./ UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY Class Book Volume ix^ K-\ 1 ^ Ja 09-20M Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. University of Illinois Library THE Atrocities of a Convent, OR THE NECESSITY OF THINKING FOR OURSELVES, EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF A NUN, Truth never was indebted to a Lie. Dr.YoiTNG, BY A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD, VOL. I. LONDON : PRINTED BY AND FOR CLIO RICKMAK, UPPER MARY-LE-BONE STREET J AN© TO BE HAD OP ALL BOOKSELLERS, 1808. « <•* ^ v.\ THE AUTHOR OF THESE LITTLE VOLUMES Respectfully inscribes them TO THOSE, WHO CAN CANDIDLY OVERLOOK THE ERRORS OF A WORK, WRITTEN AMIDST A THOUSAND OTHER Pursuits and Engagements ; AND AVHO HAVE LIBERALITY ENOUGH TO APPRECIATE THE SENTIMENTS OF WHICH IT IS MEANT TO BE THE VEHICLE. THE ATROCITIES, 4^6 CHAP. I. J.N the solitary monastery oiScellihres, on the borders of Champagne and Lorraine^ was a convent of monks, and another of nuns. Here, before the late revolution of France, the body of Voltaire, the glory of literature, was concealed by a pusillanimous govern- ment from the rage of the priests. Z THE ATROCITIES The deep retirement of the place was scarcely ever disturbed but by the foot of some pilgrim, who came to visit the grass-grown grave of the philosopher by whose works he had been so often instructed, and entertained. This soli^ tude was peculiarly favorable to monastic gloom, and superstitious devotion. •^ The convent evening bell for vespers formed a singular coah^si- with the meditations of Volexce, an elderly man, and one of the few pilgrims who had comie to pay a t?ribute of gratitude to the rheiftory of thie grfeat rhan, who had befen so oftert calumniated, mis- understood, and mis-represented while he lived. „ ' :• OF A CONVENT. 3 " Alas !" said he, '' could the spirit that once animated hi.m be sensible of what still passes on earth, how: would, he grieve to be laid so near the haunts of superstition ! How would he not have wept to have beheld the scene I witnessed this day ! Yet the victims seemed seli- devoted : they na^y yet repent when, it is too late. They have been persjuaded they shall escape the misfortunes of the world ; but the miseries of a cloister are still more insupportable, and the effort it requires to bear them is often almost superior to human fortitude. Well, heaven be thanked, I am free, neither my body or my mind are enslaved 1" Thus saying he passed by the chapel B 2 4 THE ATROCITliJS wall, and saw at a distance the proces- sion of monks and nuns going towards it to vespers, with the two young ladies whom he had that duy seen take the veil. The youngest, Adela de Clair- viLLE, whow^as about fifteen, had only taken the white veil and entered her no- viciate, which her zealous devotion w^as anxious to abridge as much as possible. She Avas dressed in white, and her uncommonly beautiful countenance was more expressive of ingenuousness and candour, than strongly marked by any decided character. She appeared happy: at least she appeared . never to have known distress. OF A CONVENT, 5 or to have an idea of it. She seemed to take pleasure in the pomp of the spec- tacle, and to be delighted with the sacred music, which she heard as §he ap- proached the chapel. The other, Eugenia de St. Anqi:, was dressed in that black vml she had so lately put on for ever. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and though she was not so beautiftil as her companion, her countenance was expressive of much reflection ^nd senr sibility: she was rather serious than melancholy, and seemed more occupied in thinking of the importance of the step she had taken, than in regretting that she had taken it. b3 6 THE ATROCITIES The pilgrim entered the chapel with, them, and considered them both atten- tively while at prayers. Adeea joined the chorus of sacred music with fervor; Eugenia did not, and he thought she was not attending to it. *^ She will regret it one day," said he to himself, ** I am sure she will ;" looking at her with pity and affection. *' What in- human parents must they be who can thus part with such a child as she appears ! But perhaps she has none, perhaps she is left alone in the world, like myself," When vespers were finished he re- turned to his hermitage, a small cottage he had taken in the neighbourhood of Scellieres^ and the nuns to their convent, OF A CONVENT. 7 where they were shut up in their soli- tary cells for the night. Eugenia had then time to reflect upon her situation, upon the irrevocable step she had taken, and the motives she had for taking it. But her mind was in a manner stupified : she was rather plunged in a w^orldly reverie than in religious meditation; and finding no amusement in counting her beads, being tired with the ceremonies of the day, and fatigued with the lectures of the Abbess and her Confessor (who had been ab- solving her of crimes she had never com- mitted, and threatening her with eternal damnation if she did not believe she knew^ not what), she laid herself dow^n on her mattress, and soon fell asleep. 8 "THF ATRaCITIES Eugenia was the daughter of the Marquis DE. St. Ange: he married a very amiable and accomplished woman, who died some years after she brought him this only daughter. The Marquis ( as most of the noble- men of that time were) was in the army. As he had married for love, his marriage was happier than most. He felt the loss of his wife deeply for a time, and could not resolve to part with her daughter : instead, therefore, of sending her to a convent he kept her at home, put her under the care of a governess, and gave her the most expensive and accomplished education that could' be had in Paru, But as he had neither talents, nor soli- dity of character enough to superintend OF A CONVENT. ^ her education himself, tenderness wjas the only part of a fathers duty lie performed; and that tenderness^was unbounded. He was gratified with her appearance and accomplishments, and prided him- self upon that as upon so many merits of his own. He kept a great deal of very fashionable company j and as Eugenia began to grow up she did the honors of his house for him. Gay, handsome, admired and rich, she entered into all the follies of her age ; but her character and under- standing were good ; and though not well brought up, she had profited suffi- ciently by the conversation of the 10 THE ATROCITIES brilliant society she met at her father's house to be superior to many prejudices. Though not educated in a convent, she had not been taught to make use of her reason in its full extent, and still went through the forms of the worship of her country in the usual routine, yet her mind was far from being bent under the degrading yoke of superstition.— 'Tis true she had never reflected deeply on the subject, yet she was acquainted with much of the reasoning which was sufficient to destroy it, when it became the subject of her meditation. Her manner of life was generally entirely inimical to beneficial reflection, except that at that time she formed a connection with a young lady nearly of OF A CONVENT. 11 her own age, Angelica de Fervac, 4» whose superior education would h&,ve soon taught her to make use of her reason as she herself did. This connection, unfortunately for her, did not take place till Eugenia was near thirteen ; Angelica was then about fifteen, and before she had time entirely to enlighten her friend's mind, an event happened that soon separated them. The Marquis de St. Ange, who was thoughtless, extravagant, and dis- sipated, had almost ruined his fortune, and meeting about this time with a young West- Indian heiress, he asked her in marriage : she wa$ as anxio\is 12 THE ATROCITIES for a title as he was for a fortune, and the match was not long concluding. Thus in one moment he sacrificed the happiness of his Eugenia to the desire \A continuing to shine in the world, which, from long habit indulged, had jbecome almost a second nature ! The new Madame de St. Ange was only three years older than Eugenia, and as she was not near so handsome, it is very easy to imagine that the pre- sence of such a daughter-in-law^ was far from being agreeable to her. As Eugenia had been accustomed to be sole mistress in her father's house, she could but ill brook the supercilious airs of her mother-in-law, who, elated OF A CONVENT, 13 by the idea of the great fortune she brought her husband, (who, she con- stantly said, without her mtist have been ruined ) was continually preaching up economy to her daughter-in-law ; and expressing her wonder how her father could be so foolish as to give "her such an expensive and fashionable education, which was good for nothing but to spoil girls, and make them con- ceited: as for learning, that' was quite^ ©ut of the question ; nobody in the West Indies ever thought of it. In consequence of these enlightened' ideas, Eugenia's governess (who had been with her from her infancy,) was dismissed, and she w as desired to confine herself more to her room, and to occupy c 14 THE ATROCITIES herself in the useful works of her sex and age. Though economy was the pretext for this conduct, it was not the real, at least, not the only reason for it. Madame de St. Axge, was as jea- lous of the accomplishments, as of the beauty of her daughter-in-law, and as she was excessively- ignorant, and ac- quainted with no subject above the cut of a govv'n, or the colour of a ribband, she could not bear thatEuoEXiA should eclipse her in conversation. These motives however, it will easily be believed, were carefully concealed from M. deSt. Axge. She persuaded liim that the <2;overne3s she found with " bis daushter, was unfit for the charge, OF j\ CONVENT. \i) that she vv-ouid henceforth take pare of her lierself, and that she must begin by secluding her from company, because she knew much better than he could, how dangerous societs' was to the moralr- of a young lady, in this licentious and irreligious age. The Marquis, who preferred peace to every thing on earth, even to his daugh- ters happiness, and who, besides, was at that time about sixty, and entirely go- verned by his young wife, allowed her to take her own way, and troubled himself no 'farther upon the subject; and as she. always took care to treat his daughter well in his presence, and had informed her that her governess had been dis- missed by her fathers orders, from c 2 16* THE ATROCITIES motives of economy, and other good reasons, Eugenia never therefore dared to complain : and if she had, she would probably not have been listened to. All however went on tolerably well till Madame de St. Ange produced a son and heir. The INIarquis's joy at this event was so great that in a few months his Eugenia was almost for- gotten; and consequently her step- mother's care to conceal her aversion to her diminished. This aversion she was obliged to cover by calumny. She told the Marquis that she found F jgenia very stubborn and undocile ; that she was jealous of his affection for her, and still more for her brother ; that she OF A COWEXT. 17 had been spoiled before her marriage ; and that she found it absolutely impos- sible to govern her ; that she thought it would be adviseable to board her for two years in a convent in the country, that she might lose the habit of ex- pecting indulgencies in her father's house, and get accustomed to the con- troul of a step-mother, and a brother : and she had no doubt but at the end of that time Eugenia would be perfectly tractable; she was naturally a good girl, and at her return they should find themselves quite^happy together. The weak St. Ange consented to this scheme, and sent for his daughter to propose it to her. He told her, that as he did not think her happy with her c 3 IS THE ATROCITIES Step-mother, (whose manners might appear too strict to one, unfortunately so long spoiled by an over-indulgent father, and a governess,) he thought it would be better for her to go with her friend Angelica to her mother's in the country, and instead of returning with them to Paris in the winter, she might remain with the Abbess of Scel- lieres, a sister of Madame de Fervac's, where she would have an opportunity of finishing her education* Eugenia embraced the proposal with pleasure. Two years ago the idea of leaving her father would have, broke her heart, but now she only thought of the happiness of being rid of her step- mother; and her father's neglect had or A CONVENT. ig considerably cooled her affection for him; for parents must not think it will long survive their indifference, though by the conduct of some, one would sup- pose that they expect that they are to be loved and regarded, and obeyed, even in spite of bad treatment, and gross unparental behaviour. The day of Eugenia's departure was fixed ; but notwithstanding the unmixed joy she at first felt, she could not leave her father's house, when the moment arrived, to seek protection so far from home without reflecting for a moment how hard it was that she should be forced to rejoice at it. She was, however, soon consoled by the society of her friend : the amiable and sensible Angelica 20 THE ATROCITIES attended to Eugenia's complaints, soothed her mind, and endeavoured to fortify and enlarge it; and this new education would have made much more progress than any Eugenia had hitherto received, had not her friend been sud- denly recalled to Paris by the illness of Madame de Bleville, her aunt, who had brought her up. She was a very superior woman, and it was to her Ai^jgelica owed her ac- complished and enlightened education. Madame deFervac went to Paris with her daughter, and Eugenia not being permitted to return with them, she was obliged to retire to the convent of ScellibreSj as her father had directed. OF A CONVENT. ^l The Abbess, beingasisterof Madai^ie i)E Fer vac's, who had recommended Eugenia particularly to her care, shewed her every possible attention ^ and\ as her sister had likewise in- formed her of Eugenia's history, the Abbess did not despair, by increasing these attentions, of prevailing on her^ some time or other, to take the veil: for as Eugenia was descended from a noble family, and was an only daughter, the Abbess flattered herself, that she should add a considerable degree of reputation and fortune to her con- vent. Accordingly she spared no pains to gain her affections. Instead of dis- gusting her by the strictness of a nunnery £2 THE ATROCITIES she shewed her nothing but indulgence, and took care to procure her ever}'^ amusement; so that Eugenia found.^ herself as free as sitFervac; and though she regretted much the? society of Angelica, yet there being several novices and young boarders in the convent, particularlyAoELA de Clair- viLLE, niece to the Abbess, (whom we have already mentioned having taken the white veil the same day Eugenia took the blacky) when she compared her situation with the constraint she had endured at her father's house, since his second marriage, she found herself comparatively happy. The Abbess took advantage of this dispo- sition of mind to forward her schemes upon Eugenia. OF A CONVENT. 