v/as no longer perhaps in safety, and to come over instantly 
 with her daughters to take refuge at Belveser, where her hus- 
 band would join her the same day. 
 
 The interview between the baroness and her sister-in-law 
 was a touching one. Madame Maragnon flew to meet her, 
 embraced her affectionately, gazed upon her for a moment 
 with melancholy interest, and cried — "Oh, my dear sister, I 
 should have recognised you anywhere !" Then perceiving the 
 charming features of Anastasia behind the baroness, she added 
 quickly — " 'Tis you! — you were just such as she is when I 
 left you thirty years ago I" 
 
GASTON DE COLOBRIERES. 155 
 
 Shortly .iftcTTrards the baron arrived, escorted by Domlnick 
 Miiragnoii and a party of honest villagers armed with their 
 fowling-pieces. The worthy gentleman was rather fjitigued 
 with his first campaign, for although he had comported himself 
 valiantly, the troop of malefactors, who under pretence of 
 baffling the designs of the asistocrats paraded in armed bands 
 upon the frontier, had handled him roughly, and the worst 
 disposed were even speaking of shooting him, when Domlnick 
 Maragnon rescued him from their hands. He entered the 
 saloon and at first saluted Madame Maragnon ceremoniously, 
 muttering a few words respecting the misfortunes of the 
 times, but soon tears rushed into his eyes, he alFectionately 
 embraced his sister, and advanced towards Eleonora exclaim- 
 ing — " My dear niece, I am truly glad to see you again! Do 
 you know I think you are much improved. Had it not been 
 for this young man," added he, giving his hand to Dorainick 
 Maragnon, "in place of being alive and well amongst you, I 
 should have been at this present moment dead and buried at 
 the foot of a tree." 
 
 Madame Maragnon installed the family of Colobrieres at 
 Belveser. The baron offered some resistance, but they easily 
 proved to him that his personal safety required him to defer 
 his return to his chateau until the counter-revolution should be 
 accomplished. His other daughters, nuns in the various 
 houses of the order of La Misericorde, rejoined La Mere An- 
 gelique at Belveser, and there formed a sort of little commu- 
 nity of which she was still superior. Uncle Maragnon shortly 
 afterwards arrived^. Foreseeing the course of events, he had 
 prudently restricted his commercial transactions, and had now 
 come to lie by, as it were, quietly until the crisis should be 
 past. The old merchant soon discovered that he had sur- 
 prised but half the secret in the parlour of La Misericorde, 
 and that the inclination of Eleonora for Gaston de Colobrieres 
 was not the sole obstacle to her marriage with Dominick Ma- 
 ragnon. He had too much judgment and too much sagacity 
 to persist in combating this double obstacle, and anticipating 
 his son's intentions, he determined not to expose him to the 
 temptation of disobedience. After having imparted his dis- 
 coveries to Madame Maragnon, he awaited a favourable 
 moment to explain his wishes to the baron, and at the first 
 onset to carry off his consent. Therefore whilst Dominick 
 and Iris two cousins, accompanied by Mademoiselle Irene, took 
 as heretofore their long rambles through the fields and culled 
 bouquets at the Goatherd's Valley, he played at bowls with 
 the baron or read aloud the papers. One day he read to him 
 the decree of the constituent assembly suppressing the here- 
 
156 THE OLD CONVENTS OT PARTS. 
 
 ditaiy nobility and abolishing armorial bearings and every 
 species of distinction between citizens, and profiting by the 
 baron's stupor at this unheard-of intelligence, he spoke to him 
 of the probability of a budding inclination between Mademoi- 
 selle Anastasia de Colobrieres and Dominick Maragnon. 
 
 " In these times in which we live everything is possible," 
 replied the old gentleman coldly; "the Colobrieres are no 
 longer nobles, I am no longer a baron, and our heraldic 
 thistle is no longer fit for anything but to be eaten by asses ! 
 This is what your assembly has decided, is it not? In that 
 case I see no obstacle to my daughter espousing your son ; 
 morhleu! it is the least the revolution can do for us." 
 
 A few days afterwards, Dominick Maragnon demanded 
 and obtained the hand of Mademoiselle de Colobrieres. The 
 baroness experienced so lively a feeling of sa^tisfaction at this 
 event, that she avowed confidentially to her sister-in-law that 
 she was in her own mind reconciled with the government 
 whose influence had produced such miracles. Eleonora also 
 was rejoiced at this marriage; it was a partial realisation of 
 her hopes. No intelligence however had yet been received 
 from Gaston de Colobrieres, nor could any probable conjec- 
 ture be formed relative to the period of his return. 
 
 The revolution still proceeded, events were rapidly accom- 
 plished, and at length the baron read a gazette dated the first 
 day of the first year of the French republic. From this mo- 
 ment he declared that he would renounce for the future occu- 
 pying himself with public affairs, and that he protested before- 
 hand against all the acts of the new government. The lieign 
 of Terror arrived, and proscriptions struck even the men who 
 like Jacques Maragnon were devoted to the revolution. The 
 tranquillity of the inhabitants of Belveser was not however 
 for a single instant disturbed. At a period when fortune, 
 rank, or religious faith led equally to the scaffold, the 
 wealthy merchant, the old nobleman, and the poor Sisters of 
 Mercy, lived together in safety in this forgotten corner of the 
 world. 
 
 The war prevented communication with foreign countries, 
 and notwithstanding the most active researches no news was 
 received of Gaston de Colobrieres. During several years M. 
 Maragnon never ceased writing to all the offices in the East 
 Indies, but the greater portion of his letters never reached 
 their destination, and from the replies he did receive only 
 negative information was obtained. It appeared certain how- 
 ever that Gaston had long since left Chandernagor. Several 
 years had now elapsed since his departure, and all hopes of 
 his safety were given up. The baroness alone preserved some 
 
GASTON DE COLOBUIERES. 157 
 
 hopes of seeing him again; Eleonora had for a length of 
 time expected nis coming, but at last she was convinced of her 
 misfortune. When she no longer experienced those prompt- 
 ings of hope, and that faith in the future which had hitherto 
 sustained her, she fell into a state of profound, constant, yet calm 
 and resigned melancholy. Those who knew her well and 
 could see into the depths of her heart, felt convinced that she 
 would not sink beneath her grief, but that, faithful to the 
 memory of Gaston, she would weep his loss during the rest of 
 her life. She implored her mother not to think of establishing 
 her in life, and announced her intention of spending the re- 
 mainder of her days at Belveser with the two families, now 
 united by double ties. 'No one sought to combat her resolu- 
 tion, with the exception of Mademoiselle Irene, who would 
 sometimes in confidence urge her to think differently on her 
 future prospects, and would say to her, raising her eyes at the 
 same time to heaven : — 
 
 " At your age I was like you, mademoiselle ; the very name 
 of matrimony made me shudder. I refused an infinite number 
 of excellent matches. Well! do you know that at present 
 my repugnance vanishes every day, and I am almost pre- 
 pared to repent my former severity." 
 
 Eleonora however persisted in the sort of vow she had 
 made. She considered herself as the widow, the inconsolable 
 widow of him who had never so much as heard from her lips 
 the confession of her love. 
 
 Six years had now rolled over since Gaston de Colobrieres 
 had embarked at L' Orient, and no intelligence had been obtain- 
 ed either directly or indirectly concerning him, when one mor- 
 ning the baron received a letter dated from London. Gaston 
 merely informed him that after many vicissitudes he had re- 
 turned from India, his health impaired by fatigue and exces- 
 sive sufferings, and that he brought home with him a little 
 money with which he hoped with industry to make the com- 
 mencement of his fortune. The baron read this letter in pre- 
 sence of the assembled family. Whilst the baroness and her 
 daughters wept for joy and returned thanks to Heaven, Eleo- 
 nora went up to her uncle Maragnon, and gazing at him 
 fixedly, said — ''Uncle!" 
 
 He understood her ; he felt that the unhappiness he had in- 
 vpluntarily caused by sending Gaston de Colobrieres to the 
 other end of the world, it was his duty to repair, and taking 
 the hand of his niece, he replied — 
 
 " I will myself be the bearer of the baron's reply ; in twenty 
 davs at the latest Gaston de Colobrieres shall be here." 
 
158 THE OLD COXYEISTS OF PARTS. 
 
 " You know what you have to say to bim, uncle?" added 
 Eleonora. 
 
 " Parhlen /" replied the good-humoured old gentleman ; "I 
 will show him one of the letters of invitation to your cousin 
 Dominick's marriage with Anastasia. It is rather stale newa 
 now, but it will not be the less welcome to him on that ac- 
 count." 
 
 A month afterwards Mademoiselle Maragnon espoused Gas- 
 ton de Colobrieres. 
 
 The two families continued to live together at Belveser. 
 When the worst days of the revolution had passed, the baron 
 spoke of returning to his chateau, which he had not visited 
 since the period of what he called his emigration ; but the 
 seignorial dwelling-house was now only an uninhabitable ruin. 
 The old gentleman appeared greatly astonished at seeing it in 
 this state, but ended however by persuading himself that the 
 revolutionists had demolished it, and consented to dwell among 
 his children in the new chateau of Belveser. He reached an 
 advanced age, exempt from infirmities and having only one 
 care, viz. the fear of seeing his son partake to a certain extent 
 in tlie revolutionary ideas. Two of his elder sons served in 
 the army of the republic, and the baroness herself did not ap- 
 pear to regret the ancient regime. 
 
 Mademoiselle de la Roche-Lambert was the only individual 
 of his opinion, and sometimes they would converse together on 
 the calamities which had stricken them, and on the misfortunes 
 of the revolution. Mademoiselle Irene would insinuate with 
 a sigh that she had lost all she possessed by this dire convul- 
 sion, and in the end really believed it. The old gentleman 
 would shake his head and reply — 
 
 '*You are like myself, mademoiselle; the terrorists pil- 
 laged and demolished my chateau, emigration has completed 
 my ruin — I almost perished in crossing the frontier." 
 
 It is a well-known fact — the Colobrieres family lost all in 
 the Revolution ! 
 
 EJSD OF GASTON DE COJ OBRUSRES. 
 
§IS(D©WB X^^'AmmA'S'M^Ilo 
 
 FELISE, 
 
F E L I S E 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 On the last day of December in the year 1700, about the hour 
 when the busy crowd begins to fill the streets of Paris, a tra- 
 velling can-iage entered the great city by the gate of St. An- 
 thony, and clattered along the muddy and slippery causeway. 
 The well-worn springs creaked shrilly at every revolution of 
 the wheels, while the postillion, cased in his huge boots to the 
 middle, cracked his whip and swore at the foot passengers 
 who did not hasten to gain the narrow space reserved for them 
 along each side of the street in front of the shops. The some- 
 what antiquated -looking carriage was so coated with liquid 
 mud that it was impossible to tell the colour of the body or 
 the armorial bearings painted on the panels : nevertheless, the 
 coronet of a count, formed with silver studs, was visible on 
 the wooden blinds which were drawn across the windows. One 
 of these blinds remaining partially open disclosed to view the 
 travellers. On the back seat of the carriage a lady, wrapped 
 in a dark pelisse and her face hidden in her coif, was slum- 
 bering, her head supported on a velvet cushion. The front 
 seat was occupied by a man well stricken in years, who ap- 
 peared to fill the station of a valet-de-chambre, and a woman, 
 whose position seemed that of lady's maid in a good family. 
 This couple, whose physiognomy was little attractive, uttered 
 not a syllable, and only now and then cast a tired and sleepy 
 look upon the street. Standing between the waiting-maid 
 and the lady, and leaning with her two hands on the door of 
 the carriage, stood a little girl of some five years of age, who 
 gazed with admiration at the parti-coloured houses with their 
 showy signs, the shop-windows, the itinerant venders uttering 
 their cries at every corner, and the busy crowd who, taking 
 advantage of a feeble ray of sunshine, hurried from shop to 
 shop to make their purchases for new year's day. Every in- 
 stant the little girl turned round to entreat the attention of 
 the servant, and point out with cries of delight some magnifi- 
 cent bauble suspended from the toy-shop windows ; but the 
 attendant did not seem in the least amused by her childish 
 prattle, and paid not the slightest attention. The child, 
 still clinging to the carriage-door, manifested such transports 
 of curiosity and joy, that the lady, wakening with a start. 
 
1 62 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PAHIS. 
 
 caught her by the frock and thrust her rather roughly on the 
 knees of the servant, who, thus roused from her taciturnity, 
 exclaimed — 
 
 ** Good Heaven! what is it? What is the matter?" 
 
 *' Nothing," replied the lady with strange unconcern, as 
 she sank back into her corner; " I feared the child would fall 
 into the street." 
 
 She had scarcely uttered these words when the little thing, 
 who with childish perversity had succeeded in regaining her 
 former position, leaned far out of the carriage, quite trans- 
 ported at the sight of a fresh display of toys. While thus 
 situated a sudden jolt caused her to lose her balance, and she 
 fell head foremost ou the pavement. A waggon heavily laden 
 was coming up behind, and for some instants the little girl 
 disappeared between the wheels and the horses' feet. The 
 bystanders were petrified Tvith terror, and there was but one 
 exclamation of agony among the crowd as they gazed at the 
 enormous wheels revolving heavily on the causeway. When 
 the waggon had passed, the little girl was observed sitting up, 
 supported by one of her hands, and adj usting her little black 
 talfeta hood with the other. The carriage, which was in rapid 
 motion, could not be stopped for some distance. The lady 
 then got down followed by her people, tottered through the 
 crowdT which opened before her, pointing to a shop whither 
 they had already carried the child. As she entered the wo- 
 man of the shop hastened to meet her, her hands clasped in 
 an attitude of thanksgiving, and exclaiming — 
 
 *' Madam, return thanks to God — the sweet little dear is 
 not hurt — there is not so much as a scratch on her! It is a 
 miracle!" 
 
 In fact the child was standing in the middle of the shop, 
 chattering busily, and greedily gazing on the sweetmeats and 
 playthings heaped upon the counter- The lady looked at her 
 for a moment without embracing or even touching her, then 
 sank pale and overcome on a seat, while she stammered out; — 
 
 " Oh, my God! I thought she was killed!" 
 
 A cold perspiration burst upon her brow, she passed her 
 hand over her countenance, appearing to struggle for a mo- 
 ment with some overpowering emotion, and then sank quite 
 unconscious into the arms of her attendant. 
 
 The bystanders hastened to her assistance, and the good 
 women who were present bathed her face with essences, while 
 the shopwoman exclaimed with sympathy: — 
 
 "Madam, compose yourself; the child is nob mjured I as- 
 sure you. Only look at her, the sweet darling, and you will 
 see that she has escaped safe imd sound from under the horses* 
 
TBLISE. IQli 
 
 She is not so mucli as frightened, the dear innocent 
 Come hither, my pretty one ; kiss your mamma." 
 
 ** My mistress is not this child's mother," sharply interposed 
 the domestic; " she is not married." 
 
 *' Excuse me, I meant no offence," replied the woman 
 civilly; "but for all that the poor young lady has swooned 
 away in her fright." 
 
 " She is so weak, so ill — it did not require this last stroke," 
 muttered the waiting-maid, while she looked almost angrily at 
 the innocent creature v/ho had been the occasion of this scene. 
 
 Meanwhile the lady regained her consciousness, and opening 
 her eyes murmured faintly: — 
 
 "I am better now, I feel quite well. Order the carriage 
 round, Suzanne. Where is Balin?" 
 
 *' Here, mademoiselle — here I am," replied the old domestic, 
 coming forward. 
 
 "Very well; take charge of the child," continued the 
 stranger, "and lead her by the hand to the carriage." 
 
 She said this in a tone of the most painful solicitude, but 
 without casting one glance at the little creature whose life 
 had been so wonderfully preserved I The women who stood 
 around gazed at her with curiosity and astonishment. She 
 was a young lady of some five or six-and-twenty years of age, 
 of fair complexion, handsome, tall, and of commanding figure. 
 Her features, though somewhat sharp, wore an expression of 
 severe melancholy ; her look was cold and distracted ; and she 
 had the slow gait and enfeebled aspect imparted by long- 
 continued mental suffering. Nevertheless, the sparkle of her 
 dark brown eyes still gave evidence of an acute and vehement 
 temperament. She rose, adjusted her head-dress over her 
 pale features, and leaning on her waiting-maid addressed some 
 words of thanks to the shopkeeper with the dignified polite- 
 ness of a person of lofty station. As she left the shop she 
 signed to the old domestic to lift a penny toy, and drawing 
 out her purse placed a gold piece on the counter. 
 
 The woman accompanied her to the door with low curtsies, 
 and gently holding back the little girl for an instant, she 
 respectfully kissed her hand and said: — 
 
 "What is your name, mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Felise," replied the child. 
 
 "It is a pretty name," said the kind-hearted woman. 
 " Felise — that means happy; one that is born under a fortu- 
 nate star!" 
 
 Hearing these words the traveller and her attendant invo- 
 luntarily turned, and, doubtless struck by the same thought, 
 cast a singular look upon the child. 
 
164 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PAIIIS. 
 
 " Your name Las not belled itself to-day, Mademoiselle Fe- 
 liso," said the shop-woman; **may God ever thus protect 
 yon !" 
 
 The stranger, with an impatient gesture, ordered the old 
 servant to lift the child into the carriage, and take her place 
 beside her. 
 
 " Drive on, postillion," exclaimed the domestic, drawing 
 the blind so as to intercept the gaze of the curious crowd 
 wliich had gathered before the shop. 
 
 The carriage rolled along the Eue St. Antoine for a few 
 moments longer, then, turning the corner of the Place de 
 Birague, it stopped before the Convent of the Annonciades, 
 situated at the end of the Rue Culture-St. Catharine, about a 
 hundred paces from the hotel formerly occupied by Madame 
 de Sevjgne. 
 
 The old servant, acting in the capacity of equerry, respect- 
 fully offered his arm to his mistress, and while she got down, 
 leaning one hand lightly on his sleeve, he said to her with an 
 expression of anxious zeal mingled with uneasiness : — 
 
 *' If mademoiselle will give me her orders, I can set out at 
 once in search of apartments. I confess, however, that being 
 ignorant of the town, I feel a little embarrassed." 
 
 **Any house will suit me, provided I am alone — quite 
 aJone," replied the traveller. 
 
 *'I see several bills," said he, looking about at the different 
 houses whose handsome exteriors faced the Convent of the 
 Annonciades ; '* if mademoiselle thinks fit I shall see about it 
 at once, unless indeed she prefer some other part of Paris." 
 
 *' Good Heavens!" murmured the traveller with a look 
 of indifference, "what does it signify whether I live in this 
 street or at the other end of Paris? It matters little." 
 
 "I must decide at once," replied Balin, looking about him 
 like a man resolved to take chance. " Since mademoiselle 
 does not wish to remain even for a single night at an hotel, I 
 must immediately see about an upholsterer to provide furni- 
 ture. Mademoiselle stands in need of everything, and who 
 knows how she will be accommodated to-night 1" 
 
 " What is it to me?" replied the lady in a despondent and 
 impatient tone. " Go, Balin, and do as you please; you have 
 still an hour before you." 
 
 *' Thank Heaven! But I shall not go far," muttered the 
 poor man, sighing, as he proceeded in the direction of a 
 neighbouring mansion, on the door of which was to be read: 
 "This hotel, situated between court and garden, to^^e let 
 immediately." 
 
 The door of the convent opened at the first sound of the 
 
JFJKLISE. 165 
 
 bell, and closed again noiselessly on the new-comers, who found 
 themselves in a gloomy, damp, and spacious hall. Oaken 
 benches were ranged along the wall, and at the farther extremity 
 could be perceived the broad steps of a winding staircase. No 
 one appeared, and the stranger was obliged to pause a moment 
 and endeavour to find her way in these unknown localities. 
 While she cast a wearied glance around, the little girl ran back 
 hastily towards the door, exclaiming : — 
 
 ** I do not want to go into this house, it is so ugly; let us 
 go away!" 
 
 "Certainly not," replied the attendant, endeavouring to 
 detain her; " come hither, mademoiselle." 
 
 *'I want to return to the street!" exclaimed the child, 
 pushing her back angrily : *' I want out. I will not obey you, 
 you naughty woman!" 
 
 '* Leave her alone, Suzanne, leave her alone; I cannot bear 
 to hear her cry thus," said the stranger, shuddering; and, 
 hastening towards the staircase, she began to mount rapidly. 
 
 "Remain there by yourself, Mademoiselle Felise, and cry 
 as much as you like," said Suzanne sharply; " stay where you 
 are, no one will come to fetch you. You do not deserve to 
 enter the house of God." 
 
 The circular staircase, of which the first few steps only were 
 •visible at the extremity of the vestibule, terminated on a 
 landing-place, from which opened a folding-door exquisitely 
 carved and surmounted with an escutcheon, the arms of which 
 it was almost impossible to decipher owing to the thick 
 coating of yellow paint which obscured the details. Above 
 these half-defaced heraldic devices had been painted in fresco 
 an azure cross between two branches of lilies. 
 
 At the instant when the stranger placed he^' hand upon the 
 handle of the door, which was of brass and chiselled in the 
 form of a rose, the door turned of itself on its hinges, and a 
 lay sister presented herself. After making a kind of stdutatioa, 
 which might pass either for a genuflexion or a curtsy, the 
 said in a half whisper of saintly humility : — 
 
 *' Jesu-Maria be with you, madam; be so good as to enter 
 and be seated." 
 
 The parlour of the Annonciades was a vast hall divided by 
 a double grating covered with a black curtain into two equal 
 portions, of which one communicated with the interior of the 
 building and formed part of what was called the cloisters, 
 while the other was appropriated to the reception of strangers 
 who had received permission to visit the nuns. The taste 
 with which this apartment was decorated showed that it had 
 formely been destined for a very different purpose, and, in 
 
166 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 jippropriatlng It to uses of a conventual life, many traces of 
 worldly grandeur had been permitted to remain. Embossed 
 leathern hangings, the arabesques of which, originally gilt, had 
 assumed a dark brown tint, concealed the nakedness of the 
 walls ; the fireplace, in whose deep recess several people could 
 very conveniently sit, was enriched with exquisite sculpture, 
 and the huge and lofty mantelpiece, which threw its sheltering 
 cover over the hearth like a canopy of stone, was festooned with 
 crowds of little plump and smilmg Cupids, which the pious 
 nuns mistook for Cherubim. The Venetian mirrors which 
 had formerly completed the furniture of this saloon, had been 
 replaced by pictures ; but, instead of the austere saints and 
 frightfid martyrdoms with which the whitewashed halls of 
 most religious houses were adorned, these pictures represented 
 two women, ladies of high rank, in all the splendour of 
 beauty and rich attire. They were portraits of benefactresses 
 of the convent, with which the recluses had adorned their 
 parlour. 
 
 The stranger scarcely cast a glance around her, and without 
 heeding the invitation of the lay sister, who urged her to warm 
 herself at the cheerful fire which was blazing on the hearth, 
 she seated herself close to the grating, concealing mechanically 
 at the same time in her large sleeve her hands reddened with 
 the co^d, and said, with a fiiltering voice: — 
 
 " The superior has doubtless been already informed of my 
 coming. I have come with a recommendation from Mon- 
 seigneur the Bishop of Alais, to visit one of your novices." 
 
 ** May Heaven preserve his highness !" replied the lay sister ; 
 " our reverend mother was apprised of your arrival, and I 
 have received her orders. The parlour is opened only twice 
 :t year to near relations ; but at the instance of his highness, 
 and by specnal favour, Sister Genevieve is permitted to appear 
 to-day. There she is." 
 
 With these words she bent her knees a second time, stooped 
 her head as if about to prostrate herself, and then disappeared 
 by the little door that communicated with the interior of the 
 convent. Immediately the black curtain was slowly drawn 
 aside, and a veiled female figure appeared behind the grating. 
 She wore the dress which had caused the nuns of the Annon- 
 ciades to receive the name of celestial, A scapulary of cerulean 
 blue covered the front of her woollen robe, and descended to 
 her shoes of blue leather ; a sort of cape resembling the 
 scapulary hung from her shoulders ; and her white veil, which 
 fell below her knees, concealed her countenance beneath its 
 thick heavy folds. It was impossible to distinguish either 
 hQ.r figure or her features; nevertheless there w^as in that 
 
TELisr.. 167 
 
 veiled form something youthful which could not be mistaken. 
 The graceful outline of the cape, the contour of the shoulders, 
 the whole attitude, indicated a young girl of sixteen or seven- 
 teen years of age, tall, slender, and of the most noble bearing. 
 Some paces behind appeared another nun similarly attired, 
 except that her veil was black. She was one of those discreet 
 personages who accompany novices to the parlour, and who, 
 m monastic language, are termed listening sisters. She forth- 
 with placed herself at some distance, and drawing from her 
 pocket her formulary and spectacles, began to read. 
 
 The stranger had risen on the novice's entrance. 
 
 "Is it you, mademoiselle? — is it indeed you?" she said in 
 an altered voice. "I should not have known you under this 
 veil." 
 
 The novice nodded and held out her hand — a thin white 
 hand — which could not however pass through the closely-railed 
 bars. The stranger raised her eyes to heaven with an expres- 
 sion of compassion, while a tear bedewed her dry and hag- 
 gard eyelids. The novice standing at the other side of the 
 grating wept behind her veil, and for some moments smothered 
 sighs and sobs alone interrupted the silence of the apartment. 
 Restraining her grief at length, the young nun seated herself 
 beside the grating so as to approach as closely as possible tb 
 her visiter, and said in an agitated voice: — 
 
 *'Ah! mademoiselle, how good it was of you to undertake 
 so long a journey in order to bring hither our poor child!— 
 May God reward you for this good work!" 
 
 ** Do not attribute the merit of it to me," replied the tra- 
 veller in a bitter tone; " Suzanne and my old servant Balin 
 thrust me into the carriage almost against my will. They had 
 determined I should pass the winter in Paris, thinking that 
 the change of abode might perhaps partially restore my health ! 
 as if anything could be of use to me !" 
 
 "Religion — time, will console you," said the novice with a 
 sigh: " religion especially, believe me." 
 
 "Ah! so then you are consoled, are you?" interrupted the 
 stranger. 
 
 "No; I am resigned," replied the young nun with melan- 
 choly serenity. 
 
 Then after a short silence she added : — 
 
 " But I do not see Felise — where Is she? Our mother has 
 given me permission to receive her. Is it not your intention 
 to leave her with me to-day ?" 
 
 "Yes — yes — this very instant," replied the stranger quickly ; 
 "see! she is here." 
 
 The little girl, tired of callingf Suzanne in vain, had deter^ 
 
168 THE OLD CO:^ VENTS OF PAlUb. 
 
 mined to ascend the stairs alone ; she had just pushed open 
 the door which remained half ajar, and was peeping timidly 
 into the parlour. Suzanne seized her by the hand and led 
 ner forward to the grating in spite of her resistance. 
 
 *'Auntl" she • exclaimed, catching hold of the stranger's 
 dress, and casting a terrified glance on the black grating, '' are 
 they going. to shut us up in this prison? I won't stay here! 
 Come I quick — quick ! there is no one below, and we can open 
 the door and escape." 
 
 Then observing the two nuns through the grating, she looked 
 at them with astonishment, and said in a lower voice: — 
 
 **Ah! there are ladies! Look, aunt! they are dressed in 
 blue, with a veil like the holy Virgin. Is this their house?" 
 
 "Yes, my dear child," said the novice with emotion, **this 
 is our house ; it has a beautiful chapel and a pretty garden ; — 
 would you like to come. and live with me?" 
 
 "No," replied the child; ♦ "I do not know you." 
 
 Then after gazing • at her attentively for a moment, she 
 added with childish resignation : — 
 
 "No, I would rather stay with Aunt Philippine and that 
 ill-natured Suzanne." 
 
 "But if you knew me you would gladly come, would you 
 not?" replied the novice, raising the corner of her veil. 
 
 "Aunt Genevieve!" exclaimed the child with a gesture of 
 joy and astonishment. 
 
 "You know me, Felise — you are glad to see me again!" 
 said the young nun in a tone of melancholy satisfaction, and 
 inclining her face close to that of the little girl, who was 
 clinging against the grating and endeavouring to kiss her 
 through the bars. 
 
 The stranger cast a glance on these two faces, thus bent 
 forwards, and immediately turned away shuddering. One 
 would have said that on seeing them a feeling of horror and 
 aversion had arisen in her soul. Such an Impression would 
 have certainly seemed strange in the extreme to any onft 
 who could have seen these charming heads bent towards each 
 other, as they gazjd on one another through the grating. 
 The features of the novice were so faultlessly regular as 
 to impart a peculiar expression of loftiness and distinction 
 to her whole appearance. She seemed hardly to have reached 
 the age of womanhood, so soft was the outline of her features, 
 so slight her youthful form. The perfect oval of her counte- 
 nance was defined by a linen band which covered her forehead 
 till within a finger's breadth of the eyebrows, and hardly per- 
 mitted the delicate contour of her cheek to be visible, while at 
 the same time its deathlike whiteness enhanced the delicate 
 
colour and Incomparablo beauty of her complexion. The child 
 had brown hair curling in natural ringlets over her head, lips 
 rosy as cherries, and cheeks plump and firm as those of the 
 marble Cupids which adorned the chimney-piece. Her features 
 faintly recalled those of the novice ; but what completed the 
 resemblance, and served to mark in both alike a peculiar sign 
 of race, was the colour of their eyes, which were of so pale a 
 blue that the iris was hardly to be distinguished from the pearl- 
 coloured cornea when shaded by the long black eyelashes. 
 This peculiarity gave to the novice a singular charm — an in- 
 describable expression of languor, tenderness, and melancholy. 
 In the eyes of little Felise, on the contrary, there was some- 
 thing dull ; the soul had not yet shone forth from them ; and 
 even when a joyous smile played about her mouth, her look 
 soon fell, veiled beneath her delicate eyelids. The stranger 
 in the mean time seemed to have recovered from the painful 
 impression which the sight of these two beautiful creatures had 
 occasioned her, and turned towards the grating with the air of 
 a person who is about to bid farewell. The novice then di'opped 
 her veil, and said with a sigh : — 
 
 *' Grant me yet a few moments, mademoiselle; this is my 
 last adieu to the world, and you are the last person whom I 
 shall ever address through this grating." 
 
 ** What I are the duties of your profession so rigorous ?" ex- 
 claimed the stranger; *'do the rules impose such sacrifices 
 upon you?" 
 
 **No, mademoiselle," replied the novice; "they merely 
 authorise them. Besides the three ordinary vows, we are per- 
 mitted, to make a fourth — viz. to renounce the sight and con- 
 verse of the people of the world ; to have no communication, 
 even indirectly, with those not devoted to a religious life ; in 
 short, to live in absolute and perpetual seclusion. Some of 
 the holy women who have set an example to this house have 
 contracted this fourth vow, and I have resolved to imitate their 
 example." 
 
 " Will you never repent this excess of zeal?" exclaimed the 
 stranger, whose countenance seemed to soften; *'will you 
 never regret having added another to the already onerous 
 obligations of your calling ?" 
 
 The novice shook her head, and replied in a melancholy 
 tone : — 
 
 "Alas! who will ever come to ask for me at the grating? 
 During a whole year that I have been here I appear at it for 
 the first time. It seems to me, moreover, that I should be 
 happier and more tranquil were I not to hear even an echo 
 from that world which I had hardly entered when I w-os 
 
170 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PAHIS. 
 
 forced to quit it, and which perhaps even yet recurs too often 
 to my thoughts.*' 
 
 At these words her voice faltered ; she could not proceed, 
 and leaned her head on her hands as if to gain calmness and 
 self-possession. 
 
 *' So that," continued the stranger, **if I were to return 
 here in a year I should ask for you in vain?" 
 
 *' Were you to return," replied she with an air of unspeak- 
 able sorrow and lesignation, "I should only be permitted to 
 inform you that I was not dead, and that I commended myself 
 to your prayers." 
 
 The stranger looked upwards with a gesture of despair, and 
 remained for a moment as if overwhelmed by a host of ago- 
 nising reflections ; then the tears which had started to her 
 eyelids disappeared, and her features resumed their attitude 
 of stern repose. She turned silently towards Suzanne, and 
 beckoned to her to place on the ground, beside the grating, a 
 casket which she carried in her arms. The waiting-maid 
 obeyed, and drawing from her pocket a silver key she placed 
 it in the lock of the casket, which was in all respects a strong 
 box in miniature, garnished with metal bands and gilt 
 studs. 
 
 " These are the countess's jewels," said the stranger, point- 
 ing to the casket. " I do not know what is inside, for I have 
 never looked at them, but everything I believe has been 
 scrupulously preserved. These jewels belong to this child. 
 I felt it my duty to place them in your hands." 
 
 *' Alas ! wherefore?" interrupted the novice ; ** the destiny of 
 Felise is already fixed. Brought up in this house, she will 
 here take the veil. Of what use therefore can these orna- 
 ments be to her?" 
 
 *' She will give them to your church on the day she takes 
 the vows," replied the traveller ; "• until then they may remain 
 as a deposit in your superior's keeping. At that period the 
 law will hand over to Felise her fortune, and she can in like 
 manner dispose of it as she wishes." 
 
 " She will follow my example," said the novice, with a tear- 
 ful smile; " at seventeen she will take the vows, and give her 
 lowry to the poor." 
 
 Whilst these explanations were going on, Felise had seized 
 on the casket as if it were a plaything, and endeavoured to 
 lift it by the handle of chased gold, while she turned the key 
 backward and forward in the lock. All at once she raised her 
 head with an exclamation of joy — the bolt had shot, the box 
 lay open. Before Suzanne could interpose, the little girl had 
 plunged in her hand and drawn out a handful of jewels, which 
 
FELISE. 171 
 
 she scattered before the grating. Among them was a necklace 
 of pearls, each as large as a nut, rings, diamond ear-rings, and, 
 in the midst of these magnificent jewels, a medallion portrait 
 surrounded by precious stones. The child looked for a mo- 
 ment at the picture, which represented a young lady exqui- 
 sitely fair, and with a gay and smiling expression ; then the 
 sight of the sweet countenance recalling to her memory faint 
 and almost forgotten impressions, she turned to the novice and 
 said — 
 
 "And mamma? Aunt Genevieve, where is she? Here 
 perhaps ?" 
 
 At this unexpected question the novice shook her head 
 with a faint moan, and the stranger exclaimed, concealing her 
 face with a gesture of despair — 
 
 ' ' This is the first time that she has spoken of my poor 
 sister — that she has seemed to recollect her." 
 
 ''Mamma!" continued the little girl, looking around her ; 
 " Where is mamma? Is she with you, Aunt Genevieve?" 
 
 " No; she is in heaven," murmured the novice, hiding her 
 tears. 
 
 " Then she is with papa,*' replied the child; ** papa too is 
 gone to heaven ; he is dead." 
 
 These artless and touching words produced a terrible effect 
 on those who heard them. The young novice sobbed aloud, 
 and the stranger, pale and trembling, and hiding her face in 
 her handkerchief, wept convulsively. Terrified at this scene, 
 Suzanne said to her, in a low voice — 
 
 "In heaven's name, mademoiselle, compose yourself I Re- 
 quest them to open the door of the cloister that I may take 
 this child out of your sight — she will kill you!" 
 
 "Yes, I will see her or hear her no more!" exclaimed the 
 stranger, whose thoughts seemed to be wandering. "Take 
 her away — let me not see her again!" 
 
 " Come, Felise, come," said Sister Genevieve, weeping. 
 "Poor little innocent! the world thrusts you from it, your 
 relatives hate you — take refuge here with me." 
 
 The listening sister, who had ceased for a moment to read 
 her breviary, and was observing this. scene, now broke in: — 
 
 " Jesu-Maria!" said she, tranquilly, "it is a great sin to 
 give way to such emotions; this good lady appears almost 
 distracted. What can have driven her to such extremity? 
 Let us retire, my dear sister ; I shall give orders to open the 
 door of the cloister to receive our new mmate." 
 
 " She is so little that I think she might pass by the turning- 
 door; do you give permission, my dear mother?" 
 
 "Certainly; I shall raise the bolt myself," replied she» 
 
172 TUJB OLD CONVENTS OF PAIIIS. 
 
 at the same time directing her steps to a little apartment 
 contiguous to the parlour, and which was called the chamber 
 of the turning-door. 
 
 The turning-door or wheel, of a convent was a sort of 
 press in the form of a cylinder, enclosed between a double 
 wall, and turning on its axis in such a manner that articles 
 deposited on the outside were received by those within without 
 any one being seen. It was by this channel that the various 
 little necessaries and presents which lay persons forwarded to 
 the recluses were admitted. The listening sister gave a slight 
 push to this machine, which revolved on its axis with a creak- 
 ing noise. Suzanne hastened to gather up the jewels and 
 thrust them back at random into the casket, then taking 
 Felise by the arms, she seated her in the turning- wheel, placed 
 the casket on her knees, and, by a second impulse communi- 
 cated to the machine, conveyed her into the interior of the 
 convent. 
 
 Sister Genevieve then approached the grating, and making 
 a signal of adieu to the stranger, said in a gentle and heart- 
 broken voice — "We shall never see each other again in this 
 world; may God comfort you, and in his overflowing mercy 
 take pity on us both!" 
 
 The black curtain closed, the novice and child disappeared, 
 and the echo of their retreating footsteps was soon lost in the 
 distance. 
 
 The stranger remained for a moment with her eyes fixed 
 upon the grating, as if absorbed in silent despair ; then without 
 uttering a word she allowed herself to be led away by 
 Suzanne. 
 
 The old servant had already returned and was waiting at 
 the carriage door. 
 
 **WellI" said Suzanne, "where are we to go now?" 
 
 "Merely a few paces off," replied he, pointing to a large 
 gateway in a dead wall which served as the inclosure of a 
 court-yard. " I have hired this house, and mademoiselle has 
 only to cross the street to be at home." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The clock was chiming the hour for dinner, and the commu- 
 nity was just entering the refectory, when Sister Genevieve 
 appeared, holding Fehse by the hand. On seeing the pretty 
 little girl who came forward all astonishment, holding the 
 corner of her apron trimmed with lace and curtsying with 
 
PELISE. 173 
 
 iifjintine politeness, the good sisters uttered exclamations of 
 joy. The arrival of a new boarder was an event of the 
 greatest importance to the whole household, and occupied 
 their entire thoughts for a week. Whatever was her age, she 
 was a new member of the spiritual family of the Annuncia- 
 tion; for with few exceptions the young girls brought up 
 there took the veil, their education being wholly directed to 
 that end. It was a very suitable establishment for young 
 ladies of family who had but a small dowry, and consequently 
 the foresight of parents provided such with this asylum, 
 which they entered without once coming in contact with the 
 world, and in which their life flowed on gently, equably, and 
 forgotten. 
 
 The superior took Felise on her knee, and said, whilst she 
 kissed her forehead: — 
 
 " This is another lamb added to our flock; she is a present 
 from the Archbishop of Alais, to whom we also owe Sister 
 Genevieve, and truly we cannot be sufiiciently grateful to his 
 Highness." 
 
 *' Oh, my dear mother 1" stammered Sister Genevieve, *'it 
 is I who should be grateful for the protection of the holy 
 prelate." 
 
 "My dear sisters, to your places, and let us repeat the 
 Benedicite,*' resumed the superior, cheerfully; "and out of 
 consideration for this new daughter, the cellarist will add to 
 the desert a plate of that famous almond confection which we 
 enjoyed last Christmas, and I further extend the period for 
 recreation half an hour.'* 
 
 *' Thanks, thanks! dear mother," exclaimed all the nuns to- 
 gether as they took their places on their benches, which were 
 comfortably fitted with backs, and were ranged on each side 
 of the table. 
 
 *'WiU my dear mother please to say what seat her new 
 daughter is to occupy?" said Sister Genevieve. 
 
 ' ' I wish her to make acquaintance at once with your fa- 
 vourites, my child ; let her take her seat between the Cha- 
 meroys." 
 
 Those meagre repasts, served on yellow earthenware and 
 washed down with pure water, which constituted the daily fare 
 of the Carmelites and capuchins, were unknown at the convent 
 of the Annonclades. The rule of St. Augustine, and the 
 revenues of the house, permitted a better fare. Contrary to 
 the usual custom of religious houses, all the community ate at 
 the same table ; the reverend mothers close to the superior, 
 next to them those who had lately taken the vows, then the 
 novices, and lastly the boarders. The dishes were simple, 
 
1 74 THE OLD CONVENTS OV PARIS. 
 
 plentiful, and well prepared, and the lay sisters waited at 
 table with an order, quietness, and intelligence, which left no- 
 thing to be wished for: valets in livery could not have done 
 better. 
 
 In the refectory, as in every other part of the building, there 
 remained vestiges of a period anterior to the establishment of 
 the nunnery. Traces of painting were visible here and there 
 under the composition which had been plastered over the 
 walls ; and it was easy to detect beneath the transparent layer, 
 a chase in full cry, the stag, hard pressed, about to take the 
 water, the dogs in pursuit, the piqueurs blowing their horns, 
 and the bold horsemen careering over the wide and extensive 
 plain. Above the doors hung trophies of Bacchus and Ceres, 
 which the good sisters would have been puzzled to explain, 
 and over the chimney could be perceived an obliterated escut- 
 cheon, whose blazoning was covered over with the azure cross 
 of the Annonciades, but the legend of which could still be de- 
 ciphered : — " Dieu ayde au premier bar on chrestien." Silence 
 during the repast was not compulsory, and a subdued but in- 
 cessant murmur might be heard amidst the noise of the glasses 
 and plates. 
 
 " This dear little creature does not eat," observed one of the 
 reverend mothers, looking at Felise. " She looks quite terri- 
 fied. Talk to her, Mademoiselle de Chameroy. Angela, take 
 her hand." 
 