23 Rosalia, for this was her name, was a woman about six and thirty, whose person and manners were rather agree- able than otherwise. She was brought up in a convent at Paris, from whence she had been taken when about seven- teen, to live with an old grandmother, who doated on her. It is well known what sort of an education was received in most of the convents at Pai^is. She had there learned to consider the scrupulous de- votion of the Abbess and nuns, as only a cloak to conceal the irregularity of their lives, and her conductin the world was perfectly correspondent to these early impressions. Superstitious and devout in the presence of her grand- 24 TliE ATROCITIES , mother, from whom she expected a large fortune, she amply compensated this constraint before her by the levity of her behaviour in her absence. She was lively, vain, capricious ; and at her father's return from his travels in lialij^ where he had been for three years, he was obliged to withdraw her, his only unmarried daughter, from public observation, to conceal the consequences of an intrigue with a young officer, by sending her to a convent in the country: thus punishing his daughter for his own negligence in her education. Her grand-mother, enraged at' her conduct, withdrew her patronage and favor from her, and left her fortune to 'QF A CONVENT. 25 her sister, Madame de Fervac ; so that the imprudent and unfortunate Hosalia was glad, after a short resi- dence in the convent, to accept of her father's offer of procuring her the Abbacy oiScellihreSy where she enjoyed ease, affluence, and power ; and the advantage of continuing her former .bad <;ourse of life, without being suspected. It will easily be imagined what sort of education a woman of such principles was calculated to enforce. Her character, which was naturally only frivolous, had been rendered, by her situation, artful^ and even wicked ; for there is often but a step between levity and vice. D 2^ THE ATROCITIES From the unlimited power she pos- sessed over her nuns and novices, it ^vas scarcely possible it could have been otherwise. But as mankind are never wicked unless they have some supposed interest in being so, except when she had some intrigue of her own t5 conceal, or some private views to gratify, she generally treated the young people under her with apparent kind- ness ; for she was not naturally ill tempered. She took pleasure in conversing of the manners and amusements of a world, which she still secretly regretted, notwithstanding the exclusive power and respect she ebjoyed in her Convent. But though she had no interest in OF A CONVENT. §7 constantly oppressing those committed to her charge, it was necessary to her power and authority that she should mislead and enslave their reason as much as possible. Though the frivolity and looseness of her character prevented her being so strict with regard to the rules of devo» tioa as some Abbesses, yet she madg use of more sophistry in seducing the reason of those under her care, than most of them. And this method is, perhaps, more destructive, at least to the generality of minds, which thus become attached to their errors, be- cause they imagine they have found out the secret of connecting faith with reason. d2 .JP'V THE ATROCITIES As the vanity of the Abbess, however,, was fully equal to her ambition, she- could not forbear expatiating to her young people on the many dangers she had escaped in the world ; she enlarged upon the seducing arts of men, and the folly and credulity of women : and though those harangues generally con- cluded by lectures on propriety of conduct, her audience always paid- more attention to the beginning than tO' the end of her discourse ; and her conversation was mueh more calculated to fascinate their imaginations, than to. strengthen their minds, and. profit their morals. Her ni€ce, Adela de Clairville, a daughter of her younger sister, who. OF A CONVENT. £9 died soon after the birth of this only child, was her most docile pupil. She had been with her from infancy, and consequently had not one sentiment or opinion that had not been inculcated by her auntj who, as she had no reason to fear any opposition from, and had kept her constantly with herself, when not engaged with her Confessor, she brought her up with the most unbounded indul- gence. Adela, who had not an idea beyond the convent, and who was of course. courted by all the ' nuns, to ingratiate them with the Abbess, represented it to Eugenia as a para,dise on earth. They became great friends ; and the d3 20 THE ATROCITIES Abbess encouraged this connection j though she never suiFered them to be long alone, as she suspected that the reason of Eugenia might not be so much enslaved as that of Adela. — HdVvever, she allowed them to sleep together, though always in her room : they were suffered to walk together, and she sometimes had the prudence to- mix a little liberal literature for the amusement of Eugenia, with the books of devotion for the use of Adela. She carefully excluded all romances from their reading, (though they em- ployed all her own spare moments when alone,) yet she had selected some of 0ur best tragedies, whence love is OF A CONVENT. 31 excluded, such as Athalia, M erope and Orestes, for their perusal. As Eugenia had seen them all acted in Paris, they gave her the greatest pleasure ; but as these were not the only ones she had seen, she often asked why she might not be allowed to read the others, such as Zara, Tancred, and Zulima. She was answered that they were dangerous, and destructive to the morals of young people, by inflaming those passions it was their duty to destroy. '' Yes, I conceive that," said Eu- genia, "for those who are to pass their life in a convent ; but I am to spend mine in the world ; and I have 32 THE ATROCITIES frequently heard Madame de B Le- vi lle say, that tragedies, where the mischievous effects of the passions are more dwelt upon than their fascinations, exhibit lessons for the conduct of life.'* '* That is a very dangerous doctrine, my child. Such was unfortunately my * idea, when at your age : but I sooa found that I was more attentive to the charms of love, than warned by its dangers. I encreased my sensibility so much, that I was unable to w ithstand the disappointments I met with frona the men of the world : I had trans- formed each of them into one of the heroes of these tragedies you are so fond of, and I found them all false and dissembling. I therefore retired into OF A CONVENT. 33 « this convent, where I acquhxd tran- quillity, and peace of mind." *^ Then you retired here of your own accord ; or rather you were obliged to seek shelter here from some love dis* appointment." " I did not say that, my child ; I only said, that on seeing the wickedness of the world, I left it in disgust" " But if all the virtuous were to act thus, what would become of the world ?" ** When they cannot stop the progress of corruption, my child, it is their duty to abandon it." THF ATROCITIES ^^ Had they not better instruct it, by their example ?" ^'That is almost impossible, my child; besides, where is the marriage to be found for a virtuous woman ? Tell me, have you met with many happy couples in the world ?" ** Hardly one, I must confess.'* *' And do wives that are married ta vicious husbands generally preserve their virtue ?" '^ I believe not:— but, I am too young to judge of that ; and I always found their society very agreeable, which was all that then concerned me." OF A CONVENT. 35 '* Ah, my child, what a danger you liave escaped ! How I rejoice that you have come to me, that I may have time to fortify your mind against the seduc- tions of the world !" ^' But Madame de Bleville i« a virtuous woman !" *^ I believe she is;— at least I never heard any thing 'to the contrary. But you know there is no general rule without an exception. Besides, her husband died when she was very young, and since that her time has been en- tirely taken up with the education of my niece Angelica. I am afraid, however, she has given her too worldly an education. I wish my sister had 56 T«E /Atrocities sent her to me : — but she was prevented by the idea of procuring her daughter a, brilliant establishment; and by her husband, who, I fear, was little better' than an atheist." "An atheist! what's that ?" ''I'm glad, my child, you never heard a word which is, of late, become too fashionable. An atheist is a man who has disclaimed all religion and morality, (indeed they are the same thing ;) who calls passion, reason ; and takes its blind impulse for his sole rule of con- duct ; who makes light of every sacred tie, and makes morality^ our holy reli- gion and its priests, the constant subjects of his ridicule and contempt." OP.A C brought up she ^^as afraid this disap- pointment would shock you very se- verely : and indeed, my dear Eugenia, I lliink she was sincere. " Though you have had reason to complain of her conduct to you, yet I think you mistook her motives for it : she thought that strictness was neces- sary in the education of a young woman, and' in this she was certainly right. Besides, it was natural she should prefer her own son to you; though I cannot think she ever attempted to undermine you in your fatlier's affections, as you seem to suppose. ** You know you were accustomed to unbounded indulgence before his e3 42 ' TIIE ATROCITIES marriage ; and the least restraint would' naturally appear insupportable to you. Young people are so apt to mistake the motives of their elders, when they do not exactly correspond with their ideas, that I am not surprised you were im- patient undei' her government. I hope, however, my dear, you are happy with my sister, in the retreat of innocence. and peace ; and I hope that 3'our good sense, aided by her excellent advice, will enable you to bear your present misfortunes with christian patience and resignation. '*Take example by my niece Adela r she has absolutely nothing, yet she is happy ; she has taken her part : she has resolved never again to enter a Oy A CONVENT. 4^ world, where poverty is despised ; and to accommodate her mind to her situa- tion. !My poor Angelica is at present in great distress; her aunt is on her death-bed, and requires all her attend-^ ance, otherwise she would have written to you ; but you know her sentiments, as I am persuaded you do mine ; and that you will ever believe me, ''Your sincere friend, and well wisher, " Henrietta de Fervac." Eugenia was in a manner stupified by the reception of this letter. She knew that her father's affairs were in ■disorder at the time he married, but had no idea that they were in such a situation as now represented to her. She had withdrawn herself with pleasure 44 THE ATROCITIES from her father's house, for two years/ because she was then unhappy in it; but she never imagined, at the close of that period, but that she should return to the world with more liberty, and probably a brilliant establishment, when she might pass her life with her dear friend Angelica. All these flattering hopes fell to the ground in a moment ; and it is not to be w^ondered at that Eugenia, who had been taught to consider living in the world as absolutely necessary to happiness, and an affluent fortune as necessary to live in the world, should sink at first into a state of absolute despondency, and soon after into bad health. OF A CONVENT. 4^ Angelica was not there to support her by her friendship and courage ; and the Abbess, on the contrary, did every thing to increase her embarrassments^ by representittg to her how impossible it was to live in the world without a fortune. Her sister, Madame de Fervac, had informed her of Euge- nia's situation, and hinted to her how agreeable it Would be to the family could she engage her to take the veil, for that, though her father could not support her in the world, he could still afford to give her a decent maintenance in a convent. The Abbess did not fail to put every art in practice to attain this end. She paid her unremitting attention during 46^ THE ATROCITIES her illness, often sat up with her a part of the night, and procured her every delicacy that was to.be had in^ the neighbourhood ; and frequently took her out in the carriage with her amidst fine views, and varied prospects- The grateful heart of Eugenia was sensible of these attentions; she looked upon herself as abandoned by the world; and the death of Madame be Bleville, which she believed to be near, precluded any idea she might have conceived of returning there with any comfort. She often spoke of her situation- to the Abbess, who appeared to sympathize^ with her most sincerely, and sometimes OF A CONVENT. 47 dropped a hint how happy she might be in the conyent. This was eagerly seconded by Ade la, who frequently embraced her, and assm^ed her how glad she should be to consider as a sister her, whom she already considered as her dearest friend. Eugenia at last, half persecuted, half seduced, wrote to Madame de Fervac, to ask her advice upon the step she was about to take. She did not write to Angelica; for she knew her generous disposition too well, not to be certain that she would offer to shacc her own fortune with her, did she know her real motives for taking the veil. Madame de Fervac answered her, 48 THK ATROCITIES that she highly approved of her inten- tions; but advised her first of all to ivrite to her father, without informing bim that she had heard any thing con- cerning his fortune; because, if she discovered that, he would ruin himself to prevent her taking the veil ; that it would be much more generous of her, provided she was resolved to go into the convent, to tell him that she had a liking for it, and could not be happy out of it. She added^ that her step-mother assured her, that if her father knew the real motive of her generous sacrifice, it would break his heart; that she had also said, .that were it in her power to prevent it by sacrificing a part of her fortune, she would not hesitate ; but that it was already settled on her son, and a OF A COXVEXT. 49 daughter she had lately brought M. de St. Ange. Madame de Fervac concluded her letter by praising Eu- genia's heroism, and filial piety, and exhorting her to persevere. The unhappy and too credulous Eugenia allowed herself to be per- suaded, wrote the prescribed letter to her father, and received for answer, that, though he w^as grieved beyond measure to be separated from her for ever, he should think himself criminal in contradicting her holy resolution. He begged her not to be precipitate ; and promised her a visit in the course of the ensuing summer. Eugenia was not surprised 'at this 50 THE ATROCITIES answer ; she had made up her mind to the part she was to take ; at least she thought she had. She really loved her father ; though her attachment was not so enthusiiastic as to have been alone sufficient to have influenced her in taking such a step : but she saw no inducement for her to return to the world, and felt herself happy for the present where she was. Young people do not reflect much on the past, and hardly ever think of any thing beyond the present. She therefore told the Abbess that she was ready to take the white veil, w^henever she thought it proper. She did not defer it long, as will easily be believed; and about a month after she OF A CONVENT. 