 Angela de Chameroy was a child about the age of Felise, 
 delicate, charming, and lovely as an angel. She gently ad- 
 vanced her rosy mouth to kiss her new companion, and said to 
 her with infantine cordiality — 
 
 " Will you be friends with me? I love you with all my 
 heart!" 
 
 In place of returning her kiss, Felise looked at her with an 
 astonished air, and said, while she turned away her head — 
 
 " I do not know you." 
 
 This expression made every one laugh. 
 
 " See the little savage!" exclaimed one of the nuns ; ** cer- 
 tainly she has been brought up in the woods among the 
 wolves." 
 
 *'OhI no, no, madam!" interrupted the indignant child; 
 " I lived at Toulouse in a beautiful house with mamma, who 
 was a great lady, and then my Aunt Philippine took me.** 
 
 *' I thought she had lost her mother at; her birth," said the 
 superior, looking at Sister Genevieve. 
 
 **The poor lady did indeed die when very young," stam- 
 mered she; "but yet Felise may perhaps have retained some 
 faint recollection of her." 
 
FULI&E. 175 
 
 ** And what was your mamma called, my little lamb?" 
 asked one of the reverend mothers, by way of saying some- 
 thing in her turn. 
 
 At this question the novice turned pale and looked at Fe- 
 lise with anguish. The child hesitated, pondered a moment, 
 and then replied, somewhat ashamed — 
 
 " I do not remember." 
 
 Sister Genevieve breathed more freely, and having regained 
 her composure, said to the superior — 
 
 *' My dear mother will excuse her forwardness of manner; 
 Felise is a spoiled child." 
 
 ** Yes, yes, we shall bring her up better," replied the indul- 
 gent superior; '*we can tame the most obstinate character. 
 Heaven has favoured us with particular gifts in this respect." 
 
 They rose to say grace. It was the hour of recreation, and, 
 leaving the refectory, the nuns descended to the garden. A 
 large parterre, divided into beds by edgings of box-wood, ex- 
 tended along the facade, and was bounded by deep thickets 
 intersected with paths which formed a sort of labyrinth. 
 Lofty trees, now stripped of their leaves, overtopped the walls 
 and shut out the perspective. During the summer season, when 
 masses of foliage concealed the surrounding houses, and when 
 nothing but the blue sky, bathed in light or chequered with 
 fleecy clouds, was visible above the green and leafy summits, 
 one might have imagined himself in a remote and sequestered 
 valley, in place of in the heart of the modern Babylon. 
 
 The pale December sun had slightly tempered the atmos- 
 phere and melted the hoar-frost on the branches. The wind, 
 now somewhat milder, had dried up the sandy alleys, and rude 
 winter still permitted the gentle south wind to breathe for a 
 moment. The nuns scattered themselves in groups over the 
 parterre. Sister Genevieve sat down on the flight of steps 
 which led to the garden, in the midst of the boarders, who 
 sported around her like a flock of chattering birds. Whilst 
 the little Angela endeavoured to make her acquaintance with 
 Felise, her elder sister seated herself beside the novice, and 
 said in a low tone — 
 
 *' Ah, dear sister, what a resolute air she has! Our dear 
 mother may say what she pleases, it will not be easy to inspire 
 her with the vocation." 
 
 "The vocation!" replied Sister Genevieve; "has not every 
 one the vocation who has never seen the world, and who, like 
 you, my little Cecilia and my dear Felise, has entered here at 
 the age of six?" 
 
 The boarder shook her head, and did not answer. 
 
 Cecilia de Chameroy was a young girl of twelve years of 
 
17^ THIS OLD CONTENTS OF PAIWS. 
 
 aue, fair, fresh, and pretty. She wore, like the other boarders, 
 a blue woollen dress which displayed to advantaire her slender 
 and graceful figure ; her hair, slightly curled, and of a bright 
 auburn, formed a heavy mass which fell on her neck, and wag 
 imperfectly confined by a black gauze cap fastened under the 
 chm ; her eyes, of a variable shade of blue, her nose slightly 
 turned up, and her full and well-formed lips, formed altogether 
 one of the most wilful and charming faces in the world. It 
 was impossible to imagine such a countenance under the veil. 
 The little Angela's features, on the contrary, were sweet and 
 gentle, and wore a thoughtful expression rarely seen in child- 
 hood. The two sisters were orphans, destined for the cloister. 
 The elder vaguely remembered the parental mansion, but as 
 for the younger, she had been brought to the Annonclades 
 immediately on leaving the nurse's arms, and had no idea of 
 any world beyond the walls of the convent. 
 
 Felise remained standing close by Sister Genevieve, and 
 obstinately refused to join in the amusements of the boarders, 
 who were playing blind-man's-buff on the terrace, and who 
 beckoned to her engagingly as they passed. Whenever any 
 one of them took her by the hand, or laughingly caught hold 
 of the corner of her apron, she turned, all ashamed and angry, 
 to Sister Genevieve, and hid her face with a pouting air. 
 
 "Come," said Cecilia, *'I must try to tame this little 
 savage ; with your leave. Sister Genevieve, I shall take her to 
 Bethlehem to see the holy infant Jesus." 
 
 ''Yes, let us go — let us go at once!" exclaimed little Felise 
 briskly, fastening on her cape, and herself taking hold of little 
 Angela's hand. 
 
 Sister Genevieve slipped her arm inside Cecilia's, and mur- 
 mured, sighing: "The poor child imagines we are going to 
 take her far from this." 
 
 They crossed the parterre and took one of the paths which 
 traversed the thickets. This part of the garden had a wild 
 and pleasing appearance. Long wreatlis of ivy twined round 
 the trunks of ancient elms, whose roots were hidden among thick 
 clumps of brambles and honeysuckle. In the lovely month 
 of June the nightingale might be heard during the whole 
 night singing .'imid the leafy branches, and the periwinkle 
 f'rnrlHlied amid these quiet shades as in its native forest. 
 'i tjc path which intersected this wood branched into many 
 windings, so that one could have a long walk without returning 
 by the same way. 
 
 Felise ran on before, curious and Impatient. The decayed 
 2;rass Lnd leafless trees seemed to awaken no recollections in 
 Ber breast ; she remembered only the verdure and the flowers 
 
^FELISE. 177 
 
 of the preceding summer. Once, however, she suddenly 
 stopped and said, looking up at the huge trees whose branc^hes 
 met overhead : — 
 
 **Aunt Genevieve, there are walks like these about our 
 chateau, and then there is the park beyond. We used to play 
 in the park ; don't you remember ?" 
 
 *'Look, look!" interrupted Sister Genevieve, instead of 
 replying ; * * there is Bethlehem. " 
 
 *' That little house!" exclaimed the child. 
 
 " Come in quickly, and you shall see," said Cecilia, pulling 
 . her forward. 
 
 It was a rustic pavillion, in which tlie nuns every year at 
 Christmas made a representation of the nativity. It would 
 have been difficult certainly to imagine a more simple and 
 orio;inal picture. Green branches, mingled with moss and 
 shells, formed the landscape, the sky being represented by 
 leaves of blue paper sprinkled with silver stars. A crystal 
 flask hidden in the moss did duty as a lake, in which swam 
 golden fish. The stable in which our Lord was born had a 
 straw roof, and was supported by gilt pillars ; and to render 
 the appearance of the place more elegant, the good sisters had 
 placed a mirror at the bottom of the manger. It must have 
 required all the skill and patience of nuns to clothe the per- 
 sonages who came in their best attire to worship the Newly- 
 born. There were people of all ranks, from the milkmaid in 
 her village head-dress and the water-carrier from Auvergne, to 
 the lady in her court attire and the financier in his flowing 
 wig. In the midst of this multitude appeared a man, dressed 
 in a long black robe and wearing bands and a broad-leafed 
 hat, in the act of bestowing his blessing on a nun of the 
 Annonciades who carried paschal eggs to the infant Jesus. 
 
 Felise, standing on a footstool before the manger, expressed 
 her astonishment and admiration by incessant exclamations. 
 This sight had quickly reconciled her to remaining in the 
 convent: she could imagine nothing more beautiful in the 
 world than such an assemblage of dolls in magnificent dresses, 
 and everything she had beheld in passing through the Rue 
 St. Antoine appeared very mean in comparison. When she 
 had recovered a little from her ecstasy, she began to inquire 
 the names of all those pasteboard figures, which seemed to her 
 real personages. Cecilia explained everything with extreme 
 good nature. When she came to the person clothed in black, 
 she gravely observed: — 
 
 "This one is alive in flesh and blood; he is the reverend 
 Father Boinet, confessor to the community. Last year we 
 had in his place the reverend Father Pacaud, our almoner, a 
 
178 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 very holy person also; it is delightful to have his portrait 
 there in the same niche as the blessed infant Jesus! It is the 
 very image of Father Boinet !" 
 
 "He is very ngly," said Felise, naively. 
 
 During this dialogue, Sister Genevieve, standing at the door 
 of the pavillion, followed with her eyes the little Angela, who, 
 instead of looking at the manger which she had already visited 
 twenty times, amused herself by running along the walk and 
 scattering with her foot the dried leaves collected at each side. 
 In turning up this bed of leaves which protected the soil from 
 the frost, Angela uncovered a little verdant tuft, and imme- 
 diately a sweet delicious perfume scented the air. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed she joyfully, "a violet!" She gathered 
 it carefully, and brought it in triumph to Sister Gfelievieve. 
 The novice placed the flower in her girdle and remained 
 motionless, her head supported on her hand and her eyes 
 closed, as if the perfume had overcome her. In truth the 
 aroma which floated on the air had, as it were, overwhelmed 
 her soul ; her recollections were suddenly transported to other 
 scenes, her thoughts flew with the speed of lightning to her 
 native flelds, under the broad lime-trees, at the foot of which 
 the wild hyacinths formed a blue carpet on which she had so 
 often sat. When Cecilia left the pavillion, with great difficulty 
 bringing with her Felise, who would gladly have remained till 
 evening looking at the manger, she found the novice still 
 absorbed in her reverie. 
 
 " Sister — my dear sister !" exclaimed she with astonishment, 
 "you are weeping — you are In pain?" 
 
 "No," replied Sister Genevieve, pressing her hand on her 
 heart — "no, my child; on the contrary it was a very sweet 
 feeling which I experienced; it was a sort of joy which I can- 
 not define and which made me shed tears." 
 
 " Oh! my dear sister, you were thinking of scenes far dis- 
 tant from this!" said the young girl, pressing her hand with 
 intelligent sympathy. 
 
 The chiming of a bell, echoing throughout the monastery, 
 announced that the period for recreation had ttcpired; it was 
 now the hour for commencing needlework. On entering the 
 workroom the superior said to her nuns: — 
 
 "My very dear sisters, we must clothe this lamb which the 
 Lord has sent us to-day : we shall work for her till the hour of 
 prayer." 
 
 She quickly distributed the work, and two hours afterwards 
 the wardrobe of tha new-comer was almost completed. She 
 v/as then brought forward, and in place of ''•-■^^ '^-Ik frock and 
 muslin apron trimmed with broad Argon ^.ey clothed 
 
FELISE. 179 
 
 lier in the attire of the boarders her companions. This change 
 of costume did not appear to please her highly ; she allowed 
 herself to be dressed without saying a word, gazing somewhat 
 angrily all the time at the good superior, who herself handed 
 the different articles one aft3r the other, not forgetting to say 
 each time; — 
 
 "Look, my dear sisters, how it becomes her I Jesu-Maria, 
 how beautiful she is in this dress \ I am sure it will have the 
 effect of making her as docile and well-conducted as all our 
 other daughters." 
 
 When Felise's toilet was completed, the sisters kissed her 
 one after another, expressing a hope that in a few years she 
 might have the happiness of changing her attire afresh. The 
 same day after service the superior sent a message to Sister 
 Genevieve to accompany Feiise to the little parlour. This 
 was a favour rarely granted to the novices. The little par- 
 lour was an apartment furnished with a table, a few chairs, 
 and a library, the shelves of which contained about a hundred 
 volumes. There was no grating, and the door opened into 
 the chamber of the turning-wheel. It was in this room that 
 the superior of the Annonciades received the visits of those 
 few persons who had the privilege of admission into the 
 cloister. 
 
 The reverend Father Boinet, confessor to the community, 
 was already in the little parlour with the superior when Sister 
 Genevieve presented herself with Feiise. He rose, and bowing 
 with the politeness of a man of the world, said, as he took the 
 child on his knees: — 
 
 "Good day, mademoiselle; you are welcome. It is long 
 since Monseigneur d'Alais promised to send us a little An- 
 nonciade, and we were very impatient to see you." 
 
 Feiise, not much flattered at this gracious reception, glanced 
 stealthily at Father Boinet from under her eyelashes and re- 
 mained mute. 
 
 "Excuse her, father," said the novice; " she is still as wild 
 as a young bird just taken from the nest ; she is terrified, and 
 trembles under the hand which receives and fosters her." 
 
 "I am certain, however, that the little bird has no wish to 
 fly away," said the director gaily. "What would she do else- 
 where? It is cold and dreary outside, the frost is intense, and 
 in a short time it will be night." 
 
 The little girl raised her eyes mechanically towards the 
 window. The daylight was in fact almost gone, a frosty mist 
 obscured the panes, and gloomy night was advancing with its 
 mantle of darkness. Feiise shivered and pressed closer to the 
 
180 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 novice, as she turned her foce towards the fire where the clear 
 blaze sparkled. 
 
 ** The little bird is already tame," said Father Bolnet smiling. 
 *' It feels happier in its close warm cage than in the open fields, 
 and as I am well satisfied with it I shall give it a little seed to 
 peck." 
 
 With these words he drew from his pocket a roll of paper, 
 and pouring the contents into Felise^s apron he added: — 
 
 "Go and munch these comfits by the fire, my pretty little 
 girl." 
 
 *'I foresee, father, that she will be your favourite," said 
 the superior, patting Felise's cheeks with the end of her finger ; 
 **and if she prove very well-behaved, and very obedient, she 
 shall be mine also. See how happy she will be with us !" 
 
 "No matter — I will go away whenever it is daylight," mar- 
 mured the child, turning her large limpid eyes towards Father 
 Boinet. 
 
 " Ah! father," exclaimed Sister Genevieve in a tone cf an- 
 guish, " I greatly fear she will never have the vocation." 
 
 "In that case we shall not detain her, my child," replied 
 the superior quickly ; "it would be better for her to work out 
 her salvation in the world than lose her soul in the cloister." 
 
 Father Boinet shook his head and merely replied: — 
 
 "God will dispose." 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 In spite of the care, the marks of affection, and the little flat- 
 teries generally lavished in convents on new boarders, the 
 sisters were not successful in thoroughly taming Felise. Hers 
 was a disposition at once obstinate and fanciful, which it was 
 impossible to govern either by mildness or severity; she 
 feared no person, and loved none but Sister Genevieve. In 
 process of time, however, she submitted to the easy duties im- 
 posed on her. Instead of rebelling every moment against the 
 mistress of the boarders, expressing in no measured terms her 
 little determinations, and frequently throwing the class and 
 the whole dormitory into confusion by her petulance, she 
 learned to walk quietly, and to employ the polite and Chris- 
 tian phraseology in use in the establishment. This was nearly 
 all that could be obtained from her during the first few months 
 she passed at the convent. 
 
 During this time Sister Genevieve pronounced her vows, 
 
FELISE. 181 
 
 This irrevocable engagement was not accompanied, like the 
 taking of the veil, with solemn and dreary ceremonies. With- 
 out pompous preparations, almost without any peculiar form, 
 the novice promised to keep faithfully her religious vows, and 
 received the black veil from the hands of the superior ; after 
 which she signed the authentic act of her profession. 
 
 Sister Genevieve endured this last trial with unusual forti- 
 tude and without appearing to give one regret, one rebellious 
 thought, to that world from which she was separated for ever. 
 This was a source of great joy and edification to the com- 
 munity, and especially to the superior, who had at first enter- 
 tained doubts of the young girl's vocation, since from her 
 entrance into the house she had rather manifested a taste for 
 retirement and a secluded life, than a spirit'of fervent piety; 
 but when they beheld her accomplish her sacrifice with a 
 countenance so tranquil and firm, they decided that she was 
 truly called. 
 
 On the day of her profession, immediately after the cere- 
 mony, Sister Genevieve was permitted to retire to her cell to 
 collect her thoughts and repose for a short period. Leaving 
 the choir she reached the dormitory alone. Her step was 
 firm and rapid, and she walked like one under the influence of 
 some inward agitation, subdued and governed by the will. 
 The moment she entered her cell she threw herself upon her 
 knees, raised her hands to heaven, her face bathed in tears, 
 and exclaimed aloud: — 
 
 '* Lord! do not repulse one who has taken refuge with thee 
 in her distress! Take me, O my God, for I am now thine 
 alone I" 
 
 She endeavoured to proceed, but her mental energy was ex- 
 hausted ; she felt her thoughts wander and become confused. 
 Pale, her forehead covered with a cold perspiration, she re- 
 mained almost prostrate upon her knees, both her mind and 
 body plunged in a sort of swoon. Cecilia de Chameroy sur- 
 prised her in this situation. The young boarder, prompted by 
 a sort of instinctive solicitude, had followed Sister Genevieve's 
 steps, and when she saw her thus prostrate, her features be- 
 dewed with tears, and her eyes closed, she knelt down beside 
 her and said with a mixture of grief and terror: — 
 
 * ' Sister, dearest sister ! you deplore the day on which you 
 made your profession I Oh, Heavenly Father ! then you had 
 no real vocation !" 
 
 The nun recovered by degrees from her stupor, and passing 
 her hands over her still moistened eyes, she said with in- 
 eifable sweetness and resignation : — 
 
 "Wherefore have I wept? Oh! God. what have I left 
 
182 THE OLD COKVE^TS OF PARIS. 
 
 behind in the world that can occasion me a tear? am I not 
 too happy to obtain a rcfui?^e here? Ah! let me rather bless 
 tlie Lord who has opened his house to receive me, and who 
 has given me a place amongst this Christian family." 
 
 *' You are an orphan then, my sister," said Cecilia de Cha- 
 meroy, sighing. 
 
 The nun made a gesture in the affirmative. 
 
 ** And finding yourself without protection in the world you 
 decided on taking the veil?" continued the young girl eagerly: 
 ** you came here of your own accord? Ah I dear sister, had 
 I been old enough to know my own inclinations when I lost 
 my parents, I^should never have entered the Convent of the 
 Annonciades." 
 
 "But you are still free to leave it, my child," replied the 
 nun. 
 
 ** Where could I now go?" asked Mademoiselle de Chame- 
 roy. 
 
 *'Alas! my dear child, such reflections are sinful. Let us 
 submit to the lot which Providence has appointed, and endea- 
 vour to love the duties which are imposed upon us. Besides, 
 what more do we require here for the solace either of body or 
 mind? — is there on earth a more agreeable or tranquil abode?" 
 
 At these words she rose, made the circuit of her cell, and open- 
 ing the window looked out upon the garden ; then resuming — 
 
 " See," she exclaimed, passing her hand over the counter- 
 pane, "we are not lodged as the capuchins, who sleep upon a 
 plank, with a death's-head beside their pillow. This little 
 chamber is neat and clean ; there is a lovely view of the gar- 
 den ; and the air is so pure, and so impregnated with the 
 sweet odour of the foliage, that one might fancy one's self in 
 the country. 
 
 "It is true, sister," replied the young boarder; "here 
 everything has a pleasant aspect: in winter the apartments 
 are well heated and impervious to the cold, in summer we have 
 long recreations, and can breathe the fresh and healthful air 
 in the garden; nevertheless, in the midst of all this luxury 
 and comfort I never cease to think with regret of another 
 abode." 
 
 " The house in which your parents lived?" 
 
 "It was a dilapidated old mansion," replied Cecilia inge- 
 nuously ; *' it looked out upon an obscure little street, where 
 you could not see clearly even at mid-day. My father took 
 possession of it on his arrival in Paris, whither he had pro- 
 ceeded to present a petition. He was a gentleman of high 
 family — a brave and loyal officer beggared in the service of his 
 king. My mother accompanied him. He reckoned upon re™ 
 
FELISE. 183 
 
 turning to his country-seat witli a pension. At the end of 
 four years he had obtained nothing — and meanwhile, what 
 misery ! what destitution ! My poor father ! I think I still 
 see hiin writing out his memorials before the window in a 
 large room without a fire, and afterwards reading them aloud 
 to my mother, who remained with me in bed almost all the 
 day for want of a billet of wood to put on the hearth. We 
 went out only on Sundays to mass; but then, what joy! — I 
 dreamed of it all the week. We had to pass through a square 
 called the Place Koyale ; sometimes the sun was shining, and 
 then it was an unspeaJkable pleasure for me to course along 
 the alleys in the open air. My mother would often kindly 
 seat herself on a bench and allow me to play for half-an-hour, 
 after which we would return home and immure ourselves for 
 the rest of the week. I could not now find our dwelling again ; 
 I have even forgotten the name of the street ; but I have still 
 before my eyes the house — the damp, dark staircase, the neat 
 and homely apartment where it was always cold, the dilapi- 
 dated furniture, the large uncurtained bed, and the sideboard, 
 ornamented with some pieces of plate which disappeared one 
 afler another. It was in that house that Angela was born, 
 and on the same day my poor mother died!" 
 
 Cecilia's voice faltered as she uttered these words, and her 
 soft and laughing eyes were filled with tears. 
 
 ** And then, my child," said Sister Genevieve much afiected, 
 *' what happened ?" 
 
 "Alas! after this misfortune, there came another," replied 
 the young girl; " my father took ill, and in a few days it was 
 evident that he had not much longer to live. During his last 
 days Providence came to his assistance. A distant relative, 
 having learned his forloin situation, hastened to Versailles and 
 interceded in his behalf. Having some credit at court, he 
 obtained all that he required ; but the munificence of the king 
 came too late. Before he expired, my father commended us 
 to the care of this relative, and implored him to take charge of 
 us ; he then addressed some observations to me which I hardly 
 understood, and to which I only answered by my tears. As 
 soon as he had rendered his soul to God, our relative the Baron 
 de Favras brought me here. Our dear mother, moved by our 
 misfortune, consented to receive Angela also who was still an 
 infant in the cradle." 
 
 ** And this relative, this guardian, has he ever shown you 
 any attention?" asked Sister Genevieve; **does he sometimes 
 come to see you?" 
 
 ** Never," replied Cecilia — "never, although he lives very 
 near this, for I. recollect he had only to cross the street to 
 
184 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 bring us here. He hardly knows us, and certainly cannot 
 love us. Angela and I have no other father and protector but 
 God." 
 
 "Poor children!" murmured Sister Genevieve, convinced Oi 
 the necessity of their vocation. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was an Italian devotee, a noble lady of Genoa called 
 Victoria Fornari, who had founded the order of the celestial 
 Annunciation, and a Jesuit, Father Taunoni, had written out 
 the constitution at her dictation. The object of the institution 
 was to offer a retreat to young women, who, feeling no vocation 
 for the world, wished to live for ever concealed and unknown, 
 thus imitating the example of Mary, whom the angel found 
 alone in her chamber. Their life was to be inaccessible from 
 without, gentle and pleasant within. The house at Paris 
 practised these observances in their primitive strictness. 
 Directed by the Jesuit fathers of the Rue St. Antoine, it had 
 preserved intact the traditions of the order, and there was 
 not perhaps in all France a nunnery where the discipline was 
 so strict, and where the duties were so light and easy. All 
 causes of disturbance, all agitation of mind and any approach 
 to relaxation of discipline were eagerly avoided. The maj ority 
 of the nuns, inmates from infancy, never overstepped even in 
 thought the narrow horizon which barred their gaze: for 
 them the iiouse was the entire universe. They were simple, 
 ignorant, and happy souls, who floated down the stream of 
 human life without meeting an obstacle on their course, and 
 as it were in the midst pf an eternal twilight. Some, more 
 energetic than the rest, had felt their faculties developed in 
 the course of their religious teachings, and they naturally 
 turned them towards God ; all their intelligence and sensibility 
 were absorbed in their mystic existence. They sought out the 
 ways of salvation with ardour, and found in their religious 
 duties sufficient nourishment for their activity. 
 
 La Mere Madeleine, the superior of the Convent of the 
 Annunciation, was a nun who had grown old in the practice 
 of the most difficult duties of monastic life. Clever, prudent, 
 of sincere piety, and strictly upright in character, but at the 
 same time cheerful, easy, and gay, she governed her flock with 
 absolute sway, tempered however with gentleness and indul- 
 gence. Elected to her dignified position at the age of twenty- 
 five, she once more united every suffrage at the expiration of 
 
FELISE. 185 
 
 her term of oiiice, and, what was perhaps unparalleled in the 
 history of reliijious establishments, she continued thus to exer- 
 cise her functions without intermission for twenty years. i 
 
 It was always from among the Jesuits of the Rue St. An- 
 toine that the confessor and almoner of the blue nuns was 
 chosen. Father Boinet, their present spiritual director, united 
 to sincere piety the utmost correctness of conduct, and the tact 
 and cleverness which distinguishes the members of the Society 
 of Jesus. His superiors saw, with their usual tact and pene- 
 tration, that he was one of those men who are even better 
 defended by their appearance and manners than by their 
 principles, and they did not hesitate to confide to his care 
 some thirty women, who were not all reverend sisters with 
 sallow faces and snufF-slained noses. Although deficient 
 neither in ability, knowledge, nor acuteness, his discourses 
 never surpassed mediocrity ; no person, however, knew better 
 than he did the art of placing himself on a level with simple 
 minds, and entering into their modes of thinking. His portly 
 good-humoured aspect inspired even the most timid with con- 
 fidence, and he was besides so homely and uninteresting in 
 his appearance that there was no danger of even the most 
 enthusiastic looking upon him with any dangerous degree of 
 admiration. In place of forcing his docile flock into the rude 
 paths of penance and discipline, he guided them along easy 
 ways which equally led to heaven. 
 
 From her entrance into the convent. Sister Genevieve had 
 been the object of Father Boinet's peculiar solicitude. Con- 
 fided in, and appealed to as the judge of her vocation, he had 
 encouraged it by motives which were for ever buried in the 
 secrets of the confessional, and which the young novice had 
 imparted to none but himself. When the superior expressed 
 some scruples as to the admission of this beautiful young 
 creature, whom a sudden resolution had seemed to hurry into 
 the cloister, he had always simply replied: — 
 
 *' Do not be uneasy, reverend mother ; her soul is free from 
 taint ; she has abandoned the world in her baptismal robes, 
 and has brought hither not a single regret, nor a single recol- 
 lection which can sully her purity." 
 
 As soon as Sister Genevieve had taken the black veil, it de- 
 volved on her to assist the mistress of the boarders in her 
 duties. The task was not a difficult one. The Annonciades 
 did not pique themselves on deep study. Many of the nuns 
 had never opened any book but their formulary ; but, on the 
 other hand, no house could equal them in embroidery or in 
 the fabrication of altar bouquets with tinsel and gilt paper. 
 Sister Genevieve t<aught the young boarders to read, and 
 
186 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PAUIS. 
 
 worked with the elder ones at the church ornaments — master- 
 pieces of skill and care, which were often a whole year in pro- 
 gress of construction, and in the preparation of which the 
 whole community took a part. 
 
 The young nun had thus an opportunity of devoting her at- 
 tention to the education of Felise. At first she endeavoured 
 to subdue her proud and intractable temper, but she succeeded 
 only imperfectly in the attempt. The little girl, naturally 
 obstinate and wilful, resisted all her exhortations, all her com- 
 mands, but yielded at once to her entreaties, for she loved her 
 with as much tenderness as the volatile and selfish heart of 
 childhood is capable of. On her side Sister Genevieve felt an 
 uneasy, and, as it were, painful affection for Felise. Her gaze 
 often rested on the pretty little creature with an expression of 
 sorrow and bitter regret, and she would murmur as she passed 
 her fingers through the little Angela's curling locks, who ge- 
 nerally remained quietly on her knees, while Felise bounded 
 about with the untamed vivacity of a mountain kid : — 
 
 '* Heavenly Parent! when wilt thou grant her the grace to 
 resemble this little angel?" 
 
 Cecilia de Chameroy also became the favourite and almost 
 the friend of Sister Genevieve, and soon this young person 
 discovered what the penetrating eye of the superior had never 
 perceived, what no person ever suspected, that the soul of the 
 young nun was overwhelmed with gloom, and with some mys- 
 sterious and incurable grief. Cherished and yet sad recollec- 
 tions, deep regrets, secretly occupied her mind ; and although 
 she never spoke of her family, nor of the period which preceded 
 her religious profession, Cecilia guessed that her thoughts 
 dwelt without ceasing on all that she had left behind. Often 
 when evening came. Sister Genevieve would stand for hours at 
 the window of her cell, absorbed in her sad reflexions, and 
 would shed tears as she gazed at the starry firmament. Then 
 if her young friend came also to lean over the narrow balcony, 
 she would say to her with a sigh — 
 
 "Oh! ray Cecilia, how lovely is the night! Turn your 
 eyes towards the garden ; you can see nothing now but the 
 foliage of the trees and the vault of heaven. I can fancy that 
 I am in the country, and that I breathe the pleasant odour of 
 the woods, and the fresh sweet air as it passes over the mea- 
 dows. Oh ! if you knew how lovely it is in summer evenings 
 beneath the alleys of long lime-trees by the water-side !" 
 
 Sometimes she would abandon herself to the recollections of 
 her childhood, and, seated in her cell with Angela on her 
 knees, would sing in a low voice the Christmas hymns of 
 Languedoc, to which the little girl would listen with a curious 
 
FELISB. 187 
 
 and lively air, but without understanding yrhat they meant. 
 Felise also v/ould listen at such times and repeat these airs, the 
 same doubtless with which the nurse had hushed her in the 
 cradle. At other times, during the period of recreation, Sister 
 Genevieve would leave the garden and proceed to a gallery 
 situated in a part of the mansion which the nuns did not in- 
 habit. It was a long hall, paved with marble like a church, 
 and was still ornamented with a few pictures, whose dislocated 
 frames, formerly gilt, were now enveloped in spiders* webs. 
 The dust of a century had so effaced the figures and blackened 
 the colours that nothing was to be seen but a few dim outlines 
 on a dark ground. The furniture had altogether disappeared, 
 except a few tattered chairs which were heaped up in disorder 
 in the corners. This apartment, which was still termed the 
 hall ofprirweSy had at one time witnessed splendid fetes. The 
 light foot of the dancers had often glided over its humid pave- 
 ment, while the gay ritornellas might have been heard even in 
 the shadiest recesses of the garden. But these magnificent 
 entertainments had left no trace behind ; of all this noise and 
 splendour there remained no other record than the dark outline 
 which the smoke of the torches had left on certain portions of 
 the ceiling. 
 
 One day it occurred to Cecilia to join Sister Genevieve 
 during her solitary recreation. She found her seated at the 
 entrance of the gallery, her head supported on her hand, and 
 her gaze lost in the extremity of the apartment, which was 
 dimly lighted by a ray of sunshine that streamed through the 
 broken shutters and fell obliquely on the tapestried wall. 
 
 " Ha! my dear sister," exclaimed the young girl, laughing, 
 " what are you doing here amongst all these old portraits, 
 which seem to stare at you so sternly from their lofty position?" 
 
 " Come hither, foolish one, and become acquainted with 
 them," said the nun, making room for Cecilia beside her on 
 the worm-eaten bench where she was seated. Then, resuming 
 her pensive attitude, she added — 
 
 ** I was picturing to myself the time when balls were given 
 here." 
 
 "A ball!" repeated Cecilia, with profound astonishment; 
 *' have you any idea then, my dear sister, what a ball is like?" 
 
 *' Assuredly, for I have been at one," replied Sister Gene- 
 vieve with a sigh. 
 
 *' You have danced?" exclaimed Cecilia, in a low voice, and 
 claspmg her hands in amazement. 
 
 Then, after a moment's reflexion, she added still lower — 
 
 " It is very delightful, is it not?" 
 
 " Oh, yes!" replied the young nun, ingenuously. 
 
188 TIIE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 And as Cecilia continued to fix on her an inquiring gaze, 
 she added — 
 
 " I was once at a ball, just once — the happy day on which 
 I was sixteen." 
 
 She leaned her head on her hand, and appeared to indulge 
 with melancholy pleasure in the childish recollection, then, 
 suddenly rising, she took Cecilia's arm and led her towards 
 the pictures. 
 
 " I take a pleasure in looking at all these personages," said 
 she ; *' I know them every one." 
 
 *' Holy Virgin! 'Where could you have seen them?" ex- 
 claimed the young boarder, with an astonishment tinged with 
 some little incredulity. 
 
 ** In books," replied the nun with a smile. "We are here 
 in illustrious company. Look at the names written at the 
 foot of the canvass, and where those are wanting, at these 
 emblazoned escutcheons." 
 
 "You know heraldry, then?" 
 
 "Yes, like all girls of noble birth who have passed th^ir 
 childhood in old chateaux. This house, which is now a nun- 
 nery, once belonged to the Montmorencies, for their escutcheon 
 is everywhere, and these portraits are those of the great Con- 
 stable's family." 
 
 Cecilia examined in succession the long series of faces ranged 
 on their respective panels, and endeavoured to distinguish 
 their features beneath the dust of ages that veiled them ; then, 
 recurring to the idea which had first struck her, she pointed to 
 a female figure whose black eyes and white hands alone were 
 visible on the canvass. 
 
 " Do you believe then, my dear sister," said she, "that this 
 beautiful lady ever gave a ball here?" 
 
 "Certainly," replied Sister Genevieve; "she has, most 
 probably, danced in this very spot the minuets and country 
 dances which were in fashion a century ago." 
 
 "Ah!" cried Cecilia, laughing, "if our reverend mothers 
 knew that, they would hasten to sprinkle the place with holy 
 water!" 
 
 At this moment the tolling of the bell announced the close 
 of the period for recreation. 
 
 "Jesu-Marial What! already?" exclaimed Cecilia; "Mo- 
 ther Perpetua must have advanced the clock, I am certain. 
 Come! we must take our leave of this fair company." 
 
 With these words the merry rattle made a low curtsy to 
 the pictures, and skipped off, followed by Sister Genevieve. 
 
 Time meanwhile rolled on amid these monotonous duties 
 and recreations, and four dull, uniform, uninteresting years 
 
FEI^ISE. 189 
 
 gradually glided away. Sister Genevieve felt every hour drag 
 its slow length along, and to her this period of her existence 
 seemed but.one long, dreary, never-ending day. 
 
 Angela and Felise were still children, but Cecilia was on 
 the verge of sixteen. The growing girl had become a lovely 
 young woman, fresh and brilliant as a rose-bud in the spring. 
 Her smooth clear complexion was exquisitely fair and bloom- 
 ing, and her golden locks were the finest in the world. On a 
 sudden movement of her head her magnificent tresses would at 
 times become unfastened, and fall down even to her feet. Then 
 the mistress of the boarders would replace them in her black 
 gauze cap, and gently chide the giddy-pate, who only replied, 
 laughing — 
 
 '* Pardon me, dear mother! I shall soon no longer give you 
 this trouble. When the day arrives for my taking the white 
 veil, the great scissors of Mother Perpetua will free me of all 
 that!" 
 
 The period was in fact now approaching when the young 
 boarder was to assume the attire of a novice, and she seemed 
 to await it without either terror or disquietude. Her temper 
 was e^^er cheerful, her bright and laughing eyes betrayed 
 neither secret tears nor sleepless nights, and her charming 
 countenance preserved its unalterable serenity. Certainly 
 she did not manifest, on the other hand, the impatient fervour 
 of a soul that longs to embrace its mystic ties. The worthy 
 superior averred that she had a passive vocation, and in her 
 opinion this was the best. She determined therefore to defer 
 no longer the ceremony which was to close the gates of the 
 fold for ever on this spotless lamb. 
 
 The custom for the postulant was, before taking the veil, 
 to prepare herself for this step by some days of solitude and 
 self-examination. There was set apart for this purpose an 
 isolated apartment, the furniture of which was entirely in 
 keeping with monastic poverty. A pallet without curtains 
 was placed between a straw chair and a praying-desk ; while 
 a narrow window, opening on an inner court, shed a dreary 
 light on the naked and whitened walls. This melancholy 
 abode was called the solitude, and pious nuns sometimes re- 
 quested permission to occupy it for a few days for purposes of 
 mortification and prayer. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Chameroy still continued to all appearance 
 gay, careless, and tranquil as ever ; nevertheless the evening 
 previous to her entering on her solitary abode, finding herself 
 alone with Sister Genevieve, she said to her abruptly in an 
 altered tone of voice : — 
 
 *' Ah, my dear sister! I do not know what is passing within 
 
190 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PATHS. 
 
 me ; I foci ovcrwiiolmed with sorrow and even with despair 
 when I think that in eight days I shall take the veil. Oh ! how I 
 loniT to be a little bird, that I might escape over these walls 
 and fly away !" 
 
 *' Oh! my child, what Is that you say!" exclaimed the ter- 
 rified Sister Genevieve; "what! would you leave the coti- 
 vent?" 
 
 *'To live, were it even but a few days, away from this, I 
 think I would gladly give the rest of my existence." 
 
 "But, gracious heaven! what would become of you — In a 
 world where you know no person, and of which you are com- 
 pletely ignorant?" 
 
 " What matters it?" replied Cecilia impetuously, " it looks 
 so beautiful from this!" 
 
 Then she added, bursting into tears : — 
 
 "But I shall never leave the convent! Never — never — 
 either living or dead!" 
 
 At this moment the nuns entered the dormitory, and 
 Sister Genevieve had only time to press Cecilia's hand and 
 whisper: — 
 
 "My child, to-morrow Father Bolnet will doubtless come to 
 direct your spiritual exercises ; 3^ou must then reveal to him 
 openly the state of your soul. Fear nothing ; he is a good man, 
 full of intelligence and merc^i; he will listen to you with in- 
 dulgence, and will console you!" 
 
 The following day Mademoiselle de Chameroy entered 
 the retreat, and Sister Genevieve saw her no more save in 
 the choir between the superior and tlie mistress of the novices. 
 
 The taking of the veil was an important event in religious 
 houses. The ceremony attracted a great number of persons, 
 and the good sisters took a pious pleasure in the display of 
 their church ornaments. As the day approached, an unwonted 
 agitation pervaded the convent. The reverend mothers never 
 quitted the sacristy ; they took out from the cypress chests the 
 vestments of cloth of gold and the lace surplices, and began 
 once more with pride to make out the inventory of their relics 
 and pieces of plate, whilst the young nun^ manufactured arti- 
 ficial bouquets, and the little boarders cut fresh paper orna- 
 ments for the waxen tapers. They sat up late in order to 
 finish these grand preparations, and there was a collation in 
 the workroom: in short all was activity and joy. 
 
 In the midst of this gaiety. Sister Genevieve reflected 
 sorrowfully on Cecilia's last words; she trembled lest the ex- 
 hortations of Father Bolnet might prove inefTectnal with this 
 rebellious soul, aiid she saw the day of the ceremony arrive, 
 with inexpressible anxiety. The evening previous to the 
 
tIBLISE. 191 
 
 important day, as the choir retired, perceiving that Made- 
 moiselle de Chameroy was proceeding alone to her cell, she 
 waited a moment behind and hastily said as the nuns were 
 moving away: — 
 
 ""W'ell, my child, is your soul freed from the emotions which 
 troubled it; have Father Boinet*s admonitions strengthened you 
 in your vocation?" 
 
 Mademoiselle de Chameroy turned towards the nun her 
 countenance pale with the internal conflicts she had endured, 
 and bursting into tears replied: — 
 
 "jNIy dear sister, I am not changed; I still feel the same 
 terrors, the same anguish — the Lord has withdrawn his favour 
 from me.** / 
 
 *'Have you confessed to Father Boinet?" 
 
 '*Yes, my sister, I declared the repugnance, the culpable 
 wishes I entertained in spite of myself; but he saw without 
 anger the state of my soul. He treated my apprehensions 
 as groundless scruples, and in short he assured me I had a 
 sufBcient vocation." 
 
 "And he has not thought fit to defer your taking the veil?'* 
 
 *'!N'o, my sister; he merely recommended me to place myself 
 in the hands of the Lord, who knows better than we ourselves 
 the paths by which we are to come to him. Then, overcome 
 by mortal grief, I threw myself at the knees of our reverend 
 mother, and declared that I did not feel called to a perfect life, 
 and that in taking the veil I risked my eternal salvation. She 
 listened to me with extreme kindness, without blame or being 
 astonished, and calling me always her dear daughter, her pre- 
 cious lamb. She afterwards assisted me to examine my con- 
 science afresh ; and although I freely avowed the sinful thoughts 
 which arose in my mind the more I consulted my inclinations, 
 she would not believe that the Lord had abandoned me, and 
 persisted in reassuring me of my vocation. Oh! my dear 
 sister, so great is my ingratitude and wickedness, that so much 
 goodness and mercy has not moved me ; I have experienced, 
 on the contrary, feelings of rebellion and hatred. 1 will take 
 the veil, but I shall not be a good nun, and in the depths of 
 my heart I shall detest my vows." 
 
 "Oh I my child, do not utter such words," interrupted Sister 
 Genevieve with terror; "you are in the Lord's house, a few 
 steps from his tabernacle — " 
 
 "It is true — ah I do not punish me. Heavenly Father. I 
 submit — thy will be done!" murmured Mademoiselle de 
 Chameroy, drooping her head on her bosom with a gesture 
 rather of utter })rostration than of resignation. 
 
 The arrival of the superior interrupted this dialogue. On 
 
192 THE OLD CONTENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 observing Sister Genevieve, she frowned slightly and said 
 with mild severity: — 
 
 * Have you not heard the bell, my dear daughter? The 
 community is already in the workroom. Go, and whilst per- 
 forming your task, mentally repeat ten Paters and ten Ave 
 Marias for having failed in holy obedience." 
 
 Then turning towards Mademoiselle de Chameroy, she 
 added: — 
 
 "And do you, my dear child, prepare to appear in the 
 parlour. You have to perform a last duty to the world. You 
 must ask the consent of your guardian the Baron de Favras 
 to your taking the veil, and express your desire that he should 
 be present at the ceremony. I begged him to come to-day 
 for this purpose, and you shall see him immediately at the 
 grating." 
 
 "Yes, my dear mother," replied Mademoiselle de Chameroy, 
 with passive submission. 
 
 Many years had passed since she had seen this old guardian — 
 who, after placing in the hands of the superior the little dowry 
 of the two sisters, had troubled himself no further with their 
 future destiny — and she judged truly that he had almost for- 
 gotten their existence. 
 
 The superior led Mademoiselle de Chameroy back to the 
 solitary cell in which she was performing her probationary 
 retreat, and then returned to the little parlour where Father 
 Boinet entered at the same moment. 
 
 "Well, reverend father," exclaimed the superior, "what is 
 the result of the attempt which you have had the charity to 
 undertake?" 
 
 "Thank Heaven, it has had perfect success ;" replied Father 
 Boinet, with the satisfied air of a man who has just triumphed 
 in a difficult enterprise. "The Baron de Favras will shortly 
 appear here to signify to his ward that he is opposed to her 
 taking the veil." 
 
 "Will he indeed do so, reverend father?" exclaimed Mother 
 Madeleine joyfully ; " are you certain of it?" 
 
 "He is quite determined." 
 
 "And it is your reverence who has succeeded, by the happy 
 gift of persuasion which you possess, in obtaining from the 
 Baron de Favras his promise that he will undertake the charge 
 of these orphans?" 
 
 "God forbid that I should take any credit for his resolution ; 
 my eloquence goes for nothing in the matter. Having in- 
 quired what sort of a man the Baron de Favras was, I relin- 
 quished my first idea, wnicli was to confide to him the 
 embarrassment into which we were thrown by the sudden 
 
FELISE. 193 
 
 aversion of Mademoiselle de Chameroy for the religious pro- 
 fession, the scandal that might ensue if we constrained her to 
 adopt it, and the dangerous example it might offer to the 
 community. The baron is an old officer of the king's forces, 
 and has all the rudeness of manner and overbearing spirit of 
 military people. He is tinctured with Jansenism, and piques 
 himself on his austerity : nevertheless, he never goes to mass 
 except when absolutely necessary ; he hates the members of 
 our order and only listens to a sermon when some father of 
 the Oratoire mounts tlie pulpit. You may imagine, my 
 reverend mother, that I could not act openly with such a 
 person. Heaven then inspired me with the idea of making 
 use of his very aversion in furtherance of our design. I sent 
 to him one on whose ability, good intentions, and discretion, 
 I could rely. This person hinted at our influence in this 
 house, and, in reply to his questions, made him fully aware of 
 the spiritual authority which we exert over, and the particular , 
 affection which we bear to, the order of the Annunciation. 
 The worthy man fired up at this discourse. He expressed his 
 indignation at the general approbation we received, was only 
 astonished that he had not sooner been aware of the hands into 
 which his wards had fallen, and in short gave vent to all the 
 injurious remarks with which passion inspires our enemies. It 
 was at this juncture that your message arrived, and I doubt 
 not that he will very shortly make his appearance in the par- 
 lour. It is not the salvation of these innocent souls which 
 engages his attention, it is the hatred which he bears towards 
 us ; but whichever it may be, our object is not the less attained. 
 This very day he will remove the two sisters, and the scandal 
 of this affair will redound on his own head. Your daughters 
 will never know that there has been a rebellious spirit among 
 them, and we shall have separated in time the tare from the 
 good grain." 
 
 "Yes, reverend father, I rejoice with you," said the supe- 
 rior with a sigh; **yet I confess it is not without regret that I 
 part with these children. It seemed as if the Lord had given 
 them to me for ever, and now all at once I lose them. If I 
 were even assured of their happiness in this world — if I did 
 not tremble for their eternal welfare — " 
 
 *' It is a feeling which you must sacrifice to the safety of 
 your other spiritual daughters," replied Father Bolnet with 
 authority; *' consider, reverend mother, the sudden change In 
 Mademoiselle de Chameroy and the consequences which such 
 an example might have. You saw better than she herself into 
 the very depths of her soul ; it was not any passing feeling of 
 disgust which she experienced, or any sudden apprehensica 
 
194 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 whicli one might appease ; it was the vocation which was wanting:, 
 and which we cannot impart. Let her go therefore — we can 
 now only pray for her." 
 
 *' But her sister — that sweet little creature whom we received 
 in the cradle — to lose her too!" said the good superior, wiping 
 away a tear which escaped, in spite of her efforts, from her 
 eyelids. 
 
 " The baron will not take one without the other, and since 
 we must lose or keep both, the alternative is obvious." 
 
 *'I do not hesitate, my good father," replied the superior 
 with resignation; *'is not our life one of sacrifice and self- 
 denial?" 
 
 At this moment the bell rang to announce that some visiter 
 had presented himself in the parlour ; the superior immediately 
 caused Cecilia to be informed, and, proceeding to meet her, 
 she said with an emotion which she could not entirely control : 
 
 "Proceed to the parlour, my dear child; you know what 
 you have to ask from your guardian ; listen with respect to 
 what he shall say, and come to me again."' 
 
 A quarter of an hour afterwards, Cecilia returned to the 
 little parlour, pale and overcome, but with her hands raised to 
 heaven and her face radiant with joy. 
 
 "My dear mother," said she, "the baron refuses his con- 
 sent; he will not permit me to take the veil!" 
 
 "You must submit, my dear child," replied the superior 
 calmly ; "adore the will of God, and prepare to obey the orders 
 of your guardian." 
 
 "Ob, I am ready to do so!" exclaimed Mademoiselle do 
 Chameroy with transport. 
 
 Then she added, with a mingled expression of sorrow and 
 
 joy— 
 
 "My dear mother, who would have thought it? The baron 
 has also decided on our leaving tlie convent." 
 
 "I shall not oppose it," replied the superior, still preserving 
 her equanimity, although her heart was sensibly afllicted. 
 " When your father died, he handed over all his rights to the 
 Baron de Favras ; he has authority over you, and I am ready 
 to give you into his charge." 
 
 "And I shall leave the convent!" murmured Cecilia, clasp- 
 ing her hands in astonishment not unnuxed with doubt. "Oh, 
 my God, is it possible that I am about to pass the gates of the 
 cloister?" 
 
 " Yes, my daughter," said the superior, looking at her sor- 
 rowfully, "you ai'e about to leave us for ever." 
 
 At these words, which were uttered without the slightest 
 accent of reproach. Mademoiselle de Chameroy was sensible 
 
FELISE. 195 
 
 of her ingratitude and the involuntary error of her heart. She 
 threw herself on her knees before the superior, bathed her 
 venerable hands with tears^ and said in a voice broken with 
 sobs: — 
 
 *' Oh ! my dear mother, pardon me — I have made a bad return 
 for all the kindness you have lavished on me. I am not worthy 
 of the title of daughter which you have so long bestowed on 
 me!" 
 
 The good superior could not restrain her tears ; she clasped 
 in her arms the child that was about to abandon her, and 
 said in a voice in which sorrow, tenderness, and pious fortitude 
 struggled for mastery: — 
 
 *'My daughter — my dear daughter — in the new life on which 
 you are about to enter, remember the example which has been 
 set before you here. You were not called to be a saint ; re- 
 nounce therefore a life of seclusion, but never cease to be a 
 Christian and a woman of honour." 
 
 The same day Mademoiselle de Chameroy and her young 
 sister crossed those terrible gates which opened so rarely to 
 permit the young girls brought up in the Annunciation to 
 enter the world again ; but this great event was not known 
 until the evening. The superior announced it to the nuns 
 when they were assembled in the workroom to conclude the 
 preparations for the approaching ceremony. She explained 
 to them briefly that the Baron de Favras had interposed to 
 prevent Mademoiselle de Chameroy from taking the veil, and 
 commended the sisters to the prayers of the community. 
 
 This unheard-of piece of intelligence threw the good nuns 
 into a state of inexpressible astonishment and indignation. 
 They raised their hands to heaven, and declaimed aloud in the 
 workroom against such tyranny. 
 
 ** Sweet Saviour!" exclaimed Mother Perpetua; " such an 
 outrage at the very moment of taking the veil! This man 
 must.be an atheist, an idolater, a huguenot!" 
 
 " He will not succeed in his damnable projects," said ano- 
 ther nun. '* Be assured, my dear sisters, that these children 
 will resist persecution, and, after having confounded him by 
 their constancy, will oblige him to restore them to us once 
 more." 
 
 " May the Lord grant them his superintending grace," said 
 a third, *'and hasten to open the fold again to these dear 
 lambs!" 
 
 One of the elder sisters, who had followed the superior out 
 of the workroom, returned at this moment. 
 
 " Ah, my dearest sisters," said she, " let as pray for these 
 doves on \7hom the cruel vulture has pounced. I have just 
 
196 ' THE OLD CONVENTS Oi rAiiia. 
 
 been speaking to Sister Ursula. It was she who opened the 
 parloiir-door to this bad man ; she was there when he took 
 them away." 
 
 " Oh, my dear mother, tell us all! What was he like? 
 Wliat did he say?" exclaimed all the nuns. 
 
 "Why, he is an old gentleman, quite crippled with gout 
 and rheumatism ; his valet had to give him his arm to assist 
 him to the parlour. Sister Ursula did not hear what he said 
 at first to Mademoiselle de Chameroy; she merely perceived 
 that he spoke in an angry tone of voice, uttered many threats, 
 and was prepared apparently to drive matters to extremity, 
 for our reverend mother yielded the point at once. They 
 brought the two sisters to him, the convent gates were opened, 
 and the poor children departed, shedding tears. Angela was 
 terrified when she heard the noise in the streets ; she returned 
 qirite confounded, and her sister was at last obliged to carry 
 her away in her arms." 
 
 "Poor children! May the Lord deliver them from the 
 power of that bad man !" exclaimed Mother Perpetua. '* My 
 dear sisters, we must ask the very reverend Father Boinet to 
 make a neuvaine* for this purpose." 
 
 During this colloquy Sister Genevieve sat aloof, weeping 
 and holdmg the hand of little Felise, who whispered from time 
 to time, T/ith a surprised and sorrowful air — 
 
 "Do you hear? The Chameroys are gone? They went 
 withcut telling you, and yet you loved them so dearly I" 
 
 Sister Genevieve returned thanks to Heaven for this event, 
 which changed the fate of her young friend ; but from that time 
 a more deep-rooted sorrow weighed upon her soul — a deatli^like 
 weariness wasted her away. It was a separation which deprived 
 her of a powerful and unceasing source of consolation. Ceci- 
 lia's cheerful temper had often dispelled her sorrow, and she felt 
 in her own mind a sort of reflection of her young friend's cheer- 
 ful disposition and engaging manners. She had felt a solace 
 also in the care which she lavished on her sister. Angela had, 
 without her knowing it, become even dearer to her than Fe- 
 lise, and she was in the habit of looking on her as a child that 
 heaven had given her for ever. At first she cherished a vague 
 hope that she would be restored to her, but Father Boinet, who 
 for some time had allowed her to retain this faint consolation, 
 deprived her of it by degrees, and made her understand that 
 she was for ever separated from the two charming beings 
 whom she had educated with so much love. The world was 
 indeed hermetically closed to the daughters of the Annimcia^ 
 
 * A nine days' devotion. 
 
FELISE. 1 97 
 
 tion ; no noise ever penetrated the massive walls of the cloister ; 
 and though the mansion of the Baron de Favras was situated 
 in the neighbourhood, and one could almost perceive from the 
 gate of the convent what took place in his dwelling, the nuns 
 never heard the Demoiselles de Chameroy spoken of again. 
 
 Sister Genevieve relapsed by degrees into a sort of mental 
 languor, a physical exhaustion, from which however she did 
 not appear to suffer. She was like a young and vigorous 
 plant, which, transplanted by violence into a place without 
 sun or air, withers by degrees and slowly perishes. She 
 vegetated thus for some years without complaining, without ex- 
 pressing any apprehension, and without even being aware that 
 her waning existence was about to close. Almost till the last 
 moment she appeared among the choir and performed her 
 task in. the workroom. Neither did she give up her duties of 
 under-mistress of the boarders ; during the hours of labour 
 she still watched the idle and inattentive little hands of the 
 children, collected in a circle round her ; but during recreation, 
 in place of following them, she remained seated at the entrance 
 of the garden, her head drooping, and her wandering looks 
 sometimes turned towards the sky, sometimes on the trees, 
 whose leaves began to fall. 
 
 One evening she was so weak that she could not reach her 
 cell alone, and sunk fainting into the arms of the nuns who ac- 
 comjianied her. The superior hastened to her immediately, 
 and, judging that her wasting malady had arrived at its cli- 
 max, she summoned Father Boinet. Sister Genevieve spoke 
 no more, her breathing was difficult and unequal, and her 
 half-open eyelids displayed only a portion of those blue orbs 
 whose gentle radiance was already dull. Life was about to 
 abandon this weakened frame, and the soul hovered on the un- 
 certain confines of eternity. Father Boinet spoke to her, but 
 she no longer heard, and before the ceremonies with which 
 the church surrounds the dying were completed, she breathed 
 her last. She expired without suffering, murmuring some 
 unintelligible words, and sighing faintly like a child that falls 
 asleep. 
 
 They had taken away Felise from the first, and she passed 
 the night in a remote cell. She slept without uneasiness, for, 
 with the inexperience and thoughtlessness of her age, she never 
 dreamed of death. As Sister Genevieve was yet so young, it 
 had never entered her mind that she might soon die, and the 
 preceding evening she was not alarmed although seeing her so 
 weak and ill. In the morning when the bell sounded the 
 first AngeluSy she rose, wondering at the silence which 
 reigned throughout the dormitory, and, still without feeling 
 
198 THE OLD CONVENTS OP PARTS. 
 
 any apprehension, she proceeded softly to seek the other 
 boarders. At this moment the superior entered to announce, 
 herself, the sad event. 
 
 **My dear daughter," said she, leading her to her cell, 
 *' kneel down and commend your heart and soul to God, that 
 he may comfort you. Young as you are, you have experienced 
 a great misfortune.'* 
 
 .Fellse obeyed, fixing on the superior her large clear eyes, 
 in which astonishment rather than uneasiness was depicted. 
 While she thus interrogated her with her looks, not daring to 
 address a direct question to her, the passing-bell was heard 
 resounding along the dormitory. Felise uttered a cry and 
 began to tremble ; she had all at once divined the fatal event, 
 and her features expressed at the same moment anxiety, 
 doubt, and utter despair. 
 
 *'Pray, my child," said the superior, overwhelmed with 
 grief; *'pray and submit; God has taken away Sister Gene- 
 vieve — she is in heaven with the angels." 
 
 *' She is dead I No — no^ — I will not believe it!" exclaimed 
 Felise, rushing to the door. 
 
 The good mother could not keep her back, and the nuns 
 whom she met in the passage vainly tried to arrest her 
 progress. Distracted, she ran to the cell of Sister Genevieve, 
 and remained as if thunderstruck on the threshold. The poor 
 lifeless form was stretched on her pallet, clothed in the gar- 
 ments of her order and the crucifix between her hands ; her 
 face was so pale and calm that the beholder might have 
 imagined he saw the marble image of a saint of the order, 
 clothed in the long white tunic, the scapulary, and mantle of 
 celestial blue. 
 
 Felise looked steadfastly, and as if transfixed, at this woful 
 picture ; she then knelt down in a corner of the cell and re- 
 mained motionless, her form drooping and her countenance 
 turned towards the wall. The exhortations of Father Boinet 
 and the attentions of the superior were fruitless ; she neither 
 changed her place nor could be induced to utter a word, and 
 her grief was only evinced at intervals by a low sob or an in- 
 voluntary shudder. She did not shed a tear, but her half-closed 
 eyes were surrounded with a livid circle, as if the tears which 
 found no outlet had crushed her snowy, transparent eyelids. 
 
 Some hours afterwards the community came in solemn 
 procession to seek the remains of Sister Genevieve, and convey 
 them according to custom to the middle of the choir, where 
 they were to rest till the following day. When they had 
 removed the bier, Felise rose of her own accord and followed 
 the mournful train. During the rest of that day and the foL* J 
 
FELISE. 199 
 
 lowing night, whilst the nuns prayed, she kept aloof, her body 
 bent down and resting on her knees, and her head sunk upon 
 her breast. Neither exhortations nor commands were able to 
 rouse her from her stupor, and she remained in the same state 
 during the interment ; but when all was over, when the body 
 was deposited in the vaults of the church, her passive suffering 
 changed into frightful despair. The unhappy child repulsc^i 
 the nuns who hastened to surround her, and left the choir 
 with a rapid step ; but almost immediately her strength failed 
 her, and she paused at the foot of the.grand staircase. 
 
 "My dear daughter," said the superior, with a mixture of 
 mildness and decision, *' you sin grievously at once again?' 
 God and yourself in giving way to these transports. It is 
 not in this way that the grief of a Christian should manifest 
 itself." 
 
 "My dear mother," said Felise, interrupting Her, and speak- 
 ing in an abrupt and hurried manner, " I have a favour to ask 
 of you — one which you will surely not refuse me after the de- 
 plorable misfortune which has happened." 
 
 "Speak, my dear daughter; lam disposed to grant you 
 everything that may be needful for your comfort. What do 
 you ask? — what do you wish for?" 
 
 "I wish to leave this house instantly," replied Felise, casting 
 a distracted look around her ; "I long to be far away from this 
 place!" 
 
 At this unexpected avowal a murmur of astonishment and 
 indignation was heard on all sides. Never had any girl brought 
 up at the Annunciation uttered such words: it was almost 
 blasphemous — a sentence of condemnation pronounced by her 
 own lips on one who wished to abandon the sacred asylum 
 where her youth had found temporal and spiritual nurture. 
 The superior, somewhat moved and at the same time scanda- 
 lised, exclaimed, raising her hands to heaven : — 
 
 " The Evil Spirit is plotting the destruction of this feeble 
 and erring creature ! Pray for her, dear sisters ! — it is a soul 
 which we must lead back to God." 
 
 With these words she motioned to the nuns to retire, and 
 approaching Felise said with her habitual tone of patience and 
 gentleness : — 
 
 " Come, my dear daughter, your body is not less indisposed 
 than your soul ; you can hardly support yourself — lean upon 
 my arm." 
 
 ** Whither do you wish to lead me?" exclaimed Felise, with 
 an expression of fierce despair. " Would you have me return 
 to the cell of my Aunt Genevieve — revisit once more the choir, 
 the workroom, the garden — in short, every place where I have 
 
200 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 been accustomed to meet her? JSTo — no ; since she is no longer 
 there I shall see them no more!" 
 
 "I will bring you to my own cell, my child," replied the 
 superior, filled with commiseration: " I myself will tend you 
 and comfort you ; you will be consoled, dear Felise. God at 
 times tries his creatures and deals out grievous afflictions, but 
 his mercy comforts and soothes the desolate heart. Your grief 
 IS transitory ; it is only souls sunk in iniquity who suffer eter- 
 nally. Soon, very soon, you will discover that heaven has not 
 abandoned you. It is true you have lost one who was very 
 dear to you, but there remains a numerous family to whom 
 you are united by all the ties of love and Christian charity. 
 I am your mother, dear Felise ; the daughters of the Annun- 
 ciation are your sisters." 
 
 After waiting for a moment to observe the effect of these 
 words, she added, with an air of affectionate authority — 
 
 *' Come, my child, follow me." 
 
 The poor forlorn one made a step backwards, and turned 
 away her head. 
 
 " Obey, my daughter," replied the superior, in a severe and 
 sorrowful tone; " if I cannot persuade, I shall be obliged to 
 constrain you." 
 
 Felise remained motionless, and did not reply. The supe- 
 rior then having called two lay sisters, desired them to con- 
 duct her to a cell close to her own, and not to lose sight of her 
 for a moment. 
 
 When Father Boinet learned f-om the superior what had 
 happened, he said, after some reflexion — 
 
 " This is a serious matter, reverend mother. This child 
 cannot leave the convent as the Mademoiselles de Chameroy 
 did. Whatever be her vocation she must become a nun." 
 
 " Oh! my father, what do I hear?" exclaimed the superior. 
 "Have I not often heard ^ you express your abhorrence of 
 forced vocations, and denounce the obstinacy of parents who 
 oblige their children to take the vows?" 
 
 " It is true," he replied quickly ; " but, without further ex- 
 planation, believe me that this child's place is not in the world, 
 and that charity urges you to use every means to keep her 
 here, and induce her to take the veil." 
 
 The cell in which Felise had been placed was separated 
 from the dormitory by the two apartments belonging to the 
 superior. It was neat and well lighted, looked towards 
 the garden, and was warmed and cheered by the rays of the 
 autumnal sun. A lay sister took charge of the young boarder, 
 and remained constantly with her, but without uttering a 
 word. Every morning the superior spent an hour with her, 
 
PELISE. 201 
 
 rery evening slie again returned; but her patience, her 
 exhaustless charity, her skill in winning over souls, were power- 
 less before this extreme and resolute grief. Felise was inac- 
 cessible to every species of consolation. At times gloomy, 
 silent, and dejected, she passed whole hours in the darkest 
 corner of her cell, her head drooping upon her breast, and ab- 
 sorbed in mournful reverie ; at other times she had paroxysms 
 of despair, whose violence exhausted her strength, and which 
 were succeeded by complete mental prostration. 
 
 One day the superior brought one of her companions to see 
 her, and, retiring immediately afterwards, left them together. 
 
 The young boarder then seated herself beside Felise, who as 
 yet had not spoken to her, and embracing her said with tears 
 in her eyes — 
 
 ** Oh! my dear friend, how afflicted we all are! Our re- 
 verend mother has requested that we should offer prayers for 
 you, and every day after mass the whole community chaunt a 
 nine-days' service on your account. You must certainly be 
 comforted by it, and when it is completed you will return to 
 us again." 
 
 Felise was silent, and merely shook her head. 
 
 "We will throw ourselves at the feet of our mother," ex- 
 claimed the young boarder; " we will intercede for you, and 
 when you are forgiven, we shall seek you again ; and, as Mo- 
 ther Perpetua says, we shall bear you back in triumph to the 
 fold." 
 
 These tokens of kindness and affection produced no greater 
 effect on Felise than the admonitions of the superior, the good 
 Mother Madeleine. She withdrew her hand from her young 
 friend, and replied briefly — 
 
 "No; allow me to remain here. I feel better here than 
 with you." , 
 
 " Jesu-Maria! do you then love us no more?" 
 
 " I do not know. I have but one thought, one feeling now — 
 that my Aunt Genevieve is dead, and that I shall never, never, 
 see her again! I wish to die too, I loved her so dearly." 
 
 At these words she burst into tears, and covering her face 
 with her apron as if to shut out the light of day, she signed 
 to the young boarder to leave her. The latter retired sorrow- 
 fully from the cell to impart to her companions the state in 
 which she found Felise ; but the superior, whom she met on 
 her way, having heard her account of what had taken place, 
 said to her in a serious tone: 
 
 "It is well, my daughter ; you have spoken to this poor child 
 as you ought to have done. At present charity commands 
 you to suppress the replies which the evil spirit ha^ dictated to 
 
*202 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 her, and when your companions qucstiort you on this subject, 
 you may simply say that she listened to your discourse without 
 breaking silence. This is not a falsehood ; it is an allowable 
 suppression, which you are at liberty to make." 
 
 Next day, Mother Madeleine said to her spiritual director : 
 
 * ' I have faithfully followed your instructions, reverend father, 
 but hitherto without success. In spite of your penetration 
 and address, you have not perhaps altogether appreciated this 
 child's character. Notwithstanding her habitual giddiness and 
 carelessness, she displays a stubbornness of will very unusual 
 at her time of life. Although she had a sincere affection for 
 poor Sister Genevieve, her heart seems incapable of attach- 
 ment ; she no longer loves any one here, and only yields to 
 authority and force. I am deeply afflicted at finding myself 
 unable to ameliorate her disposition, and I always leave her 
 overwhelmed with grief." 
 
 *'Then you have not, reverend mother," said Father Boinet, 
 "observed the least change, the slightest progress?" 
 
 "Not the least; she remains exactly in the same state. 
 My exhortations weary her, the attentions of Sister Ursula 
 annoy her ; she pines away in a state of profound depres- 
 sion, and if we keep her long, she will perish." 
 
 "You despair then of this soul, reverend mother," said 
 Father Boinet, with a slight accent of reproach : ' ' you are 
 ready to abandon your task ? But the good pastor did not thus 
 leave his lost sheep to stray at random. There is more than 
 one way of reclaiming her and we must consult upon the 
 best." 
 
 He reflected a moment, and resumed: — 
 
 "This child must quit the convent for a time." 
 
 " She is an orphan; in what hands, good heaven! can she 
 be placed with safety?" ^ 
 
 "You may remember, reverend mother, that she was brought 
 here by a lady nine years ago, on the last day of this year. 
 She was a near relative, her mother's sister, who came from a 
 remote distance to place her in the Cpnvent of the Annuncia^ 
 tion. Since then, this person lias sent from time to time to 
 inquire for Sister Genevieve and to entreat her prayers. She 
 lives near this, and will not refuse to receive her niece." 
 
 "But, reverend father," observed the superior, "it is con- 
 trary to your first decision, to restore Felise to the world." 
 
 " If what I have been told be true, it is to. send her, on the 
 contrary, to a dreary abode, and she will soon herself request 
 to return here. Let our design be concealed from her to the 
 last moment : I shall at once proceed to work, and endeavour 
 to bring the matter to a successful issue." 
 
FELISE. 203 
 
 "May heaven bless your efforts and your intentions," ex- 
 claimed the worthy superior, with gratitude. "It is certain, 
 reverend father, that God always prompts you towards 
 whatever may redound to his glory, as well as to the reposo 
 and the prosperity of this house." 
 
 The second evening following, after vespers. Father Bolnet 
 requested an interview with the superior in the little parlour. 
 
 "With heaven's assistance I have arranged this matter satis- 
 factorily," said he ; " the lady before whom I presented myself 
 was sensibly affected on learning the death of our poor Sister 
 Genevieve, but refused for a long time to receive her niece. 
 It was no easy task to vanquish her resolution. In the mean 
 time, reverend mother, call hither your rebellious child." 
 
 Felise entered the parlour with a countenance of indifference 
 and gloom. She perhaps expected a severe admonition, and 
 was prepared to receive it in silenc^e ; but in place of address- 
 ing her with severity. Father Boinet said in a kind voice: — 
 
 "You have expressed a desire to leave this establishment, 
 mademoiselle; do you still persist in your resolution?" 
 
 "Yes, reverend father," stammered Felise, embarrassed by 
 tills unexpected question. 
 
 "In that case," replied Father Boinet, "you may leave it 
 to-day ; your aunt Mademoiselle Philippine de Saulieu will re- 
 ceive you in her house." 
 
 "My Aunt Philippine!" repeated Felise with a feeling of 
 vague apprehension, for this name immediately recalled the 
 gloomy impressions of her childliood. 
 
 "You are about to be conducted to her house," said the 
 sifcrior; " may heaven grant that you there experience the 
 consolation which you found not here! Love her, honour her, 
 live in the fear of God, and remember that the Convent of the 
 Annunciation is ever open to those who, weary of the world, 
 long to return there for the remainder of their days." 
 
 Felise hesitated for a moment: on one side she pictured to 
 hercelf the stern and commanding countenance of her aunt, 
 accompanied by old Suzanne ; on the other the sad and desolate 
 dwelling where Sister Genevieve had dwelt and from which she 
 had departed for ever. The feeling of this cruel bereavement 
 decided her ; she moved instinctively towards the door, and 
 said with a choking voice, and covering her face with her 
 handkerchief: — 
 
 "1 am ready!" 
 
*204 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SoiNiE fifty paces from the Convent of the Annunciation there 
 was situated a large mansion fronted by a high dead wall, the 
 only opening in which was a carriage entrance. The court 
 which separated this abode from the street was planted with 
 elms, whose branches had been suffered for years to grow in wild 
 luxuriance, and which formed a thick and somewhat gloomy 
 shade. Beyond these there opened a vestibule, which the 
 vicinity of the trees deprived of the little light which a win- 
 dow secured with iron bars permitted tdl penetrate. A large 
 stone staircase occupied one side of it, but from the appearance 
 of the steps, covered as they wer6 with a layer of ,(^ust which 
 no broom had ever disturbed, it was evident that*'the upper 
 apartments were not inhabited. Beyond the vestibule was an 
 antechamber of such vast dimensions that the retinue of a 
 grandee of Spain might have found ample accommodation in 
 it, and so dark that even at mid-day there reigned in it but a 
 doubtful twilight. 
 
 Felise entered this gloomy and silent abode, conducted by 
 Suzanne, who had gone to receive her at the gate of the clois- 
 ter. The morose waiting-maid still retained the same surly 
 air, the same shrill voice, and the same anxious, withered, old- 
 maidish look that had formerly characterised her. At this 
 moment she seemed to labour under some suppressed feeling 
 of irritation, and muttered incoherent exclamations, accom- 
 panied by abrupt gestures. Felise followed close behind her, 
 almost trembling, and not venturing to utter a word. In the 
 antechamber she found old Balin, dressed in black as formerly, 
 silent, stiff, and motionless in his suit of livery. On recog- 
 nising Felise by a side glance, he threw open the door of an 
 adjoining apartment, drawing himself up at the same time to 
 let her pass. Although naturally neither apprehensive nor 
 timid, she entered with a palpitating heart this vast apart- 
 ment, feebly lighted by the last beams of day, at the extre- 
 mity of which she dimly perceived a female figure erect and 
 motionless. In place of advancing, she paused, confused and 
 not daring to raise her eyes ; then, making an effort, she stam- 
 mered out: — 
 
 *' You do not recollect me perhaps, aunt?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! I recollect you, Felise," replied Mademoiselle 
 Philippine de Saulieu, casting on her but one glance, and then 
 turning away with a shudder which betrayed the involuntary 
 
FELISE. 205 
 
 feeling of repulsion under which she laboured; but quickly 
 overcoming this impression she added: — 
 
 "Then you were uncomfortable in the convent since you 
 wished to leave it?" 
 
 ** Yes, since I lost my good Aunt Genevieve," she replied, 
 weeping. ** So long as she lived I never thought of leaving 
 the convent. Could I ever leave her? — I loved her so well! 
 When I went to her I Avas a mere child ; I knew no other re- 
 latives ; for I never saw you, aunt, and had almost forgotten 
 you." 
 
 At these words she raised her eyes to recognise the noble 
 and beautiful features which had remained imprinted on her 
 memory, but she could scarcely believe she saw the same per- 
 son. Those fair locks which formerly hung in golden curls had 
 become perfectly white, and their silver bands shaded a brow 
 furrowed with wrinkles ; the delicate features were sallow and 
 withered, and premature age had stooped that queenly figure. 
 Mademoiselle de Saulieu still retained the deep mourning 
 which she wore when she arrived in Paris ; her velvet robe 
 trailed behind like a widow's train, and her black crape hand- 
 kerchief was fastened with pins of bronzed steel. Felise gazed 
 at her with astonishment and sorrow ; then, struck with her 
 dreary costume as well as with her countenance, she said with 
 a sigh : — 
 
 " You are in deep mourning for my Aunt Genevieve?" 
 
 "I have worn it for ten years, and I shall continue to do so 
 for the remainder of my life," replied Mademoiselle de Sau- 
 lieu. 
 
 Suzanne had entered the apartment with Felise, and ap- 
 peared to watch with anxiety the effect of this first interview 
 upon her mistress. Apparently she saw that Mademoiselle 
 de Saulieu had already recovered from the painful impression 
 which the appearance of her niece had produced upon her, 
 for she approached Felise and said somewhat mildly: — 
 
 *' With mademoiselle's permission will you not retire to your 
 apartment?" 
 
 " As you please, Suzanne," replied she, well satisfied to es- 
 cape from the embarrassment of this first interview, in which 
 her aunt played so cold and laconic a part. 
 
 When she had curtsied and turned to retire. Mademoiselle 
 de Saulieu glanced after her, and murmured with a sigh which 
 seemed to issue from the depths of her lacerated and bleeding 
 heart: — 
 
 ** Good heavens ! what a sacrifice!" 
 
 She then once more seated herself in her usual place, and 
 mechanically resumed her embroidery. 
 
206 THE OLD CONTENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 The suite of apartments which Mademoiselle de Saulieu oc- 
 cupied was on the ground floor, and was composed of three 
 large rooms forming the interior fa9ade of the building, and 
 running back so as to form two wings extending to the garden. 
 Each of these wings, which were not deep, contained but one 
 apartment on each story. The chamber which opened from 
 Mademoiselle de Saulieu's apartment had been hastily ar- 
 ranged for Felise's reception. This abode was far from pre- 
 senting the cheerful and agreeable aspect of the convent cells: 
 the walls, which were divided into panels and painted in imita- 
 tion of cameos, had no other decoration. Each compartment 
 formed a picture representing a group of allegorical person- 
 ages, such as the Seasons, the Elements, &c. — a procession of 
 white figures on a grey ground which produced a most me- 
 lancholy effect. The mantelpiece, under which one might 
 stand erect, was covered with festoons of carved wood-work, 
 and the huge four-post bed, placed on a platform, w^as of di- 
 mensions well calculated to astonish a young person accus- 
 tomed to the narrow couch with its white coverlet, in 
 which the boarders of the Anuonciades enjoyed such tranquil 
 slumbers. 
 
 The day began to decline, and the lofty windows which 
 looked out upon the garden admitted but a feeble twilight 
 which each instant grew less. The autumn wind whistled 
 through the chinks of the doors and rustled the curtains against 
 the wood-work. Felise, shivering with cold, seated herself 
 upon a stool, and surveyed the apartment with a mournful air. 
 Suzanne lighted a couple of wax tapers, opened one of those 
 beautiful cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl and shell, which 
 served at once as secretary and wardrobe, and commenced to 
 arrange the modest effects of the young boarder. Among the 
 robes and linen, carefully folded, was the casket which Made- 
 moiselle de Saulieu had intrusted to Sister Genevieve on the 
 day on which Felise had entered the Annonciades. As it had 
 been immediately placed in the hands of the superior, and had 
 remained from that period shut up in a press of the sacristy, 
 Felise had entirely forgotten it. Even now she did not per- 
 ceive the sudden movement which Suzanne made when she 
 found it beneath her hands ; the old waiting-maid cast but 
 one glance at the rich jewel-case and hastened to place it in a 
 secret drawer which she closed on the instant. After all these 
 arrangements were completed, she withdrew the bed-curtains, 
 folded down the coverlet, and said to Felise, who, with her 
 hands crossed beneath her apron and her head droopino;, fol- 
 lowed with her eyes all her movements without uttermg ^ 
 
PELISE. 207 
 
 "At present, mademoiselle, I am about to serve supper; 
 afterwards you will go to bed." 
 
 "What! already?" observed Felise; " ai the convent they 
 never retired to rest till nine o'clock. I am not sleepy yet ; 
 I should like to sit with my aunt, if she will permit me, during 
 the evening." 
 
 *']\Iademoiselle never sits up late," replied Suzanne; "so 
 soon as it is night she retires to bed and there is no further 
 stir in the house." 
 
 "Holy Virgin! what do you tell me! Our reverend mo- 
 ther always said that in order not to have bad dreams one 
 should take a little recreation before going to sleep, and sanc- 
 tify one's soul by prayer. Does my aunt take no amusement 
 after supper?" 
 
 " She does not sup. I shall presently bring her a biscuit 
 and a glass of water after she has retired to bed ; that is her 
 entire repast." 
 
 "And is this all she takes the whole year round?" 
 
 "The entire year. But you are not obliged to follow her 
 example. For you supper is about to be served." 
 
 "I am not hungry," replied Felise sorrowfully. 
 
 Nevertheless, whait she saw Suzanne take a light and prepare 
 to leave the room, she preferred following her to remaining 
 alone until the next day in this vast apartment, the aspect of 
 which appeared to her so gloomy. The dining-room into which 
 Suzanne conducted her was large and sombre, like all the other 
 apartments ; and in the evening the light of the wax candles 
 scarcely rendered visible tjie lofty ceiling, rounded in the form 
 of a cupola, and painted in fresco in the Italian style. In the 
 centre of the room was a large table, on which was arranged 
 a dinner-service of plate for a single person. The sideboard 
 opposite was ornamented with silver salvers of colossal dimen- 
 sions, which shone like Imge shields in the uncertain light. 
 
 Felise sat down, gazing with an astonished eye at this sump- 
 tuous display, and at the saloon whose walls were lighted up, as 
 it were, with the profusion of plate arrayed on the sideboard. 
 The poor child endeavoured to partake of the cold collation 
 which was set before her, but she could taste only a little fruit 
 and wine. While she made this slender repast, Balin, with 
 his napkin over his arm, stood behind her chair ready to change 
 her plate and pour out for her to drink. The old servant's 
 countenance was mingled in her thoughts with vague recollec- 
 tions of her infancy, and she began to recall to mind the time, 
 alread)^ distant, when she arrived after her long journey at the 
 gate of the Annonciades. She remembered distinctly the mo- 
 ment wi.en Balin lifted her from the carriage .ind carried her 
 
208 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 to the wicket, where the heavy folding-doors opened noiselessly 
 to admit her. 
 
 "It is many years since I saw you," said she, turning quickly 
 round, ** nevertheless I recollected you at once ; but you would 
 not have known me, I am sure, if Suzanne had not announced 
 me?" 
 
 "Pardon me, mademoiselle," replied Balin drily. 
 
 " Oh!" said she incredulously, holding her hand on a level 
 with the edge of the table, "I was not taller than that when 
 you left me at the door of the Annonciades ; and my features 
 can bear little resemblance to those of a child of five." 
 
 *' It is not in my memory that I have preserved the features 
 of mademoiselle, which I would have known anywhere," re- 
 pli*ed Balin; " it is from the family likeness." 
 
 "Do I then resemble my poor mother?" asked Felise 
 eagerly. 
 
 Balin sighed and shook his head. 
 ' "Then my face must remind you of my father's," continued 
 Felise ; " my father! — alas! I see him as if in a dream; I have 
 a confused recollection of his features." 
 
 "It is not possible!" murmured Balin; "you deceive your- 
 self." ^ 
 
 Felise leaned her elbow on the table, her gaze fixed on 
 vacancy and her head resting upon her hand, and resumed 
 slowly, interrupting herself at intervals like one who endea- 
 vours to recall to mind events almost faded from the memory. 
 
 "We lived in a chateau. There was an apartment hung 
 with blue tapestry and a great ijiany rose-trees before the 
 windows. It was my mother's room, I think — but I cannot 
 remember her — my poor mother! My father's face on the 
 contrary is distinctly present to my eyes. He had handsome 
 features, a lofty forehead, and a somewhat pale complexion. 
 One day, it must have been the last on which I saw him, he 
 was dressed all in black, and apparently this gloomy costume 
 terrified me, for when he advanced to embrace me I turned 
 away, shrieking. He was not in the chateau then ; he was in 
 some place which I do not recollect — nevertheless, I see — I 
 still see — " 
 
 Here she paused, as if to disentangle these scattered scenes 
 and pictures of the past; then turning towards Balin, she 
 suddenly resumed : — 
 
 "But now I think of it, you too were there: it was you 
 who carried me in your arms to the room where my father 
 was — then you brought me to my Aunt Philippine, and I did 
 nothinsr but cry the whole way, I cannot tell why. You see 
 I recollect ' 
 
FEMSE. 209 
 
 "It is true!" replied Balin, who had turned deadly' pale as 
 he listened, and wliose trembling lips could hardly articulate ; 
 but Felise, busied with her own thoughts, did not observe his 
 agitation. 
 
 After a long silence he resumed : — 
 
 ** Permit me to give you one piece of advice; never repeat 
 to Suzanne what you have just told me; more especially be- 
 ware of speaking of it to mademoiselle ; and never ask her a 
 single question about your family." 
 
 With these words he took up a taper and preceded Felise, 
 who returned dejectedly to her chamber. 
 
 Suzanne hastened to put her in bed, and then, after making the 
 circuit of the apartment in order to see that all was safe, re- 
 tired, taking the lights with her. Wben Felise found herself 
 alone, shut in by the curtains, and left in silence and darkness, 
 she began to reflect and to collect her scattered thoughts. 
 From the moment she had crossed the threshold of the convent 
 a sort of dreary astonishment had diverted her attention from 
 her sufferings ; but when she no longer saw the gloomy abode 
 she at present inhabited, when the shrill accents of Suzanne 
 and the croaking voice of old Balin no longer sounded in her 
 ears, her thoughts onff more flew back to her poor Aunt Ge- 
 nevieve, and she commenced anew to weep bitterly for her 
 loss. Her tears flowed long, and moistened the cambric pillow 
 on which her head reposed, till at length towards morning, 
 utterly worn out, she sunk into a deep slumber. 
 