51 had received her father's letter, she entered upon her noviciate. As the mind is generally easier in a state of certainty than suspense, espe- cially when that certainty is removed to some distance, Eugenia's health recovered, and she, in some measure, resumed her wonted gaiety. Madame de Bleville had died a few weeks before; and Eugenia's letters to Angelica were more taken up in consoling her friend for her loss, than in speaking of herself. When Eugenia however informed her that she had taken the white veil, Angelica was roused from her own grief, and did all in her power to persuade Eugenia r2 52 THF ATROCITIES not to shorten her noviciate, which, by her letter, she seemed inclined to do. But as Angelica knew that all the letters were opened, she was obliged to be ^ery cautious in her expressions; and only begged her to reflect well upon the importance of the eternal and irrevocable engagement she was about to make, before she entered into it; and to wait at least till her return to the country. The Abbess appeared to think this- request quite reasonable ; but wrote to her sister to beg her to delay her return as long as possible, as she was afraid lliat her daughter was rather too worldly minded, and might persuade her young novice to renounce her vows*. OF A CONVENT. 53 As Madame de Fervac was as sincere in her devotion, as her sister was hypocritical, she entered into her design with fervor ; and pretended to her daughter to be detained in Paris by important affairs. Yet Madame de Fervac was what is called a good woman, but, from her weakness, she had lent her support to the perpetration of a crime. If then, good intentions may be so easily misled, how important is it that principles should be early fixed in the minds of j'oung people ; and that theae principles should be pure ! But when it is ad- mitted, that to attain any end whatever, any means are lawful, there must soon be an cnd^ of virtue. 54 THE ATROCITIES Madame de Fervac had been deceived by Madame de St. Ange: but as she thought the liberty ahd hap- piness of a daughter could never be put in competition with the embarrassments of a father : and as she was likewise persuaded that a nun was a celestial being, sojourning upon earth, she was easily prevailed on to forward the pro- jects of this wicked woman ; the iniquity of which she could not suspect. For sincerity, and almost every amiable en- dowment, if the mind is not enlightened, are the fittest qualities to w^ork upon by designing hypocrites, to attam their wicked purposes. Six months after the commencement of Eugenia's noviciate, she took the OF A CONVENT. 55 black veil, on the same day Adela took the white, as we have already said. Some days after, Angelica and her mother returned to the country ; and Eugenia, whose spirits had begun to flag, and who already thought she per- ceived a change in the Abbess's conduct towards her, was overjoyed to see her old friend. Angelica, who had not been in- formed that her friend had taken the veil, was so shocked to see her in this mournful dress, that she had almost fainted ; but recoflecting that her future admission into the convent depended upon her circumspect behaviour, she constrained herself as much as possible ,• 56 THE ATROCITIES excused her agitation as arising from her joy at seeing Eugenia; and her fate vexation, and bad health. The Abbess anxious to learn all the fashionable Pm^isian intelligence from her sister, and not afraid that her victim could now escape from her, al- lowed the young people to converse at liberty in her parlour, while she retired with her sister to her apartment She left Adela with them; but as she thought it her duty to pray most part of the day during her noviciate, she soon left the friends by themselves. " At last we are at liberty, my dear Eugenia;" said Angelica, '* for OF A CONVENT. 57 heaven's sake tell me how I find you in this dress." ** I have already given you my reason," said Eugenia. '* Was it your only reason ? Has no disappointment of the heart forced my friend into this solitude ?" *' None I assure you, I do aot even understand the nature of such a disap- pointment. You are the only person I am attached to in the world, out of the convent, except my father; and he seems to have forgotten me." O' *' My dear Eugenia, if you are so much attached to me, why not coime 58 THE ATROCITIES and reside with n)y mother and m^? You know how happy your society would have made me." ** I have already told you I had. ^ vocation." ** A vocation ! what is that ? Do not deceive yourself, my dear friend, you cannot deceive me. I know you used to laugh at tliese superstitious ideas in the world." ** I mean,*" said Eugenia, with an as- sumed firm tone, "that I wished to pass the rest of my life in a convent. Besides, my friend, when you and I lived in the world, we were too much accustomed to hear sacred things made light of." OF A CONVENT, 39 ^* Sacred things 1 when ! never that I recollect. The only sacred things, I know of, are moral duties and social duties ; and my late aunt, my bene- factress, my friend, performed them all most religiously." "I know your aunt was a most benevolent and amiable woman ; but if you will allow me to say so, she considered devotion as very inferior to moral duties; at least, though I often heard her recommend the latter to you, I never heard her mention the former." ^^ Aftd do you consider it as superior." Go THE ATROCITIES CHAP. II. At that moment the Abbess and her sister entered the parlour; Madame DE Fervac and her daughter returned home, and Eugenia retired to her cell, wliere the short conversation she had had with Angelica made a deep impression on her mind, and she impa- tiently expected a repetition of her visit, as the only event that could relieve the insipid monotony of her new life. ©F A CONVEXt. 61 Angelica, whose spirits had never recovered her aunt's death, was hurt beyond measure at the loss of her friend; for she considered her as lost, and buried alive in the convent. She had flattered herself with the agreeable idea of spending her life with her, and communicating her ideas upon every subject, in confidence; without which, conversation to an enlightened mind, is but a tiresome circle of trifling, and a constant restraint She had been accustomed to think aloud almost from her infancy. Her aunt, Madame de Bleville, had always treated her more like a friend, than a pupil. Instead of giving her prejudices she had taught her to make use of her G2 THE ATROCITIES reason ; she encouraged her to ask cjqestigns, and always answered them, as far as was in her power. In short, Angelica's education was in a manner finished, when that of other young people is hardly hcgun. Naturally high-spirited, and having been early taught to depend on her own reason, and conscience, she had a strong sense of the dignity of human nature ; but from the extreme sweetness of her disposition, and the correctness of the principles early instilled into her, she had learned to pity the vices of mankind; and to consider them as more dangerous fqllies, which had been occasioned by the bad laws, and bad institutions of society. Naturally enthu- OF A CONVENT. 63 siastic, and ingenuous, though her hatred for vice was strong and irreconcileable, her compassion for the vicious was sincere. To such a character the loss of such a friend as Madame de Bleville was irreparable, but her grief had subsided into a tranquil and uncomplaining melancholy, a thousand times more affecting, in the opinion of the discerning few, than the loudest complaints, and the most apparently inconsolable grief; which generally originate more from the incapability of suffering a change of habit, and from moral or physical weakness, than from the constant regret, and tender recollection, of the memory of a departed friend. g2 64f THE ATROCITIES In this disposition of mind it will easily be conceived, that Angelica's disappointment at finding Eugenia had taken the veil, was great. In the society of her mother she found no consolation. She had never passed above a few weeks with her at a time ; and as Madame de Fervac consi- dered Angelica as the spoiled child of her aunt, she generally employed the short time her daughter spent with her in the country, in maternal exhortations to prudence and circumspection, and 1%: harangues upon the impropriety of the modern ideas of allowing young people to judge for themselves, and to mix in the conversation of their elders. Her lectures too upon the utility of OF A COKVEXt. 65 confession, and the constant necessity of prayer, kc. had no end ; and though A:s''GELiCA had too mtich good sense, and too much respect for herself, to shock her mother by openly contra- dicting her opinions ; yet, her exhorta- tions had no other effect upon her, than iiYm . " De Losmes came into my dungeon' about eleven o'clock, one night, and brought me some wine and refresh- ments. He was much affected at seeing me so emaciated ; and told me, that since the jailor had informed him of my situation, he had made assiduous en- quiries concerning the motives of my detention, and that he. had discovered that I had been denounced as the author of a political pamphlet, by a police- officer, whom he named, and whom I 90 THE ATROCITIES knew to be the young man on whose- friendship I had relied. M. de Losmes told me, that he despaired of my being able to obtain my liberty, for, having sold out of the army without assigning a reason, I was already no favourite at court ; and that, besides, my father was doing all in his power against me. '' This I easily believed ; because I knew that, otfended by my principles, he had for some years past been trying, by every art of chicane, to defraud me of an inheritance Idft me by my mother ; and as he had several friends among the infamous and venal judges of the Parliament oi Pari6\ I had uo doubt of his success, however unjust his claim ; thanks to our absurb jurisprudence ! OF A CONVENT. 9 1 *' This selfish and sordid motive had considerably encreased his zeal fo? his government and religion ; and made him anxious to keep me in prison as long as possible. '^He and my Clara's father were, unfortunately, what is called great friend? ; and I was certain they would both join their influence against us. My father had informed her's of my principles; and as M. de Yille- FRANCHE " " ViLLEFRANCHE !" exclaimed An- gelica; *' has he a son ?'* '' He has," answered Volence ; *^and never was a son so different from 9.9, THF ATROCITIES his father, He was then in America^ . or he^'vyould have protected his sister." " I am sure he would.? " Do you know him then ?" " O yes, very well. He has often spoke of his unfortunate sister, and. constantly laments her death." '' O God ! ' They w ere both silent for some time. '^ I beg your pardon for interrupting you," said Angelica; /'pray go on with your, history, if it is possible. I cannot express to you how- much it interests me." OF A CONVENT. 9S *• I tliink I was speaking of the inte- rested views of M. DeViLLE FRAN CHE. He knew I was to lose my fortune, and this was another reason for his having resolved never to consent to his daugh- ter's marriage with me. She had refused a very rich match on my account ; and her father had carried her to the country, and threatened her with a convent if she persisted in disobeying his absolute commands, by refusing the husband he had pointed out for her. ^ " Though I knew Claras affection for me to be great, and her mind stronger than that of her sex. generally is, from the bad education they receive, yet I also knew her to be young, alone, M THE ATROCITIES and entirely in her father's power, for she had lost her mother about two years before. I knew too, that she would prefer death to marrying any other than myself; and that her father might employ a thousand stratagems to persuade her I was either married, or dead, if he could not otherwise over- come her resistance ; and that she might then be glad to bury herself for ever in^ a convent, whichever of the reports she believed. '*As M. DE LosMES still continued his kind attentions to me, and had. even removed me from my dungeon to a tolerable apartment,. I ventured. to. tell him part of my history ; and con- jured him, if po5B5t)le, to get me soma OF A CONVEXT. 9^ intellicrence of Clara de Ville- FRAN CHE. He promised he would, and in about a month after I had made the request, he came into my room with a letter an his hand, and with a melan- choly look, begging me to summon up all my fortitude, told me, that Clara, believing I was dead, as her father had informed her, had taken the white veil in the convent of Scellihres, and that her noviciate was to expire in a month. *^ This news almost distracted me ; but instead of sinking into despair, as formerly, I employed all my thoughts upon the possibility of effecting my escape. Yet how was I to accomplish this? I could not entrust de Losmes with it ; for even if he were willing to g6 THE ATROCITIES assist me, he had it not in his power ; and though he had, what a return would it have been for all his kindness to me, to have exposed him to lose his place, the only maintenance of his wife and family ; for whose sake, alone, he con- sented to continue in such an odious employment, as he had frequently told me ; and though the^only use he made of it, was to console the unfortunate prisoners! But to whom could I apply? Besides I had no money, for all that I , had about me, which was twenty louis, and my watch, had been taken from me, when I was carried to the Bastille. '^Of thisi informed deLosmes; and told him what an obligation I should consider it, if he could get it restored OF A CONVENT. 97 to me, as I wished to purchase some books, and other little necessaries for myself, to amuse me during my solitary confinement. " In a few days he brought them to me : and I then began to employ the jailor, who I have already said was humane, in procuring some little articles for me, and when I saw that he per- formed these commissions with pleasure, I entered into conversation with him, and found that he was disgusted with his situation, and would gladly leave it, could he be assured of procuring himself a means of subsistence. " Aft er sounding him for some days, I at last ran the risk of proposing my K £)8 THE ATROCITIES escape to him. At first he appeared startled : but on my offering to give him my watch, and all the money I had, if he could by any means favor my design, he promised to consider how it might be effected. He returned at night, and told me that if I could insure him a subsistence, and conceal him from the vengeance of government, he would escape with me. Astonished, and delighted, I embraced the honest- hearted jailor, and assured him, he might depend upon my eternal grtttitude. ^' Every thing being concerjfed, he entered my room next night with a suit of regimentals, and giving me the watch- word, bid me follow him. He opened the inner doors himself, and telling the OF A CONVEXT. 