 During the day as well as the night, a mournful silence 
 pervaded the dwelling of Mademoiselle de Saulieu ; no noise 
 from without penetrated there, for the garden front of the man- 
 sion was separated from the street by the court-yard and by the 
 deep vestibule, the doors of which were always closed. When 
 Felise awoke, she saw that it was day by the faint rays which 
 gleamed through the fissures of the shutter and fell upon her 
 pillow. She hastened to get up, and at the same moment a 
 neighbouring clock, possibly that of the convent, struck nine. 
 
 " Holy Virgin !" she innocently exclaimed, " Aunt Philip- 
 pine will scold me, and that cross Suzanne will call me lazy ! 
 At this hour everybody must have been long since astir." 
 
 She scarcely took time to dress, and, opening her door with 
 a sort of fear, she entered a saloon which separated her apart- 
 ment from that of Mademoiselle de Saulieu ; the windows were 
 still closed however, and the most profound silence reigned in 
 the mansion. This stillness and gloom aroused a feeling of 
 terror in her breast ; she advanced with some hesitation, and 
 perceiving at the other extremity of the saloon a door partly 
 open through which the sun shone brightly, she ventured to 
 o 
 
210 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 cross it, and found herself in a large apartment opening into 
 the garden. It was the saloon in which she had been received 
 the evening before, but she had not then observed the furniture 
 or the general arrangement of its details. 
 
 No person appeared ; no sound was audible. Felise glanced 
 curiously round this room which Mademoiselle de Saulieu 
 usually occupied. Her attention was first arrested by two 
 portraits placed on each side of the fireplace. One, which she 
 recognised at once, was that of her Aunt Philippine, but such as 
 she had never known her, richly attired, her fair hair wreathed 
 with pearls, flowers on her bosom and a smile upon her lips. 
 The other represented a man in the prime of life ; a military 
 uniform displayed to advantage his vigorous ^nd active form ; 
 he held his plumed hat in one hand, and with the other ca- 
 ressed a favourite hound. The picture bore a singular im- 
 press of truth. The head was animated, and the look espe- 
 cially — clear, gentle, penetrating-^— was almost living. These 
 two faces, so beautiful, so bright, and on whose foreheads shone 
 pride and happiness, and the bounding hopes of youth, seemed 
 out of place in this immense saloon hung with black like the 
 apartment of a widow, and whose very mirrors were covered 
 with black gauze draperies. MademoHelle de Saulieu's arm- 
 chair fronted^ these portraits and was half surrounded by a 
 screen on whose folds were painted, in greyish outline, the in- 
 signia of mourning. On a work-table placed beside it there 
 was a piece of tapestry partly wrought, and a book of prayer. 
 A large cat reposed on the seat, and followed with its half-opened 
 greenish eye every movement of Felise, as she slowly made 
 the circuit of the apartment, returning at last to the pictures, 
 which she again contemplated with a sort of dreamy curiosity. 
 The sight of those noble and charming faces aroused con- 
 fused impressions in her mind, and she could not turn away 
 her eyes. Suzanne surprised her in her contemplation. 
 
 "Are you there already, mademoiselle ?" exclaimed the mo- 
 rose waiting-woman"; " I was about to call you." 
 
 ** Thanks, Suzanne," replied she turning quickly round ; " I 
 feared I had slept too long, and I made all haste to dress. I said 
 my prayers hurriedly and came here expecting to find my aunt." 
 
 ** Mademoiselle never rises till noon." 
 
 *' Jesu-Marla I is she still sleeping ?" 
 
 *' She is taking repose — she is so weak !" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! she looks very old now," said Felise, raising her 
 eyes towards the picture. *' Her face is quite pale and 
 wrinkled ; how difi*erent from that face !" 
 
 " She was like that at twenty years of age," said Suzanne 
 with a sigh ; " who could recognise her now ?" 
 
FELISE. 211 
 
 *' And the other picture," resumed Fellse, " 155 it tliat of some 
 gentleman of our family?" 
 
 Suzanne merely shook her head. 
 
 "It is the picture of one who is dead?" continued Felisc 
 with instinctive penetration. 
 
 At this second question Suzanne started, and turned updti 
 Felise a look at otice uneasy, astohished, and full of sect-et 
 horror, as if this single word had awakened dreadful recolled-i 
 tions in her bosoni. When she had recovered a little frotirt 
 this fearful emotion, she said abruptly — "Do not ever iip- 
 pear to notice these pictures ; above all never question made- 
 moiselle about them. At present you may take a turn in the 
 garden if you choose." 
 
 With these words she dpetied one of the glass doors, and 
 gently pushed Felise out upon the steps. The garden, which 
 extended along the entire length of the fa«;ade of the maiisioii, 
 and was bounded by a high dilapidated wall, presented much 
 the appearance of a huge dry moat in which an attempt had beeti 
 made to trace out flower-beds and walks. The lofty build- 
 ings which bounded it on the south prevented the sun from 
 penetrating its depths even in the middle of summer. Somd 
 wretched lilacs, and a* Guelder rose or two, threw out their 
 branches in this eternal shade, but no flower bloomed within 
 the thin and stunted borders of box, which formed symmetrical 
 compartments in front of the windows : moss alone covered the 
 beds, the stones, and even the roots of the shrubs with its tern 
 acious vegetation. At the angle of the garden which wasi 
 formed by the boundary wall of the iiiclosure and the wing of 
 the building which Felise occupied, there was a sort of sum- 
 mer-house with a trellised roof, covered with straggling stalks 
 of ivy. It was Balin who in his moments of leisure had at- 
 ranged this recess, around which he kept constantly sowing 
 the seeds of climbing plants, which never appeared above tho 
 soil. 
 
 Felise seated herself on the highest step of the p ortico. The 
 garden of the Annonciades appeared to her a terrestrial para- 
 dise in comparison with the little greenish enclosure before her 
 eyes, and she found her aunt's sitting-room, hung with black, 
 much more gloomy than the halls of the convent. The pro- 
 phecies of Father Boinet were now perhaps at the point of being 
 fulfilled ; Felise at that moment had perhaps already, like the 
 Israelites of old, regretted her captivity, if a word froiti 
 Suzanne had not suddenly changed the entire current of her 
 feelings. 
 
 The old waiting- woman half opened the glass door, and said 
 in a gruff voice: — 
 
212 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 " Since you are not walking, come liitlier till I dress you. 
 To-day is Sunday and you must go to mass." 
 
 " I am going out ! I am going into the street!" exclaimed 
 Felise, her heart beating with surprise and joy. " Jesu- 
 Maria 1 I never dreamed of that — I had forgotten that there 
 was no convent door here I" 
 
 Her toilet was soon completed. Suzanne threw over her 
 boarder's dress a petticoat of black satin with large folds, fas- 
 tened on her shoulders a mantle of the same material, and 
 completed her attire with a bonnet closely fastened under her 
 chin, and flapped over her eyes so as to permit nothing to be 
 seen but the lower part of her face. 
 
 When old Suzanne had settled the last pin, Felise hastened 
 to the door, without so much as glancing at the mirror before 
 which she had dressed, and said with mingled impatience and 
 satisfaction : — 
 
 *'I am ready now — let us go at once." Then correcting 
 herself she added: — 
 
 '* Perhaps we had better wait for Aunt Philippine?" 
 
 ** Mademoiselle never goes out," replied Suzanne; "she 
 has a dispensation and reads mass at home. It is I who am to 
 accompany you." 
 
 It was one of those lovely autumnal mornmgs which tempts 
 abroad the entire population of Paris. The humbler citizens 
 and artisans already thronged the streets in their best attire ; 
 the carriages began to roll along, and on all sides rose on the 
 ear that low, incessant, and monotonous murmur, resembling 
 the sound of the ocean waves, which is heard night and day in 
 the great city. 
 
 Felise walked on a few paces in advance of her duenna, light 
 and joyous as a bird. She had been seized with a sort of ver- 
 tigo on breathing the open air ; the instinct of liberty was once 
 more alive and vigorous in her soul, and it seemed to her as if 
 her feet were not sufiiciently active to bear her onward — she 
 would have skimmed through the air upon wings. Suzanne, 
 rather discomposed by her brisk gait, muttered between her 
 teeth, and sometimes held her back by the petticoat, exclaim- 
 ing angrily: — 
 
 *' Mighty fine, mademoiselle! you bound along like a moun- 
 taineer ! Walk quietly and straight forward, without staring 
 at the people and turning round every instant like a weather- 
 cock!" 
 
 But Felise could not avoid looking around from time to time 
 at the crowds who elbowed each other along the sides of the 
 houses, while the carriages proudly held the centre of the 
 streets, and she followed with a longing eye the little girls in 
 
FELISE. 213 
 
 their Sunday dresses as they crossed to and fro over the thorough- 
 fares without guide or protector. Suzanne brought her to the 
 church of the Jesuits in the Rue St. Antoine, and when she saw 
 the beggars displaying their rags and their sores on the door-way, 
 and imploring charity in lamentable tones, she was seized with 
 astonishment. In convents, where poverty was a vow, the spec- 
 tacle of want was never presented to the eye, and it was the first 
 time that Felise had ever seen the really poor. Her generosity 
 awoke at the sight, and she turned to Suzanne and said, look- 
 ing towards the famished group: — 
 
 "I should like to give them money." 
 
 "You can do so," replied Suzanne, drawing a handful of 
 money from her pocket and giving it to her; *' you can afford 
 that and much more — you are rich." 
 
 Felise listened to the mass with wandering thoughts : the 
 church was crowded with rank and fashion, and in place of 
 perusing her missal she gazed with insatiable curiosity at every- 
 thing that surrounded her. The ladies' dresses peculiarly at- 
 tracted her attention, for she instinctively delighted in what 
 was rich and elegant. On leaving the church she happened to 
 see through a half-opened door a quantity of silk and lace 
 dresses in a shop. 
 
 "I should like to buy that," said she, stopping. 
 
 "That robe of Indian satin with white wreaths on a dark 
 ground, and that blonde lace?" asked Suzanne with a careless 
 air. 
 
 "Yes, that is it." 
 
 " You shall have them to-morrow. At present it is impos- 
 sible; shopkeepers do not sell their goods on Sunday." 
 
 Returning from church, the young girl found Mademoiselle 
 de Saulieu in the saloon. She was seated in her usual place 
 behind the screen, whose circular folds formed a little retreat in 
 the midst of this vast apartment hung with black. She was read- 
 ing the service of the day in the missal placed before her on the 
 stand, close by her folded work, while her grey cat slumbered 
 on the cushion which her feet hardly pressed. She replied by 
 an inclination of her head to Felise's salutation, and making a 
 sign to her to sit down, she continued her reading. At the 
 first stroke of noon she closed her book ; Balin threw open the 
 folding-door, and said in a loud voice : — 
 
 "Mademoiselle, dinner is served." And thereupon they 
 proceeded to table. 
 
 The gloomy festival at which the statue of the Commander 
 presided was not more silent or melancholy than this family 
 repast, the suraptuousness of which formed a striking contrast 
 with the scanty number and dejected countenances of the 
 
214 TILE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 guests. Poor Felise scarcely ate a morsel, and hardly ven- 
 tured to raise her eyes from the table. The severe and ini'move- 
 able countenance of her aunt chilled and discouraged her; she 
 seemed to her like some supernatural being, living and dead 
 at the same time. One would have said, indeed, that Made- 
 moiselle de Saulieu endeavoured to reduce life to the narrowest 
 limits, and that her only object was to arrive at a purely 
 passive state of existence. She hardly spoke, and only moved 
 from )ier bedroom to her sitting-room. IVTever had she ad- 
 vanced as far as the vestibule, and never once had she made the 
 circuit of the marshy garden whose mossrcovered walks she 
 sftw every day from her accustomed seat. 
 
 No strange face had ever appeared in this mansion before 
 the day when Father Boinet had called to pay the diplomatic 
 visit which had caused the return of Felise to her aunt. 
 This accomplished, he had never again presented himself at 
 the door of the hotel, probably because he felt that the austere 
 proprietor would not willingly receive him a second time. 
 
 Suzanne, old Balin, and a stout wench culled Cateau, con- 
 stituted the whole household. Cateau never left her kitchen, 
 and during a space of nine years she had not once seen her 
 mistress's countenance, nor even caught a glimpse by stealth 
 of her spectre-like form. Balin guarded the approaches to her 
 apartment. Ever grave and taciturn, the old domestic passed 
 his entire time on the benches of the antechamber, his only 
 solace and amusement being the fancied cultivation of the 
 miserable garden, where he never had the satisfaction of be- 
 holding a flower in bloom. Suzanne never left her mistress's 
 apartment ; long accustomed to serve and tend her, she required 
 no directions, and anticipated her slightest wishes before they 
 were expressed. Often indeed the inseparable pair spent the 
 entire day without exchanging a single word. 
 
 Poor Felise lived completely neglected in this dreary soli- 
 tude. Her wants and even her whims were scrupulously and 
 lavishly attended to ; she had new robes, lace caps, and was 
 even supplied with money for the poor, but every indulgence 
 was limited to these outward wants of which Suzanne took 
 the sole charge. Never did she hear a single word of affec- 
 tionate interest issue from the unsocial waiting-woman's lips. 
 Her aunt, who had at first regarded her with evident dislike, 
 soon came to look upon her with the same dull indifference 
 with which she viewed everything else. Whether it was that 
 one whose whole life was thus concentrated in herself could not 
 Jong remain sensible to any outward influence, or whether she 
 had succeeded by a violent eflbrt in conquering her first im- 
 
FELI8E. 215 
 
 preesion, Mademoiselle do Saulieu suffered this young creature's 
 presence with passive indifference, or rather she seemed no 
 lonorer to be aware of it. 
 
 Felise had discovered from the first day of her arrival that 
 the convent was an abode full of amusement and dissipation 
 when compared with her aunt's mansion; nevertheless, contrary 
 to Father Boinet's prophecy, she expressed no wish to return. 
 A less energetic nature could not have borne such a mode of 
 life, but in Felise there was a mixture of strength and cheer- 
 fulness ; a force of character, joined to a power of adapting 
 herself to circumstances, which supported her amidst the most 
 painful influences. She bore up against daily weariness and 
 want of occupation in the hope of breathing the fresh air for 
 an hour on Sunday, and in other respects the complete liberty 
 which she enjoyed in all her movements, consoled her for being 
 left almost entirely alone. 
 
 She rose early in the mornings, and with the natural activity 
 of youth unsettled everything in her chamber, took up and 
 abandoned her work ten times in succession, walked up and 
 down the garden, and thus endeavoured to pass the time till 
 Suzanne's long yellow hand threw open the glass doors of the 
 saloon ; she then seated herself quietly until the first stroke of 
 twelve and Balin's voice simultaneously announced that dinner 
 was upon the table. This meal, which rarely lasted more than 
 fifteen minutes, being over, her aunt returned to the saloon 
 and silently resumed her work. Felise then seated herself 
 opposite the screen, and not daring to speak aloud, played 
 quietly with the huge grey cat and whispered terms of endear- 
 ment in his ear. At times Mademoiselle de Saulieu raised her 
 head and also addressed the animal, who turned his stealthy 
 eye towards her without altering his posture. Felise would 
 then venture to reply for puss, and in this manner she carried 
 on at long intervals a sort of conversation with her aunt. 
 
 One day that she had risen earlier than usual, and was walk- 
 ing in the garden still wet with the dews of night, she per- 
 ceived that Balin was not yet in the antechamber, and, advanc- 
 ing, she saw, through the door and the lofty windows which 
 were lying open, the whole extent of the vestibule, and beyond 
 the elms which shaded the court-yard. Felise entered the great 
 hall — no person appeared. For a moment she felt tempted to 
 gain the street, but she feared to meet Balin in the court-yard, 
 and spying the grand staircase, whose dusty steps bore no 
 recent impress of his broad and heavy foot, she ventured to 
 ascend. All the apartments of the fir-t floor were open. They 
 were, like those below, vast saloons looking out upon the gar- 
 den, and the piers and ceilings of which were ornamented with. 
 
216 THE OLD CONVENTS OP PARIS. 
 
 paintings ; but they did not contain a vestige of furniture, and 
 it was evident at the first glance that they had been long un- 
 occupied. • A fragment of forgotten tapestry, however, hung 
 on the walls of one of the bedrooms, and the back of the fire- 
 place was partly hidden by a roll of moth-eaten papers and 
 tattered books. On the mantelpiece were two little volumes 
 which time had covered with a thick binding of dust. Felise 
 took them up mechanically with the tips of her fingers ; they 
 were the tales of Perrault and an odd volume of the *' Prin- 
 cess of Cleves." A narrow staircase led to an upper story 
 consisting of garrets which had formerly served as sleeping- 
 rooms for the domestics of the mansion. The lacqueys were 
 in truth more agreeably lodged than their masters, for all these 
 small apartments looked into an enclosure which the garden-wall 
 rendered invisible from the apartments below, and which was 
 laid out in parterres ornamented with fountains, a bowling-green, 
 walks enclosed by lofty hedges clipped into smooth and sym- 
 metrical forms — in short, the gardens of Versailles in miniature. 
 
 "Oh, what a sweet spot!" exclaimed Felise, transported 
 with delight and leaning her head out of the little circular 
 window ; but she hastily retreated on perceiving old Balin in 
 the garden below walking gravely amid his withered rose- 
 trees. Standing behind the shutter which concealed her from 
 view, she continued to survey for some time longer the scene 
 which she had just discovered ; then descending the staircase 
 on tiptoe she passed like a shadow behind Balin, and hastened 
 to shut herself up in her chamber which it might be supposed 
 she had not left. 
 
 Without attaching the least importance to her prize, she 
 had brought away the two books forgotten on the mantel- 
 piece. Having glanced hastily over them she threw them into 
 a drawer, and it was not until one day when more in want of 
 occupation than usual that she commenced to read them. For 
 a girl who had never opened any book save the formulary of the 
 Annunciation, the tales of Perrault was a wonderful produc- 
 tion ! Felise read these fresh and sparkling fairy tales, like a 
 young girl who peruses a romance for the first time — with a 
 curiosity, a transport, and emotion not to be expressed. These 
 fictions transported her into an enchanted world, and for whole 
 days together she dreamed of nothing but Riquet with the 
 Tuft and the beautiful Princess Finette, reduced like herself to 
 solitary captivity. The first volume of *' The Princess ot 
 Cleves " interested her at first much less than these fantastic 
 narratives ; but when she knew the tales of Perrault by heart 
 she commenced to read a second time the romance of Madame 
 de la Fayette. The polished, delicate, and refined language 
 
FELISE. 217 
 
 of the beau monde — the exalted sentiments of honour, virtue, 
 and chivalrous love, was a new language which she had now 
 to study : but these chords at length vibrated in her soul ; she 
 commenced to be interested in the romantic narrative which 
 she was prevented from following to its close, and many a time 
 recurred in fancy to the long speeches in which M. de Nemours 
 so delicately analyses his passion for the beautiful Princess of 
 Cleves. Felise thus became acquainted with things which in 
 the ignorance and simplicity of her mind she had never even 
 suspected ; it was the first ray which lighted up her imagina- 
 tion and infused life into her mental existence. From this 
 time beautiful phantoms peopled her solitude; she lived in 
 fairy land, and only left its enchanted palaces to find herself 
 once more with the great ladies and gallant cavaliers of the 
 court of the Dauphin Queen. At times she almost fancied 
 herself some young princess who had a wicked fairy for a god- 
 mother, and she was tempted to look upon those around her as 
 the evil genii to whose charge she was committed. 
 
 One day, while rummaging through her apartment, she dis- 
 covered the jewel case which Suzanne had hidden in the secret 
 drawer of the cabinet. She immediately recognised the trinkets, 
 and recollecting that they had been placed in her apron when 
 Sister Genevieve received her in the chamber of the turning- 
 wheel, she was convinced that they belonged to her. The me- 
 dallion portrait first struck her, from its resemblance to that 
 which hung in the saloon ; there was the same light hair and 
 the same lofty and fascinating expression. Felise glanced in- 
 stinctively in her mirror, but nothing in her features recalled 
 any resemblance to this lovely countenance ; she was at once 
 less pretty, and more regularly handsome, than the portrait. 
 
 She placed the little miniature beside the crucifix at the 
 head of her bed, and then, returning to the mirror, she took a 
 childish pleasure in decking herself with all the jewels that the 
 casket contained. Suzanne surprised her while thus employed ; 
 a triple row of pearls around her neck, her long black hair 
 studded with diamonds, and her fingers laden with costly rings. 
 
 "Good heavens! what are you doing there?" exclaimed the 
 old waiting-maid, almost angrily; "why bring out all those 
 ornaments? they must never more be worn by any one!" 
 
 "And why?" exclainxed Felise boldly. Then she added, 
 laughing : — 
 
 "They would be so becoming in a bridal dress! Tell me, 
 Suzanne, when shall I be married?" 
 
 The waiting-maid stepped back, and looking at Felise with 
 an air of consternation, replied abruptly: — 
 
 "Never!" 
 
218 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Felise was approaching her fifteenth year when she quitted 
 the convent. She was then tall for her age, but as yet with- 
 out the usual attractions of youthful beauty. She was slender 
 almost to leanness, and of that sallow complexion which is 
 often seen in young people whose growth, at first tedious, is at 
 last sudden and rapid. In fact the pale and sickly child 
 gradually underwent the same metamorphosis as the chrysa- 
 lis, which in a single night throws off its ashy mantle to assume 
 its gold and azure wings. [NTo person however appeared to 
 notice the change ; no one seemed aware that Felise w as now 
 sixteen, and that this blooming flower was being rapidly 
 developed. Suzanne continued to treat her as a child, and 
 Mademoiselle de Saulieu heeded her no more than formerly. 
 Once only, as Felise was leaving the saloon, she looked after 
 her and said with a sigh: — 
 
 "This child grows handsome 1" • 
 
 One Sunday Felise was at mass with Suzanne, and was 
 placed as usual in the shadow of a pillar, and separated from 
 the crowd by her terrible duenna. From time to time she 
 raised her head imperceptibly and glanced stealthily around, 
 for she took a singular pleasure in gazing at the gay multitude 
 which thronged the church of the Jesuits. At the moment when 
 the service was about to commence, two young ladies, rather 
 late, proceeded along . the great nave, followed by a lacquey 
 who carried their missals in a velvet bag. Every eye was 
 directed towards them, and doubtless they heard more than one 
 flattering exclamation in their passage. The one, dressed in 
 a rich silk robe with a black scarf, wore the niourning of one 
 who had been a widow for a year ; the other was attired in a 
 dress of taffeta, over which was thrown a white muslin mantle. 
 Her gauze bonnet, ornamented with bright rose-coloured rib- 
 bons, was worn high oflfher forehead, and her face was shaded 
 by curling ringlets which imparted an inexpressible grace to this 
 simple head-dress. They crossed the church with a measured 
 step, and a lofty yet modest mien ; without appearing to re- 
 mark the effect which they produced, and proceeded to seat 
 themselves in the first ranks before the high altar. On the 
 appearance of these two lovely creatures, Felise could not 
 restrain an exclamation of surprise and joy; she had recog- 
 nised her companions, her dear friends of the convent, Cecilia 
 de Chameroy and her young sister Angela. 
 
 "What now? what is the matter with you?" said Suzanne, 
 
FELISE. 219 
 
 loojclng at her with an astonished air, "you seem all agi- 
 tated." 
 
 "It is because I am so glad!" replied she in a low voice. 
 **Po you know who those two ladies are, so handsome» so 
 well dressed? They are the best friends I had in the convent. 
 What happiness I I shall make up my acquaintance with them 
 again 1 you will surely permit me to speak to them on leaving 
 the church?" 
 
 "Certainly not, mademoiselle," replied Suzanne in the driest 
 and most determined tone. 
 
 FelisG reddened, and turned away her head with bitter 
 vexation and internal rage, but she saw that it was useless to 
 insist. She cherished a vague hope of being able to approach 
 the sisters on leaving the church, and speaking to them under 
 cover of the crowd ; but Suzanne was on the watch and kept 
 her in her place until the congregation had dispersed. In 
 the bustle caused by this movement she lost sight of her lovely 
 friends, and was returning home, her heart bursting with sorrow 
 and indignation against her inexorable duenna, when all at 
 once she perceived them crossing the Place de Birague, and 
 eiitering the Rue Culture-St. Catherine. 
 
 Immediately regulating her speed so as not to pass them, 
 she followed them with her eyes, and her heart bounded with 
 joy when she saw them stop and enter the mansion imme- 
 diately adjoining her own. 
 
 Felise then began to reflect ; and almost by inspiration the 
 stratagems, the artifices, and all the various means which a 
 carefully watched and captive girl employs to deceive her per- 
 secutors, rushed to her mind. She saw at a glance that the 
 garden which she had discovered from the garret windows was 
 that of the adjoining hotel, and that she was only separated 
 from it by the horrible wall whose cracked surface formed 
 the sole prospect from her aunt's sitting-room. She spent all 
 the rest of the day in walking up and down the garden, mea- 
 suring with her eye the impregnable rampart, and pondering 
 on the means of crossing it. For an instant she thought of 
 making her escape by the street door, and taking up her abode 
 with her young friends; but in spite of her inexperience, 
 she had good sense enough to perceive that she could not 
 thus openly withdraw herself from the authority of Made- 
 moiselle de Saulieu, and, although she might not perhaps 
 herself have been able to explain her determination, she chose 
 the best al<^ernative, namely, to await the result of time and 
 chance. Neither one nor the other were long wanting. 
 
 It was now the beginning of May, when the evenings grow 
 long and warm. Balin made every day the circuit of his gaiden, 
 
220 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 scrutinizing the frail shoots and tending with a careful hand 
 the feeble vegetation to which the ungrateful soil gave birth. 
 The good man cherished the hope of training a passion-flower 
 about the sort of cage which he called his summer-house, and 
 with this idea he had strengthened the primitive wood-work 
 with a trellis, and surrounded it with a sort of paling which 
 rested against the wall. Seeing him thus employed, it occurred 
 to Felise that it would not be difficult to climb this species ol 
 ladder. She had already remarked that about nightfall a 
 faint light mounted even to the summit of the wall, as if the 
 neighbouring enclosure had been partially illuminated; and 
 frequently she had distinguished the murmuring of voices, 
 as if her neighbours were spending the evening in the open air 
 among the verdant alleys of the bowling-green. 
 
 One evening when Suzanne had closed the shutters of the 
 saloon, and Balin, after having extinguished the lamp in the 
 antechamber, had retired to the nook where he slept, Felise 
 slipped out gently from her apartment, and gazed long into the 
 darkness, listening attentively to all the noises which floated 
 on the air around her. A slight wind rustled the trees, whose 
 lofty branches overtopped the wall, and amidst this gentle 
 murmur she could hear occasionally the sound of voices as if 
 speaking in a neighbouring enclosure. 
 
 Felise returned towards the summer-house. She was light 
 and active, and in a moment she had surmounted the little 
 edifice, and, standing on the trellis, she leaned with her hands 
 on the summit of the wall and looked down on the other side. 
 Angela and Cecilia were seated on one of the garden chairs, 
 and beside them was arranged a collation on a rustic table. 
 Wax tapers, enclosed in glass shades, illuminated their lovely 
 countenances, whilst behind them the perspective of the garden 
 was lost in the darkness. Perceiving this face peeping over 
 the wall at a few yards' distance, the sisters gave a slight cry 
 and rose from their seats in terror ; but Felise having called 
 them by their names, they immediately recognised her and 
 advanced towards her with joyful surprise. 
 
 "It is she I it is Felise!" exclaimed the elder, laughing. 
 "Oh! the pretty little robber!" 
 
 "I long to get down to you," said she, in a low voice, "but 
 how shall I accomplish it?" 
 
 "Quick! bring a garden ladder here!" exclaimed Angela, 
 ringing a silver bell, "this is what I call falling from the 
 clouds! Oh! my dear Felise, come quickly till I clasp you in 
 my arms!" 
 
 A lacquey appeared, all amazed, placed his double ladder 
 against the wall and discreetly retired. Felise descended 
 
FELISE. 2*21 
 
 lightly and uttered an exclamation of joy as she touched the 
 ground. 
 
 ** Tell me, my poor child, where do you come from in thia 
 style?" exclaimed Cecilia, embracing her; *' who could have 
 'expected to see you make your appearance here this evening, 
 and especially by such a strange way ?" 
 
 *' How tall and handsome you are!" added Angela, pressing 
 her again to her bosom. 
 
 "And you too are beautiful!" replied Felise, holding her 
 by the hands, and gazing at her with a joyous air 
 
 "Come now!" continued Cecilia, seating her between her 
 sister and herself, "tell us in a word, my dear princess, why 
 you are no longer in the convent, and how it happens that you 
 pay your visits by night and in scaling walls?" 
 
 "You shall soon know," replied Felise, with a sigh; "I 
 have had many sorrows, but my story is easily told. " 
 
 She then related how she had left the convent after the 
 death of Sister Genevieve, the reception she met with at her 
 aunt's, and the life which she led in this abode, a thousand 
 times more dreary, silent, and inaccessible than a convent. 
 The sisters listened with lively interest and profound astonish- 
 ment ; at every detail they pressed Felise's hands, kissed her, 
 and said with tender commiseration: — 
 
 "Poor child! what a life! But that can be changed — it 
 shall be changed, please God ! You shall not always remain 
 under the yoke of this cruel aunt. You shall quit your prison 
 Take courage ; you see that people escape from every place, 
 even from a convent!" 
 
 "True," exclaimed Felise, raising her head proudly, like a 
 young war-horse escaped from the Herradero, ' ' since we are 
 all three here ; but tell me, in your turn, ivhat has happened 
 since the day when your guardian took you by force from 
 the convent. Do you know that Mother Pcrpetua daily 
 expects your return, and has predicted that Angela will one 
 day take the veil?" 
 
 "There is a horoscope which will soon be contradicted!" 
 replied Cecilia with a gay smile, as she looked at her sister ; 
 "as for myself, I never was predestined; our poor dear sister 
 Genevieve, alas, knew that full well ! Oh ! how I wept in that 
 cell, which ought to be called the chamber of sorrow and not 
 the solitude! But do not let these sad recollections overcome 
 us. You know, fairest, how our guardian the Baron de Favras 
 came clothed with authority to take us away. At first he shut 
 us up in a room in this hotel, where we led a melancholy life 
 enough, and he since told me that not knowing what to do 
 with us, he was on the point of placing us in another convent, 
 
222 THE OLD CONVEKTS OF PARIS. 
 
 when a person In whom he placed every confidence told him 
 the history of the poor poet Scarron, who, although lame and 
 infirm, married a girl of sixteen beautiful as an anorel< the 
 same who at the present moment is the greatest lady in France. 
 The baron was quite struck with the example, and a few days 
 afterwards the person to whom I have alluded came on his 
 part to offer me his hand and fortune. The beautiful Made- 
 moiselle d'Aubigne did not refuse Scarron, and Mademoiselle 
 de Chameroy might therefore very well decide in favour of the 
 Baron de Favras. I married my guardian." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Felise, "that lame old man, of whom 
 Mother Perpetua gave such a horrible picture ? Ah ! Heavens ! " 
 "He was one of the best men in the world — the kindest heart 
 and clearest understanding under heaven," replied Cecilia. 
 "Immediately after our marriage he brought us to his estates 
 in the country. He treated us like his children ; he called me 
 his daughter; and in truth I was so happy in this union, that 
 when I lost him I wept as for the tenderest of fathers, and I 
 am firmly resolved never to marry again." 
 
 "And probably enter a convent^" said Felise with sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 "By no means," replied Cecilia quickly; "I wish to live in 
 the world with all the liberty which my situation as a widow 
 properly permits. I love society and Intercourse with in- 
 telligent people, and for that reason at the close of my year of 
 mourning I returned to Paris and was thinking of setting up my 
 establishment afresh ; but as a widow of my age, with a young 
 sister, could not with propriety receive the visits of the court 
 and the gay world, I have resolved to arrange everything 
 suitably by marrying Angela/' 
 
 " What! do you propose to dispose of me in this nonchalarit 
 fashion, sister?" exclaimed the charming young girl, with a 
 lively air that but ill concealed her secret emotion. 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle, I shall marry you," replied Cecilia in 
 the same tone, and looking at her tenderly, "and if needful I 
 shall even force your inclinations." 
 
 "And will you make her marry some gouty old husband?" 
 asked Felise almost angrily. 
 
 " No, no," replied Cecilia, laughing. "He whom I propose 
 to give her is young, handsome, brave, gallant-^in short an 
 accomplished cavalier." 
 
 " Like M. de Nemours," said Felise gravely. 
 
 " M. de Nemours!" repeated the young widow, "do you 
 know any one of that name?" 
 
 "No, but I have read a part of his history. He was a most 
 amiable nobleman who loved a great lady, unhappily already 
 
FELISB. 223 
 
 married, the Princess de Cleves. Can you tell rae if she at 
 iast became a widow and married M. de Nemours?" 
 
 "Heavens! it is the romance of Madame de la Fayette, 
 that you are telling us about!** exclaimed Cecilia laughing aild 
 kissing her forehead. *• There is nothing true in all that, 
 simpleton!" 
 
 *' Ah! it is a story like Cats'- Skin," murtriMred Felise a little 
 confused; "and yet it seemed true!" 
 
 And changing the conversation she added, looking around 
 her; — 
 
 "How delighted I am to find myself here ! Once I saw this 
 garden without imagining I should ever be in it, or that I 
 should there meet my dear friends, the two Chameroys, as we 
 used to call you at the convent." 
 
 " And now that you have come, my health you must returti 
 often," said Angela with affectionate vivacity. "Perhaps your 
 aunt would give you permission, if you asked het ; if We oUf >> 
 selves waited on her" — 
 
 " No, no," interrupted Felise ; "if she knetv I was here to- 
 night, all would be lost, and I should never see you again^ I 
 am certain." 
 
 "In that case," replied Cecilia gaily, "let bel* remain lii 
 eternal ignorance of it. The way you have taken has neithet 
 gate nor knocker ; and although not very convenietit, it is at 
 least practicable." 
 
 "And we, dear Felise, will often await you here," added 
 Angela. " As soon as the sun goes down we come to gaunter 
 through the alleys, and in the evening we breathe the fresh air 
 on the terrace as if we were in the country." 
 
 " And are you always alone?" asked Felise. 
 
 "Always until now," replied she with a smile< and looking 
 at her sister ; "a young widow cannot be at home to every one* 
 It would not be thought improper if she should some day take it 
 into her head to collect a band of musicians, and give a ball, 
 but she cannot, without giving cause for scandal, receive a few 
 friends in private. Indeed we should live like hermits if sotne 
 who were formerly intimate with the baron did not receive us, 
 and afford us an opportunity of meeting agreeable society." 
 
 "What happiness to go out wheti you choosCj to go to as- 
 semblies, and pay visits !" said Felise sighing $ "as for rae, I 
 have no other recreation than going to mass, and that only on 
 Sunday." 
 
 " Make your mind easy, my queen, we shall think ovet the 
 matter, and in spite of your aunt We shall produce you in the 
 world, we shall amuse you, we shall marry you !" 
 
 "Delightful!" exclaimed Felise. Then hearkening to the 
 
224 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 hour, which sounded simultaneously from all the clocks of the 
 hotel, she added: ''midnight! already midnight ! ah! ifmyAunj> 
 Philippine, who never sleeps, should happen to put her nose 
 out of the window just now — should see me return — but she 
 will not hear me ! I shall descend very softly, without mak- 
 ing more noise than her cat Mitoufle, when he glides stealthily 
 around her on the carpet." 
 
 Thus saying she kissed the sisters, enjoining them to leave 
 the ladder against the wall so that she might return soon. A few 
 minutes afterwards she once more regained her apartment 
 in the dark, and crept into her huge four-posted bed, her heart 
 still palpitating. 
 
 These interviews were often repeated, with the same plea- 
 sure as at first. Their girlish friendship was quickly renewed 
 and strengthened, and the gentle Angela's heart, especially, best 
 with the warmest affection for her companion of the convent. 
 She was one of those kind and affectionate natures who reckon 
 the happiness of another their own, and she took the liveliest 
 interest in that of Felise. The young widow also loved her ; there 
 was a naivete, a romantic spirit, and a liveliness of disposition 
 in all her actions that charmed her. Their long conversations al- 
 ways turned upon the gay world, which Felise had never seen, 
 and of which she had formed so agreeable an idea. In a short 
 time she fancied she knew the personages of whom they so often 
 spoke to her, and she would often inquire of herself for the 
 Dowager Countess of Manicamp, the Marquis de Gandale, &c. 
 The dowager was a great lady, clever and devout, who received 
 at her house the best society of the Marais, and the Marquis de 
 Gandale, her nephew, was considered one of the most amiable 
 gentlemen and one of the best matches among the youthful 
 noblesse. Madame de Favras instanced him as a perfect 
 model ofintellect, bravery, and chivalrous gallantry. 
 
 *' We have spoken to him of you, my angel," said she to 
 Felise, "and you cannot imagine how the picture of your 
 captivity interested him. He says you seem to him a little en- 
 chanted princess, such as one meets with in the stories of Madame 
 d'Aulnoy, and he calls your aunt the fairy Dentue. Madame de 
 Manicamp also is constantly inquiring about you ; she is quite 
 impatient to see you, and I must positively one day give her 
 that pleasure. I have promised to do so." 
 
 "Meanwhile," replied Felise, half seriously, "present my 
 best respects to her and assure her that I am her very humble 
 servant." 
 
 Every time that M. de Gandale's name was mentioned, the 
 colour mounted to Angela's forehead. She listened with down- 
 cast eyes and uttered not a word ; but Felise did not observe 
 
PELlSE. 225 
 
 these blushes, or this silence which spoke more eloquently than 
 words, and never suspected that this was the husband whom 
 Madame de Favras proposed for her sister. 
 
 One evening the young widow smilingly said to Felise: — 
 
 **My fairest one, a delightful idea has occurred to me! The 
 last six weeks of my mourning have just expired, and there 
 will be now no impropriety in our seeing a little more of the 
 world. I have resolved to have the musicians one of these 
 days; we shall dance, and there will be a little concert, 
 followed by supper. Should you not like to be present at 
 this gala, my queen?" 
 
 "I? I shall see a ball!" — exclaimed Felise, clapping her 
 hands with delight! **Good Heavens! is such a thing pos- 
 sible?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! it is not only possible, but easy," said Angela 
 laughing; "Cecilia and I have been employed all day making 
 arrangements for it ; we shall deck you out as well as we can, 
 my angel, with a dress which wc shall cut out — " 
 
 "Dresses! I have dozens of them," interrupted Felise, 
 "and pretty ones too, assuredly; that naughty Suzanne 
 buys them for me, and I am always asking her for new ones 
 for want of something else to do. I have pearls and diamonds 
 too — " 
 
 "Well! you shall wear them all!" said Cecilia gaily; "you 
 must look lovely and be exquisitely dressed." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Felise!" added Angela, "how happy I shall 
 be to lead you into the saloon and present you to all these 
 people ! — and shall I not be proud when they praise your beauty 
 and your grace?" 
 
 "I shall be just like Cinderella at the ball," replied Felise 
 ingenuously; "I shall want nothing but that little glass 
 slipper — " 
 
 * * And the king's son to make love to you !" exclaimed Madame 
 de Favras, with a merry burst of laughter ; "but, my dear heart, 
 you must be satisfied with less glorious conquests." 
 
 For eight days Felise dreamed of nothing else but this fete ; 
 she was all curiosity, impatience, and joy. At length one 
 evening — a lovely summer evening — at the hour when the 
 twilight dies away into the shadows of night, she stole softly 
 over the wall as usual, and entered the garden of the Hotel de 
 Favras. This portion of the terrace had been left purposely 
 in darkness and was masked moreover by a light shrubbery, 
 so that Felise could enter without being perceived into a 
 pavilion on the ground-lloor, where Angela awaited her. 
 
 "Oh! what a charming dress! you are positively dazzling, 
 love!" exclaimed the young girl rapturously, and gazing 
 p 
 
226 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARtS 
 
 at her with a deh'ghted air; "those jewels are worthy of a 
 queen!" 
 
 "I dressed myself and arranged my hair at hap-hazard and 
 without light," said Felise, as she approached a large slanting 
 mirror in which she could see herself from head to foot. 
 
 She had put on a silver-grey taffeta robe with a boddice of 
 the same material, without any sort of embroidery or trimming, 
 but the simplicity of this style, which Suzanne had chosen for 
 Sunday use, was relieved by the precious jewels which Felise 
 had taken from the casket. Her waving black hair was 
 wreathed with long strings of pearls and diamonds, while a 
 necklace of precious stones encircled her bust and fell as low 
 as her girdle. This rich yet simple costume suited admirably 
 with her noble figure and queenly beauty. Felise felt this in- 
 tuitively, and, raising her head with a movement of joy and 
 pride impossible to be described, she said to Madame de 
 Favras, who had just then entered: — 
 
 *' Here I am, all ready! let us go!" 
 
 " One moment," said Angela, "you need a few flowers to 
 brighten this somewhat sombre costume." 
 
 And with her own hands, the amiable young girl adjusted 
 a bouquet of roses and Spanish jessamine on Felise's bosom, 
 similar to that which she wore on her own robe of white 
 
 ^Vhen Felise appeared in the saloon, conducted by Madame 
 de Favras, a murmur of admiration was heard on all sides ; 
 the dancers stopped, the lansquenet players forgot for a 
 moment their cards, — the effect which she produced was 
 universal ! There was something strange and striking in her 
 triumphant beauty which recalled the women of the olden 
 time, the heroines of Ariosto, the beautiful Florentines of the 
 Decameron. Her black hair and straight clearly defined eye- 
 brows, her light blue eyes sparkling from under their long 
 dark eyelashes, her glances, sometimes keen and piercing as a 
 sword, sometimes soft and languishing, and still oftener sunk 
 in reverie, — all these singular contrasts rendered the young girl 
 a strange and charming creature, whom no one could look 
 upon without curiosity, interest, and emotion. 
 
 She felt her triumph and was intoxicated with delight. It 
 seemed to her that she was at this moment assuming her proper 
 place in society, and that her beauty raised her to the rank of 
 queen of this brilliant throng who surrounded her with flattery 
 and admiration. 
 
 In the mean time the lansquenet players resumed their 
 cards, the dancers finished their minuet, and the dowagers con- 
 tinued their conversation round the basset-table. Felise 
 
FELISE. 227 
 
 at first made the circuit of the apartment, leaning on Madame 
 de Favras' arm. When she saluted Madame de Manicamp, 
 the old lady 1 joked steadily at her and exclaimed : — 
 
 *' I am no longer astonished, mademoiselle, at what I have 
 been told ; your beauty is one of those rare treasures which 
 must be hidden for fear of occasioning the greatest disasters ! 
 Wherever you appear, you will make faithless, jealous, and 
 unhappy lovers." 
 
 Having paid this compliment, she kissed Felise on the fore- 
 head, and, turning to the lady beside her said in a whisper : — 
 
 * * She puts me in mind of Mademoiselle de Fontanges ; she has 
 the same figure, carriage, and goddess-like air, but her ex- 
 pression is very different. Poor Fontanges had a stupid, ten- 
 der look, while this girl has large, clear, piercing eyes. For 
 my part I prefer the pretty little Angela, with her sweet coun- 
 tenance, her complexion delicate as a rose leaf, and her Ma- 
 -donna hair." 
 
 Telise was returning to her place ".vhen her eyes met, for the 
 second time, those of a man, who irom her entrance into the 
 saloon had remained apart, without seeming to take any share 
 in the amusements of the evening. He was young, of distin- 
 guished bearing, and although there was nothing remarkable 
 in his features, still there was in his look, in his manner of 
 smiling, and in the carriage of his head, something so spiritual 
 and noble, that his appearance struck every one. Felise im- 
 mediately thought that he must certainly resemble the Duke de 
 Kemours, the tender lover of Madame de Cleves, and she felt a 
 secret emotion when Madame di> Favras, having beckoned to 
 the unknown, said with a playful air as she introduced him : — 
 
 "Fair charmer, here is the Marquis de Gandale who was 
 dying to see you, and who, since you have appeared, seems so 
 petrified with admiration that he has not been able to come 
 forward to pay you his respects." 
 
 There exists between two persons who have heard each other 
 much spoken of, a sort of reciprocal interest which easily glides 
 into a more animated and dangerous feeling. The first glance 
 which Felise cast upon M. de Gandale was far from the in- 
 different and curious look with which she regarded the rest of 
 the gay crowd who filled the saloon ; and the marquis, on his 
 side, could not meet her gentle gaze without embarrassment. 
 The dancers presented themselves in crowds to ask the fiivour 
 of Felise's hand, but in order to free herself once for all from 
 their importunity, she informed them that she could not dance 
 the minuet. From the manner in which she expressed her- 
 self, M. de Gandale was able to perceive that she was delighted 
 to have so good a pretext for not breaking off their conversa- 
 
228 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 tion, which after all consisted merely of the usual commonplace 
 remarks. They conversed thus during the whole evening. 
 
 The moon had now risen, and her pale rays commenced to 
 tinge with a silvery light the foliage of the garden, which could 
 be seen in the distance through the open windows buried in the 
 deep twilight of a summer evening. Felise leaned on the 
 window-sill near which she was seated, and pointing with her 
 finger to the gloomy wall which separated the two hotels, said 
 to the marquis with a sigh : — 
 
 *' Yonder is my prison — in a few moments I must once more 
 enter it." 
 
 " Ah ! mademoiselle," he jeplied with ardour, "think rather 
 of leaving it for ever !" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I do think of it," murmured she earnestly. 
 
 A young girl brought up in society would not have thus 
 kept by her side for a whole evening one whom she distin- 
 guished with so marked favour, but Felise abandoned herself 
 with too unsuspecting ardour to the ineffable sweetness of these 
 first emotions, to be able to break off this species of tete-a-tete. 
 'When they proceeded into an adjoining apartment where 
 supper was served, she further permitted M. de Gar.dale to 
 offer her his hand, and invited him with a glance to seat him- 
 self beside her at table. 
 
 Madame de Favras appeared uneasy, and her sister could 
 with difficulty conceal her deep vexation. The dowager 
 Marchioness of Manicamp observed Felise and her nephew 
 with mingled anxiety and astonishment. 
 
 " The appearance of this child had produced a wonderful 
 effect here," she whispered to one of her intimate friends; 
 *' only observe the marquis, he never leaves her side — he could 
 not be more attentive if he was her declared lover. I confess 
 I feel annoyed, I.had formed other plans for my nephew." 
 
 It was late ere the company separated. Felise had already 
 disappeared, and the marquis had retired a few moments after 
 her. When the two sisters were alone, they shut themselves in 
 their apartments, and dismissed their women. 
 
 *' Ah ! sister, what have we done I" exclaimed Angela, throw- 
 ing herself weeping into the young widow's arms — what a ball I 
 alas, what a fatal evening ! The marquis has had eyes for no 
 one but Felise — he loves her — he loves her already !" 
 
 •*No, sister, no, I cannot think so," replied Cecilia ; *'heis 
 merely dazzled with her beauty and flattered by the preference 
 she so openly manifested for him; — speaking, and looking at him 
 alone. These innocents, these lambs, have strange privileges 1 
 but M. de Gandale's heart, I am sure, is not really touched." 
 
 Angela shook her head dejectedly, and, drying the scalding 
 
FELISE. 229 
 
 drops that trickled down her now pale cheeks, she said in a 
 tone of conviction : — 
 
 " He loves her ! she is so beautiful I but, sister, have I any 
 right to complain? In your anxiety for my happiness, you 
 thouofht of this marriage ; Madame de Manicamp wished it ; 
 but M. de Gandale's wishes in the matter were never consult- 
 ed. We were wrong in thinking that he loved me. Did he 
 ever tell me so ? Is he bound by the slightest promise ? Alas ! 
 my heart alone formed this engagement." 
 
 ** He did not love you yet perhaps, but he would have loved 
 you, my Angela!" exclaimed Madame de Favras, weeping, and 
 clasping the young girl in her arras. "Your happiness and 
 mine are alike torn from us ! oh how blind and unhappy he is 
 in thus disdaining you ! But another will appreciate better 
 than M. de Gandale the treasure I wished to bestow on him." 
 
 "We must renounce these ideas, my sister," said Angela 
 with gentle firmness : "I feel that my heart cannot be given 
 twice. At present I suffer deeply, more than I can express ; 
 but my affliction will gradually die away if I turn myself to 
 God. Our good Mother Madeleine always told us so. He 
 alone can comfort us." 
 
 The following day Madame de Favras brought her sister 
 to a country seat not far from Paris, where they spent 
 fifteen days in complete solitude without hearing any intel- 
 ligence of Felise, and without the name of M. de Gandale 
 being^ once uttered. Angela continued in very low spirits, 
 and Madame de Favras both wished and dreaded to learn 
 what had taken place during her absence. On returning to 
 Paris, she found the following note awaiting her from the 
 Countess de Manicamp: — 
 
 •* My dear Baroxess — My nephew is a puppy whom I sliall certainly 
 disinherit. He has fallen in love with that little creature who is kept shut 
 up in an enchanted castle. From what you tell me, slie is rich and of a 
 good family ; but I am not ambitious for the alliance of this Sleeping Beauty in 
 the Wood. I had other intentions. I told the Marquis de Gandale that I could 
 not enter into his views, so that he may go himself to demand her hand flrom 
 the fairy Dentue. 
 
 *' I wished to inform you of this fine marriage, in order that you might not be 
 token by surprise, and I entreat you ever to consider me your best friend and 
 very bumble servant, 
 
 " COUNTBSS DE MaKICA&IP." 
 
 *• Well, sister?" said Angela, after having read this note. 
 
 *' We shall return to the country, we shall not be present at 
 this marriage at least !" exclaimed Madame de Favras, im- 
 petuously. 
 
230 THE OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 " Yes, let us set out," said Angela; *'but before Igo, I wish 
 to write to Felise." 
 
 She took the pen, and, endeavouring to repress the sobs which 
 were ready to burst from her overcharged heart, she wrote the 
 following lines with a trembling hand : — 
 
 " My dear Fblise — Heaven, which tried you so severely when very young, 
 has happiness yet in store for you : one of the best of men loves you, and is about 
 to solicit your hand. That you may be happy with him, and make him happy in 
 return, my dear Felise, is my sister's prayer'and mine, which we now express to 
 you on the eve of parting, perhaps for ever. In your prosperity do not forget 
 those who pine and suffer ; pray for them, for yourself, and loaded with the goods 
 of this world, turn your thoughts to still higher and holier concerns. 
 
 " Blethinks the prediction of Mother Terpetua will not prove groundless, and 
 that one day I shall take the veil in the Convent of the Annunciation. Think of 
 rae then, and sometimes speak of Sister Angela." 
 
 A dexterous valet promised to convey this letter to Felise, 
 and an hour afterwards she found it lying rolled around a stone 
 at the entrance of her apartment. • Felise knew nothing of what 
 had happened, and had remained for fifteen days in a state of 
 inexpressible agitation. The sudden departure of the sisters 
 had occasioned her extreme astonishment and vexation, while 
 their absence left her without the means or the hope of seeing 
 M. de Gandale. She spent her days and nights in tears, like 
 a loving and despairing maiden. Twenty times she was on 
 the point of escaping and flying far away, she cared not 
 whither, from this accursed house, where she was pining away 
 with vexation, weariness, and restraint. 
 
 Angela's letter threw her into transports of astonishment 
 and joy, which she was unable to repress. Pale, her eyes 
 sparkling, her head erect, she entered the saloon, where Ma- 
 demoiselle de Saulieu, seated in her accustomed place, was 
 working at her never-ending embroidery. The young girl 
 sat down, for her trembling limbs were no longer able to 
 sustain her, and said in short and hurried accents : — 
 
 " Aunt, I must speak to you. Listen to me. The moment 
 has arrived when I shall at length leave this house. Soon, 
 perhaps this very day, a man of wealth and station will come 
 to ask my hand in marriage." 
 
 "What did you say? I do not rightly understand you," 
 exclaimed Mademoiselle de Saulieu, with the doubtful look 
 and manner of one whose mind has been wandering in another 
 world. 
 
 '*! repeat that M. de Gandale wishes to marry me, and 
 that he will come himself to demand my hand from you," re- 
 plied Felise. "You will not refuse him, aunt?" 
 
 Mademoiselle de Saulieu looked stupificd and made a ges- 
 
FEI.ISE. 231 
 
 ture in the negative. At this mute response Felise*s anger 
 and indignation, so long pent up, overcame all restraint. 
 
 *' Do not think I shall obey youl" she exclaimed. ** I have 
 only too long submitted to the slavery in which you keep me! 
 Yes, you have inflicted nothing but suffering on me, and I 
 hate you ! AVhat have you ever been to me? — a cruel relative. 
 When a child you cast me into the cells of a convent, and 
 now you keep me here a prisoner. But my place is in the 
 world, and I have a right to live there like other girls of my 
 station. I know that I am rich and of a good family; give 
 me my fortune, that I may at length assume my proper rank. 
 You do not answer, but you will be forced to answer when 
 M. de Gandale demands the reason of your refusal." 
 
 "Unfortunate child!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Saulieu, 
 raising her hands to heaven. 
 
 Then with an indescribable gesture of sorrow and command 
 she pointed to the door, saying: — 
 
 "lieturn to your apartment — I shall receive M. de Gan- 
 dale, and if he persists after this interview, I consent to your 
 marriage — go !" 
 
 Subdued by her authoritative manner, struck with these 
 last words, Felise retired, shuddering, and ran to shut herself 
 up in her chamber, where she remained for the rest of the 
 day standing at the window and listening for the least move- 
 ment or the slightest noise. Mademoiselle de Saulieu had given 
 her orders. Balin waited in the antechamber, and Suzanne 
 with a terrified look kept her eyes incessantly turned towards 
 the entrance gate. 
 
 The following day, in the afternoon, the noise of a carriage 
 entering the court-yard announced the arrival of the Marquis 
 de Gandale. The young nobleman crossed the forbidden 
 threshold of this sombre dwelling with much emotion. This 
 impression increased when the old servant, dressed in mourn- 
 ing, announced his name with a loud voice in the deserted 
 and echoing balls. Mademoiselle de Saulieu rose to receive 
 him. At the sight of that impressive countenance, grown 
 prematurely old from grief and suffering, and that look, at 
 once proud and melancholy, which sunk at his approach, the 
 marquis felt a thrill run through his veins, and he was obliged 
 to pause for an instant to recover himself. Mademoiselle de 
 Saulieu waited in silence until he should utter his request. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he at length, "I am Hector, Marquis 
 de Gandale, and my name, I trust, j ustifies me in aspiring to 
 the honour of your alliance. I possess a fortune which is 
 sufficient to maintain my rank honourably ; I have had an 
 opportunity of becoming acquainted with your niece, and, 
 
232 TUB OLD CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
 struck by her rare beauty and the still rarer qualities of mind 
 which she possesses, I have become passionately attached to 
 her. She is an orphan, I am informed, and from you, as her 
 only relative, I come to ask her hand." 
 
 **I refuse it, M. le Marquis," replied Mademoiselle de Sau- 
 lieu, greatly agitated. 
 
 *' And will you favour me with the grounds of your refusal, 
 mademoiselle?" exclaimed M. de Gandale. 
 
 **If you absolutely require it, sir;" murmured the grief- 
 stricken lady, almost inaudibly ; ' ' but be advised, and without 
 explanation or details give up the hand of my niece." 
 
 The marquis only replied by an impatient gesture; his 
 pride and his love seemed to equally offer an indignant refusal. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Saulieu paused as if to summon up all her 
 strength, and then said, at first very slowly, but, as she pro- 
 ceeded, in abrupt and hurried accents : — 
 
 "It is a melancholy history which I am about to relate, 
 sir — the frightful misfortunes of two families. An orphan 
 from infancy,.! was brought up, along with a younger sister, 
 by an uncle who adopted us. At sixteen my sister married a man 
 of rank, while I remained with my uncle, now grown infirm. 
 I deferred my own establishment in life in order to watch over 
 his declining years, and I remained with him up to the age 
 of twenty-five, persuaded that he would share his fortune be- 
 tween myself and my sister, whom he had already richly por- 
 tioned. But these anticipations proved groundless — a will, 
 which he concealed from us, made me his only heir. Alas ! 
 how shall I recall the consequences of this preference ? My 
 sister's husband had long entertained a hateful passion for me ; 
 his avarice was equal to his depraved love. I was about to be 
 married to one whom my heart had long selected. The wretch 
 formed the design of marrying me himself, and getting rid of 
 all obstacles previously. A dispensation from the Holy Fa- 
 ther authorises a man to marry two sisters in succession. The 
 same night his wife was assassinated in her own chateau, while 
 he to whom I was to have been united was shot through the 
 head almost before my very eyes. The murderer had arranged 
 his double crime with extreme address, but Providence willed 
 his immediate chastisement. His crime had secret witnesses ; 
 his victims were avenged, and he perished by the hand of the 
 executioner. You have doubtless heard, sir, the dreadful his- 
 tory of the Count de Chardavon, who was broken on the 
 wheel at Toulouse. He was the father of Felise. He had a 
 young sister: she was called the fair Genevieve. Disgraced 
 by his infamous- crime, and his no less infamous punishment, 
 she died in a convent, and T, whom this monster deprived of 
 
FELISE. 233 
 
 SO many objects of affection, wear out the remainder of my 
 life here with the old servants who have followed me, and this 
 child who accuses me of cruelty, but from whom I must for 
 ever hide our misfortunes." 
 
 The marquis listened to this narrative with silent horror, 
 and before Mademoiselle de Saulieu ceased speaking he rose. 
 Balin threw open the doors. M. de Gandale bowed pro- 
 foundly, and half sunk on one knee as if to ask pardon from 
 one whom he had forced to make such an avowal; then he 
 slowly withdrew. 
 
 As he disappeared. Mademoiselle de Saulieu perceived the 
 pale face of Felise at the extremity of the saloon. The un- 
 happy girl, concealed behind the folding-doors, had heard 
 every word that was uttered. Her look of calm and settled 
 despair was terrible to behold. 
 
 "Aunt," said she, placing Angela's letter on the reading- 
 desk, "I must return to the Annonciades — my place is there. 
 I have reflected since yesterday, and I have seen plainly that 
 Mademoiselle de Chameroy loves the Marquis de Gandale, 
 and since I am the daughter of a criminal he will marry her. 
 Oh ! aunt, restore me to the convent, for at this idea I feel 
 my father's blood flowing in my veins!" 
 
 TTie same day Felise returned to the Convent of the An- 
 nunciation. When she crossed for the second time the formi- 
 dable barrier of the cloister gate, she was received by the 
 superior and Father Boinet. 
 
 "We were ever expecting you, my daughter," said the 
 good father. 
 
 " Come, my child I" exclaimed the superior, with accents of 
 tenderness and joy. "Oh! my poor bruised lamb, blessed be 
 the good Shepherd who leads you hither, and the day which 
 restores you to the fold !" 
 
 END OF THE CONVENTS OF PARIS. 
 
THE 
 
 HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SBIMS & MTNTYRE, 13, PATERNOSTER ROW ; 
 AND 26, DONEGALL STREET, BELFAST. 
 
 18i0. 
 
THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO TilE READER. 
 
 " A la sueur de ton visaige, 
 Tu gaigneras ta pauvre vie, 
 Apres long travail et usaige, 
 Voicy la mort qui te convie." 
 
 This old French quatrain^ inscribed beneath a composition by 
 Holbein, is deeply touching in its mournful simplicity. The 
 engraving represents a* labourer ploughing. A vast extent of 
 open country stretches far away into the distance, dotted here 
 and there with a few poor and miserable cabins, while the sun 
 is sinking to rest behind a neighbouring hill. It is towards 
 the close of a hard day's work. The peasant is an aged and 
 decrej)it man, covered with rags. The harness of the fowr 
 horses which he is driving is rotten and scanty ; the plough- 
 share delves into a harsh and rebellious soil. One object 
 alone is lively and active amidst this scene of sueur et usaige. 
 This is a fantastic personage, a skeleton armed with a whip, 
 who runs along in the furrow beside the terrified horses, strik- 
 ing them at times with his»lash, and thus serving as assistant 
 to the old labourer. This figure is Death — that spectre which 
 Holbein has introduced allegorically into the succession of 
 philosophical and religious subjects, at once lugubrious and 
 comic, entitled, Les Simulachres de la Morty or Dance of 
 Death. ^ 
 
 In this collection, or rather in this vast composition, where 
 Death, playing his part through every page, is the connecting 
 tie and ruling thought, Holbein has introduced sovereigns, 
 pontiffs, lovers, gamblers, drunkards, nuns, courtesans, bri- 
 gands, beggars, warriors, monks, Jews, travellers — in short, 
 every character of his time and of our own, and everywhere 
 does the spectre of Death mock, threaten, and triumph. From 
 one picture only is it absent. It is that in which the beggar 
 
238 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 Lazarus, laid at the rich man's door, declares that he fears it 
 not, doubtless because he has nothini? to lose, and because his 
 entire life has been one anticipated death. 
 
 But is this stoical idea of the half-pagan Christianity of the 
 middle ages a very consoling one, and can religious minds 
 find comfort from It? The ambitious man, the hypocrite, the 
 tyrant, the debauchee — all those haughty sinners who abuse 
 life, and over whom Death shakes his dart — will doubtless be 
 punished ; but the blind, the mendicant, the maniac, the poor 
 peasant — are they indemnified for their long life of misery by 
 the single reflection that for them Death has no sting? No! 
 An air of the deepest sadness and gloom broods over the ar- 
 tist's work. It resembles a bitter malediction hurled at the 
 lot of suffering humanity. 
 
 It is indeed a withering satire, a true picture of the society 
 which Holbein had before his eyes. Crime and misery were 
 everywhere its distinctive features ; but we, artists of another 
 age, what shall we depict? Shall we represent death as the 
 sole reward of the present life, or shall we invoke it as the 
 chastisement of injustice and the remuneration for suffering? 
 
 No, we have no longer to do with death, but rather with 
 life. We no longer believe either in the annihilation of the 
 tomb or the salvation purchased by a forced renunciation of 
 the goods of this world. We desire that life may be good, be- 
 cause we wish that it may be fruitful. Lazarus must quit his 
 filthy bed of straw, in order that the poor man may no longer 
 rejoice at the death of his wealthy fellow-creature. All must 
 be happy, in order that the prosperity of some be not criminal 
 and accursed of God. The labourer, while sowing his wheat, 
 must learn that labour is the work of life, and not rejoice be- 
 cause death stalks at his side. In short, death must no longer 
 be considered either the chastisement of prosperity or the con- 
 eolation of distress. God never intended it either as the 
 punishment for, or the indemnification of, life ; for he has blessed 
 life, and the tomb ought not to be considered as a mere refuge 
 for the unhappy. . 
 
 Certain artists of our own times, casting a serious eye 
 upon the persons and events which surround them, love to 
 depict pain and sorrow, the abjectness of misery, the straw 
 pallet of Lazarus. This may be the domain of art and phi- 
 losophy; but, while painting misery so hideous, so squalid, 
 frequently so vicious and criminal, is their end attained, and 
 is the eflfect produced as salutary as they should wish? We 
 dare not pronounce an opinion upon this delicate question. 
 We may be told that, by painting this gulf dug beneath the 
 fragile soil of opulence, thcjy terrify the wealthv sinner, as in 
 
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER. 239 
 
 the times of the danse macabre they pointed out to him his 
 yawning grave, and Death preparing to entwine him in his 
 loathsome arms. Now-a-days they show him the robber 
 breaking into his house, and the assassin stealing upon his 
 sleep. We confess that we cannot very clearly comprehend 
 how they will reconcile him to that humanity which he de- 
 spises — how they will render him sensible of the sorrows of 
 the poor whom he dreads, by showing him one of this very 
 class of poor under the form of the housebreaker and the 
 midnight assassin. The frightful image of Death, grinding 
 his teeth and playing his violin, in the pictures of Holbein and 
 his predecessors, did not succeed in converting the wicked 
 or consoling the victims of their day. And does not our 
 literature proceed in this matter much after the manner of 
 the artists of the middle ages and the renaissance? 
 
 Holbein's revellers filled their cups with a sort of fury, in 
 order to banish the idea of death, which, although invisible to 
 them, yet served them as cupbearer. The wealthy sinners of 
 the present day demand fortifications and cannon in order to 
 banish the idea of a Jacquerie^ which art shows them working 
 in the shade, step by step, awaiting the favourable moment to 
 make an onslaught on social order. The church of the middle 
 ages replied to the terrors of the powerful of the land by the 
 sale of indulgences. The governments of the present day 
 calm the anxieties of the rich by making them pay roundly 
 for police and gaolers, bayonets and prisons. 
 
 Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, Goya, have 
 all in turn produced powerful satires upon the evils which 
 afflicted their age and countries. These are certainly immor- 
 tal works, historical pages of most incontestable value. We 
 are far from denying to these artists the right of probing the 
 wounds of society, and placing them in all their unveiled de- 
 formity before our eyes ; but are there not more fitting tasks in 
 the present day than the painting of terror and intimidation? 
 In this literature of mysteries and of iniquity, which talent 
 and imagination have brought into fashion, we love better the 
 sweet and gentle creations than the villains of the talc, effect- 
 ive and dramatic though they be. The former can undertake 
 and perhaps even succeed in converting some, the latter 
 merely terrify ; and fear never cures selfishness, but on the 
 contrary invariably augments it. 
 
 We believe that the mission of art is a mission of feeling 
 and of love, that the fiction of the present day ought to re- 
 place the parable and the apologue of primitive times, and 
 that the artist should cherish a loftier and nobler aim than 
 that of merely proposing certain measures of prudence and 
 
240 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 conciliation, in order to weaken the fear inspired by his pic- 
 tures. His aim ought to be to make the objects of his solici- 
 tude loved, and if necessary I would even excuse him for 
 embellishing them a little. Art is not a study of positive, but 
 a search for ideal truth, and the Vicar of Wakefield is, in my 
 mind, a work both more useful and far healthier for the mind 
 than either Le Paysan perverti or Les Liaisons dangereuses. 
 
 Reader, pardon me these reflections, and deign to accept 
 them in guise of preface. There will be none in the narrative 
 that I am about to relate to you, and which will be so short 
 and so simple that I found it necessary to apologise beforehand 
 for these qualities by informing you what I think of tales of 
 crime and terror. 
 
 It is apropos of a labourer that I have allowed myself to be 
 drawn into this digression. Well, it was precisely the story 
 of a labourer that I had intended to relate to you, and which 
 I shall now proceed with. 
 
 I had been studying for a length of time with feelings of 
 profound melancholy Holbein's picture of "The Labourer," 
 and had strolled out into the fields, pondering on the nature 
 of a rural life and the lot of the agriculturist. Without doubt 
 it is a hard and ungrateful task to consume life and strength 
 in turning up the clods of this jealous earth, which compels 
 man to tear forcibly from its bosom its teeming treasures, 
 when a crust of the hardest and blackest bread is, at the close 
 of the day, the sole recompense and profit attached to so 
 severe a toil. These riches, spread over the soil, these har- 
 vests, these fruits, these noble animals fattening on the rich 
 herbage, are the property of the few, and the instruments of 
 fatigue and slavery to the many. The man of ease and 
 leisure loves not in general, for their own sakes, either the 
 fields or the plains, the broad expanse of nature, or the superb 
 animals which are to be converted into money for his use. 
 The man of leisure comes to seek a little fresh air and reno- 
 vated health in the country, after which he returns to spend 
 in the great cities the fruit of his vassals' toil. 
 
 The labouring man, on his side, is too much oppressed, too 
 unhappy, and too anxious for the future, to enjoy the beauties 
 of the country and the charms of rural life. For him also the 
 golden fields, the smiling plains, the noble animals, represent 
 sacks of crown pieces, of which he will have but a scanty por- 
 tion, almost insufljcient for his needs, but which nevertheless 
 he must replenish each year, in order to satisfy his master, and 
 pay for the right of living parsimoniously and miserably upon 
 his domain. 
 
 And yet nature is ever young, beautiful, and generous. 
 
TUE AUTHOU TO THE READER. 241 
 
 She sheds poetry and beauty over all beings and upon every 
 plant that man permits her to develop at her will. She pos- 
 sesses the true secret of happiness, that treasure which no one 
 has been able to ravish from her. The happiest of beings 
 would be that man who, possessing a scientific and cultivated 
 mind, working with his own hands and securing happiness 
 and liberty from the exercise of his own intelligence and 
 strength, would yet have leisure to devote to the improvement 
 of his moral and intellectual qualities, to comprehend his own 
 handiwork, and to adore that of his Maker. The artist pos- 
 sesses enjoyments of this kind in the contemplation and 
 reproduction on his canvass of the beauties of nature ; but on 
 beholding the misery of the beings who people this terrestrial 
 paradise, the humane and right-minded artist feels an emotion 
 of sadness mingle with his pleasure. Happiness would exist 
 there, where the mind, the heart, and the arms, working in 
 concert under the eye of the Almighty, should produce a holy 
 harmony between the munificence of God and the enjoyment 
 of the human soul. It is then that in place of that piteous 
 and frightful Death, stalking whip in hand along the furrow, 
 the allegorical painter shall place by his side the radiant form 
 of an angel of light, scattering with bounteous hands the 
 blessed seed upon the smoking soil ! 
 
 And the dream of an existence for the peasant, at once 
 sweet, unfettered, poetic, laborious, and simple, is not so diffi- 
 cult of conception as- to be peremptorily dismissed to the 
 regions of empty speculation. That sweet but pensive ejacu- 
 lation of Virgil — " O happy the countryman, if he but knew 
 his happiness" — is a regret; but, like all regrets, it is also a 
 prediction. A day will surely come when the labourer will 
 also be an artist, if not to express, (a matter of small moment 
 then) at least to feel, the beautiful. But will any one assert 
 that this mysterious and intuitive feeling of poetry is not al- 
 ready germinating within him in the state of instinct and vague 
 reverie? Amongst those protected from the pressing wants of 
 the day, and in whom the excess of poverty does not stifle 
 all moral and intellectual development, happiness — pure, 
 heartfelt, and deeply appreciated happiness — is in the elemen- 
 tary state ; and if, even amid pain, fatigue, and labour, the 
 poet's voice has already been raised, why should it be said that 
 the labour of the arms is incompatible with that of the mind? 
 This incompatibility is doubtless the general result of excessive 
 toil and extreme poverty; but let no one say that when a 
 man shall labour usefully and in moderation we shall then 
 have only ])ad workmen and inferior poets. He who finds 
 elevated and lofty pleasures in the feeling of poetry is a 
 
242 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 true poet, though he had never composed a line of verse in his 
 entire lifetime. 
 
 My thoughts had by degrees taken this direction without my 
 having perceived that this confidence in the improvement of 
 the peasant was strengthened in me by the influences of out- 
 ward objects. I was strolling along the hedge-row of a field 
 which some peasants were in the act of preparing for seed-time. 
 The arena was as vast as that of Holbein's picture. The land- 
 scape stretched away on every side in long lines of verdure, 
 slightly tinged by the approach of autumn, and formed a sort of 
 framework for the large freshly ploughed field of a rich brown, 
 in some of the furrows of which the recent rains had left lines of 
 water which sparkled in the sun's rays like so many slender 
 silver threads. The day was clear and mild, and the newly- 
 opened earth exhaled a light vapour. At the upper extremity 
 of the field an old man, whose powerful frame and severe fea- 
 tures recalled to mind Holbein's labourer, but whose garments 
 gave no indication of poverty, gravely drove his areau or 
 plough, of antique form, drawn by a pair of tranquil oxen 
 with hides of a pale yellow colour, the true patriarchs of the 
 fields. They were of lofty stature, rather thin, and with long 
 and downward-curving horns, and belonged to that class of 
 old labourers whom long habit has rendered brothers, as they 
 are called in our plains, and who, if deprived of each other's 
 society, refuse to work any longer and die of grief. People 
 unacquainted with the country treat as a fable the alleged 
 frienclship of the ox for his companion in harness, but let these 
 sceptics come and see in a farm stable a poor emaciated ox 
 lashing with restless tail his meagre fianks, blowing with fear 
 and disdain upon the fodder placed before him, and turning nis 
 eyes constantly towards the door, or else pawing with impa- 
 tient hoof the empty stall by his side, snuffing over the yokes 
 and cliains which his companion has borne, and calling him 
 unceasingly with plaintive lowings. The cowherd will tell 
 you — " There's a pair of oxen lost: his brother is dead, and he 
 won't work any longer. We would fatten him for the slaugh- 
 ter-house, but he won't eat, and he will soon die of hunger." 
 
 The old labourer worked slowly and in silence, without 
 making any useless exertion. His docile team exerted themselves 
 no more than he did, but, thanks to a continuous and undis- 
 turbed efibrt, and a careful husbanding of his strength, his fur- 
 row was as quickly turned as that of his son, who drove, at 
 some distance off, four less robust oxen in a harsher and stonier 
 vein of earth. 
 
 But what afterwards attracted my attention was in truth a 
 beautiful si^ht, a noble subject for a painter ' At the other 
 
THE AUTHOR TO THE REAPER. 243 
 
 end of the field a young man of pleasing appearance was 
 guiding a magnificent team, consisting of four pair of young 
 animals with hides of a dark colour mingled with streaks of 
 golden brown. Their short and crisply curled heads and 
 large fierce eyes displayed evidences of their descent from the 
 savage race, while their sudden movements and nervous and 
 impetuous bounds, showed them to be still irritated at the 
 yoke and goad, obeying, yet burning to throw off, the newly- 
 imposed dominion. A team of this description is what is 
 called oxen newly-yoked. The man who drove them had 
 to plough a corner used until recently only as pasture land 
 and filled with stumps of trees, a task which required Hercu- 
 lean strength, and one for which his energy, his youth, and his 
 eight almost untamed animals barely sufficed. A child of 
 from six to seven years of age, lovely as an angel, and v/ear- 
 ing on his shoulders, over his blouse, a lamb-skin, which gave 
 him somewhat the a}:)pearance of an infant St. John the Bap- 
 tist, walked in the furrow alongside the plough and pricked 
 the flanks of the oxen with a long light pole armed with a 
 blunted spike. The proud animals chafed under the little 
 hand of the child, and made the yokes and harness rattle and 
 clash under their impetuous elibrts. Whenever a root stopped 
 the ploughshare the labourer would cry out in a loud voice, 
 calling each' beast by name, but rather to calm than to excite 
 them; for the oxen, irritated by this sudden resistance, 
 plunged forward, throwing up the soil with their huge cloven 
 feet, and would have started aside, carrying the plough after 
 them across the fields, if the young man had not by voice and 
 gesture kept in order the four first, while the child managed 
 the others. The poor little fellow shouted also in a voice 
 which he endeavoured to render terrible, but which ever re- 
 mained as gentle as his own angelic features. The whole pic- 
 ture was beautiful in strength and grace — the landscape, the 
 man, the child, the oxen under the yoke; and notwithstanding 
 this powerful conflict in which the earth was conquered, there 
 reigned an air of gentleness and profound calm over the 
 scene. When the obstacle was surmounted, and the team re- 
 sumed the staid and even tenor of its way, the labourer, whose 
 feigned violence was only an exercise of his vigour and a sud- 
 den outbreak of activity, would all at once resume the serenity 
 habitual to simple minds, and would throw a glance of fatherly 
 pride and affection upon his child, who turned round to smile 
 upon him in return. Then the manly voice of this young fa- 
 ther would give utterance to tiie solemn and melancholy 
 chaunt which the ancient tradition of the country transmits, 
 not to all labourers indiscriminately, but to those best skilled 
 
244 THE HAUNTED MATISH. 
 
 in tlio art of excitinij and sustaining the ardour of the oxen 
 under the plough. This song, the origin of which was pro- 
 bably considered as sacred, and to which certain mysterious 
 induences were formerly attributed, is still reputed at the pre- 
 sent day to possess the virtue of maintaining the courage of 
 these animals, of appeasing their discontents, and of charminij 
 away the weariness of their arduous labour. It is not deemed 
 sufficient to know how to drive a team well, so as to trace a 
 perfectly straight furrow, or to lighten the animal's labour by 
 elevating or depressing the ploughshare ; he is not considered 
 a perfect labourer who is unable to sing to his oxen — a pecu- 
 liar talent which requires considerable taste and skill. 
 
 This song is in truth but a sort of recitative, interrupted 
 and resumed at will. Its irregular form and false intonations, 
 judged by the rules of musical art, render it untranslatable. 
 But it is not the less a pleasing song, and is so peculiarly 
 appropriate to the nature of the labour for which it serves as 
 accompaniment, to the gait of the oxen, to the calm which 
 reigns over these rural scenes, and to the simple and artless 
 character of the men who utter it, that no genius who was a 
 stranger to the labom^s of the field could have invented it, and 
 no singer save a skilled labourer of this country could possibly 
 do it justice. At the periods of the year when there is no 
 other work or movement going on in the country save agricul- 
 tural labour, this chorus, at once so sweet and powerful, as- 
 cends like the voice pf the breeze, to which its peculiar tone 
 gives it some sort of resemblance. The concluding note of each 
 phrase, sustained with a power and for a length of time abso- 
 lutely incredible, ascends a quarter of a note systematically 
 out of tune. This is wild, in truth, but its charm overpowers 
 all criticism ; and when the ear becomes accustomed to it, the 
 listener cannot- conceive that any other song could be raised 
 at such hours and in such localities, without disturbing the 
 harmony of nature. 
 
 It so happened, therefore, that I had before me a picture which 
 formed a striking contrast to that of Holbein, although its com- 
 ponent materials were similar. In place of an old man worn 
 down with grief, a young and active peasant ; in place of a 
 yoke of lean and jaded horses, a double team of robust and 
 spirited oxen ; in place of death, a lovely child ; and in place 
 of an image of despair and the idea of destruction, a spectacle 
 of enei-gy and a dream of happiness. 
 
 It was then that the old French quatrain — 
 
 "A la sueur de ton visaige," &c. 
 and the " O fortnnatos...agncolas'" of Virgil recurred simid- 
 
TIIB AXTTHOR TO THE HEADER. 245 
 
 tajieously to my mind ; and while gazing upon this handsome 
 couple, the man and the child, accomplishing so poetically, 
 with so much grace united to so much strength, a task full of 
 grandeur and solemnity, I felt a deep sensation of pity min- 
 gled with involuntaiy respect. Plappy the labourer! yes, 
 doubtless I should be so in his place, if, my arm becoming all 
 at once robust and my breast muscular, I could thus at the 
 same time fertilize nature while I sang her charms, without 
 my eyes ceasing to behold and my thoughts to comprehend 
 the harmony of colours and sounds, the delicacy of tones, and 
 the grace of outline — in a word, the mysterious beauty of the 
 universe; and above all, without my heart ceasing to be in 
 relation with the divine sentiment which presides over the 
 immortal and sublime creation ! 
 
 But, alas ! that man has never understood the mystery of 
 the beautiful — that child will never comprehend it. God 
 preserve me from believing that they are not superior to the 
 beasts they control, and that they have not at times a sort of 
 ecstatic revelation which charms away their fatigue and lulls 
 their cares to rest! I behold impressed uporf their noble 
 brows the seal of the Almighty, for they are born kings of 
 the earth much more than those who, by right of purchase, 
 possess it. And the proof that they feel it is, that one cannot 
 remove them from their country with impunity; for they love 
 this soil watered with the sweat of their brow, and the true 
 peasant dies of nostalgia under the harness of the soldier when 
 far from the -fields which have witnessed his birth. But this 
 man lacks a portion of the enjoyments which I possess — mental 
 enjoyments which are indeed his due as the workman in that 
 vast temple which the heavens alone are sufficiently wide to 
 embrace. AVhat he lacks is the knowledge of his own feelings. 
 Those who have condemned him to servitude from his mother's 
 womb, unable to deprive him of reverie, have robbed him of 
 reflection. 
 
 Well, such as he is, imperfect, and condemned to eternal 
 childhood though he be, he is yet a fairer spectacle than he 
 in whose bosom science has stifled feeling. Raise not your- 
 selves above him, ye who believe yourselves invested with the 
 legitimate and inherent right of ruling over him, for this 
 frightful error under which you labour proves that your un- 
 derstanding has destroyed your heart, and that you are at once 
 the most imperfect and the blindest of men. I love far better 
 the simplicity of his soul than the false lights of yours, and 
 were I to recount his life I should have far more pleasure in 
 bringing forward the gentle and touching portions of it, than 
 you would have merit in painting the abject state into 
 
246 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 which the rigour and the disdain of your social maxi.ns have 
 cast him. 
 
 I knew this young man and this lovely child ; I knew their 
 story — for they had a story, every one has his own, and would 
 interest the world by the recital of tlie romance of their life, 
 if they but understood it themselves. Although a peasant 
 and a simple labourer, Germain was well instructed in his 
 duties and affections. He had related them to me simply and 
 clearly, and I had heard them with interest. After I had 
 watched him labouring for some time, I asked myself why his 
 history should not be written, although it was but a simple 
 story, as straightforward and as unornamental as the furrow 
 which he traced with his plouffh. 
 
 ^ext year this furrow will be covered and its place filled 
 up with a new furrow, and thus the greater portion of tnen 
 appear and vanish from the field of human life. A little earth 
 obliterates all trace of them, and the furrows we have turned 
 Succeed each other like tombs in a cemetery. Is not the 
 furrow of the labourer worth that of the idler, who has never- 
 theless a name, a name too which will remain, if by some 
 singularity, some piece of eccentricity or absurdity he makes 
 a little noise in the world? 
 
 Well then, let us endeavour to snatch if possible from the 
 oblivion of forgetfulness the furrow of Germain the skilful 
 labourer. He will know nothing of it and will never trouble 
 himself about the matter; but I shall have enjoyed some 
 pleasure in the attempt. 
 
247 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 GERMAIN, THE SKILFUL LABOUUER. 
 
 ** Germain," said his father-in-law to him one day, '* you must 
 make up your mind to take a second wife. It is now two 
 years since you became the widower of my daughter and your 
 eldest child is seven years old. You are getting on towards 
 thirty, my boy, and you know that in our country a man 
 who is past that age is considered too old to marry again. You 
 have three fine children, and up to the present time they have 
 not been the least trouble to us. My wife and my daughter- 
 in-law have taken the best care of them they could, and have 
 loved them as they deserved. There's little Pierre almost 
 reared ; he can already goad the oxen very nicely, he is wise 
 enough to be able to herd the beasts in the fields, and strong 
 enough to take the horses to water. He therefore is no trouble 
 to us ; but the two others, whom God knows we love for all 
 that, poor innocents! give us this year much anxiety. My 
 daughter-in-law is near her confinement and she has still a 
 little one in her arms. When the new-comer arrives she will 
 no longer be able to look after your Solange and above all 
 your Sylvaln, who is scarcely four years old, and who never 
 rests night or day. He has your lively temper and will make 
 a good workman, but you must allow he makes a terrible child ; 
 and my old woman is not active enough to pursue and catch 
 him when he runs near the ditch or rolls under the feet of the 
 cattle. And then with this other that my daughter-in-law is 
 about to bring into the world, the first must be thrown, during 
 a year at least, upon my wife's arms. Your children therefore 
 make us anxious. "VVe do not like to see children badly taken 
 care of, and when we think of the accidents which might hap- 
 pen for want of care, we are never at ease. You must there- 
 fore take another wife and give me another daughter-in-law. 
 Think over this, my boy. I have already spoken to you on 
 this subject several times ; time flies, and the years will not 
 wait. For your children's sakes, and for ours also, who like 
 everything to go on smoothly in the house, you ought to marry 
 again as soon as possible." 
 