99 sentinels of the outer ones, that I was a sentinel of the inner- prison, sent with him upon an important message by the go- vernor, we passed through all the gates, without examination : and we gained the suburbs ofSf, Antojiy in safety. ^^ We proceeded on together till we came to the house of my friend the Marquis de C . The w;atch was luckily not at hand, I knocked gently at the servants' windows, and begged them to open the door, as I had something of great importance to impart to their master. An old man, bringing a candle to the wundow, instantly recol- lected me ; but on my making a sign to him, he had prudence enough not to name me. He opened the door, g^e K 2 300 THE ATROCITIES me the most cordial welcome, and told me that his master was not yet in bed; and that I should find him in his study. I flew into the room, and was in his arms in an instant '* I will not attempt to describe the joy of our meeting. He had only learnt where I was within a few days, and could hardly believe I had effected my escape. I shewed him the man to whom I ow^ed my deliverance, and had he loaded Jiim with a thousand personal benefits, he could not have shewed more gratitude. He promised to procure him a post, and calling up his old servant, recornmended him to his care, ^nd desired that he might be kept con- ceal^^d till further orders^ OF A CONVENT. 101 We then sat down together ; and he asked me what project I had formed, or whether I meant to leave the kingdom ; offering w4th the most friendly solicitude to assist me in every respect, as far as was in his pow er. He said, that as I most unjustly lost my cause in the Parliament of Paris, he would advise me to transport myself to America; that he would give me a letter to Dr. Franklin; that he was sui 3 I would be well received : and that if I V, ouid do his friends, and him, the favor to accept of pecuniary assistance, I should soon be out of the reach of Our iniquitous government. ** But my heart is in France^'' said I. K 3 102 THE ATROCITIES lie asked me if I was married; I said I was engaged. He asked if I would trust him with the young lady's, name, and said he would write to her of my escape, and where I was, that I could, easily be concealed, in his house tilt the answer came, and that if she had courage enough to join me, we could go to America together. *' There is still some virtue in the world, said I, squc^ezing his hand, but injustice is stronger than you are. My Clara is in a convent, forced there by her inhuman parents ; and perhaps before this time she is lost to xm for ever. '* O n>y poior friend ! my wretched ©F A coy VEX T. 105 country, said he, and burst into tears. We wept together. They were the first tears I had shed for a long time, and relieved me much. Who shall say that true philosophy i^ insensible ? I wish it were. ** Take courage, said he to me, at last, recovering himself a little. Perhaps you are still in time to save her. Her noviciate is to expire in a few days, said I. I then told him her whole history. " I know not what to recommend to you, said he, after a long silence. I£ you do not succeed in your escape, you will both infallibly be confined for life in separate dungeons ; and it is a great chance that you do. But if I try not 104 THE ATROCITIES something, said I, I shall certainly lose her for ever ! " It was then agreed, that I should change my name, to avoid being taken up by my father, or by government. *^ Next day he furnished me with some clothes, and an hundred louis, which he insisted upon my accepting ; and made me promise to write to him. " By the interest of his friend, the Duke de la Rcchefoucault, he procured my friendly jailor a post in one of the farms. ** I rode post to Scelllires, and stoj)ped not night or day till I reached OF A CONVEXT. 105 the environs of the convent. After some consideration 1 resolved to dress myself like an old woman, and to *ask admission to Mademoiselle de ViLLEFRANCHE, to implore her cha- rity. Accordingly I presented myself at the gate of the convent, and was admitted. Clara, attended by an old nun, came to the grate. I cannot describe my emotions upon seeing her; biit as great fear sometimes inspires great courage, I commanded myself wonderfully, and, disguising my voice as well as I could, I (old her in a few words my necessities ; at the same time putting a note into her hand, which I said would inform her fg^rther. *^ J had prevailed upon an old womau 106 THE ATROCITIES in the neighbourhood to lend me her certificate, in which I had inclosed a few lines informing Clara of part of my history, and conjuring her, if she valued my life, to consent to es- cape with me before to-morrow morn- ing: that I would wander about the garden wall of the convent, after the time of evening prayers, to wait for her answer. ** Clara had presence of mind enough to give me some money, and tell me she would make farther enquiries. The old nun told her she must see the petition ; but as she was almost blind, Clara had time enough to conceal my note in her bosom, before she gave the other paper. I retired as spedily as OF A CONVENT. 107 possible,, for fear of being examined more closely. *' The moment the bell for vespers ^vas finished, and it began to grow dark, having thrown off my disguise, I scaled the wall of the garden by the help of a ladder of cords, and came close under those of the convent, where after having waited some time, I saw the glimmering lisht of a dark lanthorn. When I was going to hide myself among the long grass, the person who carried it gave me a friendly wave with her hand, and putting her finger on iier lips, gave m^ a note, in which Clara informed me • she would meet me in the chapel be- tween ten and eleyei^ ; and that then if I could efiect . her escape from her 108 THE ATROCITIES prison, into which she had been de- ceived by a false report of my death, she was ready to go with me. •'■ The woman who brought the letter then told me, that she was a tourri^re of the convent, and that I need not be afraid of trusting her, for that the young novice had told her that I was her husband, wbom she had believed to be dead ; and that as she had not yet taken her vows, the tourri^re added, that slie thought she was doing no .liarm in uniting a husband and wife, who she understood had been wrongfully sepa- rated by their parents, from pecuniary motives. She even added, that she would shew us a subterraneous passage, under the altar, which would conduct OF A Convent. I09 us to the road without tlie garden wall, and with which she was we acquainted, * '^ I perceived by the style of conver- sation of this woman, that she was the pander of the vices of the Abbess, and Nuns ; and that I was not the first man she had conducted into that passage. How dreadful for virtue to be obliged to employ such instruments! But the crime is to be imputed to the unjust government, or laws, whose inhuman oppression forces the unprgtected citi- zen to make use of art, to save himself from tyranny! Such deceit, however, cannot be called a crime. The oppres- sors have lost the right of expecting sincerity ; and this inevitable consc- 110 THE atrocities; i quence of such a system, shews its horror iii the full extent. " This woRian conducted me to the chapel, and concealed me below the altar, where she desired me to remain till she lifted up the trap. I waited there for about three hours in a state of the most inexpressible agony of sus- pense. I thought every moment I heard voices above me, speaking in a threat- ening tone. I figured to myself that the vault where I was then concealed, was the descent to the prisons, and I every moment expected to see my Clara descend there as a prisoner, instead of ''At length, however, about eleven OF A CONVENT, 111 o'clock, the trap was lifted, and I re- ceived my Clara, almost lifeless vvith fear, in my arms ; I carried her down the steep and dark stairs, lighted only by the tourriere's dark lanthorn, who, shutting the trap after her, followed as into a long and dark passage. She had warned us not to speak ; and it was easy to comply with this, as both our emotions were too great to be expressed by words. We stopped for some time in this passage for Clara to throw off her veil, and dress herself in the habit of a peasant, which I had taken care to bring with me. '' We then proceeded to the trap tliat led to the outside of the garden wall, wiiere taking leave of the toumere, I l2 Ji2 THE ATROCITIES gave her twenty louis, and we made the best of our way to a neighbouring cottage ; here I had engaged a horse, and taking Clara behind me, we took the direct road to Paris, but soon turning off, we rode as fast as possible through bye-ways to Lorraine, and istopped not till we came to Coiidre- t'ourty the nearest village in Lorraine, where we v;ere obliged to halt a little, to procure Clara some rest after her long journey. She had scarcely reco- vered her surprise and joy at seeing me again, and could hardly believe hferself out of the convent. Our fear of being taken was so great that we had no conversation on the road; and when we first found OF A CONVENT. 113 cmrseives alone, and secure, it became necessary to settle the plan of our future operations. ** We communicated all that had happened to each other. I informed. her of the friendship C had shewn me, and of the advice he had given us, to go to America. But we both agreed that it would be imprudent to proceed^' so soon on our journey; and that it would be better to conceal ourselves in some obscure village, till the noise of her escape, and mine, had in some measure subsided. But Clara insisted that our marriage should take place I immediately, to prove to her lather and mine, should any misfortune happen to either of us, that our union was meant L O J 14 THE ATROCITIES to be permanent, and was not the common effect of a violent and transient passion. '' It was in vain I represented to her, that our marriage, however performed, would not be valid in this countr}^ ; that we had no need of such a ceremony to be sure of each other's constaacy, that we could be publicly married when we arrived in America; and that, whether we were married or not, it would make no difference in her treatment, wxre :>he retaken. ^* She still persisted in thinking it would make a difference in her fathers opinion, and conjured me to think of ?ome means of procuring a prie&t. OF A COXVENT. 115 Accordingly, after some consideration^ we resolved to pass for two Swiss, to say that I had been obliged to leave the canton of Berne for some state offence, and that I had brought a young woman wuth me, to whom I was anxious to be married. ^^ The curate of a nei^hbourinor parish, either believing or pretending to believe this story, married us privately for a considerable sum of money. I sold the horse upon which we had come from Scellihx6-; and we proceeded on foot, by slow journeys, to Clermont, in the neighbourhood of which we took a small cottage. *' Here we remained under our 116 THE ATROCITIES feigned name for about two months, the happiest period of my life, which passed away like a dream ; and the recollection of which, adds to the bitterness of the sufferings I have since endured. *^ Thinking that our escape had by this time fallen into oblivion, we pro- ceeded westward to Crespy, .about^a day's journey from Paris, whence I wrote to C , informing him, in as guarded terms as possible, that I had redeemed my Clara from her prison/ that we wxre now married, and on our way to Arnerica, and that we would wait at Crespy for his answer. " We w^aited there in the utmost anxiety for about a week : no answer OF A CONVENT. 1]7 arrived. ]\Iy wife sometimes suspected that our friend had betrayed us. I was certain that these suspicions were unfounded ; but began to be afraid that I had been very imprudent, in address- ing my letter .directly to my friend; that he had probably never received it; or that if he had I might perh'tips have exposed him to danger. These ideas made me very uneasy. Our money too was almost spent, and I 'began to fear we should not have enough to pay our passage. " We had just gone to bed, and were conversing upon the propriety of setting out on our journey next day, without waiting for the ans.ver to our letter,, when we heard a noise at th/e door of 118 THE ATROCITIES our cottage, and four or five ruffians instantly rushed into the room. I sprung up in a moment, and seized a pistol which lay upon the table, but I was immediately disarmed. A lettre de cachet was shown, and we were or- dered to dress instantly. What could we do? I was held, and could not assist my wife ; and in such a situation courage is only another torment. Clara had fainted through fright, and a wretch of a woman, these hirelins^s of despotism had brought with tfaem, put on her clothes in this situation ; and carrying her out of the cottage, forced her into a carriage with two of the3e monsters, while I, after being dressed, was bound and put into another, by the OF A CONVENT. 119 Other two wretches, and both carriages drove off in different directions. " I shall never forget my Clara's screams as they died away ; and wh^n I heard them no more I sunk into a state of absolute stupefaction, so as to be completely insensible to suffering, for I don't know how long ; and I did not begin to recover my recollection till we got near Brest When I did, the image of my Clara dragged into a dungeon, distracted me. I was almost certain that she was pregnant; and this idea became too much for reason to support. I was seized with a brain fever, and upon my recovery, the first object that struck me was the sea, out of the cabin window. I asked where they were l^d THE ATROCITIES carrying me, and was answered, 4o the gallies, which is too mild a punish- ment for a wretch like you.' *^ During the rest of my voyage round France^ from Brest to Marseilles, I asked no more questions ; and I should certainly have put an end to my exist- tence, had not the hope of once more seeing my Clara, I knew not where, or how, supported me almost unknown to myself. "In the Bay of Biscay we were overtaken by a dreadful storm, and our ship, after struggling some time against it, at last struck upon a rock, and went to pieces. Most of the crew endea- voured to save tliemselves by swimming; OF A CONVENT. 121 aiid I know not what instinct made me desirous to preserve a life I had so little reason to love; unless it was the idea of my wife being still in the worlds- otherwise I should have sought that death I was then so anxious to avoid. I clung to a plank, and after floating on it some time, and being carried by the waves to a great distance from the ship, {none of whose crew I have ever since seen) I was humanely taken up by a Spanish fishing boat. " The poor men, who were on board her, shewed me all the kindness in their power; and on our landing atBilboa, one of them offered to take me into his hovel for the night, and share the scanty meal of his wife and family with me : i» M 12S THE ATROCITIES short, poor as he was, he shewed me greater benevolence than I should have met with in the houses of most of the rich ; and that night, upon my bed of rushes, I slept more soundly than I had done since my separation from my Clara; for though I was in a foreign land, and deprived of every thing in the world, yet I was free, and could flatter myself with the prospect of some time or other, returning to my own country ; and perhaps being able to discover the destiny of my wife. ''As I had no money in the world, I was obliged to propose to the fisherman, who understood a little French, to allow me to assist him in his occupations. He accepted my proposal with pleasure. I went out fishing with him, made nets and baskets, cut faggots, and carried burdens: in short, I rendered myself as useful to my benefactor as possible, and Imd the satisfaction of repaying his benefits. " After about two month's residence with him, my life began to grow insup- portably irksome : I had no society to amuse, no friend to comfort me; the image of my Clara haunted mc day and night. I at last expressed to the fisherman a wish to return to France ; and told him that if he knew of any person going there, who would hire me as a servant, I should esteem it the greatest favor. He expressed his re- luctance to part with me, but promised M 2 ^ 324 , miE ATROCITIES to enquiije. On his retarn home,- one evening, he intbrmed me that he knew of a carrier who was going to Bayonne, who wanted a mule-driver, and would be glad to accept of my serxiccs, and w ho would give me a crown when we arrived. *' I set out with him, therefore, next morning, haviag taken leave of my benevolent fisherman, who shed tears when we parted, and filled my pockets with chesnuts, and a battle of brandy. *' We proceeded to Bayonne. It was a disagreeable journey to me, for every night was passed in scenes of riot and drunkeuness^ little consonant with my OF A CONVENT. 12J State of mind. When we arrived I received my hire. That would not last long, and I had no resource ; but still I was in France ; in my dear country ; the country that contained my Clara : and as I was in the fisherman's coat, which he had changed for mine, it was impossible I should be discovered. This was some comfort. " I resolved to beg my way as a ship- wrecked sailor to Paris, I was about six hundred miles from it; but I thought I had more chance of hearincr of Clara there, than any where else. Besides, I knew I should find C- there. *' Accordingly I proceeded in the direct road, and sometimes found it m3 126 THE ATROCITIE* hard enough to procure one meal a day, I will not paint to you the horrors of beggary, that state of humiliating wretchedness, where every insult must be endured, and where the deserving often pay for the crimes of the impostor. In some of the large towns on the road I hired myself to carry burdens, or go messages, for a few days ; but as I was anxious to arrive at Paris, I could not stay long enough to procure money to carry me any distance. ** At last, however, I reached Paris; and the very night of my arrival there, I was taken up as a sturdy beggar, thrown into Bicctre, and condemned to hard labour, by an inhuman law, which like most others in society, finds it easier to OF A con'Vent. 127 commit a crime, to correct an abuse, than to root it out. ■" This was the most dreadful period of my sufferings. I was no longer borne up by hope, and my anxiety became insupportable. The cruelty of the scenes I witnessed wrung my heart, and made me blush for human na- ture. " When I had remained for some weeks in this den of wretchedness, it was visited by the amiable Duke de LA RocHEFOucAULT, who Came there frequently to chuse objects for his enlightened benevolence ; and to do all in his power to relieve those who had been unjustly shut up there; for he, 128 THE ATROCITIES and his friends the philosophers, make it their constant employment to alleviate the misfortunes occasioned by the crimes of government, since they cannot prevent them. " He questioned me among the rest, I told him that I was a shipwrecked sailor, who had lost every thing ; and who had been forced to beg my way to Paris, that my name was Mont-joce; and that, before I went to sea, I had often received favors from the Marquis OF C— , who would answer for my character. ** The moment he heard his nan^e, I saw by his countenance that he knew; part of my history. I have often heard or A CONVENT^ 1^9 my friend speak of you, said he ; and 1 am sure you are an honest man. *' He promised to speak to the police- officers, and to obtain my enlargement. Accordingly that night I was liberated, and conducted to the house of my deliverer, where I met with my friend C — — , and returned home with him. *' Every attention that the most delicate , and refined sensibility, and friendship, could dictate, w^as paid to me. My misfortunes alone w ould have endeared me to his virtuous soul, but as the victim of superstition and des- potism, I was doubly dear to him. " I learned from him that he had ISO ^ THE ATROCITIES never received my letter ; that he had? never heard of me since we parted ; that he had only heard of a novice's escape ; and that he had concluded v/e had both gone to America^ without running the risk of writing to any one. " He was shocked to hear of Clara's being retaken ; and the mar6 so, as he seemed absolutely to despair of my being able to recover her by any meanSj. or even to get intelligence of hen ** When my health and strength were tolerably recovered, however, I set oiit on my search ; and after having vainly made enquiries at several convents, I received a letter from my friend, in- forming me that he had intelligence t)F A CONVENT. 131 •that Clara had been carried to Seel- litres; byit that he could not lealrn whether she was still there or not. I went, therefore, to Scellieres,- and got myself admitted as a lay-brother among the monks, that I might get into their confidence, and learn the history of the novice. Alas ! I could hear nothing but vague and contradictory reports, which only bewildered and tortured my mind ; and the meanness, hypocrisy, and vices of the monks, disgusted me so much^ that as I could get no satis- factory information, I soon left them. ** I still, however, lingered about the environs of Scellihres, in different dis- guises,^ in hopes of getting some intel- lic^ence or other. In one of these I 132 THE ATROCITIES assumed that of a Savoyard, bearing about a small packet of Iktle triflesj which I carried to the convent. Good God ! what were my sensations when I approached it 1 At the outer gate I met the tourri^re who had favored our escape. She did not recognize me ; but by offering her some of my things for sale for little or nothing, I soon got into her good graces. I was allowed often to come to the gate, and was employed in going messages for her. She soon got so intimate with me as to entertain me with the scandalous histories of the convent ; at last she came to the un- fortunate history of my Clara; my emotion betrayed me; she recognized me. I offered her money, and conjured her to tell me what had befallen her. OF A CONVENT. 133 ** She hesitated for some time ; at last she told me, that when she was brought back to the convent, she was closely confined. * Good God !' s^id I, * and is she still there?' She answered me that she had been dead some time. 'And my child!' — 'The child was dead born/ said she ; ' and she died in labour.' " This she told me with the most unfeeling coldness; and warned me never again to come near the nun- nery. * * She had no need : I flew from a place where my wife had ■ been mur- dered (though, after all, I had in some measure murdered her myself), and 134 THE ATROCITIES returned to Pai^is ; where, after soin« months, by the consolations of my friends, I had recovered sufficient tran- quillity to be abk to write in journals, and the new Encyclopedia; and I am at last independent. " It is now two years since I learned my Clara«'s death; and each summer since, I have spent a few weeks in this neighbourhood, where at first I could not live. Though there are some moments when my grief is too much for me; yet, in general, I have reconciled myself so much to my situation, as to be able to think of my Clara with a melancholy pleasure, and to rejoice that she is now no longer suffering in this wicked world. OF A CONVEXT. 135 ** I can even sometimes rouse my mind from a selfish apathy by the pleasures of study, and beneficence, and I have often experienced the truth of Condorcet's remark in his life of Voltaire, '' that the power of abstract- *' ing the mind from suffering, is a '* precious gift, which must not be ** calumniated, by being confounded ** with insensibility." '^ I have not yet quite become a misanthrope ; and though I have suf- fered much from the wickedness of mankind, I still pity individuals." Angelica was so much affected by this story, that it was some trme before she could collect resolution enough to 5^2 }36 THE ATROCITIES ifepeak a word to him. At length she saiel^ ** Heavens ! what a world ! how you have suffered !" *' I am glad my child never saw it/* said he. As he said this he rose up, and telling Angelica that it was late, they walked slowly together from the convent, " You do not now wonder," said he^ *' that I have so strongly advised you never to enter a convent." " I never had the least inclination," said she, **and none can have, who are not misled and mistaught from their .infancy ; at least I thought so. But I OF A CONVENT. VST • have a friend who received her education in the world, and whom I thought as much averse to these dens of crime and misery as myself; yet, during a short absence from me, while she was boarded in this convent, she has taken the veil : I fear she will repent it; and at any rate I have lost my friend. For if she is become superstitious enough to have taken, the veil, her heart will be shut to. every other sentiment." " Was she not superstitious when you left her ?" "Not the least." *^ Had she no unfortunate attach- ment ?" " , n3 138 THE ATROCITIES " I am certain that she had not" ** Then depend upon it, my child, she has been deceived, either by her interested relations, or the wicked Abbess. I cannot think she is become $0 religious all of a sudden ; though there is no saying, these creatures are so very artful ; they may have frightened her. Besides your friend is young, is she not?" *V About sixteen." *' Have you seen her often since her profession?" ** Never but once. I did not know what to say to her : I felt myself em- OF A CONVENT. 139 barrassed in her company ; I was afraid of shocking her feelings, or not being able to dissemble my own principles. I considered her vows as an insur- mountable barrier between us." " I think you are wrong in that respect, my dear. Whatever be her motive for entering the convent, you must consider her unfortunate, and endeavour to console her. It is almost certain she will need consolation. From what you have said to me she is not one of those stupid, bigotted young people, with whom convents are filled. The state of a nun will grow irksome to her : and even should this not be the case, your neglect alone, will be suf- ficient to make her unfortunate." 140 THE ATROCITIES '^ I thank you for this observation. I now see differently, and will visit her to-morrow, and if you will permit me, I will give you an account of our con- versation in the evening." " Your confidence will at all times afford me pleasure, my dear child ; and if I can be of any service to you, or your friend, this pleasure will be doubled." OF A CONVENT. 141 CHAR IV. Next day Angelica went to the convent. She found Eugenia melan- choly, reserved, and even cold. She was not surprised at it; she even excused her, and blamed herself alone. After the conversation had been general for some time : "I perceive," said Angelica, ** thiat you are under 142 THE ATROCITIES constraint with me. I know what it is; you are offended at my long absence." ** Have not I reason ? But 1 bes your pardon : it is very natural for one in the world to forget a recluse. I am forgotfen by every one on earth; by my father ; but I did not expect it from you." *' Ah ! my dear Eugenia, what in- justice you do me ! I forget you ! I never thought more of you than during this last fortnight. But I confess you have a right to be offended at my long absence, and I promise never again tu repeat the offence." " Account for it then." OF A CONVENT. 145 ^ To own the truth to you, I thought our last conversation was disagreeablf to you/ ** 'Tis true, I will never expose my- self to hear such another. Doubt is a torment in my situation ; besides, it is impious ; it is blasphemous. I am un- happy enough in this world, and I am resolved not to be so in the next by my fault, if I can help it." " I would not contribute to your unhappiness, any where, for the uni- Terse : but you are then unhappy here!'* *' No ; who told you so?" '* You, yourself, but now,"* 144 THE ATROCITIES ** I (lid not : — if I did, it escaped me." "Then you constrain yourself with me, Eugenia. Trust me with the <;ause of your distress, and perhaps I may comfort you; at least, I shall attempt it. Do not punish me so se- verely for my long absence, as to deprive me of your confidence." Eugenia burst into tears. These were the first words of kindness she had heard since she last saw Angelica. The Abbess had now no more reason to court her: indeed, her attentions had diminished ever since she was certain that Eugknia was to take the veil, and that she was not affluent. She Of A CONVENT. 145 began to treat her with indifference, and even widi something more ; for she perceived that Eugenia was a girl of penetration, and might see tlirough the thifl veil of hypocrisy, with which she had covered her vices. " I thought all the world had become indifferent to me," said Eugenia,* still weeping. ** Ah 1 my friend, how much you are mtstakien ! There is nothing I would not do to alleviate your distress ; and whether you confide it to me or not, I shall still shew you all the friendship that is in my power. But there is another thing, with regard to which I must undeceive you. You seem to thinT^ o 146 THE ATROCITIES that your father is indifferent to you, that. your eternal separation made no impression on him ; now I can assure you, that the idea of your going into the convent distressed him exceedingly. Not that I mean to excuse him: he should not have sent you from him to gratify the malice of your step-mother ; he should not have punished you for her crimes ; above all, he should not have sent you to a convent. But when he wished in some measure to atone for this, by procuring you a brilliant .esta-- blishment, why. did you refuse it?" *^ I refuse it! an establishment! my father propose one for me! It is you who are deceived: nothing of all this is the case. On the contrary, ^my father OF A CONVENT. 147 could not afford to give me any thing"; it is even vvith difficulty he can pay my portion here. This I know too well, and it is for this I am a nun," "O Godl who told you so? Did your infamous step-mother dare to write you this?" '^ Why do you call her infamous ? It 13 true she has been unjust to me; but is it right to speak against our enemies ? is. it not our duty to forgive, nay to Iovg them ?" *' What ! can it be our duty to love wickedness at any time ; and to forgive it, because we have suffered by it? If you knew of her what I do, you would o2 MS rut ATROCITIES agree with me. But was it from her yon ^lad this intelligence?'^ " No, it wae iwm your motlier,** "-My mother, how can thig be? She never told me a word of if '* I begged she would not.'