 " Well, father," replied the son-in-law, *'if you absolutely 
 wish it, you shall be obeyed. But I cannot conceal from you 
 that it will cost me much, and that I had almost as soon drown 
 
248 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 myself as do your bidding. A man knows what he has lost, 
 but he knows not what he shall find. I had a dear, good, kind 
 wife ; gentle, courageous, affectionate to her father and mother, 
 kind to her husband, kind to her children, a good worker in 
 the fields as well as in the house, clever at everything she put 
 her hand to, good for all in short ; and when you gave her to 
 me, when I took her from you, we made no agreement that I 
 should forget her if I had the misfortune to lose her." 
 
 *' What you say shows your goodness of heart, Germain," 
 rejoined Farmer Maurice; " I know that you loved my child, 
 that you rendered her happy, and that if you could have satis- 
 fied death by going in her place, Catherine would have been 
 alive at this present moment, and you in the grave. She well 
 deserved being so truly loved by you, and if you were incon- 
 solable at her death, we were so also, I am sure. But I speak 
 not to you of forgetting her. The Almighty so willed, that 
 she should be taken from us, and we do not pass a single day 
 without showing by our prayers, our thoughts, our words and 
 actions, that we respect her memory and regret her death. 
 But were she able to speak to you from the other world and 
 make known to you her wishes, she would command you to 
 seek a mother for her little orphans. The question then is to 
 meet with a woman worthy of replacing her. This will not 
 be an easy task, but it is not an impossible one ; and when you 
 shall have found her, you will love her as you did my daughter, 
 because you are an honest fellow, and would be grateful to her 
 for rendering us a service and for loving your children." 
 
 *'Well, well. Father Maurice," said Germain, "I will do 
 your will, as I have always done." 
 
 "It is but doing you justice, my son, to say that you have 
 ever listened to the advice and instructions of the head of your 
 family. Let us consult together then on the choice of your 
 new wife. In the first place I am not of opinion that you 
 should take a young girl. This is not what we want. Youth 
 is giddy, and as the task of rearing three children is no incon- 
 siderable burthen, especially when they are the fruits of a 
 former marriage, you require a kind considerate soul, gentle 
 with children and willing to work. If your wife is not of the 
 same age, or nearly so, as yourself, she will not have good 
 sense enough to undertake such a duty. She will think you 
 too old, and your children too young. She will complain, 
 and your children will pine away." 
 
 ** That is precisely what makes me uneasy," said Germain. 
 " Suppose these poor little innocents should be ill-treated, 
 hated — beaten perhaps?" 
 
 " God forbid !" rejoined the old man. *' Ill-tempered wo- 
 
GERMAIN, THE SKILFUI/ JLABOUllEll. 249 
 
 men are rarer in our country than kind ones, and one must 
 be very silly not to be able to put one's hand on the woman 
 likely to suit." 
 
 ** That's true, father ; there are some good girls in our village. 
 There is Louise, Sylvaine, Claudine, Marguerite — in short, 
 whatever one you wish." 
 
 *• Gently, gently, my boy; all these girls are too young, or 
 too poor, or too pretty ; for, in fact, one must think of that 
 also, my son. A pretty woman is not always so discreet as 
 another." 
 
 ** You want me to marry a fright then, do you?" said Ger- 
 main rather uneasily. 
 
 **No, no! not a fright; for this woman you will choose will 
 probably bring you a second family, and there is nothing so 
 sad as having ugly, ill-formed, or unhealthy children. But a 
 woman still in the prime of life, healthy, and neither very 
 handsome nor yet a fright, would just suit your purpose." 
 
 "I see clearly," said Germain, smiling rather sadly, ''that 
 to procure such a one as you wish, it would be necessary to 
 have one made on purpose ; particularly as you do not wish to 
 have a poor one, and the rich are not so easily obtained, es- 
 pecially by a widower." 
 
 "And supposing she should be a widow herself, Germain? 
 There! a widow without children, and with a snug little 
 property?" 
 
 *• I know none at present in our parish." 
 
 "ISTor I either; but there are some elsewhere." 
 
 ** You have got some one in view, father; so come, lell me 
 at once." 
 
 "Well, yes, I have some one in view: she is one of the 
 Leonards, Guerin's widow, who lives at Fourche." 
 
 " I know neither the woman nor the place," replied Germain 
 with a resigned air, though evidently growing more and more 
 dejected. 
 
 " She is called Catherine, as was your former wife." 
 
 "Catherine? yes, that would please me, having to repeat 
 that name. Catherine ! and yet if I could not love her as 
 well as the other Catherine it would be still more painful, for 
 it would recall her still more frequently to my mind." 
 
 " I tell you that you will love her; she is a good creature, 
 a kind-hearted woman. I have not seen her for a length oif 
 time, but she was by no means an ugly girl then ; she is no 
 longer young, however ; I should say about two-and-thirty. 
 She is descended from ti good family, all decent, respectable 
 people, and she has property to the amount of eight or ten 
 thousand francs in land, which she would willingly sell to 
 
250 THE HAtTNTED MARSH. 
 
 purchase another in the spot where she would establish herself; 
 for she also thinks of marrying again, and I know that if your 
 character pleased her she would not consider your position a 
 bad one." 
 
 "Then you have already arranged all that?" 
 
 "Yes, save and except the consent of the parties interested, 
 and this is what you must ascertain by making each other's 
 acquaintance. This woman's father is a sort of relation of 
 mine, and he and I are intimate friends. You know Farmer 
 Leonard well, do you not?" 
 
 "Yes, I have seen him speaking to you at the fairs, and at 
 the last one you breakfasted together. Was that the subject 
 that you had such a long chat about?" 
 
 "Certainly it was. He was looking at you selling the 
 beasts and took a great fancy to you, thought you a good- 
 looking fellow, and said you appeared active and clever; and 
 when I had told him all about you, and how well you had 
 conducted yourself with us during the eight years that we have 
 lived and worked together, without ever having had an angry 
 word with mortal, it occurred to him to get you to marry his 
 daughter; a circumstance which suited me also, I confess, 
 considering the good name she bears, the honesty of her family, 
 and the comfortable circumstances in which I know they are 
 placed." 
 
 " I see. Father Maurice, that you place a good deal of stress 
 on good circumstances." 
 
 "Beyond question I do. And do not you also?" 
 
 " Yes, if you wish it, to please you ; but you know that for 
 my part I never trouble my head about what comes to me, or 
 does not come to me, of our profits. I do not understand 
 anything about divisions, and I have a poor head for matters 
 of this sort. I understand the landj I understand the oxen, 
 the horses, the teams, the sowings, the reapings, the fodder. 
 As for the sheep, the vines, the garden, and fancy-work of 
 that description, you know that is your son's business, and 
 that I seldom meddle with it. As to money matters, my 
 memory is short, and I would rather give up all than have any 
 dispute about what is yours or mine. I should be afraid of 
 being mistaken, and of demanding more than my due, and if 
 affairs were not clear and simple I should never be able to get 
 on at all." 
 
 " So much the worse, my son, and that is the reason why I 
 should like you to have a good clear-headed woman as a wife 
 to take my place when I shall be no more. You have never 
 wished to look into our accounts, and that might lead to disa- 
 greements with my son, when you shall no longer have me 
 
GEHMAIN, TUE SKILFUL LABOURER. 251 
 
 with you to regulate matters, and to tell you "what comes to 
 each." 
 
 *'May you live a long time yet, Father Maurice! But do 
 not be uneasy about what will take place after your death ; I 
 shall never dispute with your son. I trust in Jacques as I do 
 in you ; and as I have no property of my own, and as all that 
 comes to me is derived from my marriage with your daughter 
 and belongs to your children, I can rest contented, and so may 
 you also. Jacques would never rob his sister's children for the 
 sake of his own, since he loves them almost as dearly." 
 
 *' You are right there, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a 
 good brother, and a man who loves the truth. But Jacques 
 might die before you, or before your children were grown up, 
 and one ought always to thinK of not leaving minors in a family 
 without a head to advise them and settle their differences; 
 otherwise the lawyers would mix themselves up in the matter, 
 set all parties by the ears, and get all the profits for themselves. 
 So therefore we oughfnot to think of bringing another person 
 into our family, whether man or woman, without reflecting 
 that one day perhaps this person may have to direct the 
 conduct and affairs of about thirty children, grandchildren, 
 sons-in-law, and daughters-in-law. One cannot tell to what 
 extent a family may increase, and when the hive is too full, 
 and it is necessary to swarm, each thinks of carrying off his 
 own honey. When I took you for a son-in-law, although my 
 daughter was rich and you poor, I did not reproach her for 
 having chosen you. I saw that you were a good labourer, 
 and I well knew that the best wealth for country people like 
 us, consists in a pair of good arms and an honest heart like 
 yours. When a man brings these into a family he brings 
 enough ; but with a woman it is a different affair : her labour 
 in a house is directed to preserve, not to acquire. Besides, 
 now that you are a father, and that you seek a wife, you must 
 recollect that your new children, not having any right to share 
 in the inheritance of those by the first marriage, would be in 
 want if you were to die, unless your wife had some property 
 of her own. And then, again, the children with which you 
 are about to increase our little colony will cost something to 
 feed them. If this charge should fall upon us alone, we would 
 most certainly bring them up, and without complaining ; but 
 then the individual prosperity of each would be diminished, 
 and the first children would have their share in these priva- 
 tions. Whenever families increase beyond measure, without 
 property augmenting in proportion, poverty and misery surely 
 come, no matter how great the courage with which one fights 
 against them. These are my observations, Geramin; weigh them 
 
252 THE HAUrn'TED MARSH. 
 
 well, and endeavour to ^et yourself accepted by the widow 
 Guerin, for her o^ood conduct and her crown-pieces will bring 
 present aid and Jiiture tranquillity." 
 
 " It is all settled, father ; I shall endeavour to please her and 
 will do my best to like her." 
 
 "For that purpose it is necessary that you should go and 
 visit her." 
 
 ** What ! at her place ? At Fourche ? It is far from this, 
 is it not? and we have scarcely any time to spare just at this 
 season." 
 
 " 'When it is a question of a love-match, one must make up 
 their mind to lose time; but when it is a marriage of reason be- 
 tween two persons who have no caprices and know exactly 
 what they want, the matter is soon decided. To-morrow will 
 be Saturday; you can make a short day's work, and start about 
 two o'clock, after dinner. You will be at Fourche by night- 
 fall ; the moon is at the full now, the roads are good, and it 
 is but three leagues off. It is near Magnier. Besides, you can 
 take the mare." 
 
 "I would rather go on foot this weather." 
 
 "Yes, but the mare is a good animal, and a suitor who 
 arrives well mounted has a better appearance. You shall put 
 on your new Sunday clothes, and take a nice little present of 
 game to Father Leonard. You can come as if from me ; you 
 can have a chat with him, pass Sunday with his daughter, and 
 return with a Yes or No on Monday morning. ' 
 
 " That is settled then," replied Germain tranquilly. 
 
 And yet he was not altogether easy in his mind. Germain 
 had always lived discreetly, as laborious peasants generally do. 
 Married at twenty years of age, he had loved but one woman 
 in his life, and since he had become a widower, although he 
 was of an impetuous and lively temperament, had neither 1 aughed 
 nor romped with another. He had even borne faithfully 
 in his heart true feelings of regret, and it was not without fear 
 and misgiving that he yielded to his father-in-law's wish. But 
 this father-in-law had always governed his family wisely, and 
 Germain, who had devoted himself entirely to the common wel- 
 fare, and consequently to him who personified it — the head 
 of the family, could not conceive the possibility of rebelling 
 against the reasonings and interests of all. 
 
 Nevertheless he was sad. A day seldom passed that he 
 did not mourn in secret his lost wife, and although solitude 
 began to weigh heavy upon him, he was more terrified at the 
 idea of forming a new connection than desirous of escaping 
 from his grief. He had a vague idea that love by surprising 
 him mi^^ht be able to console him ; for love consoles not other- 
 
GERMAIN, THE SKILFUL LABOURER. 253 
 
 wise. We find it not when we seek it. It meets us when we the 
 least expect it. This cold project of marriage propounded by- 
 Farmer Maurice, this unknown bride, perhaps even all that had 
 been said of her sense and virtue, furnished food for reflection 
 and doubt. And he went on thinking, as men do who do not 
 possess a sufficiency of ideas to combat each other, that is to 
 say, not propounding to himself plausible theories to excuse 
 forming in his own mind a system of reasonings for selfishness 
 or resistance, but suffering a deep, gnawing pain, and not 
 striving to contend against an evil which he felt himself bound 
 in justice to endure. 
 
 Meanwhile old Maurice had returned to the farm, whilst 
 Germain employed the last hours of daylight in closing the 
 breaches made by the sheep in the enclosure of a neighbour- 
 ing field. He stuck in branches of thorns, and strengthened 
 them with clods of turf, whilst the magpies chattered in the 
 adjoining thicket, and seemed to cry to him to make haste, as 
 if curious to examine liis work as soon as he should have 
 left the spot. 
 
254 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LITTLE PIE RUE. 
 
 When Farmer Maurice returned home, be found there an old 
 neighbour who had come to chat with his wife while seeking a 
 little coal to light her fire. Dame Guillette inhabited a very- 
 poor little cabin about two gunshots from the farm. But she 
 was a discreet and orderly woman; her poor dwelling was 
 neat and well kept, and her garments, patched with care, an- 
 nounced a feeling of self-respect amid distress. 
 
 " You have come to seek your evening fire. Dame Guillette," 
 said the old man, addressing her. "Do you wish for any- 
 thing else to-night?" 
 
 *'No, Father Maurice, thank you," replied she; "nothing 
 at present. I am not one that goes about begging, you know, 
 and I never abuse the kindness of my friends." 
 
 "That's the truth; and for that reason your friends are 
 always ready to render you a. service." 
 
 "I have just been chatting to your wife, and I was asking 
 her if Germain had made up his mind yet to marry again." 
 
 "You are not a gossiper," replied Maurice, " and one can 
 speak before you without fearing that it may be all over the 
 neighbourhood the next moment : so I may tell my wife, and 
 you too, that Germain has quite decided; he .starts to-morrow 
 for Fourche." 
 
 " So much the better," cried Dame Maurice; "poor fellow! 
 God grant that he finds a wife as kind and as honest-hearted 
 as himself!" 
 
 " Ah! he is going to Fourche?" observed La Guillette, "how 
 things come about ! That suits me well ; and since you asked 
 me just now if I wanted anything else, I will tell you, Farmer 
 Maurice, in what way you can oblige me." 
 
 " vSay on, say on — we are at your service." 
 
 "I should be very glad if Germain would be kind enough 
 to take my daughter with him." 
 
 " Where ! to Fourche ?" 
 
 "No, not to Fourche, but to the lElms, where she is going 
 to remain for the rest of the year." 
 
 " How's this?" said Dame Maurice, " arc you going to part 
 with your daughter?" 
 
 "Why, you see, it's time that she should enter service, and 
 
LITTLE PIEURE. 255 
 
 earn something for herself. It has given me much pain, and 
 her also, poor soul! We could not make up our minds to part 
 at St. John's ; but now Martinmas has come, and she has had 
 the offer of a good place as shepherdess in the farms of the Elms 
 The farmer passed by this way the other day returning from 
 the fair, and saw my little Mary herding her three sheep upon 
 the common ; * you are scarcely occupied at all, my little girl,* 
 said he to her ; ♦ and three sheep for a shepherd-lass are hardly 
 enough. Should you like to keep a hundred? I will take you. 
 Our shepherdess has fallen ill, and is going home to her parents, 
 and if you like to take her place in about eight days' time, 
 you shall have fifty francs for the remainder of the year up to 
 St. John's day!' The child refused, but she could not help 
 thinking over the offer, and telling me when she came home 
 at night, seeing me so sad and embarrassed about how we are 
 to pass the winter, which will be a long and hard one, since 
 we have seen the herons and wild geese passing over a full 
 month earlier this year than usual. We wept, both of us; 
 but at length courage came to us. We said to ourselves that 
 we could not remain together, since it would be difficult for 
 even one person to live upon our bit of land ; and since Mary 
 is old enough (she is now turned sixteen), it was necessary 
 that she should do as others do and earn her bread, and help 
 her poor mother." 
 
 "Dame Guillette," said the old labourer, *'if fifty francs 
 was all that was necessary to console you in your troubles, 
 and keep yoi3 from sending your child so far away from you, 
 in truth I would find them, although fifty francs for people 
 like us is no small sum. But in all things one must consult 
 reason as well as friendship. Even if you were saved from 
 hardships this winter, you would not be insured against suffer- 
 ing want the following one, and the longer your daughter 
 delays entering service, the more difficulty will you have in 
 parting with her. Little Mary is getting tall and strong, and 
 she has not sufficient occupation at your house. She might 
 acquire habits of idleness — " 
 
 " Oh ! as to that I am not afraid," said La Guillette. ''Mary 
 is as active as a rich girl at the head of a great house would 
 be. She never remains an instant idle, and when we have no 
 other work to do, she rubs up our poor chairs and tables until 
 she makes them shine like glass. The child is worth her 
 weight in gold, and I would much rather she entered your 
 service as shepherdess than liavo to go so far away amongst 
 people I know nothing of. You would have taken her at St. 
 John's if we could have made up our minds; but now you hiivo 
 
256 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 liireil all your people, and it will not be until next St. John's 
 day that we can think of this again." 
 
 "And I consent to take her then with all my heart, 
 Guillette! It will give me much pleasure to do so. But in 
 the mean time she will do well to learn her business and get 
 accustomed to serve others." 
 
 *' Yes, yes, that is true enough; the die is cast. The farmer 
 of the Elms came again about her this morning and we said 
 yes ; so she must go. But the poor child does not know the 
 road, and I should not like to send her so far alone. Since 
 your son-in-law is going to Fourche to-morrow, he might take 
 her with him. It appears that where she is going to is close 
 to Fourche ; at least so they tell me, for I never made the 
 journey in all my life." 
 
 *'It is close to Fourche, and my son-in-law will take her. 
 It is only his duty ; he can even take her behind him on the 
 mare, which will save her shoes. But here he is coming in to 
 supper. Tell me, Germain ; Dame Guillette's little Mary is 
 going as shepherdess to the Elms. You will take her behind 
 you on the mare, won't you?" • 
 
 . " Very well," replied Germain, who seemed thoughtful and 
 anxious, but was ever ready to render service to a neighbour. 
 
 In our world such an idea would never have entered the mind 
 of a mother, as that of confiding her daughter, sixteen years 
 of age, to the care of a man of eight-and- twenty ! . For Germain 
 was in reality but eight-and twenty years of age, and although, 
 according to the ideas of the country, he passed for an old 
 man in a marriageable point of view, he was for all that the 
 handsomest man in the neighbourhood. Work had not stamped 
 its seal upon him as it does on most peasants who have had ten 
 years' labour over their heads. He was strong and active 
 enough to work ten years longer without looking old, and the 
 prejudice of age must indeed have weighed heavily on a young 
 girl's mind to prevent her seeing that Germain had a healthy 
 florid complexion, eyes as clear and blue as the heavens in 
 May, a handsomely formed mouth, superb teeth, and a form, 
 light and active as that of a young horse that has not yet 
 quitted its native pastures. 
 
 But purity of morals is a sacred tradition in certain rural 
 districts far removed from the bustle and corruption of large 
 towns, and among all the families of Belair that of Farmer 
 Maurice was reputed as honest and serving the truth. Ger- 
 main was going to seek a wife ; Mary was too young and too 
 poor a child to be thought of in this point of view, and unless 
 he were a bad and heartless nrian, it was impossible for liim to 
 
LITTLE PIERKE. 2o< 
 
 harbour a culpable thought respecting her. Farmer Maurice 
 was therefore nowise uneasy at seeing him take this pretty- 
 girl behind him on horseback, and La Guillette would have 
 considered it as offering an insult to Germain if she had re- 
 commended lAn to respect her as his sister. Mary, after having 
 twenty times embraced her mother and her young friends, 
 mounted on horseback weeping bitterly. Germain, who was 
 sad upon his own account, felt all the more compassion for her 
 grief, and started with a serious air, whilst the neighbours 
 waved their hands in sign of adieu to poor Mary without har- 
 bouring a thought of harm. 
 
 La Grise was young, handsome, and active. She bore with- 
 out effort her double burthen, laying back her ears, and 
 champing her bit like a proud and spirited animal as she was. 
 While passing the long meadow, she perceived her dam — who 
 was called old Grise, as she was young Grise — and she neighed 
 in token of adieu. Old Grise approached the hedge, her hoofs 
 resounding on the soil, and endeavoured to gallop along the 
 field-side to follow her daughter ; then, seeing her depart at a 
 round trot, she neighed in her turn, and remained pensive and 
 uneasy, her head in the air and her mouth full of grass which 
 she no longer thought of swallowing. 
 
 "This poor beast always knows its mother," said Germain, 
 in order to prevent little Mary's thoughts from dwelling on 
 her grief; "and that reminds me that I did not kiss my little 
 Pierre before I started. The naughty little fellow was not 
 there! He wanted yesterday evening to make me promise, right 
 or wrong, that I would take him with me, and he cried for an 
 hour in his bed. This morning again he tried all he could to 
 persuade me. Oh! he is a cunning boy! But when he saw 
 that it was of no use, my gentleman got angry, started off 
 into the fields, and I have not seen him all day." 
 
 "I saw him though," said little Mary, making an effort to 
 restrain her tears. "He was running with Soulas' children 
 by the roadside, and I fancied that he must have been out 
 some time, for he was hungry, and was eating sloes and 
 mulberries out of the hedge. I gave him the piece of bread I 
 had for my lunch, and he said to me: * Thank you, my sweet 
 Mary: when you come to see us I will give you some cake.* 
 He is a dear engaging child that boy of yours, Germain!" 
 
 "Well yes, he is engaging," replied the labourer, "and I 
 do not know what I wouldn't do for him ! If his grandmother 
 had not been more prudent than I, I could not have resisted 
 taking him with me, when I saw him crying so that his little 
 heart was ready to break." 
 
258 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 "Well, why did you not bring him, Germain? He would 
 not have been in the way at all, and he is so good when he I 
 gets his own way !" | 
 
 **It seems that he would have been in the way where I am 
 going. At least that was Father Maurice's opinion; — for my 
 part I should have thought that, on the contrary, it would 
 have been a good plan to see how they would have received 
 him, and such a well-behaved child could not but be received 
 kindly. But they said at home that I ought not to begin by 
 showing the troubles of housekeeping. I don't know why I talk 
 to you about such things, little Mary ; you don't understand 
 them, do you?" 
 
 **0h yes, Germain, I know that you are going to get mar- 
 ried ; my mother told me about it, only charging me not to 
 speak of it to any one, neither at your house nor where I am 
 going ; and you may rest assured I shall not say a word to 
 mortal." 
 
 "You will act wisely, for it is not settled; perhaps I shall 
 not suit the person in question." 
 
 "You must hope you may, Germain; why should you not 
 suit her?" 
 
 "Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy 
 burthen for a woman who is not their mother." 
 
 "That is true, but then your children are not like other 
 children." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "They are beautiful as little angels, and so well brought 
 up that it would be impossible to find children better behaved." 
 
 "There is Sylvain, who is not too quiet." 
 
 "He is so little! he cannot be otherwise than stirring; but 
 then he has such a spirit!" 
 
 "He certainly has a spirit: and such courage! He fears 
 neither cows nor bulls, and if they were to let him have his 
 own way, he would climb already upon the horses' backs with 
 his eldest brother." 
 
 "If I had been in your place, I would have taken the eldest. 
 You might be certain of being loved at once for having such a 
 beautiful child." 
 
 "Yes, if the person loves children : but suppose she does not?" 
 
 "Are there any women who don't love children?" 
 
 "Not many, I think; but there are some, and it is that 
 which torments me." 
 
 "Then you do not know anything of this woman?" 
 
 "No more than you do, and I fear I shall not know her 
 any better after having seen her. I am not distrustfiil. When 
 
LITTLE PIERRE. 259 
 
 people spe»ak fair to me, I believe them ; but I have more than 
 once had to repent doing so, for words are not actions." 
 
 "They say that she is a very excellent woman." 
 
 " Who says so? Father Maurice?" 
 
 "Yes, your father in-law. 
 
 *' That is all very well, but he knows no more about her than 
 I do." 
 
 "Well, you will see her yourself soon, you can observe 
 her closely, and it is to be hoped that you will not be de- 
 ceived." 
 
 " Look here, little Mary, I should be very glad if you would 
 accompany me to the house for a short time before going to 
 the Elms ; you are a quicksighted girl, you have always shown 
 cleverness, and you pay attention to everything ; i£ you see 
 anything you consider wrong, you will tell me quietly." 
 
 " Oh I no, Germain, I would not do that; I should be afraid 
 of being mistaken. And besides, if a light word uttered in an 
 unguarded moment were to disgust you with this marriage, your 
 relations would blame me, and I have plenty of cares already 
 without bringing others upon my poor dear mother." 
 
 As they were thus chatting together. La Grise suddenly 
 shied at some object in the hedge, which, when she again ap- 
 proached it, she seemed to recognise. Germain cast a glance 
 towards the roadside, and saw in the ditch, under the dense and 
 still fresh branches of a felled oak, what he at first took for a 
 lamb. 
 
 " It is either a stray or a dead sheep," said he, " for it does 
 not stir. Perhaps some one may be in search of it ; we must 
 see." 
 
 " It is not a lamb," exclaimed little Mary ; " it is a sleeping 
 child — it is your little Pierre !" 
 
 "Well to be sure!" said Germain, dismounting from his 
 horse ; "just look at this little rascal sleeping there, and in a 
 ditch too, where some serpent might easily bite him !" 
 
 He lifted the child in his arms, who smiled as he opened his 
 eyes, and throwing his arms round his father's neck, exclaimed : 
 
 "My dear papa, you will bring me with you?" 
 
 " Yes 1 yes ! always the same song! What were you doing 
 there, naughty Pierre ?" 
 
 " I was waiting until papa should pass," said the child. " I 
 kept lookingandlookingalongtheroad,untIlatlastIfell asleep." 
 
 " And if I had passed without seeing you, you would have 
 remained out all night, and the wolves would have eaten you." 
 
 " Oh 1 I knew you would see me," replied little Pierre con- 
 fidently. 
 
260 THE HAUNTED MARSfl. 
 
 * ' Well now, my boy, kiss me, bid me good-bye, and make 
 haste home if you don't want to miss your supper." 
 
 "So you won't take me with you then?" exclaimed the 
 child, beginning to rub his eyes in order to show that he in- 
 tended to cry. 
 
 "You know very well that your grandfather and grand- 
 mother do not wish it," said Germain, entrenching himself be- 
 hind the authority of his elderly relations, as if he thought that 
 his own was not much to be depended on. 
 
 But the child would listen to nothing. He began to cry 
 bitterly, saying that since his father took little Mary, he might 
 very well take him also. In vain his father urged that they 
 should have to pass the great woods infested with wicked beasts 
 which devoured little children; that La Grise would not carry 
 three persons; that she had said so before starting; and 
 that in the country they were going to, there were neither beds 
 nor supper for little boys. AH these excellent reasons failed 
 to persuade little Pierre ; he threw himself on the grass, rolled 
 over and over, crying that his papa loved him no more, and 
 that if he would not take him with him, he would not return 
 to the house day or night. 
 
 Germain had a father's heart, as tender and as weak as a 
 woman's. The death of his wife, the cares and attentions he 
 had been obliged to lavish himself on his children, the reflec- 
 tion also that these poor little motherless ones required 
 all his love, had contributed to render him thus, and now there 
 took place so severe a conflict within his breast that, though 
 blushing at his own weakness, the perspiration stood upon his 
 brow, in his endeavours to hide his uneasiness from little Mary, 
 and his eyes were bordered with red and almost overflowing 
 with tears. At length he endeavoured to get angry, bwt turn- 
 ing towards little Mary as if to take her as v/itness of his firm- 
 ness, he saw that the sweet girl's face was bathed in tears, and 
 all his courage abandoning him, he felt it impossible to restrain 
 his own, although he still grumbled and threatened as well as 
 he could. 
 
 *' You have really too hard a heart," said little Mary at 
 length; "and for my part I never could resist, as you have done, 
 a child who is in such trouble. Come, Germain, take him. 
 Your mare is well used to carrying two persons and a child, 
 as 3^our brother-in-law and his wife, who is heavier by a good 
 deal than I am, go to market every Saturday with their boy 
 upon the back of this good animal. You can set him on horse* 
 back before you, and, besides, I would rather go all alone on 
 foot than give this little fellow so much pain," 
 
LITTLE PIERRE. 
 
 261 
 
 "Do not let that disturb ydti," replied Germain, who was 
 dying to be convinced. *' La Grise is strong, and would carry 
 two more if there was room upon her back. But what shall 
 we do with this child on the road ? He will be cold and hungry, 
 and who will take care of him this evening and to-morrow, 
 put him to bed, and wash and dress him? I dare not give this 
 trouble to a woman I know nothing of, and who would most 
 probably think that I was rather too free and easy with her at 
 the commencement." 
 
 "Ac(!ording to the kindness or ill-humour that she shows, 
 you will know her disposition at once, Germain, believe me. 
 And besides, if she repulses your Pierre I will take charge of 
 him. I will walk over to the house to-morrow, I will amuse 
 him all the day, and sec that he wants for nothing." 
 
 " But he will annoy you, my poor girl ! He will weary you 
 A whole day is so long !" 
 
 " On the contrary, he will amuse me. He will keep me com 
 pany, and prevent me from feeling lonely and sad the first day 
 I have to pass in a strange place. I shall fancy that I am still 
 at home." 
 
262 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. 
 
 *' By-the-bye," said Germain, after they had proceeded a short 
 distance, " what will they say at the house when they find that 
 this little gentleman does not come home? The old people 
 will be uneasy, and will be looking everywhere for him." 
 
 ' ' You can mention to the cantonnier, who works further on 
 on the road, that you have taken him with you, and ask him 
 to let your people know." 
 
 "That is true, Mary; you think of everything! For my 
 part I hadn't a thought that Johnny would be working up this 
 way." 
 
 " And, as it happens, he lives close to the farm, and will not 
 fail to give your message." 
 
 After this precaution had been taken, Germain put the mare 
 to a round trot, and little Pierre was so delighted that he did not 
 immediately recollect he had not dined; but the movement of 
 the horse producing a corresponding action of the stomach, 
 after they had proceeded about a league he turned pale, began 
 to yawn, and at length confessed that he was dying of hunger. 
 
 " Ah ! that's the commencement," said Germain. "I knew 
 well that we should not go far without my gentleman crying 
 out that he was either hungry or thirsty." 
 
 "I am thirsty, too," said little Pierre. 
 
 "Well then, we shall pull up at Dame Kebec's inn at 
 Corlay, the Rising Sun — a fine sign but a very bad hostelry. 
 Come, Mary, you will drink a glass of wine also, won't you?" 
 
 "No, no, I don't want anything," said she; "I will hold 
 the mare while you go in with the child." 
 
 "But I have been thinking, my good girl, that you gave 
 your lunch this morning to my Pierre, and that you yourself 
 are fasting. You would not dine with us either at the 
 house; you did nothing but cry." 
 
 "Oh! I am not hungry, I am too sorrowful; and I assure 
 you that I do not at the present moment feel the least wish 
 to eat." 
 
 " I must force you then, my little woman; otherwise you 
 will be ill. We have a good way to go yet, and it wouldn't 
 
UNDEK THE GREENWOOD THEE. 268 
 
 do to arrive at our journey's end like a party of half-famished 
 travellers, calling out for something to eat before saying 
 
 food-day. For my part, I will set you an example, although 
 have no great appetite; but it will come sooner or later, 
 seeing that I have not dined any more than yourself. I saw 
 you and your mother weeping, and that vexed me. Come, 
 come, I shall fasten La Grise to the door; so jump down, 
 there's a good girl." 
 
 They all three entered Dame Rebec's hostelry, and in less 
 than a quarter of an hour the hostess succeeded in serving up 
 a very tolerable looking omelette, a loaf of household bread, 
 and a couple of bottles of claret wine. 
 
 Peasants do not eat quickly, and Master Pierre had so huge 
 an appetite that a full hour passed before Germain could think 
 of getting off again. Little Mary had at first eaten to oblige 
 Germain ; then by degrees hunger came, for at sixteen years 
 of age one cannot fast long, and country air is imperious. 
 The kind efforts of Germain, who did his utmost to console her 
 and give her courage, produced also their good effect ; she 
 made an effort to persuade herself that seven months would 
 soon pass away, and endeavoured to fix her thoughts on the 
 happiness she should feel in finding herself once more with her 
 family and in her native village, since both Farmer Maurice 
 and Germain had agreed to take her into their service at the 
 expiration of that time. But just as she was beginning to jest 
 and play with little Pierre, Germain conceived the unfortunate 
 idea of asking her to look out of the inn window at the beau- 
 tiful view of the valley, which from this height could be seen 
 to its fullest extent, stretched out so smiling, and green, and 
 fertile, beneath them. Mary looked out and asked, if, from 
 where they were, they could see the houses of Belair. 
 
 "To be sure you can," replied Germain, **and the farm, 
 and even your mother's house. Stay! look there, that little 
 grey spot, not far from the great poplar at Godard, just below 
 the steeple!" 
 
 ** Ah! I see it," replied the young girl. 
 
 And thereupon she began to weep again. 
 
 **I was wrong to make you think of this," said Germain. 
 ** I have been doing nothing but committing blunders to-day. 
 Come, Mary, let us be off, my girl ; the davs are short now, 
 and in another hour, when the moon is up, it will be no longer 
 warm." 
 
 They accordingly started again, crossed the gre^t heath, 
 and, as Germain could not let La Grise go very fast, for fear 
 
264 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 of fatiguing the girl and child by too hard a trot, the sun 
 had set when they turned off from the high road to gain the 
 woods. . 
 
 Germain knew the road as far as Magnier ; but he imagined 
 that he could shorten the distance by avoiding the avenue of 
 Chanteloube, and descending by Presles and La Sepulture, a 
 direction which he had not been accustomed to take when he 
 went to the fair. He mistook his way, and lost a little more 
 time before entering the woods ; again he did not enter at the 
 right side, and, not perceiving his error, he was, unwittingly, 
 turning back upon Fourche, and getting higher up towards 
 Ardentes. 
 
 What now prevented him from setting himself right was a 
 mist which began to rise with the approach of nightfall — one 
 of those autumnal evening mists which the moonlight only 
 renders still more vague and deceitful. The large sheets of 
 water with which the open glades were partly covered, ex- 
 haled vapours so dense, that when La Grise crossed them they 
 could be discovered only by the splashing of her hoofs and the 
 difficulty which she had to extricate them from the marshy 
 ground. 
 
 When they had at length discovered a smooth, straight alley, 
 and, having traversed it, Germain sought to discover where he 
 was, he perceived clearly that he had lost his way ; for old 
 Maurice, when explaining the road, had told him that on 
 leaving the woods he would have to descend a very rugged 
 hill side, cross an immense plain, and pass the river twice by 
 fording. He had even charged him to enter this river care- 
 fully, as at this time of the year, after the heavy rains, the 
 water was frequently very high. Seeing neither descent, nor 
 plain, nor river, but a flat expanse, smooth and white as a 
 carpet of snow, Germain stopped, looked around for a house, 
 waited in expectation of some one passing, but saw nothing 
 animate or inanimate which could afford him any information. 
 Then he retraced his steps, and once more entered the wood. 
 But the mist had now become even more dense ; the moon 
 was completely veiled, the roads were frightful, and the sloughs 
 • deep. Twice La Grise nearly fell ; laden as she was, she lost 
 courage, and although she still preserved sufficient discernment 
 to avoid running against the trees, she could not prevent those 
 on her back from frequently coming in contact with the huge 
 branches, which, at the elevation of their heads, barred tl^e 
 passage, placing them in considerable danger. Germain lost his 
 hat in one of these encounters, and had great difficulty in 
 
UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. 266 
 
 finding it again. Little Pierre had fallen asleep, and lying like 
 a sack in his father's arms, he clung to him so closely that the 
 latter could no longer either support or direct the horse. 
 
 "I do verily think we are bewitched!" said Germain, pulling 
 up; *'for these woods are not so large that a man should lose 
 himself m them, unless indeed he were drunk; and yet here we 
 have been for the last two hours turning and twisting about 
 without being able to get out. La Grise has but one idea in 
 her head — that of returning home, and it is she that puts 
 me astray. If we wanted to go home we could do nothing 
 better than give her her head ; but when we are perhaps but 
 two or three steps from where we are to sleep to-night, it 
 would be ridiculous to give it up and return such a long way 
 home. And yet I do not know what is to be done. I can see 
 neither sky nor earth, and I am afraid of the child catching a 
 fever if we remain in this vile fog, or being crushed by our 
 weight if the horse should stumble." 
 
 ** You must not try any longer," said little Mary. ** Dis- 
 mount, Germain, and give me the child ; I will carry him very 
 carefully, and can manage better than you to prevent the cape 
 from coming loose and so leaving him uncovered. Do you 
 lead the mare by the bridle, and we shall perhaps see clearer 
 when we are nearer the ground." 
 
 This plan succeeded only so far as to preserve them from 
 the risk of the horse falling, for the mist crept along, seeming 
 to cling to the humid earth. They found walking in this 
 manner very fatiguing, and were soon so harassed that when at 
 length they found a dry spot under some huge oak-trees they 
 called a halt. Little Mary was wet to the skin, but did not 
 utter a word of complaint or vexation. Occupied solely with 
 the child, she seated herself upon a gravelly bank and nestled 
 him in her lap, whilst Germain proceeded to explore the neigh- 
 bourhood, after having first taken the precaution of passing 
 the mare's bridle round a branch of a tree. 
 
 But La Grise, heartily tired of this journey, gave a sudden 
 jerk to the reins, disengaged the bridle, burst the girths, and 
 giving two or three flings higher than her head by way of 
 leave-taking, started oil through the wood at a pace which 
 clearly demonstrated that she stood in need of no one to show 
 her the way. 
 
 ** There!" said Germain, after a vain eflfort to overtake her, 
 "now we are completely nonplussed; and it would be of no 
 use for us now to find the riglit road, for even if we did wc 
 should be obliged to cross the river on foot, and, judging by 
 
266 THE HAUNTED MA118H. 
 
 the state of these roads, we may be very sure that it has risen 
 far above its banks and is spread over the plain. We are un- 
 acquainted with the other routes, so we must even wait until 
 this mist disperses, which cannot be longer than an hour or 
 two. When we are able to see about us we will look for a 
 house, the nearest we can find to the outskirts of the wood ; 
 but for the present we cannot stir from this spot. There is 
 either a ditch or a pond or something of that kind in front of 
 us ; and behind I cannot say what there is, for I no longer 
 know by which way we came." 
 
 *'Well, let us have patience, Germain," said little Mary. 
 ** We are not so badly oiF upon this little bank. The rain can- 
 not penetrate the foliage of these thick oaks, and we shall be 
 able to light a fire, for I can feel some old roots lying about 
 which are not attached to anything and are dry enough to 
 burn. You have the means of striking a light, Germain, have 
 you not? You were smoking your pipe a little while ago." 
 
 * ' I had it, but I have it no longer. My steel was in the 
 saddle-bag along with the game I was taking as a present to 
 my future bride ; but the cursed mare has carried off all with 
 her, even your mantle, which will be torn to pieces and lost 
 among the trees." 
 
 *' No, Germain; the saddle, saddle-bags, and my mantle are 
 on the ground there at your feet. La Grise burst the girths 
 and threw all off on one side when she ran away." 
 
 *' iaithl that is true enough," said the labourer; "and now 
 if we could but happen upon a little rotten wood by feeling 
 about, we should be able to dry and warm ourselves." 
 
 "That won't be difficult," said little Mary, "the dry sticks 
 are crackling everywhere under my feet ; but first of all give 
 me the saddle here." 
 
 ""WThat do you want tne saddle for?" 
 
 "To make a bed for the little tellcw. No ! not that way, on 
 the outside; he will lie so snugly in the inside, and it is still 
 warm from the horse's back. Now prop up the saddle on each 
 side with the stones you see there." 
 
 "I don't see an v stones. Can you see in the dark like a 
 cat'" 
 
 "Stay! there, that's done, Germain I Now give me your, 
 cloak till T wrap up iiis little feet, and then I shall throw my 
 cape over hiin. Sec! if he is not fixed there as snugly as if 
 he were in hh hedi and teel him — how warm he is!" 
 
 " True enoTjJh! Why, Mary, you understand the manage- 
 ment of children r* 
 
UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE '267 
 
 " That doesn't require much magic. Now then, search for 
 your flint and steel in your saddle-bag, while I go and pick up 
 some wood." 
 
 *' That wood will never light; it is too damp." 
 
 " You doubt everything, Germain I Do you not remember, 
 when you were herding sheep, making great fires in the fields 
 in the very middle of the rain?" 
 
 *' Yes, that is a talent peculiar to shepherd children; but, 
 for my part, I was a plough-driver as soon as I was able to 
 walk." 
 
 "And that is the reason why you are stronger in your 
 arms than nimble with your hands. There 1 our bonfire is 
 ready ; you'll soon see if it won't burn ! Give me a light now, 
 and a handful of dry fern. That's right! — now blow! — there 
 is nothing wrong with your lungs, is there?" 
 