* ** And why E^jgenja?" ^ *' Because I knew your generosity^ mv friend ; and I was afraid that you would offer to share your fortune with me, to prevent me from taking the veil." ** And why was you afraid of it? Why did you refuse to make me happy? OF A CONVENT. 149 O'EuGEXiA ! how you have distressed me ! What a false delicacy ! You know my fortune would have been more than ample for us both." ** Console yourself, my dear friend, you could not have disposed of it, you are.under age/' " But 1 could have prevailed upon my mother to invite you to live with, us. O Eugenia 1 this was cruel of" you ! Had I known this three weeks sooner! ' '^ Had I known what you have told fne three wc^ks sooner, I should not have been here. Hat from whom had you your iaforrnation?"' " o 3 150 THE ATROCITIES " From your father himself, he even shewed me the letter he had received from the gentleman, who asked you in marriage. If I had known that yon had been ignorant of this, I never should have told you.'* ** I wish you had not ; but repentance is now too late : we must submit to a fate which is irrevocable; especially when we ourselves have chosen that fate." " You are then very unhappy here my dear ft-iend?" ** I tried to persuade myself I was not. The idea that I had made a gene- rous sacrifice to my father, supported •F A CONTENT. Ml me: bot that idea no longer subsists; and I don't know what will become of me." •* Then your vocation was a fiction, to deceive me ?** '*^ It was to deceive myself. I don*t know what to think ; I am tormented by doubts. — But I hear the bell for evening prayers. Farewell ; do not be long before you return to me : I want your friendship, and support." In the evening Angelica, as she had promised, met Volence, and toW him of the conversation she had had with her friend. He was shocked to learn she had been so deceived, but loQ TH£ ATROCITIES advised Angelica to continue her. visits, and told her that it was doubly her duty to comfort her, as it had been by her means that she had learnt the fatal truth ; " for it is error alone that consoles in convents," said he, ^' which, are only founded upon errors and vices of the worst kind." " But would not truth afford hen greater consolation if she knew it en- tirely?" " Without doubt, if she could make her escape; but if not, it would only add fo her torments." *'Alas!" said Angelica, '^escape is now impossible; she has taken her OF A CONVENT. 155 VOWS, those irrevocable vows that doom her for ever to wretchedness." " It is not that idea, that would prevent me ; were I sure of being able to assist her in making her escape, and providing for her security afterwards; I would not hesitate a moment m making her a convert to the propriety of the step^ and to the qauae ctf truths" " But is it consistent with morality, to break a soleraa promise^ though even contrary to our interest." *' Certainly not, if the happiness of another depends upon that promise. But your friend has promised away her liberty, at an age when she is incapable 154 THE ATROCITIES of judging of its value; and at no age, strictly speaking, couid she have a right to do so. The vow of obedience she has taken to her superior alone, who may lead her to error and crime, is sufficient to prove thic, Rousseau told a great truth^ when he said, that no person liad a right to sell himself for a> slave, because then he sold himself to commit every crime, to obey the commands of his master. Now your friend is a slave in the strictest sense of the word. Tell me, Angelica, would you think you had done wrong in assist- ing a negro th escape ?" " No, certainly." ^V Yet, according to your argument, OF A CONVENT. 155 he would be breaking his contract: and . there is even more to be said against this, than against the escape of a nun ; for he is, in some respects, his master'^ property," ^^ But he had no right to acquire that property." ^' You have answered yourself: he certainly had not Now whose property are nuns ? To whom have they made their vows ? For whose advantage is it that they should be kept ? Not that of the state, for these institutions deprive it pf inhabitants : not for the benefit^ of morality, for they violate its first duties, by secluding themselves from society ; and nature consequently avenges^h^rself 156 THE AtRO€lTIE« fey marking these places the reeeptacfe 0i every vice. You can form no idea <^f tfee crimes that are perpetrated in con- vents. Then it is only for the advantage of the church, that is to say of the class of the oppressors." "You have perfectly convinded me. Even the partisans of religion cannot s«ty that convents answer any other end than to render it odious and ridiculous. How could it ever be imagined that lAoi Stjpkeme Being could take pleasure m the sufferings of his creatures ?^ ''We can fbrm no idea of the Stj^ueme BeWg but by the general laws of morality, which we feel in our own hearts; and, as Voxtairb saysi, OF A CONVENT. 157 ' Their power is sure, their principle ' divine/ As to the justice of instituting convents, that will not bear an argu- ment; and I have only entered into this discussion to prove to you, that an unjust promise can never be binding, and that the error was in making it.— Of such promises the greatest poet and moralist says, they are * more honored * in the breach, than the observance." ** You have given me the strongest desire to make Euoenia breaJi her vows.'* ** But you must be cautious, my child; do not shock her at first; sound her by degrees ; for if you do not suc- ceed, you will throw her into doubt, p 158 THE ATROCltlES and make her more miserable than she is already." "I shall be guided entirely by your counsel; depend upon it, I shall pre- cipitate nothing." Before they parted, Yolence asked Angelica, why she seemed startled at the name of Villefkanche, when he Mas relating his history ; and how she had got acquainted with him. She told him that she had seen him often at IMadame de Bleville's; that he was the most amiable young man she had ever met with ; and that she had imagined ''but things in this w^orld" said she, " seldom meet our wishes," OF A COX VENT. 159 '* Then he was attached to you ? I hope you do not think mine an idle curiosity." *' After the confidence you have reposed in me," said Ax ge Lie a, *' it would be most ungrateful of me to refuse you mine in return. I will confess then that I think he was at- tached to me ; and that had my aunt lived, this attachment might perhaps have improved : but he was cafled into the country by his father ; and when he returns tt) town he will no longer find me there. Indeed this was one of my mothers principal reason^ for retiring ' to ' the eountrv." " What objection can she have to such a connection?" p2 IGO THE atrocities' *' His principles, which are well known in the world; and his father objects to mine, at least to those of my aunt, by whom I was brought up." " Heavens!" said Volence, " how mankind persist in tormenting them- selves! Are they not sufficiently thwarted by nature? will they never know their rights, nor their duties. But Villefranche's father will not be able to prevent his marriage with you : his spn is considerably more than of age. Your mother I think might be easily persuaded. But are you well acquainted, my child, with Vij^lyj^^ FRANC he's character?'* • ** As well as with my owa,- OF A CONVENT. I^l- *^ Do you think you could pass your Ufe with him ?" " I flatter myself that ours is an» attachment that would encrease ; it is founded upon mutual esteem. It is not a fever of the imagination, but an affection of the heart; it is built upon the mutual knowledge of our characters, and upon the agreement of our senti- ments. His principles are pure, without being rigid; he is brave, generous, beneficent, sincere, and enlighcened ; . in short, he is one of those characters that are only to be met with in this age,- and in this country : and my attachment to him is what D'Alembert calls the perfection and completement of friendship. But on the subject of love,'* n3 l:69i THE ATHOCITIE^ says Angelica, presenting him with a manuscript, '* this speaks my sentiments better than I at present know how to (Jq; exercise your mercy for I am a young poet." S O N N E T, . On the compatibility of Love and Wisdom, To sensual fopls, think not almighty Love Bestows the relish of his heavenly joys : - No! — his high gifts unconscious of alloys^ The reach of little minds i» far above, And only noble souls can his enjoyments prove : Sdch dignify their playfulness and toys ; Such know the springs of vast delight to move, For Knowled<5.e in her train the Graces best employs. With tenderness Minerva's heart to inspire, Reason to bind in chains of choicest flowers; To give to Virtue, Pleasure's keenest fire; To bid bright Genius lead the polish'd hours. Is all immortal Wisdom can desire; And these are best attained by Lovf/s delicious- powers! OF A CONVENT. l63 "You must be united, my dear child, you are worthy of such a husband. It will be some consolation to me to see the brother of my Clara united to one 30 like her. Do you ever hear from him?" ** I have not since I came to the country. When I do you may depend upon it that, in my answer, I shall mention you : but I have given him no address here. You know that letters by the post are not safe in this country^ He used to send them to me under cover to a friend, whose address was respected : and as our correspondence generally turned upon dangerous truths, I would not expose him tO( commit; himself." >. l64t THE ATROCITIES '.' Then he has never directly pro- posed marriage to you ?" *^ Never directly, but I think it is almost mutually understood ; and had we been a fortnight longer together in town, it would certainly have been finally settled." " You will surely see him soon. J am quite impatient for this being con- cluded. I am sure you are not happy at home." '* It would be affectation to say I am. My mother's opinions and character, and mine, are so opposite, that it is impossible I can be so." OF A CONVENT. 165 " I shall be obliged to go to Paris in a few days. If Villefranche is in town, I shall certainly see him ; and you may depend upon it, I shall bring you a letter from him." *' Then you shall carry one from me, for I have no idea of that affectation that would conceal from a man the affection that a wom^n feels for him. Women are not sufficiently aware that when they pursue this conduct, it is confessing that they think there is some^ thing shameful in the attachment, op that they are afraid the m^n may think 00." ** In tlie present state of society, my child, they bavQ tqq much reason for 166 THE ATROCITIES this. The social institutions of our day> though they have not been able to suppress nature (notwithstanding they have done all in their power for tbat purpose) have succeeded in warping it, and as the christian morality is founded principally upon purity of manners, which it is much easier to speak about, than practise, men have taken the practise of the world for the rule of their conduct, and the theory of the preachers for that of their wives, and daughters. But till theory and practise, are the same for both sexes, purity of manners will never exist for either. Indeed, as Condorcet remarks in his life of Turcot, for 'want of good * laws, purity of manners has ever been - Jbut a chimera, in any country; an^ OF A CONVENT. iGj V till we have good general laws, it never ' will be any thing else.' For instance, so long as marriage is made a religious and eternal engagement, how can domestic happiness be secured ?" ** But were it managed otherwise, would it not throw society into con- fusion ? Were I married to Ville- FRANCHE I should ncvcr wish to separate from him." *^ Would the liberty of separation make it more common among those who would otherwise live together hap- pily? Besides, my child, there are feW attachments founded upon principles like your's: they are often founded upon transient passions ; and when the 1^8 THE ATROCITIES two unfortunate beings who have thuB inconsiderately joined their fate together, come to their senses, they find that they have only joined their misery or ennui. Passion prevented them from seeing this at first, and a new passion will in a like manner hurry them on to violate their marriage vows, till from one step to another, the corruption of manners will become general. And what sort of an education will two such beings give to their children, should they have the misfortune to have any ! The extreme corruption existing in this country in particular, may be easily accounted for : for as the opinion of either of the young people is scarcely ever asked, and the marriages are made up entirely according to family convenience, both OF A CONVE^^T. I69 parties, as Voltaire says, * repent of * the bargain as soon as it is made ;' but in vain : you know no divorce can be obtained upon any account. Marriage is a holi/ rite, an indefeasible sacra- ment,* Thus we see that all vices may be traced up to some general error, in the construction of the laws of society/' In this manner Volexce and An- gelica passed many evenings together, in instructive conversation; and when he went to town Angelica felt the loss of his -society extremely. He would have asked her to write to him, particularly concerning Eugenia, but this was too important a subject to trust by post. Angelica went often to the convent 170 THE ATROCITIES Eugenia's doubts and ennui daily en- creased. The performance of her reli- gious duties became extremely irksome to her; she had become melancholy: this was perceived ; and she was tor- mented with lectures, and reproaches. Adela was almost constantly in her cell, and reported every thing to her aunt concerning Eugeistia's behaviour, more from weakness than wickedness. She often accompanied her to the par- lour when she met Angelica, and constrained them extremely. At last the Abbess told Eugenia, that she spent too much pf her time in w^orldly conversation, and that she would not permit Angelica to visit her maore than once a w^eek, especially so near the feast of Pentecost ©F A CONVENT. 171 This constraint only made Eugenia's situation the more insupportable, and hastened what the Abbess wished to prevent. Angelica felt the separation almost as much as Eugenia. Volence was not at home; it was long since she had heard from Villefranche, and she dared not to speak of him. She employed herself in study, acts of bene- ficence, and walking. in her rambles she enquired for objects of distress, went into their houses, saw their situation herself, and carried them cloaths, provisions, cor dials, or money, as she thought they required them. This employed her q2 * 17^ . THE ATROCITIES time usefully and delightfully. Sh« often compared tlie pleasures of bene- ficence with the ennui of the convent ^ and thought how l:K3r friend Eugenia would envy her. She often reflected too on the absurdity of those, who suppose that supernatural motives were requisite to induce men to perform beneficent actions ; and pitied those, from her soul, who did not find them- selves sufficiently recompensed by the pleasure of performing them ; she neither boasted of, nor concealed these actions: she did not think herself better than others, but better informed. She thought she was performing an act of strict justice, not of generosity : and every reflecting mind must be sensible that it is a duty to kssen as much as OF A CONVENT. 173 possible the ill effects of the inequality of fortune, which bad laws, and corrupt institutions, have introduced. In one of her visits to the cottages, she was addressed by a poor woman who had a large family of eight young children, whose husband was a day labourer in a neighbouring farm, and who could hardly support one half of such a family, upon the small wages he received. Siie was holding a most beautiful girl, |^ut two years old, by the hand, scarcely covered by a few rags, but they were clean. *'Whata charmins; child !" said Angelica, ^* is it your youngest?" " it is not mine," said the woman : ^' I have eight beside her." q3 174 THE ATROCITIES " Whose is it then." ** Come this way lady, and I will tell you how I came by it. About two yeai:s ago, as I was going towards the garden of Scellih^es, where I sometimes weed, at the outside of the wall, among the long grass, I found a child lying quite naked, and apparently newly born. I took it up, wrapped it in my apron, and knocking at the door of the convent, begged the tourri^re, to ask the Abbess if she would take charge of a poor little infant I had found exposed. "' She answered slie would take no such message; that the Abbess would not receive the child of guilt ; that her kouse was the asylum of the virtuous. •OF A CONVENT. 175 But this poor little tiling is innocent, said I ; she cannot help her birth. Go, said she, it is the bastard of some of your friends you wish to impose upon us, or perhaps your own ; for what I know ? Take it away. '' I then addressed myself to the curate of the parish. I have more poor, said he, than I can support; the funds are not near equal to the expences. The church will never encourage crimes. Since you have taken it up you had better carry it to the Foundling Hospital, at Paris ; not that I approve of that institution either.. *' I was very angry, Mademoiselle, for I knew that there was a young lady 17^ I'HE ATROCITIES Staid with our curate, whom he called his niece. Lord knows whether it be true, or not, but it is generally believed that she had a child by him, whom he brings up under the name of her yomiger sister." " Did no one then give you any assistance for this poor child?" said Angelica, *^ No,'* said the woman, '^ but for all that, I could not bring myself to part with it, it was so pretty ; and as I was nursing myself, I thought I might easily keep it, at least till it was weaned ; and that the Lord would reward me for it. My husband, who is a good natured man, had no objection to it, so you see OF A CONVENT. 177 it is still with me : but in these hard times it is difficult for me to knaw how to keep it much longer." '^ Will you give it to me?" said Angelica. " With all my heart," said the woman. ^* It will be doing me a great favor as well as the child. Will you really be so good.?" "Have not you already set me the example? You are poor, I am rich; your actions was much more generous than mine." . *' I should have been as bad as a murderer;" said the woman, " If I had 178 THE ATROCITIE;^ cast it out. It is a sweet child; but though I love it very much, I should wrong its interest, in refusing it to you. It will be better fed, cloathed, and taught with you, than it can be with me. and you are so good that I am sure you will be kind to it." ** Will you go home with me, my dear?" said Angelica to the child, taking it up and kissing it. '* With all my heart," said she. Angelica gave the woman some- money, and promised to look after her family, from time to time. '^You see," said she, "a good action never goes OF A CONVENT. 1/9 anrewarded, even in this world. What is the child's name ?" *' I called it Mary, Mademoiselle, for I took it up on St. Mary's day." As Angelica went nome the child cried a little, at being separated from its mother, as it had been taught to call her. Angelica however soon con- soled her, and carried her home, where her mother read her a long lecture upon the imprudence and impropriety of taking charge of an unknown child, low-born, and ill-bred. Angelica, however, soothed her parent as much as she could, dressed the child in some cloaths she happened to liave ready made, and brought her to her. 180 THE ATROCITIES *' It is very pretty, to be sure," said Madame de fervac; and as I have already said, that she was more weak, than wicked ; and more peevish than tyrannical, she said no more about it; and Angelica was allowed to keep ^Mary. She had never before. been so happy; she had attained her two favorite objects, reiieving the unfortunate, and taking charge of an education. She could not sleep, she laid plans all night for its future progress, and promised herself not to allow its mind to be warped by early prejudices. She thought that she should probably soon see Ville- franche; and that if they were married, how , happy he would be to OF A CONVENT. 181 %dopt it. Next day she carried it to the convent to shew it to Eugenia. Eugenia was delighted with it. *' Ah my dear friend," said she, *'of how much more use you are in society than I am r* ^ " Console yourself, my dear Eu- genia; you have been unfortunate, not criminal." *' I am unfortunate indeed ; I am overwhelmed with despair, ennui, and chagrin." " But you should employ yourself in works of charity, my dear friend ; that part of morality at least is not I8S THE ATROCITIES prohibited in this house. Besides you might read." * '* I have no books but books of devo- tion; and I am obliged to read enough of them. Ifvou could bring me what are here called profane works, to read by stealth, I should be infinitely obliged ti^'''you. Our Superior is going from home next week for some spiritual business, she says, and for her niece, our spy, Adela's health. She is to leave the convent in charge to the oldest nun, her favorite, who is a down- right ideot, and will do any thing in the world for some pounds of sugar, coffee, or snuff. Only you must take care to conceal the books, for if any of the other nuns were to see them they OF A CONVENT. 183 would inform our confessor, and we' should be ruined." Angelica promised to be careful, and was overjoyed to hear that the Abbess was to leave home. The spiri- tual business that required her absence was, in fact, one of a far different nature, that took place pretty frequently between her and her confessor ; the consequences of which it became ne- cessary to conceal from the convent. This absence of the Abbess afforded Angelica an excellent opportunity for the prosecution of her schemes upon Eugenia. As sh^ was returning home from the r2 184 THE ATROCIf I-E» convent that evening, she observed a post-chaise at a distance, coming towards her mother's house. She thought she s.aw two gentlemen in it, and upon its nearer approach perceived them to be VoLENGE and Villefranche. Oa seeing her they instantly stopped the carriage, and both jumped out. The meeting between Angelica and ViLLEf-RANCHE was most tender and endearing. Volence was af- fected. They walked on for some time together. Villefranche spoke to Angelica of his anxiety to see her, his impatience to hear from her, and his joy on receiving her letter ; of his grief for the loss of her aunt; his happiness on meetitig agaiil with Volence j and OF A CONVENT. 185 in short, of every thing that mutually concerned them^ He took notice of the child, and Angelica related its history. He embraced it with tenderness, and seemed already to have adopted it in his heart. VoLENCE looked at it with attention,, and said with a sigh, " had the child of my unfortunate Clara still lived, it would have been about that age."— ViLLEFRANCHE and Angebica wept wUh him. They wished him to come to the house of Majdame de Eervac ; this he declined, saying he would rather indulge his feelings in solitude; and retired to his cottage.. The reception I\Iadame de Fervac R 3 136 THi: ATllOCITIEfi gave ViL LEFRANGHE was far fron> being favorable; but as he w-as of a good family, and possessed of a large fortune, she did not treat him abso- lutely ill. Next morning AjJgelIga arid he rose early, arid took a long walk, at the dose of which every thirig was settled. Angelica spdke to hirii with the same ingenuousness with which she had Spoken of him to Volence ; and he left it to her to obtain her mother's consent; or rather, to inform her of their intended marriage, as soon as possible. It was agreed that he should return that day to Paris to inform his father of it, and arrange his affairs, so its to be able to take a house in Szi'tt- OF A CONVENT. * 187 zerland, whither he meant to carry his bride, that they might enjoy more liberty than they could at that time in France, He told her that he had invited Yo^ LENCE to reside with them, and that he was in hopes to prevail with him» She/ in her turn, recited to him the history of Eugenia ; and communicated td him the strong desire she had to favor her escape. Villefranghe entered into her design with ardor; and eft- treated her to employ every meani td secure both her conversion and libera- tion before his return, which was to be in about a month. They then returned home, and break- fasted with Madame de Fervac, after which he took leave, and left 188 THE ATROCITIES Angelica to negociate the business by herself, as he was sensible that his pre- sence would irritate, and be far from conciliating her mother, ''What a pity," said Madame dk Fervac, as he shut the door, ''that that young mans principles are so bad !. His address is so agreeable, and his manners so genteel, that one can hardly help liking him ; but one has to recol- lect every moment, and guard oneself against him." *' In what respect are his principles bad, pray Madam?" '^ In what respect! in every respect: with regard to religion, and politics, ©F A CONVENT. ISP they are sufficiently known. His father himself has told me a thousand times how he lamented 'it.'* *' His father, you know my dear mother, is not famous for candour and probity, or adhering to truth when his interest is concerned. His son wat odious to him from his earliest years, because he inherited a large fortune from his mother, independent of him," " Was it a large fortune ?** '* I believe very considerable ; I liare heard it called 50,000 livres a year." '' That is very considerable indeed. It is true, his father is a very severe 190 THE ATROCITIES man • you know he forced his daughter into a convent to prevent her marriage \yith a man of family and fortune,, merely because his principles were sus- pected; though, after all, she in some measure justified his severity, by run^ ning away from her convent with an adventurer, the day before she was to have taken her vows. She was, however, afterwards, retaken, and died in the convent." *^ I know her unfortunate story but tdo well. I have often heard her brother speak of her with regret. But I think it is more than probable that she es~ caped with the man to whom she was. engaged," OT A CONVENT. 191 ^' And even though this were the case, do you make so light of parental authority as to excuse her conduct?" " It would certainly be more ex- cusable than if she had run off with a stranger. ^^ That is true; but indeed your principles are a great deal too free on these subjects : however, that is Madame de Bleville's fault." ^^ I must entreat you, mother, not to say any thing agamst her : you know I cannot bear that. What did you ever see either in her conduct, or mine, to make you think her principles too free on any subject ?" 19S THE ATROCITIES " I did not mean to find fault with either her conduct, or yours, my child. Indeed I think you are uncommonly correct ; and if you are not devout enough that is not so much your fault as that of the age ; but your practice in every other respect is unexceptionable. Every girl cannot be a nun : I confess I am aexious to see you well married in the world : and there is no husband I would sooner chuse for you than ViLLEFRANCHE. wcrc bis priuciplci better." *^ His principles again !** said Ange- lica. ** Pray teU me what are those dreadful principles which alarm you so much r" -•FA CONVENT. 1$S I know nothing of them, m\- cliild, hwX. from hearsay." ^' But if hearsay were listeired to, who would escape reproach? Have you aiot often heard his conduct praised, and sometimes even ridiculed for being too strict on some points, where it is thought as honorable for young men to €rr, as dishonorable for women r" '* Come, come, my child, confess the truth; you love him! Has he ever made proposals to you?'' *' I will not deny it, and I sliould liave told you so at first, without any circumlocution had I not been afraid of 194 THI: ATROCITIES your aversion to these supposed prin- ciples of his." '^ You shouM have told rne this, indeed so should he. Was not I the •person to be informed first dn^such an occasion?" ^' Certaiiiiy, after me. But you know he is not personally acquainted with you ; and as you had always treated him with reserve, he desired me to inform you of his proposals, and my *' This should have been managed otherwise. But this is Mabame de Bleville's fault again. However as such offers are not made every day, and OF A CONVENT. 195 as ,his fortune and family are good^ I will consider of it." '^Dear mother, I have considered of it already; I have known him lon^, and I am certain he will make me happy." After some more altercation . on tho subject, Madame de Fervac gave her consent. Fortunately for her daughter, she had resolved not to men- tion it to her sister, the Abbess of Scellieres, because she knew that she had a rooted hatred to the family of Villefranche; and as she knew that her own mind was weak, she did oot wish to run the risk of not being able to support an argument upon the sjibject. s2 15^ ^THE 4^TR0C1TIES Upon the whole she was pleasedf with Angelica's marriage, because it was a brilliant establishment; and she could not feel nauch regret at parting with a daughter with whom she had scarcely ever lived, and whose dis' position was so completely different ffom her own» Angelica wrote to inform Ville« FRANCHEofthe succcss of her nego- ciation, and to hasten his return as much as possible. She was sincerely congratulated by Volence, who, since her marriage was determined on, began to be sensible of feeling returning interest in the happiness of some human beings. On the day the Abbess was to leave OF A COyVEXT. 197 tiie convent, A^^gelica went there to i»form her friend of her intended mar- riage ; not forgetting tii carry her the books she had requested.. She had consulted Volence Qn the choice; he vecommended some of Voltaire's tragedies, such as Zara, Alzira, and Mahomet, his Philosophy of History, and his poem on Natural La^yvto begin the work of her conversion, and to free her mind from the grossest prejudices. . Eugenia received the intelligence of her friend's marriage with a mixed sen- sation. " Then I must lose you," said she, '' but I will try not to be so selfish as to- regret it You will, be happy; you deserve to be so; but I never can." s3 198 THE AtROCITIES *' Take courage, my dear friend, happiness is never to be secured by despair. Exert yourself, enlighten your mind, free it from prejudice." '* I can never free my person, lam a slave in the worst sense of the word : I have given myself eternal chains. These gates are like the gates of death ; they ^ire never again to be repassed."