 " Not that I know of," said Germain, blowing like a pair of 
 forge bellows. 
 
 In another instant the fire sparkled up, throwing at first a 
 reddish light around, but at length, rising in blue jets of ilame, 
 it illuminated the dark foliage of the oak, contending with the 
 mist, and by degrees drying the atmosphere within a circum- 
 ference oi ten feet. 
 
 " Now I am going to sit down beside the child to watch that 
 the sparks do not fall upon him," said the young girl ; " and do 
 you put on some more wood and keep up the fire, Germain. 
 We shall catch neither fever nor cold here, I'll answer for it." 
 
 "By my faith, you are a girl of rare sense!" said Germain, 
 " and you know how to make a fire as well as a Spirit of the 
 Night. I feel a different person already, and am getting some 
 heart again ; for what with limbs wet up to the knees, and the 
 idea of remaining here till daybreak, I was in a very bad hu- 
 mour just now." 
 
 "And when people are in a bad humour they can do no- 
 thing," replied little Mary. 
 
 " You are never in a bad humour then, eh?" 
 
 "Oh, no — never! What would be the use of that?" 
 
 "Oh! there is no use in it, certainly; but how can people 
 help it when they are annoyed? God knows you have not 
 been free from annoyances, my poor little woman, for you 
 have not always been happy!" 
 
 " That is true enough! My poor mother and myself have 
 suiTered a good deal: we have had our troubles; but then we 
 never lost courage." 
 
 "I should never lose courage for any work that was to be 
 done, no matter what ; but poverty would upset me, for I have 
 
268 THE HAUNTED MAIiSU. 
 
 never wanted for anytliing. My wife made me rich and I am 
 BO still, and shall be so long as I worlc at the farm. That will 
 be always, I hope. But all have their troubles ; I have suf- 
 fered in other respects." 
 
 *' Yes, you lost your wife, and that was a great pity!" 
 
 "Was it not?" 
 
 *' Oh! I cried heartily — I felt so sorry for her, Germain! — 
 she was so good! But let us not speak of ifc any more, for 
 I should weep again ; all my sorrows are coming back to me 
 again to-day, I think." 
 
 **It is true she loved you dearly, little Mary! She was 
 very fond both of you and your mother. Come, come — you 
 are crying! Come, my child — I do not wish to cry myself — " 
 
 *' And yet you are weeping for all that, Germain! You are 
 crying too! and where is the shame in a man crying for his 
 wife? Do not mind me — I share your grief." 
 
 * ' You have a kind heart, Mary, and it does me good to 
 weep with you. But put your feet to the fire ; your petticoats 
 are wringing wet, my poor little girl ! Stay ! I will take your 
 place beside the little fellow, and then you can warm yourself 
 better." 
 
 " I am quite warm enough," said Mary ; *' and if you wish 
 to sit down, take a corner of the cloak. I am very well where 
 I am." 
 
 "The fact is, we are not badly off here," said Germain, 
 seating himself beside her. " There is nothing but hunger 
 now which torments me. It must be nearly nine o'clock, 
 and I had so much difficulty in getting along in those vile roads 
 that I feel quite knocked up. Are you not hungry too, Mary?" 
 
 "I? not at all! I am not accustomed like you to make 
 four meals a-day ; and I have so often gone to bed supperless 
 that once more does not astonish me." 
 
 " Well! a wife like you is a perfect treasure!" said Germain 
 smiling; " she does not cost much." 
 
 "I am not a wife," said Mary innocently, without perceiv- 
 ing the turn which the ideas of the Skilful Labourer were 
 taking. "Are you dreaming?" 
 
 "Yes, I think I am dreaming," replied Germaiti. "It is 
 hunger which makes me wander a little perhaps." 
 
 " Why, what a glutton you must be!" rejoined she, bright- 
 ening up a little in her turn. " Well, if you cannot exist five 
 or six hours without food, have you not got some game in your 
 saddle-bags, and fire to cook it with ?" 
 
 *'Diantre/ that's a good idea of yours! but then it is a 
 present to my future father-in-law." 
 
UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. 269 
 
 *' You have tliree brace of partridges and a hare. I pre- 
 sume it will not take all that to satisfy your appetite?" 
 
 "But how can Ave cook them here, without a spit or andi- 
 rons? They would be burnt to a cinder." 
 
 " Not in the least," said little Mary. "I'll engage to cook 
 them under the ashes without giving them the least flavour of 
 the smoke. What! have you never caught larks in the fields 
 and cooked them between two stones? Ah! that's true! I 
 forgot you have never been a shepherd. Come, pluck this par- 
 tridge. Not so rougnly! you will tear all the skin." 
 
 "You might pluck another, just to show me." 
 
 " Then you are going to eat two? What an ogre I There 
 they are plucked; now I am going to cook them." 
 
 " You would make a perfect landlady, little Mary! But 
 unfortunately you have no canteen, and I shall be obliged to 
 put up with the water of yonder marsh." 
 
 " You would prefer a bottle of wine, would you not? — and 
 perhaps you would like coffee afterwards? You fancy your- 
 self in one of the booths at a fair! Call the innkeeper! — 
 some wine here for the Skilful Labourer of Belair!" 
 
 "Ah! you little gipsy, you are laughing at me, eh? You 
 wouldn't drink some wine if you had it, would you not?" 
 
 "I? — I drank some this evening with you at Rebec's, for 
 the first. time in my life! But if you are very well behaved I 
 will give you a bottle almost full, and of good wine too." 
 
 " What! Mary, are you then positively a little witch?" 
 
 "Were you not silly enoagh to call for two bottles of 
 wine at Dame Rebec's? You drank one of them along with 
 your little boy, and I scarcely swallowed three drops of the 
 one you placed before me ; yet you paid for both without 
 looking." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 ' ' Well, I put into my basket the one that was scarcely 
 touched, because I thought that either you or your little one 
 would be thirsty on the road ; and here it is." 
 
 " Well you are certainly the most considerate creature I 
 ever met with. Only to think now that the poor girl was 
 crying as we left the inn ! But that did not prevent her 
 thinking of others more than of herself. Little Mary, the 
 man who marries you will be no fool!" 
 
 " I hope not, for I should not like a fool. Come, eat your 
 partridges — they are done to a turn ; and for want of bread 
 you must content yourself with chestnuts. " 
 
 "And where the deuce did you manage to get chestnuts 
 
270 THE HAUATED MAKSH. 
 
 ** That is most wonderful now — is it not? Why, all along 
 the road, to be sure ; I plucked them from the branches as we 
 went along, and filled my pockets." 
 
 ''And they are cooked too?" 
 
 "Why, where do you think my wits would have been if I 
 had not put them into the fire as soon as it was lighted? 
 We always do that in the fields." 
 
 *' Come now, little Mary, we are going to sup together! I 
 will drink your health, and wish you a good husband — just 
 such a one as you should like yourself. Come, tell me who 
 you would prefer." 
 
 ** Tliat would be a very difficult matter, Germain, for I have 
 never yet thought of such a thing." 
 
 "How! not at all? — never?" said Germain, beginning to 
 eat with a labourer's appetite, but for all that cutting the 
 choicest morsels and offering them to his companion, who ob- 
 stinately refused the game, contenting herself with a few 
 chestnuts. 
 
 " Tell me then, little Mary," continued he, seeing that she 
 did not think of answering him, " do you mean to say that 
 you have not yet had an idea of marriage ? You are old enough 
 at all events." 
 
 ''Perhaps so," said she; "but I am too poor. It would 
 require at least a hundred crowns to commence housekeep- 
 ing, and I must work for five or six years to accumulate such 
 a sum." 
 
 " Poor girl! I wigli old Maurice would give me a hundred 
 crowns, that I might make them a present to you." 
 
 "Many thanks, Germain 1 But then what would people 
 say of me?" 
 
 " What would you have them say of you? They know very 
 well that I am old, and that I cannot marry you, and they 
 would not suppose that I — that you — " 
 
 " There! Master Germain — look! your child is awake," said 
 little Mary. 
 
271 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DESPITE THE COLD. 
 
 Little Pierre had risen and was gazing around him witL a 
 pensive air. 
 
 " Ah ! that's just like him when he hears any person eating!" 
 said Germain ; *' the report of a cannon would not awake him, 
 but as soon as ever any one begins to move his jaws near him, 
 he opens his eyes in a minute." 
 
 •*I should think you must have been like him at his agel" 
 said little Mary with a mischievous smile. *'Ha! my little 
 Pierre, you are looking up at the top of your bed? It is made 
 of leaves this evening, my child ; but yet your father is taking 
 his supper for all that. Will you sup with him ? I have not 
 eaten your share; I thought you would soon come for it." 
 
 ** Mary, I wish you would eat," cried the labourer ; *' I shall 
 eat no more. I am a ravenous monster — a glutton — while 
 yon deprive yourself of everything for our sakes. That is 
 not right; I am quite ashamed of myself. There — that 
 takes away all my hunger : my son shan't sup unless you sup 
 also!" 
 
 ** Leave us alone," replied little Mary ; " you have not the 
 key of our appetites. Mine is locked up to-day, but that of 
 your Pierre is as open as a little wolf's. Stay — just look 
 how he takes to it I Oh I he will be a stout labourer too !" 
 
 In fact, little Pierre soon showed whose son he was ; and 
 although scarcely awakened, and comprehending neither where 
 he was nor how he had got there, he began to eat with raight 
 and main ; then, when he had satisfied his appetite, excited 
 as children always are by any change in their usual habits, he 
 displayed more spirit, more curiosity, and more mtelli^ence 
 than usual. He first inquired where he was, and when he 
 learned that he was in the middle of a wood he became rather 
 frightened. 
 
 ** Are there no wicked animals in this wood?" asked he of 
 his father. 
 
 *• No," said his father, *' none at all. Do not be afraid." 
 
 ** Then you told me a story just now when you said that if 
 
272 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 I went witli you into the great woods, the wolves would carry 
 me away?" 
 
 '* Do you hear this reasoner?" said Germain, rather embar- 
 rassed. 
 
 " He is right," rejoined little Mary ; *' you told him so. He 
 has a good memory and he recollects it. But learn, my little 
 Pierre, that your father never tells stories. We passed the 
 great woods while you were asleep, and we are now in the 
 little woods where there are no wild beasts." 
 
 " Are the little woods very far from the great woods?" 
 
 " Quite far enough. Besides the wolves never leave the 
 great woods ; and even if they were to come this way your 
 father would kill them." 
 
 "And would you kill them too, little Mary?" 
 
 "Yes, we both would kill them, for you would help us 
 stoutly, my Pierre — wouldn't you? You are not afraid, are 
 you? You would lay aboat you bravely!" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" said the child proudly, assuming a heroic atti- 
 tude, "we v/ould kill them!" 
 
 " There is no one like you for being able to speak to chil- 
 dren, and make them understand," said Germain to little 
 Mary. " It is true it is not long since you were a child your- 
 self, and you recollect what your mother used to say to you. 
 I believe the younger one is the better one gets on with 
 young people. I am very much afraid that a woman of thirty, 
 who does not yet know what it is to be a mother, will have 
 great difficulty in learning how to chatter and reason with 
 youngsters." 
 
 "Why so, Germain? I know not why you have taken a 
 bad idea into your head respecting this woman; you must 
 think better of her." 
 
 "Devil take the woman!" said Germain. " I wish I were 
 safe back at home again, never more to return. What need 
 have I for a wife? A woman, too, that I know nothing of!" 
 
 "Papa," said the child, "why are you always speaking of 
 your wife to-day, since she is dead?" 
 
 " Alas! my bov, you have not forgotten your poor mother 
 then?" 
 
 "No. for I saw her put into a beautiful white wooden box, 
 and my grandmother took me up to kiss her and bid her good- 
 bye. She was all white and cold — oh ! so cold ; and every 
 evening my aunt makes me pray that she may be with God in 
 heaven. Do you think she is there now?" 
 
 "I trust so, my child. But you must always pray; that! 
 ehows your mother that you Ipve her," 
 
DESPITE THE COLD. 273 
 
 "I am going to say my prayers," continued the child; "I 
 quite forgot to say them this evening before. But I cannot 
 repeat them all alone, I always forget some. You must help 
 me, little Mary." 
 
 **Yes, my Pierre, I will help you," said the young girl 
 " Come and kneel beside me." 
 
 The child knelt on the young girl's lap, clasped his little 
 hands, and began to recite his prayer, at first with attention 
 and fervour, for he knew the beginning very well, then slowly 
 and with hesitation, and at length repeating word for word as 
 little Mary dictated it to him; for when he had reached a 
 certain point in his evening devotions, sleep every night over- 
 powered him and he had never been able to learn it to the 
 end. On this occasion also, the labour of attention and the 
 monotony of his own voice produced their accustomed effect; 
 he pronounced the last syllables with great difficulty, and only 
 after they had been repeated to him three or four times. At 
 length his head grew heavy, and he fell forward upon Mary's 
 bosom : his little hands became loosened, separated from each 
 other, and fell open upon his knees. By the light of their 
 bivouac fire Germain gazed upon his little angel slumbering 
 upon the bosom of the young maiden, who nestling him in her 
 arms, while her warm breath played amid his fair tresses, had 
 fallen into a pious reverie, and uttered a mental prayer for 
 the soul of their lost Catherine. 
 
 Germain was touched, and sought for Tvords to express to 
 little Mary the esteem and gratitude she inspired him with, 
 but could find none able to convey his thoughts. He 
 approached to kiss his son, whom she still held pressed to her 
 bosom, and he had much difficulty in detaching his lips from 
 little Pierre's forehead. 
 
 *' You kiss him too roughly," said Mary, gently repulsing 
 the labourer's head; *' you will awake him. Let me put him 
 to bed again, since he has once more departed for dreams of 
 Paradise." 
 
 The child permitted himself to be laid down again, but when 
 stretched upon the goat's-skin of the saddle, he asked if he was 
 upon La G rise's back. Then opening his large blue eyes, and 
 fixing them for a moment or two upon the branches above his 
 bead, he appeared to be in a waking dream, or to be struck 
 with some idea which might have glided into his mind during 
 the day and now found words for itself at the approach of 
 sleep. 
 
 **Papa," said he, "if you intend to give me another mother, 
 I hope it will be little Mary." 
 
274 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 And without waiting for a reply, he closed his eyes and fell 
 over again asleep. Little Mary appeared to pay no other 
 attention to the strange words of the child than to regard 
 them as a proof of his affection ; she carefully wrapped him 
 up, heaped fresh fuel on the fire, and as the mist that hung 
 over the neighbouring marsh appeared not at all likely to 
 clear off, she advised Germain to settle himself beside the fire 
 and endeavour to take a nap. 
 
 ** I see you are half asleep already," said she to him, " for 
 you don't say a word, and you are looking at the embers just 
 as your little boy did just now. Come, sleep; I will watch 
 over the child aud the fire too." 
 
 " 'Tis you that must sleep," replied the labourer, " and I 
 will guard you both, for I never felt less desire to sleep in 
 my life; I have fifty ideas running through my head." 
 
 *' Fifty! that's a great many," said the maiden, half ironi- 
 cally; " there are so many people who would be glad to have 
 one." 
 
 ** Well, if I am not capable of having fifty, I have at least 
 one which hasn't left me for the last hour." 
 
 "And I will tell it to you, as well as the one you had before." 
 
 " Well, yes, tell it me if you have found it out, Mary, tell 
 it to me yourself; that would please me much." 
 
 " An hour ago," replied she, *' you had an idea of eating, 
 and now you have an idea of sleeping." 
 
 " I am but a ploughman, Mary, I know, but in truth you 
 take me for an ox. You are a naughty girl, and I see plainly 
 that you do not wish to talk to me. Go to sleep then ; that 
 will be better than making fun of a man because he is not gay." 
 
 " If you -want to talk, talk," said the little girl, placing her- 
 self in a reclining attitude beside the child and leaning her 
 head against the saddle. * ' You are in the humour of torment- 
 ing yourself, Germain, and that does not show much courage 
 for a man. What should I do, if I were not to struggle my 
 best against my own troubles?" 
 
 ** Yes, certainly; and it isjustthatwhich occupies my thoughts, 
 my poor child! You are going to live far away from your 
 friends, and in a villanous country of sandy plains and marshes, 
 where you will catch the autumnal fever, and where the sheep 
 do not thrive, which always annoys a well-intentioned shep- 
 herdess : and besides you will be among strangers who perhaps 
 will not be kind to you, and who will not comprehend your 
 worth. I tell you what it is, that gives me more trouble and 
 regret that I can express, and I have a gi^eat mind to take you 
 back to your mother's instead of going to Fourche." 
 
DESPITE THE COLl>. 275 
 
 "You speak very kindly, but not very sensibly, my poor 
 Germain ; one ought not to be cowardly for one's friends, and 
 in place of showing me the bad side of my lot, you ought rather 
 to show me the good side, as you did when we stopped to dine 
 at Rebec's." 
 
 *^AVhat would you have? Matters appeared to me itl one 
 light then, and now they appear in a very different one. You 
 would do better to take a husband!" 
 
 ** I have already told you that cannot be, Germain; and as 
 it cannot be, I think no more about it." 
 
 ** But in short if such a thing were to be found? Perhaps 
 if you were to tell me what sort of a person you would fancy 
 for a husband, I might be able to imagine some one." 
 '* ** To imagine is not to find. For my part I imagine nothing, 
 sitice it is useless." 
 
 ** You have never thought of finding a rich husband?" 
 
 "No, most certainly not, since I am myself as poor as Job." 
 
 " But supposmg he were in easy circumstances, you would 
 not dislike being well lodged, well fed, well clothed, and 
 amongst a family of honest kind-hearted people who would allow 
 you to help your mother?" 
 
 "Oh! as for that, yes! To help my mother is my whole 
 desire." 
 
 "And if such a person were to be met with, even supposing 
 the man were not in the prime of youth, you would not refuse 
 hijn on that account?" 
 
 ' ' Ah ! pardon me, Germain ! That is the very thing I should 
 plaee great stress on. I should not like an old man." 
 
 " An old man, no, certainly not; but, for example, a man 
 of my age?" 
 
 "Your age is old for me, Germain ; I should prefer Bastien*s 
 age, although Bastien Is not BU(;h a handsome man as you." 
 > "You would like Bastien the swine-herd better than me?" 
 exclaimed Germain angrily. "A fellow that has eyes like the 
 animals he tends!" 
 
 "I would pass over his eyes on account of his eighteen 
 years." 
 
 Germain felt himself horribly jealous. 
 
 "Come," said he, "I see that you are all for Bastien. It is 
 a droll idea of yours certainly." 
 
 " Yes, it certainly would be a droll idea indeed," replied 
 little Mary bursting into a hearty fit of laughter; "and he 
 would make a droll husband too. One can make him believe 
 anything they please. The other day, for example, I picked 
 up a tomata in the cure's warden, and told him it was $ 
 
276 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 beautiful rosy-cheeked apple, and he attacked it like a 
 shar ! If you had seen what a face ! Gracious ! how ugly ho 
 was!" 
 
 " You don't love him then, since you laugh at him ?" 
 
 "That would be no proof. But I don't love him, for he is 
 brutal with his little sister, and he is slovenly and dirty him- 
 self." 
 
 "Well then, you do not feel an inclination towards any 
 other ?" 
 
 *' What is that to you, Germam ?" 
 
 *' Oh ! nothing in the world ; it was only for the sake of con- 
 yersation. I see plainly, my little woman, that you have al- 
 ready a lover in your eye." 
 
 "No, Germain, you are mistaken; I have nothing of the 
 kind yet. Such an idea might come some of these days, but 
 since I shall not marry until I have saved a little money, I am 
 destined to marry late in life and with some old man." 
 
 " Well then, take an old man at once." 
 
 " No, no, when I am no longer young, it will be all the same 
 to,me then ; now it would be a different affair." 
 
 " I see how it is, Mary ; I do not please you, that's clear," 
 said Germain in a tone of vexation, and without thinking of 
 what he was saying. 
 
 Little Mary did not reply. Germain leaned over towards 
 her. She was asleep ; she had fallen back quite overcome by 
 drowsiness, like children who fall asleep while they are still 
 talking. 
 
 Germain was glad she had not heard his last words ; he felt 
 that they were indiscreet, and he turned away as if to distract 
 his attention from the subject and direct his thoughts into 
 another channel. 
 
 But his endeavours were vain, he could neither sleep nor yet 
 think of anything save what he had been talking about. He 
 changed his position twenty times round the fire, moved away, 
 returned again ; and at last, feeling as agitated as if he 
 had swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the tree which 
 sheltered the two children and contemplated them as they 
 slept. 
 
 "I know not how it is," thought he, " that I never perceived 
 that this little Mary is the prettiest girl in the country. She 
 has not much colour certainly, but she has a little face as fresh as 
 a wild rose. What a sweet little mouth, and what a delicate little 
 nose ! She is not tall for her age, but she is as plump as a par- 
 tridge and as light and as gay as a lark. I don't know why our 
 people place such a value on great, tall, stout, red-faced women ; 
 
DESPITE THE COLD. 277 
 
 my wife was rather slend(ir and pale, yet she pleased me above 
 them all. This little one here is very delicate looking, but she 
 harn't the worse health for that, and she is as fair to look up- 
 on as a snow-white kid. And then what a ojentle and honest 
 expression ! How one can read her amiable disposition 
 in her eyes, even when they are closed in sleep ! As to her 
 understanding, she has more of that, it must be confessed, than 
 my poor dear Catherine had, and one certainly would never 
 feel weariness in her company. She is gay, discreet, kind- 
 hearted, laborious, and so droll I I really do not see what one 
 could require more. 
 
 " But what right have I to think of these things ?" resumed 
 Germain, endeavouring to look another way ; ** my father-in- 
 law would not hear of such a thing, and the entire' family 
 would treat me as a madman. Besides, she herself would not 
 have me, poor child I She considers me too old, she has told 
 me so. She has no interested motives, she cares little about 
 enduring poverty and labour, wearing poor clothes, and suffer- 
 ing hunger during two or three months of the year, provided 
 one day she can gratify her heart, and take a husband that 
 pleases her. Well, she is in the right ; I would do the same 
 were I in her place, and at this present moment, if I could 
 follow my own inclination, in place of contracting a marriage 
 that seems so uninviting, I would look out for a girl oL^my 
 choice." ' 
 
 The more Germain sought to reason himself out of this 
 train of thought into which he had fallen, the more difficulty 
 did he experience in attaining his end. lie walked away 
 into the wood and lost himself in the mist, and then all at 
 once he would find himself on his knees beside the two sleep- 
 ing children. Once even he felt an uncontrollable desire to 
 kiss his little Pierre, who had one arm passed round Mary's 
 neck ; and so far deceived himself in the direction, that Mary, 
 feeling a warm breath passing over her lips, started up in 
 affright, not understanding in the least what was passing in his 
 mind, 
 
 "I did not see you, my poor children," said Germain retiring 
 quickly ; " I had almost fallen upon you and hurt you." 
 
 Little Mary was good-natured enough to believe this ex- 
 planation, and fell asleep again. Germain moved round to the 
 other side of the fire and vowed he would not stir until she 
 should awake. He kept his word, but not without infinite 
 difficulty. He fancied that he should have gone mad. 
 
 At length, towards midnight, the mist dispersed, and Ger- 
 main could see the stars shining through the trees. The moon 
 
278 THE HAUriTED MAUSH. 
 
 also began to struggle through the vapours which had hitherto 
 concealed her, and began to scatter sparkling diamonds upon 
 the humid moss. The trunks of the huge oaks remained in 
 majestic obscurity, while a little further oiT the white birch- 
 trees seemed like a row of phantoms in their funeral shrouds. 
 The fire began to be reflected in the niero, and the frogs, get- 
 ting accustomed to the light, hazarded a few shrill timid notes. 
 The gnarled branches of the old trees, overgrown with the pale 
 lichen, stretched aloft and interlaced their boughs like great 
 fleshless arms over our travellers' heads. It was a beautiful 
 spot, but so lonely and sad that Germain, finding his sensations 
 no longer endurable, began to sing aloud and to throw stones 
 into the water in order to get rid of the frightful weariness 
 of this solitude. He wished also by this means to awake little 
 Mary, and when he saw that she was sitting up and looking 
 round her, he proposed that they should continue their journey. 
 
 *' In the course of two hours," said he, " the approach of day 
 will render the air so cold that in spite of our fire we shall 
 no longer be able to remain here. We can now see before us, 
 and we shall in all probability discover some house where the 
 people will open their door to us, or at least some barn where 
 we can pass the remainder of the night under cover." 
 
 Mary was not in the least self-willed, and although she felt 
 a strong desire to sleep a little longer, she prepared to follow 
 Germain. The latter took his son up in his arms without 
 awaking him, and as Mary would not resume her own mantle 
 which she had wrapped round little Pierre, he made her get 
 under his cloak and walk beside him. 
 
 When Germain, who had for an instant succeeded in divert- 
 ing his thoughts from the former painful channel, felt the young 
 girl so close to him, he began again to lose his self-possession. 
 Two or three times he broke away suddenly from his compa- 
 nion, and left her to walk alone; then, seeing that she had 
 great difficulty in following him, he would await her approach, 
 draw her quickly towards him, and press her so strongly to his 
 side that she felt astonished and even angry without daring to 
 say so. 
 
 As they had not the least idea in what direction they had I 
 started, so their present route was equally unknown to them. . 
 In this manner then they once more pierced through the re-- 
 cesses of the wood, found themselves again in front of the de- 
 sert heath, retraced their steps, and after having twisted and 
 turned for a length of time, they perceived at length a glim- 
 mering light shining through the branches. 
 , ** That's well ! here's a house at last," exclaimed Germain, 
 
THE LIOISESS OF THE VTLLAG^. 27'c> 
 
 "and the people already up and stirrino:, since the fire is 
 lighted. Is it then later than we supposed ?" 
 
 But it was not a house ; it was their bivouac fire which they 
 had covered over when starting and which the breeze had 
 rekindled. ^They hud therefor^ walked for two hours only 
 to find themselves once more at the point from which they 
 hftd started. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TUE LIONESS OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 **I GIVE it upl" said Germain, stamping his foot on the ground 
 with an air of vexation. " Our lot is caslrfor a certainty, and 
 we shall not leave this until daylight. This spot must surely 
 be bewitched." 
 
 ** Come, come, don't let us be angry," said Mary ; " w^e must 
 make the best of it. AYe will make up a larger fire, the 
 child is 60 well wrapped up that he runs no risk of catching 
 cold, and passing one night out of doors will not kill us. 
 Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain ? In the middle of 
 the holly-bush, you great stupid man? That is a handy place 
 to get at, isn't it?" 
 
 ** Hol(l the child, while I get his bed out of the briars. I 
 don't want you to scratch your hands.' 
 
 "It's done; here is the bed, and a few scratches are not 
 sabre cuts," continued the brave little girl. 
 
 She proceeded to put little Pierre to bed anew, who this 
 time had slept so soundly that he had been entirely unconscious 
 of his recent journey. Germain piled up so much wood on 
 the fire, that all the forest round shone again ; but little Mary 
 was now fairly done up, and although she did not complain, 
 she could no longer support herself upon her limbs. She 
 was deadly pale, and her teeth chattered with cold and ex- 
 haustion. Germain took her in his arms to warm her; and 
 anxiety, compassion, and a feeling of irresistible tenderness 
 taking possession of his heart, dulled the fire of the senses. His 
 tongue became loosed as if by a miracle, and all embar- 
 rassment ceasing : — 
 
 *' Mary," said he, " you please me, and I am very unhappy 
 at the thought that I do not in return please you. If you were 
 willing to take me for your husband, neither father-in-law, 
 nor relations, nor neighbours, nor advice of any kind would 
 prevent me from marrying you. I know that you would make 
 my children happy, that you would teach them to respect the 
 memory of their mother, and, my own conscience being at 
 rest, I should be easy in my mind. I have* always had a 
 fiM'ling of friendship for you, 'n^fl n^w T f 1 so much in love 
 
280 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 with you, that were you to ask me to spend my whole life in 
 gratifying your slightest whims, I would swear to do so. Only 
 think how dearly I love you, and endeavour to forget my age. 
 Believe me it is false to imagine that a man of thirty is old. 
 Besides, I am but eight-and-twenty ! A young girl fears she 
 will be talked about when she marries a man ten or twelve 
 years older than herself, because it is not the custom of the 
 country ; but 1 have heard it said that in other countries 
 people do not mind that; and that on the contrary, they 
 prefer giving a reasonable man of well-tried courage as a sup- 
 port to a young girl, rather than a stripling who may be likely 
 to go astray, and, from the steady youth that they believed 
 him to be, turn out a worthless scamp. Besides, years do not 
 always make age. That entirely depends upon the strength 
 and health that accompany them. When a man is worn out 
 by too much labour and poverty, or by dissipation, he is old 
 before he is five-and-twenty. Now with me — but you are not 
 listening to me, Mary?" 
 
 *' Yes, Germain, I hear every word you say," replied little 
 Mary; " but I was thinking of what my mother often said to 
 me; that a woman of sixty is much to be pitied when her 
 husband is seventy or seventy-five, and can no longer work for 
 her support. He becomes infirm, and she has to look after 
 and tend him at the very time when she herself has most need 
 of care and repose. It is in this way that people come to end 
 their days upon straw." 
 
 "Parents are right in saying that, I confess, Mary," re- 
 joined Germain; "but after all, such people sacrifice the 
 season of youth, which is the best, in planning beforehand 
 what is to become of them at an age when they are no longer 
 good for anything, and when it is a matter of perfect indiffer- 
 ence to them whether they end their days in one manner or 
 another. But I am not in danger of dying of hunger in my 
 old days. I am even in a position to be able to lay by some- 
 thing, since, living with my late wife's relations, I work hard 
 and spend nothing. Besides, I love you so dearly, look you, 
 that that alone would prevent me from growing old. They 
 say that when a man is happy, he takes care of himself, and 
 I feel assured that I am in reality younger than Bastien ; for 
 he does not love you, he cannot love you — he is too stupid, too 
 great a child to comprehend how pretty and good you are, and 
 how formed to be loved. Come, Mary, do not hate me, I am 
 not an ill-natured man. I made my Catherine happy; she 
 declared before ferod, upon her death -bed, that she had never 
 passed an unhappy hour with me, and she begged of me that I 
 
THE LIONESS OP THE VILLAGE. 281 
 
 would marry again. It would seem as though her spirit spoke 
 this evening to her child, at the moment when he was falling 
 asleep. Did you not hear what he said, and how his little 
 lips trembled, whilst his eyes seemed to gaze on something in 
 the air invisible to us? He saw his mother then, rest assured, 
 and it was she who made him say that he should like you to 
 replace her." 
 
 ** Germain,'' replied Mary, astonished and pensive, *'you 
 speak honestly and straightforwardly, and all that you say is 
 true. I am sure that I should do well to love you, if my so 
 doing would not annoy your relations too much : but ^what 
 would you have me do? My heart does not plead for you. I 
 have a sincere friendship for you, but although your age does 
 not render you disagreeable in my eyes, it terrifies me. It 
 seems to me that you are something like an uncle, or a god- 
 father towards me'; that I owe you respect, and that there 
 would be times when you would treat me as a little girl, rather 
 than as your wife and equal. In short, my comrades would 
 perhaps laugh at me, and although it would be silly of me to 
 mind that, still I think I should feel ashamed and rather sad 
 upon my wedding-day." 
 
 " These are childish reasons ; you speak like a child, Mary!" 
 
 " Well, yes, I am a child," said she, " and it is for that very 
 reason that I fear having too sensible a man for a husband. 
 You see plainly that if you are not too old for me, I am too 
 young for you, since you already reproach me with speaking 
 unreasonably. I cannot have more sense than is natural to 
 my age." 
 
 ** Alas! how much I am to be pitied for being so stupid as 
 to express so badly what I think!" cried Germain. "Mary, 
 you do not love me, that'^ the fact ; you think me too simple, 
 and heavy, and stupid for you. If you loved me, were it ever 
 so little, you would not perceive my defects so clearly. But 
 you do not love me; that's all about it." 
 
 "Well, that is not my fault," rejoined she, a little hurt that 
 he had dropped the familiar tone in which he had first addressed 
 her; "I did my utmost when listening to you, but the more 
 I tried, the less I was able to persuade myself that we ought to 
 be man and wife." 
 
 Germain did not reply ; he leaned his head upon his hands, 
 and it was impossible for little Mary to discover whether he 
 wept, or sulked, or slept. She felt rather uneasy at seeing 
 him so mournful and at not being able to guess what was 
 passing in his mind; but sLe dared not speak to him again, 
 and she was too much astonished at what had passed to feel 
 
282 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 any further desire for sleep. She waited impatiently for the 
 approach of day, constantly attending to the fire, and watching 
 over the child whom Germain appeared no longer to remember. 
 ^Meanwhile, Germain did not sleep ; ho neither reflected upon 
 his lot nor formed projects of daring or plans of seduction. 
 lie suflered ; he had a mountain-load of care upon his heart ; 
 lie wished he were dead. All appeared to be turning out 
 badly for him, and if he had been able, he would have taken 
 a hearty fit of crying. But there was a little anger with him- 
 self mingled with his trouble, and he felt as it were suifocating, 
 without the power, or even the wish to complain. 
 
 When daylight was come, and the various sounds of the 
 country announced its advent to Germain, he raised his face 
 from his hands and stood up. He perceived that little Mary 
 had not slept any more than himself, but he knew not what 
 to say to her to mark his anxiety. He was completely dis- 
 couraged. He again hid La Grise's saddle in the thicket, 
 threw the saddle-bags over his shoulder, and taking his son by 
 the hand: — 
 
 "]N'ow, Mary," said he, " we are going to try and finish our 
 journey. Should you like me to take you to the Elms?" 
 
 "We will leave the wood together," replied she, "and 
 when we have found out where we are, we will each go our 
 own way." 
 
 Germain did not answer, he felt hurt that the young girl 
 did not ask him to take her to the Elms, not perceiving that 
 he had made the offer in a tone which seemed to provoke a 
 refusal. 
 
 A woodcutter whom they fell in with after they had gone 
 about two hundred paces, put them on the right road, and told 
 them that after crossing the plain they had only to take, the 
 one the right, the other the left hand road to gain their desti- 
 nations, which were besides so near to each other that the 
 houses of Fourche eould be distinctly seen from the farm of 
 the Elms, and vice-versa. 
 
 After they had thanked the woodcutter for his information, 
 and had proceeded a short distance on their road, the latter 
 called them back to know if they had not lost a horse. 
 
 "This morning, I found," said he, "a beautiful grey mare 
 in my farm-yard, whither most likely the wolves forced her to 
 seek a refui^e. My dogs barked all night, and at daylight I 
 saw the annual under my cart-shed ; she is there still. You 
 had better go, and if you recognise her take her with you." 
 
 Germain having previously described La Grise to the wood- 
 cutter, and being convinced that it really was she, prepared to 
 
TUE LIONESS OF THE VILLAGE. 283 
 
 return to where they had passed the night in order to fetch 
 his saddle. Little Mary then offered to take his child with 
 her to the Elms, where he might come for him after he had 
 paid his visit at Fourche. 
 
 " lie is rather untidy after the night we have passed," said 
 she. "I will put his clothes in order, wash his pretty little 
 face, and comb his hair, and when he is nice and clean and 
 handsome you can present him to your new family." 
 
 "And who told you that I intend going to Fourche?" re- 
 plied Germain, out of temper. "Perhaps 1 shall not go at all." 
 
 " Oh yes, Germain, you ought to go — you will go," rejoined 
 the young girl. 
 
 " You are in a great hurry to have me married to another, 
 111 order that I may not trouble you any more — is that it?" * 
 
 " Come, Germain, think no more of this, it is but an idea 
 v\ lilch came into your head last night, because this unfortunate 
 journey had put you a little out of sorts. But your good sense 
 must return to you again now ; I promise to forget what you 
 have said to me, and not to speak of it to any one." 
 
 "Oh! speak of it as much as you please. I am not accus- 
 tomed to deny my words. What I said was true and honest, 
 and I would not blush to repeat it before any one." 
 
 " Yes, but if your future wife were to know that at the mo- 
 ment you were about to pay your addresses to her you had 
 thought of another, it would predispose her against you. So 
 pay attention to what you say, and do not look at me before 
 people in that odd way. Recollect that Farmer Maurice reckons 
 upon your obedience, and would be very much annoyed indeed 
 with me if I was the means of inducing you to act contrary to 
 his wishes. Good day, Germain, I am going to take little 
 Pierre with me, in order to force you to go to Fourche. I 
 shall keep him as a pledge for your good behaviour." 
 
 "Do you wish to go with her then?" said the labourer to 
 his son, observing that he clung resolutely with both hands to 
 little Mary, and seemed determined to follow her. 
 
 "Yes, father," replied the child, who had overheard, and 
 comprehended in his own way, what had been said so unsus- 
 pectingly before him; "I shall go with my dear little Mary. 
 X ou can come for me when you have done marrying ; but I 
 shall have little Mary for my mother." 
 
 " You see he wishes it too," said Germain to the young girl. . 
 "Listen, my little Pierre," added he, "I also wish that she 
 should be your mother, and remain always with you. 'Tis she 
 that refuses. Try and persuade her to grant you what sho 
 refuses me." 
 
284 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 "Be easy, father, I'll make her say yes ; little Mary always 
 does what I wish." 
 
 So saying he trotted off with the young girl. Germain re- 
 mained alone, more dejected, more irresolute, than ever. 
 
 However, when he had repaired the disorder caused by the 
 journey in his garments and in the equipage of his steed, when 
 he had mounted La Grise, and had been pointed out the road 
 to Fourche, he felt that he could not now go back, and that it 
 was absolutely necessary he should forget that night of agita- 
 tion as if it had been merely a dangerous dream. 
 
 He found Farmer Leonard at the door of his white house, 
 seated upon a handsome wooden bench painted bright green. 
 There were six stone steps leading up to the entrance, showing 
 that the house possessed an underground story. The wall en- 
 closing the garden and hempfield was roughcast with lime and 
 sand, and altogether it was a very pretty abode, and wanted 
 but little to make a spectator imagine that it was the habita- 
 tion of some wealthy citizen. 
 
 The future father-in-law advanced to meet Germain, and 
 after having talked to him for about five minutes respecting 
 the health of his family and similar topics, he added, in the 
 phrase usually applied by the country people to question po- 
 litely any one whom they may chance to meet upon the object 
 of their journey — 
 > ** You were passing this way then, I suppose?" 
 
 ** I came to see you," replied the labourer, " and to present 
 you with this little present of game from my father-in-law ; in- 
 forming you also from him, that you must of course know 
 with what intentions I have visited your house." 
 
 *' Ah! ha!" said old Leonard, laughing heartily, and strik- 
 ing his open palm upon his capacious stomach, " I see, I un- 
 derstand, I am awake I" 
 
 And with a knowing wink he added — 
 
 "You will not be the only one paying your respects, my 
 young man. There are already three in the house waiting like 
 yourself. For my part I send no one away, and I should be 
 very much embarrassed which party to dismiss and which to 
 accept, for they are all good matches. Nevertheless, on ac- 
 count of my old friend Maurice, and of the quality of the land 
 you cultivate, I would rather it were you. But my daughter 
 is of age, and mistress of her own property, and will therefore 
 act according to her own wishes. Come in, make yourself 
 known, and I hope you may have a lucky number!" 
 
 "Excuse me," stammered Germain, much surprised at 
 
THE LIONESS OF THE VILLAGE. 285 
 
 finding himself a supernumerary where he had reckoned upon 
 being alone; "I was ignorant that your daughter was already 
 provided with suitors, and I did not come to dispute her hand 
 with others." 
 
 " If you fancied because you were late in coming," replied 
 old Leonard, without losing his good humour, **that my 
 daughter would pine away alone, you were greatly deceived, 
 my boy. Catherine has the wherewithal to attract suitors, 
 and she will only be embarrassed to choose among them. But 
 come in, I tell you, and don't lose courage. She Is a woman 
 well worth the trouble of fighting for." 
 
 And, pushing Germain by the shoulders before him with 
 iJoisterous gaiety — 
 
 "Come, Catherine," cried he, entering the house, *' here's 
 one more for you!" 
 
 This jovial but rather indelicate manner of being presented 
 to the widow, in the presence of her other sighing swains, com- 
 pleted the embarrassment and discontent of the labourer. He 
 felt awkward and 111 at ease, and remained for an instant with- 
 out daring to raise his eyes towards his fair one and her court. 
 
 The widow Guerin was tolerably good-looking, and wanted 
 not for comeliness. But her expression of countenance and 
 even her dress displeased Germain at the very first glance. 
 She had a bold and self-satisfied air, and her cap, garnished 
 with a triple row of lace, her silk apron, and her neckerchief 
 of black blonde, were but little in keeping with the Idea 
 which he had formed of a discreet and serious widow. This 
 style of costume and these girlish airs made her seem old and 
 ugly, although In reality she was neither the one nor the 
 other. It occurred to him that so showy a style of dress, and 
 manners so gay and joyous, might have suited the age and 
 buoyant spirits of little Mary, but that the widow's pleasantry 
 was heavy and somewhat broad, and that she wore her rich 
 dress without taste or elegance. 
 
 The three aspirants to the widow's hand were seated at a 
 table covered with bottles of wine and viands, which were 
 regularly laid out for them every Sunday morning ; for old 
 Leonard loved to display his wealth, and the widow was not 
 sorry either to have an opportunity of showing off' her plate, 
 and of keeping table like a rich dame. Germain, simple and 
 unsuspecting as he was, had sufiicient penetration to observe 
 these particulars, and for the first time in his life he held 
 himself upon the defensive when drinking with the rest. Old 
 Leonard had forced him to take a place at the table with his 
 
286 THE HAUNTED MAIISII. 
 
 rivals, and, seating himself opposite to him, he treated him 
 with his best and conversed with him in preference to the 
 others. The present of game, despite the breach which Ger- 
 main had made in it on his own account, was still handsome 
 enough to produce an impression. The widow appeared sen- 
 sible of the attention, and the suitors cast upon it a glance of 
 disdain. 
 