^ ** Perhaps the state may yet open them: every thing announces an ap- proaching revolution : all will soon be changed." " Nothing can change my vows." Angelica, mindful of Voxence's OF A CONVENT. IQg^ advice, proceeded no farther for the present, and promising to see her as often as she could before the return of ViLLEFRANCHE, left the books with her, and returned home. . As Angelica's marriage drew near, Eugenia every day grew more melan- choly. Angelica observed with regret, that her reading had filled her mind with doubts, and uneasiness. " How do you like the books I kave given you?" said Angelica to her one day. " I have read them with pleasure; but they have distressed me." 5!00 THE AT RQ CI TIE'S- *' Why have tb^y disireo^d you, my friend?" " Because they have inspired me with doubts concerning the necessity of the belief oi my religion, to exclusive* salvation." ^ " But why exclusive? Would it distress you to allow that more people were saved, beside your sect ?" *- No; but then I need not have sacrificed so much, to have obtained salvation. This is my opinion some* times ; and at other times I think it is a crime to doubt ^ If God has spoke, * I surely must obey,' says Palmira.** «F A CONVERT. tot " Without doubt; and nobody in the world was ever so mad as to main- tain, that the orders of a Being, who created, and preserved us (when recog^ nized for such) were to be disobeyed. It is not the orders of heaven that any one disputes, the only question is. whether they came from thence. I know the priests of all religions have affected to consider those who doubt, as impious and presumptuous. But the philosophers have never said : let us not obey God; but, let us examine whether the priests have not fabricated these orders." **And is it your opinion that they have :'* ** Most certainly it is : how does it appear to you that they have not?'* !g()2 THE ATROCITIES ** The history of our religion appears so authentic ; it has liad so many martyrs ; so many,nation§ have believed in the essential parts, of, it, though they have differed in some particular^ that I can hardly persu«,de myself so many, people have been deceived. Those who have doubted, of it are hut as a drop in, the bucket, in comparison to those who still believe ia it..'* ** This is but too true ; but this only proves that there are more fools in thei: world tJian sensible people." ■"■;^ *' So you cfonsider alias fools wha are not of your opinion T *' I beg your pardon, I spoke too O F A C OK V ENT. 20S warmly. Argiiiiient should be the -only ^rms of truth. But what do you mean by my opinion? What opinion have I advanced but that improbabilities arid impossibilities will always be such,. though they should be adopted, and adored by the world at large ?" *'^ But you have not yet attempted to prove to me that those things which I have been taught and accustomed to believe, are either impossible or impro- 4)able." *' Because I did not think that your understanding was one, to which it was -necessary to prove, that two and three ^did^not make four. But since you desire it, I shall enter coolly into a discussion ^04 ' THE ATROCITIES of these opinions ; and I shall try for a moment to forget how revolting they are to -my mind, which has never been accustomed to them, in order that I may convince your's, which has been warped with them by early education. I might address to you what Zara says of herself, only changing it a little : * Had you been born upon the Ganges* banks, * You had believed whate'er the Bramin's teach ; < In TurJcei/ you had been a Mussulman, * But bom in France you are a Christian/ " This is no reasoning at all. Are not all our sentiments impressed upon our minds by our parents and teachers ?'* " Is this all the fruit you have got from reading the Natural Law? It is true all our sentiments are impressed by ©F A CONVENT. 205 them ; but there are some which reason avow's when we grow up, and others which it disavows, if we take the trauble to examine them. A celebrated author has said, that there are no religious opinions or systems of belief at which a man of eighteen would not laugh, did he then hear them for the first time. Now what man at any age would laugh, were he told for the first time that it was ne- cessary to be just, to respect the tights ofothers, to do no harm to any one, and to assist the unfortunate ? Were these truths ever disputed? Does not every man's conscience respect them in his cool moments, and would heaver violate them, were he not influenced by some strong passion, and did he not suppose T W6 THE ATROCITIES from a false calculation, that it vvas his interest to infringe the rights of others?" '^ All these moral truths are strongly enforced by our religion*'* " They are so by every one^ as yoa might have seen vi^hen you read the Piiilosophy of History. No founder of any religion, however ridiculous, or atrocious, ever dared to attempt to ;=ubvert one of them : he would have been universally shunned. Every one therefore has been obliged to respect them, in the theory of all religions, though their practise has always cor* rupted, aoid sometimes destroyed them, OF A COXVENT. 9,0^ in proportion as the principles of that religion have been more or less contrary to reason. But let us descend to a particular examination of your faith," " As to its mysteries, I will not enter into them, for I confess I never under- stood them. Besides, you know, v>e are taught that it is a crime to examine them." '^ That prohibition was necessary, or they would not have lasted a generation * '' For heav^iV s ^'aKe, say no more to me uggn'this subject," said Eugenia. f am already tormented sufficiently ^'y doubt. I wish I had never listened to you ; or rather I wish I were not here : t2 208 XME ATJRQCiriES I don't knovv what I wish. I would rather have remained hlind, if I was so, than have had my sight restored to me, to see tlie horrors of my prison. It was cruel of you, Angelica, to expatiate upon the weight of my chains, since you can never break them." *^ Pardon me my friend; it was not my intention to make you wretched; and I think I could break your chains if you would give your consent." /* Never, never, impossible." " But I am going to ^^,-,,^-'^ If you would make your escape ^ " CQuld easily go witli me, and ymcoulct not be retaken." or A CONVENT, ^Q^ "Impossible, I have not the power; I dare not have the will. " My vows are sacred; though they were surprized from jne ; though I was deceived into them ; though I was young, thoughtless, and precipitate, yet, they are made, and must exist for ever. And as Alzira says, * — — J ai promis, n'importe a * quel Dieu.'* In s'hort, I will not hear another word upon the subject. Fare- well, be happy, and leave me to my misery and my misfortune." ''Will you not allow me to see you: again once more before I go, to bid you farewell, and ask your pardon for having, without intention, distressed you so much. Will you not reflect once * Tvc promised, 'tis indifferent to what God, t3 i .. 210 THE ATROCITIES more upon the proposition I have made to you ?" " I shall certainly see you again*" Saying this Eugenia retired tocher cell, and left Angelica much dis- tressed, riot only in having failed in her enterprise to prevail on Eugenia to attempt her escape, but in having made her still more unfortunate, than she was before she spoke to hen She communicated 'her vexation ta Volence, who sympathized with her : and as he was going to Paris the next ^ay, to settle his affairs, that he might Ibe able to accompany Angelica and her husband to Switzerland^ it was • F A CONVENT. 211 agreed that she should write by him to ViLLEFRANCHE, to inform him of the bad success of their undertaking. Accordingly that night, before she went to bed, she wrote the following letter^ ^12, THE ATROClTljLS CHAP. V, To M. HE VlLLEFRANCHE^ See Hit res, I AM sure you will be as much distressed as I am, my dearest friend, to learn that all my attempts for the conver- sion and deliverance of Eugenia, have been fruitless ; and what is more, I fear I have made her more unhappy than she was. Is it possible that with the purest intentions one may feel remorse ? y^t I • F A CONV£NT. 21 S oannot defend myself from this painful emotion, though I am sensible I have said or done nothing but what I intended should contribute to her happiness, I cannot help a thousand times repeating to myself that line of Tancred, ' Moi des ' remords ! qui ! moi ! Le crime seul ]es * donne ?' ^ Yet I have committed none. Can it be a crime to wish to free a friend from error? I am sure it cannot. Yet I am uneasy, very uneasy: my mind will not be tranquillized till I hear from you. I know there are some times w^hen we ought not to depend on our own conscience alone, but should call in the opinion of enlightened and virtuous men to support and direct us : * I feel remorse! It is to crimes alone, That such a dreadful feeling is attached^ £14 THE ATROCITIILS and when this enlightened and virtuous man i$ a friend, and the dearest friend, his opinion becomes invaluable. When shall I be so happy as to have you with me constantly to direct me ? When will my happiness begin? I am growing very impatient for y^ur return. If you Qr Voi<^NCE are not coming this week, pray write to me by Louis, and tell m^ what coitrse I am to pursue vith regard to Eugenia ; for thisstata of mind i^ itOStupportable. I need no* add that I am, and ever will be, Your unalterably attached, and affectionate friend, GabriellaAngelica deFervac. I had almost signed Villefranche. OF A CONVENT. 215 Three days after, she received the fallowing answer from ViLLEFRANC HE, by Louis, as she desired. To Mademoiselle de Fervac. m Parisa My dearest A^^gelica, my amiable and virtuous friend, I am sorry that the pleasure of writing to you should be clouded by the idea that you have been so unhappy for. three days past, as your letter seems to shew. You have no reason to reproach yourself, my love, for feelings which a heart like yours is only capable of experiencing : I know they are painful ; but trust me, they are ill-founded. Your conduct has been influenced by the purest friendship^ 2l6 THE ATROCITIES and a zeal for truth. You have endea- voured to secure the happmess of your friend, and promote the cause of virtue: your intentions were pure, the means you employed lawful ; and though you have unfortunately been disappointed in your virtuous endeavours, this is the fault of superstition and prejudice, and not your's. How pwnicious are their baneful effects, since endeavouring to remove them can even occasion a moment of remorse to the virtuous 1 I shudder when I think what shocks the world must undergo, before the under- standing of mankind can be rectified with regard to their moral and political interest. How many crimes will be perpetrated ! And these crimes will be attributed to the virtuous ! But they OF A CONVLNT. '217 must not blame themselves : these crimes must be added to the long list, superstition and tyranny have already to answer for. Try to prevail with Eugenia once more ; but do not force her inclination. She will be more unhappy out of the convent than in it, if she is not con- vinced that she had a right to leave it. I leave the point where you are to stop to your own prudence. You say you are impatient to see me again : you cannot doubt that my im- patience is equal to yours; but I have been detained by some forms of law in business between my father and me. u ^18 TtfE ATROCITIES He is not so unreasonable as I expected; but I can account for that. The moment he heard that I was to ask him for nothing till his death he immediately consented. Farewell, my lovely friend. In a week I shall have the bliss of pressing you to my heart; and you will then secure the happiness of Your ever fai4:hful and affectionate, Charles Henry deVilleeranche. Complying with the advice Ange- lica received in this letter, she went to the convent once more, to endeavour to prerail with Eueenia ; but all her attempts were fruitless : she found her inflexible ; and left her with regret. OF A CONVENT. 219 YiLLEFRANCHE returned at the time he had promised. The evening before that of his marriage he went witli Angelica to the convent, but met with no better success in inducing Eugenia to escape, than she had done. As be found therefore that all endea- vours were fruitless, and as Volence, from his literary engagements, found it impossible to accompany them to Swit- zerlandy it was determined that the young couple should travel for some time into England, as Villefranche was anxious to study the boasted con- ^itution of that country himself, and judge of its' merits. u2 2120 THE ATROCITIES When ViLLEFRANCHE and Ange- lica went to the convent to take leave of Eugenia, they carried Volence with them, and entreated her to consider him as her friend ; to entrust him with her thoughts, and transmit them by his means to Angelica, who, in her turn, promised to write by the same means to Eugenia. The parting between the friends was affecting. Villefranche and Ange- lica promised to make Scellihres in their way, as they went to Switzerland, and Eugenia returned to her cell, which since the departure of Ange- lica, she began to consider as her grave. OF A CONVENT. 221 In their way to Eiigland Ville- FRANCHE and Angelica stopped some time qX Paris, for he was anxious to introduce his wife to the wives and female relations of his philosophical friends. Into these societies was An- gelica admitted with pleasure. She there received, instead of the incense so vainly offered to beauty, the more flat- tering homage of sincere friendship and regard, inspired by her superior under- standing. It was not there imagined that a woman had not a right to talk upon serious subjects : every topic was there agitated without pedantry, or affectation. The morals of both the men and women were pure, but not rigid. Instead of wasting their time 2^^ THE ATROCITIES in private scandal, and pky, like the brilliant societies of VersailleSy they employed theirs in talking over the crimes atid misfortunes of the world • and studying how they might be pre- vented* If these societies had not the appearance to strangers of being so gay as those in the higher circles, they were in reality much more so, Reading, music, walking, conversa- tion, and the theatre, diversified their evenings: and if Villefranciie had not been desirous of going to England^ Angelica would never have wished to leave the society to wliich she had been so lately introduced. But the more she was delighted with it, the more she OF A CONVENT. 223 regretted Eugenia's situation ; the more she was distressed that so many talents and virtues were lost for ever iji the gloom of a cloister. Before she left Paris she wrote her the following ietter. BND OF VbX. I, Glio RicKMAN.Prmter, # 0m' w-'wrnmif "NIVERSITyof,U,No,S-UR8AN/, 3 0112 042822533