 Germain felt himself ill at ease in this company, and did 
 not eat heartily. Farmer Leonard jested with him on the 
 subject. 
 
 *' You are very melancholy looking to-day," said he, *' and 
 you quarrel with your glass. You must not allow love to 
 take away your appetite; for a fasting gallant cannot fin^ 
 pretty words, like him whose ideas are enlivened with a thim- 
 bleful of wine." 
 
 Germain was mortified they should suppose him already in 
 love ; and the affected air of the widow, who lowered her eyes 
 with a smile, like a person sure of the conquest, almost 
 tempted him to protest against his pretended defeat ; but he 
 feared to appear uncivil, smiled, and took patience. 
 
 The widow's gallants appeared to be three rustics, Did they 
 must have been very rich since their pretensions were tole- 
 rated by her. One was upwards of forty, and was as stout 
 as old Leonard ; the second was blind of an eye, and drank 
 60 hard that he was already intoxicated. The third, was a 
 tolerably good-looking young man, but he endeavoured to 
 pass off for a wit, and perpetrated witticisms so utterly 
 wretched that it was lamentable to hear him. The widow 
 laughed heartily however as if she admired his stale jokes, and 
 in so doing gave no very great proof of her taste. Germain 
 fancied at first that she was caught by this suitor ; but he soon 
 perceived that he was himself encouraged in a particular man- 
 ner, and that the widow seemed evidently to desire that he 
 should become warmer in his attentions. This was only ano- 
 ther reason for his showing himself colder and more distant. 
 
 The hour for mass arrived, and they rose from table to 
 proceed to church together. They were obliged to go to 
 Mers, a good half league distant, and Germain felt himself so 
 fatigued that he longed to take a nap before his walk. But 
 he was not accustomed to absent himself from church, and he 
 accordingly prepared to set out with the rest. 
 
 The roads were thronged with people, and the widow 
 marched along proudly, escorted by her three gallants, giving 
 her arm sometimes to one, sometimes to another, and bridling 
 and carrying her head high. tShe would have been charmed to 
 
TUli MASTER. 287 
 
 produce the fourth before the eyes of the villagers; but Ger- 
 main found it so ridiculous to be thus dragged along after a 
 petticoat, in sight of every one, that he remained behind at a 
 suitable distance, conversing with old Leonard and exerting 
 himself to amuse him and occupy his thoughts, so that they 
 might not have the appearance of forming part of the band. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TliS MASTEU. 
 
 AViiEN they reached the village the widow paused to await 
 their approach. She Was determined to make her triumphal 
 entry into church accompanied by all suitors ; but Germain, 
 disappointing her of this satisfaction, left old Leonard, ac- 
 costed several persons of his acquaintance whom he met in the 
 crowd, and entered the church by another door, much to the 
 vexation of the fair widow. 
 
 After mass, however, she showed herself triumphantly upon 
 the village green where the peasant lads and girls were 
 dancing, and opened the ball with her three lovers in succes- 
 sion. Germain watched her performance, and thought that 
 she danced well though ailectedly. 
 
 '* Well!" said old Leonard, striking him upon the shoulder, 
 '*you don't ask my daughter to dance? You are too timid 
 l.yhalf." 
 
 "I have not danced since I lost my wife," replied the 
 l.ibourer. 
 
 " But since you are seeking another, the mourning U over 
 in the heart as well as in the dress, eh?" 
 
 "That's no reason, Farmer Leonard; besides, I consider 
 myself too old — I no longer like dancing." 
 
 "Listen to me," continued Leonard, drawing him apart; 
 ** you were annoyed when you entered my house to see the 
 place already invested by besiegers, and I can perceive that you 
 are very proud. But this is not reasonable, my boy. My 
 daughter is accustomed to be admired and courted, especially 
 during the two years which have elapsed since the expiration 
 of her mourning, and it is not her place to solicit you." 
 
 " Have two years elapsed since your daughter was thinking 
 of marrying again, and has she not yet made her choice?" 
 said Germain. 
 
 *' She is in no hurry, and she is in the right. Although she 
 may appear to you sprightly in her manners, and not much 
 given to reflection, she is a woman of great sense, and one who 
 Enows right well what she is about." 
 
 *' It does not seem so," replied Germain frankly; " she has 
 
288 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 tliree lovers in her train, and if she knew what she wanted 
 there would be at least two too many, whom she might request 
 to stay at home." 
 
 *'Whyso? You know nothing, Germain! She wants nei- 
 ther the old man nor the one-eyed one, nor yet the young one, 
 I am almost certain ; but if she were to dismiss them, people 
 would imagine that she wished to remain a widow, and no 
 other suitor would come forward." 
 
 " Ah! I see; these serve as a sort of sign?" 
 
 " Exactly so. And where is the harm, if that suits them?" 
 
 "Every one to his taste!" said Germain. 
 
 *^* I see that would not be yours ; but come, let us under- 
 stand each other ! Supposing you were preferred, they would 
 leave you the place." 
 
 " Yes, supposing! And in the mean time until this fact is 
 ascertained, how long am I to stand on the tenterhooks?" 
 
 "That depends very much upon yourself, I fancy! If you 
 know how to talk and persuade! Up to the present my 
 daughter has perfectly well understood that the fau-est time of 
 her life is that in which she should be courted, and she is 
 consequently in no hurry to become the servant of one man 
 when she can command several. So long as the game pleases 
 her she can amuse herself; but if you please her more than - 
 the game, the game can cease. There is nothing to discourage 
 you. Keturn every Sunday, ask her to dance, make it known 
 that you place yourself in the ranks of her suitors, and if she 
 finds you more to her taste than the others, doubtless some day 
 she will tell you so." 
 
 "Pardon me. Farmer Leonard; your daughter is at liberty 
 to act as she pleases, and I have no right to blame her. Were 
 I in her pi nee I should act differently. I should use more 
 frankness, and not induce men to lose their time in this way, 
 who have doubtless something better to do than running after 
 a woman who is only laughing at them all the time. But 
 however if she finds her amusement and happiness in so doing, 
 it is no business of mine. Only it is time that I should put 
 you right in a matter which I have been a little embarrassed 
 about confessing to you ever since morning, seeing that at the 
 outset you deceived yourself in regard to my intentions, and 
 did not give me time to reply, so that you imagined what was 
 not the fact. You must know then that I have not come here 
 with the intention of asking your daughter in marriage, but 
 merely to purchase a yoke of oxen that you intend taking to 
 the fair next week, and which my father-in-law supposes would 
 suit him." 
 
TILE MASTER. 289 
 
 " I understand, Germain," replied old Leonard, very quiet- 
 ly; "you changed your mind when you saw my daughter 
 with her lovers. As you please. It would appear that what 
 attracts some repels others, and you are at perfect liberty to 
 retire since you have not yet spoken. If you seriously think 
 of purchasing my oxen, come and see them in the field ; we 
 will talk the matter over, and whether we strike a bargain or 
 not, you will come and dine with us before you return home." 
 
 " I do not wish to disturb you," replied Germain, *' you 
 have perhaps something to do here ; for my part I am tired 
 of seeing people dance and remaining idle myself. I shall go 
 and see your animals, and return by-and-bye to your house." 
 
 Thereupon Germain moved away, and directed his steps 
 towards the field where Leonard had pointed out to him his 
 cattle grazing. It was true that Farmer Maurice really wished 
 to purchase a yoke, and Germain thought that if he were to 
 bring him back a fine pair of oxen at a moderate price, he 
 would the more readily pardon him for having voluntarily 
 failed in the real object of his journey. 
 
 He walked quietly, and soon found himself at a short dis- 
 tance from the Elms. He was then suddenly seized with a 
 strong desire to go and kiss his son, and even to see little 
 Mary again, although he had lost all hopes, and endeavoured 
 to banish the thought of ever owing his happiness to her. All 
 that he had just seen and heard — this vain and coquettish wo- 
 man ; this father, at the same time tricky and shallow-minded, 
 encouraging his daughter in habits of pride and insincerity; 
 this luxury of towns, which appeared to him an infraction of 
 the dignity which characterises rural manners ; this time lost 
 in idle and silly conversation ; this household so different from 
 his own; and, .above all, that profound uneasiness which a 
 countryman ever feels when he leaves his laborious habits — in 
 short, all the weariness of mind and confusion of ideas which 
 Germain had undergone for the last few hours, made him long 
 to be once more with his child and his little neighbour. Even 
 had no love existed in his heart for Mary, he would still have 
 sought her, in order by her society to collect and soothe his 
 scattered and confused thoughts, and to enable him to direct 
 them into their accustomed channel. 
 
 But he looked in vain through the surrounding fields ; he 
 could discover neither Mary nor little Pierre, although it was 
 the hour when the shepherds are in the fields. He perceived 
 a large flock in an adjoining paddock, and asked a little boy 
 who was tending them if those sheep belonged to the farm of 
 the Elms. 
 
 T 
 
296 THE HAUNTED MAKSU. 
 
 *^ Yes," replied the child. 
 
 " And are you the shepherd? Do boys keep the sheep in 
 this part of the country?" 
 
 "No, I am keeping them to-day because the shepherdess 
 left us. She was ill." 
 
 " But did not a new shepherdess arrive this morning?" 
 
 *' Oh yes, to be sure! But she has already gone away too." 
 
 " How? Gone away? Had she not a child with her?" 
 
 '* Yes, a little boy who was crying. They both went away 
 two hours after they had come." 
 
 ' ' Went away ! Where ?" 
 
 "To the place they came from, I suppose. I did not ask 
 them." 
 
 " But what made them go away?" said Germain, growing 
 every instant more and more uneasy. 
 
 " How do I know?" replied the boy. 
 
 "Could they not come to terms about wages? And yet 
 all that must have been settled beforehand." 
 
 "I can't say anything about that; I saw them come in and 
 go out, that's all I know about the matter." 
 
 Germain proceeded towards the farm and questioned the 
 work-people. No one could explain the matter, but they all 
 agreed that after conversing with the farmery the young girl 
 had gone away without saying a word to any one, taking with 
 her the child who was crying. 
 
 **Did any one dare to maltreat my son?" cried Germain, 
 his eyes darting fire. 
 
 " Was he your son, then? How came he in company with 
 the girl? Where do you come from, and what is your name?" 
 
 Germain, seeing that, according to the custom of the country, 
 they were about to reply to his questions by asking others, 
 stamped impatiently on the ground and requested to speak to 
 the master. 
 
 The master was not there. He seldom remained during the 
 entire day when he came to the farm. He had mounted his 
 horse and gone in all probability to visit some other of his farms. 
 
 " But after all," said Germain, a prey to the deepest anxiety, 
 **can you not imagine the reason of the young girl's sudden 
 departure?" 
 
 The labourer exchanged a meaning smile with his wife, and 
 replied that he knew nothing of the matter, that it v/as no 
 affair of his. All that Germain could learn was that the 
 young girl and the child had gone towards Fourche. He has- 
 tened to Fourche ; neither the widow and her lovers nor old 
 Leonard had yet returned. The servant told him that a young 
 
THE MASTER. 291 
 
 girl and a child had come to inquire for him, but that* being 
 strangers to her, she had not let them in and had advised them 
 to go to Mers. 
 
 "And why did you refuse to let them in?" said Germain 
 angrily; " you are very suspicious in this part of the country 
 not to open your doors to your fellow creatures?" 
 
 **Ah! dameT replied the servant, **in a rich house like 
 this it behoves one to take care! I am responsible for all 
 when the master is from home, and I cannot open to the first 
 comers." 
 
 "It is a vile custom," said Germain, "and I would rather 
 a hundred times be poor than live in constant terror this way. 
 Good-bye, my girl; adieu to your villanous country!" 
 
 He pursued his researches in the neighbouring houses. 
 They had all seen the shepherdess and the child. As the little 
 boy had left Belair unexpectedly, and was dressed in his every- 
 day clothes, with his blouse rather torn and his lambskin 
 over his shoulders, and as Mary was from necessity very 
 poorly clad in all seasons, they had taken them for beggars. 
 At one house they had offered them some bread. The young 
 girl had accepted a piece for the child who was hungry, and 
 had then left the place with him as quickly as possible, and 
 proceeded in the direction of the woods. 
 
 Germain reflected for an instant ; then he inquired if the 
 farmer of the Elms had not come to Fourche. 
 
 "Yes," replied a man, "he passed by on horseback very 
 shortly after the girl." 
 
 " Could he have been in search of her?" 
 
 "Ah! you know him then?" said the public-house keeper, 
 whom he had spoken too, laughing; "yes, certainly, he is a 
 devil of a fellow after the girls. But I do not think he had 
 tricked this one — although, after all, if he had seen her — " 
 
 " That will do; thank you!" said Germain. 
 
 And he flev/ rather than ran to old Leonard's stable, threw 
 the saddle on La Grise's back, leaped into it, and departed at 
 full gallop in the direction of the woods of Chanteloube. 
 
 His heart throbbed with anxiety and rage — the perspiration 
 stood in lar^e drops upon his forehead. He drove his spurs 
 into La Grise's sides, who finding herself on the road to her 
 own stable, did not require much inducement to exert her 
 utmost speed. 
 
 Germain soon reached the spot where he had passed the 
 night on the banks of the mere. The fire was still smouldering, 
 and an old woman was engaged in picking up the remains of the 
 otore of dead wood which little Marv had collected in the 
 
292 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 night. Germain stopped to question her. She was deaf, and, 
 misunderstanding his queries ; — 
 
 " Yes, my lad," said she, *' this is the Haunted Marsh. It 
 is a bad spot — oh! a very bad spot, and no one ought to 
 approach it without casting three stones into the water with j 
 the left hand and making the sign of the cross with the right. 
 That keeps off evil spirits. Otherwise all sorts of misfortune 
 happen to those who make the circuit of it." 
 
 "I did not speak to you of that," said Germain approaching 
 close to her and bawling in her ear; have you not seen a 
 young girl and a child passing through the wood?" 
 
 "Ah yes," mumbled the old crone, "a little child was 
 drowned there!" 
 
 Germain trembled from head to foot, but happily the old 
 woman added: — 
 
 *' But that happened a long time ago — oh! a long time. In 
 memory of the accident some of the country people planted a 
 beautiful cross on the spot, but one stormy night the evil 
 spirits cast it into the water. You can still see the stump of 
 it. If any one- is so unfortunate as to stop here at night, he 
 is very sure of not being able to get away before morning. 
 He might walk, walk, as much as he liked — he might travel 
 two hundred leagues through the woods, and yet always find 
 himself at the place where he started." 
 
 The imagination of the labourer was struck in spite of him- 
 self at what he had heard, and the idea of the misfortune 
 which must happen to justify fully the old crone's. assertions, 
 so completely took possession of his mind, that he shivered 
 from head to foot. Despairing of gaining any further infor- 
 mation, he remounted his horse and pursued his search through 
 the wood, calling Pierre with all his might, whistling, cracking 
 his whip, and breaking the branches over his head in order to 
 let his progress be heard at as great a distance as possible. 
 He listened at intervals to ascertain if any voice replied to his 
 own, but he could hear only the tinkling of the bells belonging 
 to the cattle scattered through the neighbourhood, and the 
 wild cries of the hogs who fought with each other for the 
 acorns. 
 
 At length Germain heard behind him the sound of a horse's 
 hoofs rapidly advancing, and a man of about the middle age, 
 dark, robust, and dressed like a respectable citizen, shouted 
 aloud to him to stop. Germain had never seen the proprietor 
 of the Elms, but an instinct of rage whispered to him at once 
 that the stranger was none other. He turned round, and, 
 glancing at him from head to foot, awaited what ho had to say. 
 
THE MASTER. 208 
 
 •* Did you not sec a young girl of about fifteen or sixteen, 
 with a little boy, pass this way?" said the farmer, affecting an 
 air of indifference although he was visibly agitated. 
 
 ** And what do you want with her?" replied Germain, with- 
 out seeking to disguise his anger. 
 
 **I might reply that that is no business of yours, comrade; 
 but as I have no reasons for concealing it, I may tell you that 
 this young person is a shepherdess whom I hired for the year 
 without knowing her. When she arrived she appeared to me 
 too young and too weak for the labour of the farm. I thanked 
 her ; but when I wished to repay her the expenses of her little 
 journey, she went off in a huff during my absence. She was 
 in such a hurry that she forgot some of her things, and amongst 
 others her purse, which doesn't contain much certainly — pro- 
 bably a few sous. But after all, as I had to pass this way, I 
 thought I might very likely fall in with her and return her 
 what she had forgotten, and also pay her what is due to her." 
 
 Germain was too open and honest-hearted not to hesitate on 
 hearing this, if net probable, at least possible, story. He 
 fastened a piercing glance upon the farmer, who bore the 
 investigation either with great impudence or candour. 
 
 ** I must know the truth of the matter," said Germain to 
 himself; and, concealing his agitation, he said: — 
 
 " The girl belongs to our part of the country; I know her 
 well. She must be somewhere hereabouts ; let us proceed on 
 together and we shall be sure to find her." 
 
 "You are right," said the farmer, "let's on; but if we do 
 not discover her at the end of the avenue I shall give up the 
 chase, for I must turn off on the Ardentes road." 
 
 ** Oh, hoi" thought the labourer, ''you shall not escape 
 me so easily, my fine fellow, though I were obliged to follow 
 you round the Haunted Marsh for the next four-and-twenty 
 hours." 
 
 " Stop a bit!" exclaimed Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes 
 upon a neighbouring thicket, which seemed agitated in a 
 singular manner, "Hola, ho! little Pierre! is that you, my 
 child?" 
 
 The child, recognising his father's voice, sprang like a little 
 kid from the thicket ; but when he perceived him in company 
 with the farmer, he paused as if terrified, and seemed uncer- 
 tain whether to advance. 
 
 *' Come, my Pierre! come, 'tis T!" cried the labourer, run- 
 ning towards him, and jumping off his horse to take him in 
 his arms. "And where is little Mary?" 
 
294 THE UAUNTED MARSH, 
 
 " She is hldmnf there, because she is afraid of that naughty, 
 dark man ; and I also." 
 
 *'OhI don't be friorhtencd: I am here. Mary — Marv, it 
 
 isir 
 
 Mary approached timidly, and the moment she beheld Ger- 
 main, whose steps the farmer followed closely, she ran to 
 throw herself in his arms, and, clinging to him like a daughter 
 to her father, she exclaimed: — 
 
 *'Ah! my brave Germain, you will defend me; I am not 
 afraid when you are with me!" 
 
 Germain trembled. He looked at Mary ; she was pale, and 
 her clothes were torn by the brambles through which she had 
 forced her way, seeking a hiding-place like a hind tracked 
 by the sportsman. But there was neither shame nor despair 
 on her features. 
 
 * Your master wishes to speak to you," said he, scrutinizing 
 the countenance of the farmer as he spoke. 
 
 *'My master?" said she proudly; ^'that man is not my 
 master, and never will be. 'Tis you, Germain, who are my 
 master! You shall take me back with you. I will serve you 
 for nothing." 
 
 The farmer had now advanced, and pretended to be perfectly 
 at ease. 
 
 "Here, my little girl," said he, "you forgot something at 
 our place which I have followed you with." 
 
 "!Nro, monsieur," replied little Mary^ "I have forgotten 
 nothing, nor have I any claim upon you whatever." 
 
 "Listen to me for a moment," continued the farmer; "I 
 have something to say to you. Come this way; don't be 
 afraid — two words only!" 
 
 " You can speak aloud; I have no secrets with you." 
 
 " Come and take your money at least." 
 
 "My money? You owe me nothing, God bo praised!" 
 
 **I suspected the fellow all along," said Germain in a low 
 voice ; "but no matter, Mary, go and hear what he has to say 
 to you, for I am curious to learn myself; you can tell me 
 afterwards. I have my reasons for this. Go up to his horse 
 — I shan't lose sight of you." 
 
 Mary advanced three steps towards the farmer, who, leaning 
 over the pummel of his saddle, whispered in her ear :-;— 
 
 " Here's a shining louis-d'or for you, little one: you will 
 mention nothing about this business, you understand? I'll 
 say that I considered you too weak for the work of my farm, 
 and let nothing more be said about it! I shall be passing by 
 
THE MASTEll. . 295 
 
 your house one of these dajs, and if I find you have said no- 
 thing I will give you something more ; and then, if you are 
 more reasonable, you have only to speak — I will take you 
 back with mo, or rather I will come in the evenings and talk 
 to yoa in the fields. What present should you like me to 
 bring you?" 
 
 "There, monsieur, is the present that I make you!" replied 
 little Mary in a loud voice, throwing the louis-d'or he had given 
 her violently in his face. *'I thank you heartily, and I beg 
 that when you intend passing our way you will let me know. 
 All the young men of the neighbourhood will go out to meet 
 you, for the people of our part of the country have a particular 
 aflfection for bourgeois who go about telling tales 'to poor 
 girls. You shall see that — they will be in waiting for you." 
 
 " You are a liar and a mischief-maker!" said the farmer in 
 a rage, at the same time raising his stick with a threatening 
 gesture; " you would wish to make people believe what is not 
 the case. But you shall not succeed in extorting money from 
 me in that way: we know your sort well!" 
 
 Mary had stepped back in terror, but Germain darted for- 
 ward and seized the bridle of the farmer's horse, which he 
 shook violently. 
 
 '* I understand now," said he, **and cati see clearly enough 
 how the matter stands. Jump down, my man! — jump down! 
 and let us have a few words together " 
 
 The farmer, by no means anxious for battle, spurred his 
 horse in order to disengage himself, and endeavoured to strike 
 the labourer's hands with his stick so as to force him to let 
 go his hold of the bridle ; but Germain avoided the blow, and 
 seizing him by the leg stretched him on the green sward, where 
 after a short struggle he again prostrated him, although the 
 latter had sprung to his feet and defended hitnself vigorously. 
 When he had got him under — 
 
 **Man of little heart!" said Germain, *'I could break every 
 bone in your body if I wished ; but I do not want to harm 
 you, and besides no correction would amend your conscience. 
 However, you shall not budge from this until you have asked 
 this young girl's pardon on your knees." 
 
 The farmer, who was well acquainted with affairs of this 
 sorti wished to turn the matter off as a joke. He pretended 
 that his crime was of no such great magnitude, since it con- 
 sisted merely of words, and that he would willingly ask par- 
 don, on condition that she should give him a kiss ; that after 
 wards they should all proceed together to the nearest cabaret, 
 discuss a pint of wine, and then part good friends. 
 
296 THE HAirSTEl) MARSH. 
 
 •'You make me blush for you!" replied Germain, pushing 
 his face against the ground, '*and I shall hasten to get out of 
 sight of your villanous countenance! There — blush if you 
 can! and remember to take le chemin des affronteux * Yfhen 
 you pass our way again." 
 
 So saying he picked up the farmer's stout holly staff, broke 
 it across his knees to show him the strength of his arms, and 
 threw the fragments away with an air of contempt. 
 
 Then, taking his son with one hand and little Mary with 
 the other, he left the scene of the farmer's disgrace, trembling 
 with indio:nation. 
 
 CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 DAME MAURICE. 
 
 In about a quarter of an hour's time they had crossed the 
 heath and were trotting along the high road. La Grise neighing 
 at every object she recognised. Little Pierre recounted to his 
 father all that he had been able to understand of what had 
 passed since he left him. 
 
 " When we arrived," said he, *' that man came to speak to 
 my Mary in the sheepfold, whither we had gone straight to 
 see the beautiful sheep. I had climbed into the manger to 
 play, and that man didn't see me. Then he bid good-day to 
 my Mary and kissed her." 
 
 "And you allowed him to kiss you, Mary?" said Germain, 
 trembling with anger. 
 
 " I thought that it .was merely a piece of civility — a custom 
 of the place with newcomers; just as at your place the grand- 
 mother kisses the young girls who enter her service, to show 
 them that she adopts them and that she will be as a mother 
 to them." 
 
 "Well, and after that," resumed little Pierre, who was 
 proud of having an adventure to relate, " that man said some- 
 thing very bad to her — something that you told me never to 
 
 * Le chemin des affronteux is the name given to the road wliicli 
 branches off from the principal street at the entrance of a French village 
 and passes round by the outskirts. It is supposed that persons, fearful 
 of receiving some well-merited insult, would take this Avay to avoid 
 being seen. 
 
DA WE MAUUrCE. 297 
 
 repeat and not to remember; so of course I forgot it verv 
 quickly. However, if my father wish me to tell him what it 
 was — " 
 
 "No, no, Pierre; I don't wish to hear it, and I desire that 
 you will never remember it any more." 
 
 **In that case I will forget it again," replied the child 
 
 ** Well, and then that man appeared to grow angry, because 
 Mary said she would go away. He told her he would give 
 her whatever she wished — a hundred francs ! and my Mary 
 then got angry also. Then he took hold of her as if he was 
 going to do her harm ; and I got fiightened and ran up to little 
 Mary, crying. Then that man said: — 
 
 ** * Who is this? Where does this child come from? Put 
 him out of doors!* 
 
 " And he raised his stick as if to beat me; but my Mary 
 prevented him and said ; — 
 
 *'*We will talk over this matter together by-and-bye, 
 monsieur ; I must take this child to Fourche now, and then I 
 will return.* 
 
 "And as soon as he had left the sheepfold my Mary said 
 to me: — 
 
 " *Let us go away, my Pierre; we must leave this very 
 quickly, for this man is wicked and he would hurt us.* 
 
 " Then we slipped away behind the barns, passed a little 
 field, and got at last to Fourche, to look for you. But you 
 were not there, and they would not let us stop to wait for you. 
 Well, and then that man, who had mounted upon a great black 
 horse, came behind us, and we ran on further and hid ourselves 
 in the wood. And then he came after us ; and when we heard 
 him coming we concealed ourselves, and then when he had 
 passed by we began running again to get home. And then at 
 last you came and found us, and that is just the way it hap- 
 pened. Isn't that it my Mary ; I have forgotten nothing — 
 have I?" 
 
 "No, my Pierre; all you have said is true. Now, Ger- 
 main, you can answer for me, and you can tell every one at 
 home that if I did not remain at the Elms it was not for want 
 of courage or from unwillingness to work.** 
 
 "And you, Mary," said Germain, "I pray you to ask 
 yourself if, when it is a question of defending a woman or 
 thrashing a bully, a man of eight-and-twenty is too old ? I 
 should just like to know if Bastien, or any other pretty fellow 
 though even ten years younger than myself, would not have 
 been crushed by that man, as Pierre calls him. What think 
 you?" 
 
298 THE HAUiNTED MARSH. 
 
 *' I think, Germain^ that you have rendered me a sreat 
 service, and that I shall be grateful to you for it all my life?" 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "Papa, I never thought of saying to little Mary what I 
 promised you I would. I had not time ; but I will npc^ak to 
 her when we get home, and I will speak to grandmamma 
 also." 
 
 This promise of his son's made Germain reflect. He saw that 
 he must now think of explaining matters to his relations, and 
 AV'hlle relating his charges and complaints against the widow 
 Guerin, steer clear of all mention of those ideas which had pre- 
 disposed him to so much clear-;ightedness and severity. When 
 happy and proud, the courage necessary to make others share 
 our happiness appears easy ; but to be repelled on one side, 
 blamed on the other, forms no very agreeable situation. 
 
 Fortunately little Pierre was n sleep when they reached 
 home, and Germain laid him in his bed without awaking him. 
 Then he entered into all the explanations he was able to give. 
 Old Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool at the door, lis- 
 tened gravely to his son-in-law's narrative; and, although he 
 was discontented at the result of the expedition, when Ger- 
 main, in recounting the widow's system of coquetry, asked 
 his father-in-law if he had time to go over to Fourche fifty-two 
 Sundays in the year in order to pay his court to the widow, 
 at the risk of being refused in the end, the old man nodded 
 his head in sign of acquiescence and replied: — 
 
 "You are in the right, Germain; that could not be." 
 
 And afterwards, when Germain related how he had been 
 obliged to bring back little Mary as quickly as possible to save 
 her from the insults, perhaps the violence, of an unv/orthy 
 master, old Maurice again made a gesture of approbation, and 
 said : — 
 
 "You acted quite right there, Germain; — that was very 
 proper." 
 
 When Germain had finished his recital and given all his 
 reasons, the old couple, looking at each other, simultaneously 
 heaved a deep sigh of resignation. Then the head of the family 
 rose, saying: — 
 
 " Well, God's will be done! Love is not to be forced." 
 
 " Come to supper, Germain," said the mother-in-law. "It 
 is unfortunate that this matter cannot be arranged ; but Pro- 
 vidence, it seems, does not so will it. We must look else 
 where." 
 
 Nothing more was said about the matter in the farmer's 
 dwelling, and when, on the following morning, little Pierre 
 
DAME MAURICE. 299 
 
 rose with the lark at daybreak, no longer excited by the extra- 
 ordinary events of the preceding day, he relapsed into that 
 state of apathy common to little peasant boys of his age, forgot 
 all thai had been runninir through his head, and thought no 
 more but of romping with his brothers, and playing the man 
 with the oxen and horses. 
 
 Germain also endeavoured to forget by throwing himself 
 heart and soul into his daily labour ; but he became so thought- 
 ful and melancholy that every person remarked it. He spoke 
 no more to little Mary, nor even looked at her ; and yet 
 if any one had asked him in what field she was, or by what 
 road she had passed, there was not an hour in the day he could 
 not have answered the question had he wished it. He did not 
 venture to ask his relations to receive her into their service 
 during the winter, and yet he well knew that she must be 
 suffering acutely from poverty. But she suffered not, and 
 Dame Guillette could never make out how it was that her 
 little store of wood never diminished, and that her out-liousc 
 was always full in the morning, when she had left it almost 
 empty the night before. It was the same with the wheat and 
 potatoes. Some one evidently entered the little store-house 
 wiiidow every night and emptied a sack upon the floor, without 
 awaking any one and without leaving any traces behind him. 
 The old dame was at once uneasy and rejoiced ; she enjoined 
 her daughter to secrecy on the subject, saying that if the 
 neighbours got wind of the miracle which was. performed at 
 her house, she should be taken for a witch. She certainly had 
 her suspicions that his Satanic Majesty was somehow or other 
 mixed up in the affair ; but she was by no means anxious to 
 embroil herself with him by requesting the cure to exorcise 
 her house. She said to herself that it would be time enough 
 for that when Saian should visit her in person to demand her 
 soul from her in return for his benefactions. 
 
 Little Mary understood the truth of the matter better, but 
 she dared not speak of it to Germain, dreading lest he should 
 return to his idea of matrimony, and she therefore feigned to 
 perceive nothing. 
 
 One day Dame Maurice, finding herself alone in the orchard 
 with Germain, said to him with an air of affection : — • 
 
 **My poor son-in-law, I do not think you are well. Your 
 appetite is not so good as it used to be ; you no longer laugh, 
 and you talk less and less every day. Has anybody here, or 
 have we ourselves, without knowing it, offended you in any 
 way?" 
 
 *• No, mother,'* replied Germain, " you have always been as 
 
800 THE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 kind to ine as the mother that bore me, and I should indeed be 
 ungrateful if I were to complain either of you, your husband, 
 or any one in the house." 
 
 ' * In that case, my child, you must be fretting agaift aftelr 
 your poor wife. In place of lessening with time, your grief 
 only increases, and you must absolutely do what your father- 
 in-law very sensibly advises — you must marry." 
 
 ' ' Yes, mother, that was my idea too; but the women whom 
 you have advised me to take do not suit me. When I see 
 them, in place of forgetting my Catherine, I only think of her 
 the more." 
 
 "It would appear, then, Germain, that we have not been 
 able to guess your taste. You must assist us by telling us the 
 truth. Doubtless there is somewhere or other a woman 
 made for you, for the Almighty never creates any one without 
 reserving for him his happiness in another. If therefore you 
 know where to iind this woman, take her; and \vhether she 
 be young or old, rich or poor, pretty or ugly, we have made 
 up our minds, my old man and myself, to give our consent ; 
 for we cannot bear to. see you so sad, nor can we be easy our- 
 selves while you are not so too." 
 
 *' Mother, you are only too kind to me, and my father 
 equally so," replied Germain; "but your compassion cannot 
 bring me any remedy for my grief. The girl that I wish will 
 not have me." 
 
 "Is she too young then? To attach yourself to a young 
 girl would be unreasonable in you." 
 
 "Well, yes, good mother, I am foolish enough to attach 
 myself to a young girl, and I blame myself for it. I do all I 
 can to forget her ; but whether at work or at rest, whether at 
 mass or in my bed, with my children or with you, I am 
 always thinking of her — I can think of nothing else." 
 
 "Then it is a sort of fate, Germain? There is but one 
 remedy for that, namely, that the young girl may change her 
 mind and listen to you. It is absolutely necessary that I 
 should take a part in the business and see if anything can be 
 done. You must tell me where shelivcs and what's hername" 
 
 " Ala-s! my dear mother, I dare not," said Germain; "you 
 would laugh at me." 
 
 "I shall not laugh at you, Germain, because you are in 
 trouble, and I would not increase your sorrow. It can't be 
 Fanchette?" 
 
 "No, mother, it is not she." 
 
 "Nor Rosette?" 
 
 "No." 
 
DAME MAURICE. 301 
 
 "Tell me then, for if I were to name all the girls of the 
 place I should never have done." 
 
 Germain hung his head and could not make up his mind to 
 reply. 
 
 ** Well, well," said Dame Maurice, '* I shall leave you alone 
 for to-day, Germain; to-morrow probably you will be more 
 open with me, or rather perhaps your sister-in-law will be 
 cleverer in cross-questioning you." 
 
 So saying she took up her basket and proceeded to the 
 hedge to hang out her clothes to dry. 
 
 Germain acted as children do who make up their minds 
 when they perceive that there is no longer any attention paid 
 to them. He followed his mother-in-law, and at last with a 
 trembling voice he named Dame Guillettes little Mary. 
 
 Great was the surprise of the worthy Dame Maurice ; it was 
 the very last person she should have thought of. But she 
 had sufficient delicacy to repress her exclamations of astonish- 
 ment and to make her comments mentally. Then, seeing 
 that her silence abashed Germain, she held out her clothes- 
 basket to him, saying : 
 
 ** Weill is that any reason why you should not help me in 
 my work ? Carry this for me, and let us have a little talk 
 together. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you quite 
 decided?" 
 
 "Alas! my dear mother, that is not the point. I should 
 be quite decided if I could succeed ; but as I shall not be lis- 
 tened to, I have made up my mind to cure myself if I can." 
 
 " And if you cannot?" 
 
 "Everything has its end, Dame Maurice: when the horse 
 is too heavily laden he falls ; and when the ox has nothing to 
 eat he dies." 
 
 "That is as much as to say that you will die if you do not 
 succeed? God forbid, Germain! I do not like to hear a man 
 like you say such things, because when you say them you 
 think them. You have great courage, and sudden weakness 
 is dangerous in strong minds. Come, come, take heart ! I 
 cannot conceive that a girl struggling with poverty, and one 
 to whom you do much honour by seeking her hand, can possibly 
 refuse you." 
 
 "It is the truth, however; she does refuse me." 
 
 "And what reasons does she give for so doing?" 
 
 "That you have always been kind to her, that her family 
 owes much to yours, and that she would be unwilling to dis- 
 please you l)y being the means of keeping me from a wealthy 
 match." 
 
302 TUE HAUNTED MARSH. 
 
 "If she says that, she shows her good heart, and it is honest 
 on her part. But in telling you that, Germain, she does not 
 cure you, for she tells you beyond a doubt that she loves you, 
 and that she would marry you if we were willing." 
 
 '* That is the worst I She says that her heart is not inclined 
 towards me." 
 
 *' If she tells you what she does not think, in order the more 
 to estrange you from her, she is a child who deserves that we 
 should love her and overlook her extreme youth in considera- 
 tion of her good sense." 
 
 " Yes," said Germain, struck with a hope which he had not 
 before conceived, " that would be very wise, and very proper 
 on her part. But If she is so sensible, I fear that it is because 
 I am displeasing to her." 
 
 ** Germain," said Dame Maurice, ''you must promise me to 
 keep your mind easy all this week, and not torment yourself, 
 but to eat and sleep and be as gay as formerly. In the mean 
 time I will talk over the matter with my old man, and if I get 
 his consent, you shall then know the girl's true sentiments 
 with regard to you." - 
 
 Germain promised, and the week passed away without old 
 Maurice uttering a single word to him on the subject or even 
 appearing to suspect anything. The labourer forced himself 
 to appear tranquil, but he was even paler and more anxious 
 than usual. 
 
 At length, on Sunday morning when leaving mass, his 
 mother-in-law asked him what he had obtained from his sweet- 
 heart since the conversation in the orchard. 
 
 "Why nothing at ^11," replied he ; "I have not spoken to 
 her," 
 
 " How then do you intend to persuade her if you Cio not 
 speak to her ?" 
 
 "I spoke to her but once," replied Germain. "That vras 
 when we went to Fourche together ; and since that time I have 
 not said a single word to her. Her refusal gave me so much 
 pain at the time, that I have no desire to hear her tell me again 
 that she does not love me." 
 
 "Well, ray son, you must speak to her now: your father- 
 in-law authorises you to do so. Go, decide your fate ! I tell 
 you to do so, and if necessary I desire you ; for you cannot re- 
 main in this state of doubt and uncertainty." 
 
 Germain obeyed. With downcast eyes, and an embf»rras:7ed 
 air he bent his steps towai-ds the humble dwelling of old Dame 
 Guillette. Little Mary was seated alone and pensive at the 
 corner of the fire, and in such deep thouijht that she was un- 
 
DAME MAURICE. 303 
 
 conscious of Germain's approach. When she perceived him 
 standing before her, she almost started from her chair with sur- 
 prise and became as red as a rose. 
 
 "Little Mary," said he, seating himself beside her, "I am 
 come to distress and annoy you. I know it well : but the man 
 and woman at home^'' — designating thus according to custom 
 the heads of the family — *' wish me to speak to you, and ask 
 you to marry me. You do not wish it, do you ? I expected 
 as much." 
 
 '* Germain," replied little Mary, '*you are certain then that 
 you love me ?" 
 
 *' That annoys you, I know, but it is not my fault. If you 
 were to change your opinion J should be only too glad, but 
 doubtless I do not deserve that it should be so. Come, look at 
 me, Mary ; am I so very hideous then ?" 
 
 "No, Germain," replied she, with a smile, "-you are hand- 
 somer than I am." 
 
 " Do not laugh at me ; look at me kindly. As yet I have 
 lost neither a hair nor a tooth. My eyes tell you that I 
 love you. Look at my eyes therefore ; it is written there, and 
 every girl can read that writing." 
 
 Mary fixed her eyes on those of Germain with her usual 
 playful assurance : then all at once she turned away her head 
 and trembled. 
 
 "Ah ! heavens I I terrify you," said Germain ; " you look at 
 me as if I were the farmer of the elms. Do not be afraid of 
 me, I beseech you ; that would indeed pain me. I shall not, like 
 him, whisper a single bad word in your ear ; I shall not kiss 
 you against your will, and when you wish me to go, you need 
 only point to the door. Come, tell me ; must I go that you 
 may cease to tremble ?" 
 
 Mary held out her hand to the labourer, but without turn- 
 ing her eyes from the fire, and without uttering a word. 
 
 * * I understand, " said Germain, * ' you pity me. You are kind- 
 hearted, it distresses you to make me unhappy, but you can- 
 not love me ?" 
 
 *' Why do you say such things, Germain ?" replied b'ttle Mary 
 at last ; "do you wish to make me cry ?" 
 
 "My poor little one! You have a good heart, 1 know ; but 
 you do not love me, and you hide your face because you fear 
 to show me your displeasure and repugnance. And I dare 
 not as much as press your hand I In the woods, when my son 
 was asleep, and you too, I almost kissed you once, bub yavy 
 gently. But I would have died of shame rather than have 
 asked such a favour from yo". nml I suffered as much that 
 
304 THE HAUKTED MARSH. 
 
 niglit as a man consuming over a slow fire. Ever smee then ^ 
 I have dreamed of you every night. Ah ! how I kissed you 
 in my dreams, Mary I But all this time, you slept without 
 dreaming. And now do you know what I think ? That if you 
 were to turn round and look at me with the eyes I have for 
 you, and if you were to put your face near mine, I do think I 
 should fall dead with joy. And you are thinking that if such 
 a thing were to happen to you, you would die of shame and 
 anger." 
 
 Germain spoke as if m a dream, without heeding what he 
 said. Little Mary still trembled, but as he himself trembled 
 still more, he no longer perceived it. All at once she turned 
 round; she was in tears, and gazed at him with an air of re- 
 proach. The poor labourer imagined that this was the final 
 blow, and, without awaiting his sentence, he rose to depart; 
 but the young girl stopped him by throwing her arm round his 
 neck and hiding her fiice in his bosom. 
 
 " Ah ! Germain," exclaimed she in a voice broken with sobs, 
 *' have you not guessed that I love you?" 
 
 Germain would have gone mad with joy, had not his sou, 
 who had been seeking him everywhere and who now entered 
 the cottage full gallop upon a stick, with his little sister en croupe 
 flogging this imaginary charger with an osier twig, recalled 
 him to his senses. He caught him up in his arms, and placing 
 him in those of his betrothed he said: — 
 
 "There! Mary, you have made more tban one happy by 
 loving me!" 
 



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